Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #1
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, why is it so dangerous to be with a living Sadguru? Why do so few people dare to stake everything and dive into your Buddha-field, even though, like Paltu, your call is echoing across the world—“There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again. Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand.” Osho, have compassion, grant awakening.
Osho, why is it so dangerous to be with a living Sadguru? Why do so few people dare to stake everything and dive into your Buddha-field, even though, like Paltu, your call is echoing across the world—“There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again. Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand.” Osho, have compassion, grant awakening.
Yog Chinmaya! Life itself is dangerous. Death is comfortable—nothing is more convenient than death. That’s why people choose death: they deny life. They live in such a way that they need live as little as possible, the bare minimum—because the less you live, the less the risk; the more you live, the more the danger. The more urgency and intensity you allow into life, the more fire there will be, the sharper the sword’s edge. To live life deeply, totally, is to walk the mountain crests. From the heights one can fall. Those who fear falling crawl along the flatlands; they don’t even walk, they drag themselves—let alone flying!
And to be with a living master is to fly toward the sun. The disciple is like a sunflower—the moment the sun turns, the disciple turns. His trust in the sun is unbroken. The sun is his very life. Without the sun he is not. As soon as the sun sets, the sunflower folds up. As soon as the sun rises, the sunflower opens, overflows, dances in the wind, drinks the light. Instantly, dance arises in its life.
Friedrich Nietzsche said, “Live dangerously.” The truth is, there are actually only two words there: “dangerously” and “live.” One word would have been enough—the repetition is redundant. To live is to live dangerously. There is no other way to live.
For centuries religion turned into life-denial. That’s the coward’s way—his lifestyle: run away; don’t live. Hide in some remote cave in the Himalayas where life is next to nothing. What life can there be in a cave? Where there are no relationships, how can there be life? Life expands to the extent you relate. To live to the full means to live in infinite relationships.
So I tell my sannyasins: don’t run, awaken! Live awake—that is religion. To live by running away is neither religion nor life. Even the man who lives in a stupor at least lives; at least there is a heartbeat in his being. But for centuries man chose self-destructive “religions.” The fault is not religion’s. Religion by its very nature cannot be suicidal. Man is timid, fearful, faint-hearted; he dressed all religions in his cowardice.
Mahavira is not timid, but look at the crowd behind him—where will you find a more timid crowd? Buddha is not timid. His life is a struggle, a revolution, a blaze. Every word of his is a live ember; he is a volcano. But look at Buddhists: yellow, withered leaves, long dead, ready to fall. They have become stumps—no spring comes, no flowers bloom. And the more spring seems impossible, the more their old belief gets confirmed: life is meaningless; good we left it. This is a fallacy. Because you left life, you find no meaning in it. Had you lived, you would have found essence, truth, godliness—everything.
Life’s treasure is inexhaustible; its depth is bottomless. If there is a God, he pervades life—in every hair, every particle. Outside He is, inside He is, in all ten directions He is.
But the weak man looks for arguments to cover his weakness. The sick man won’t admit he is ill; the ego gets hurt. He not only convinces himself but others too that this sickness is sadhana; that he is sick because he has seen the futility of life.
Aesop’s famous tale—which I repeat again and again because it is so true of man. A fox sees a bunch of grapes. She jumps—again and again—strains to reach them, cannot. The grapes hang too high, her jump too low. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, defeated. She looks around to make sure no one saw her. When we fall, we quickly dust ourselves off and look around: did anyone see? We don’t even check whether we are hurt; that we will see later at home. The panic is only this: someone may have seen me fall! Defeated, I!
No one was around. She dusted herself and started off. But a rabbit had been watching from a bush. He said, Auntie, what happened? The fox was startled. What happened? Nothing at all. The grapes are sour. Not ripe yet. When I jumped close, I saw they were raw—not worth plucking. When they’re ripe, I’ll pluck them.
These little tales of Aesop are about man: the fox is the cunning, dishonest, hypocritical part within. Those who run away from life weave a philosophy to justify their running; they give it a metaphysics dressed in beautiful scriptural language. They won’t say, “We are deserters.” They say, “We are renunciates. We have renounced life.”
A man used to come to Ramakrishna—on every religious festival he never missed the opportunity. Full moon, ekadashi—Hindus have no shortage of festivals—any excuse would do; goats were slaughtered at his house. The day of the goddess—sacrifice must be offered. He was a devotee of Kali. Then one day Ramakrishna came to know that he had stopped celebrating and goats were no longer being cut. What happened? Left devotion? Ramakrishna called him and asked: In old age, at the time of death, you dropped devotion? Now goats are no longer slaughtered?
He said: What’s the use of hiding from you? I can fool others, but how can I fool you? This is why people fear being with a Sadguru. You can deceive others, but not the master. Even if you try, you won’t succeed. His transparent eyes will catch you. The man said: I will tell you the truth. Others I told: What is there in these external rituals! It was youthful blindness; it went on. Now I’m mature; I’ve seen—there’s nothing in it. The real thing is inner. But let me tell you the real truth: my teeth have fallen out; with no teeth, what’s the point of cutting goats!
Which means: I cut goats because I had teeth. Religion was the excuse—the beautiful excuse. He wanted to eat goat.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said one morning, “Do you remember? Tomorrow is our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. We must celebrate grandly. That goat we’ve fattened all this time—if you agree, let’s slaughter it tomorrow.”
Nasruddin said, “Fazlu’s mother, we got married; what fault has the poor goat? Why punish him? If someone has to be cut, cut me! And anyway, in twenty-five years what’s left? You’ve cut everything. And what fault is it of the goat? If something must be cut, let the she-goat decide—why are you after the he-goat? The mistake was ours; let us bear it.”
But people always live by excuses.
Life-denying religions have sat on the chest of humanity because man is so timid that Tulsidas said, “Without fear there is no love.” Rarely has anyone said something more empty. More unscientific, meaningless, inconsistent—you won’t find. Yet millions repeat and believe this line. They think: what psychological insight! Without fear, no love! Has love ever arisen out of fear? Have you ever reflected? Thought, contemplated? What relation is there between fear and love? What relation between poison and nectar? It’s like saying: without poison there is no nectar; sow poison so you may reap nectar. Or: sow neem seed and mangoes will grow.
Fear and love are diametrically opposite states. In fear a person shrinks, contracts, becomes small. In love he expands. Remember the meaning of Brahman: that which goes on expanding without end, whose expansion has no limit. Drink as much as you can, it never exhausts. Know as much as you can, still more remains to be known. You cannot ever say, “I’ve known all.” You will be lost in seeking it, yet not exhaust it. You will be filled, yes, but it is vast. We are the pitcher; that is the ocean. It will overflow us.
Such is love. Love is greater than you. Love is the human transmutation of the divine. Hence Jesus said truly: God is love. There is essence in Jesus’ word. In Tulsidas’ word there is nothing but non-essence. If God is love, how can there be fear? Think in your own life—can you love one you fear?
When I was small, my father punished me only once. It is rare to find such a father. He slapped me—once. I told him, “You can hit me as much as you wish, but remember: then there will be no love left between us. You are not hitting me; you are hitting love. How can I love a person who is hurting me? Certainly I am dependent on you—can’t yet stand on my own feet—so do as you please. I’ll endure it. But remember, you are destroying the love between us.”
He was a very sensitive man. That first punishment was the last. Never again did he even say two harsh words—let alone hit me. Whatever I did—right or wrong—he must have taken very deeply to heart: love must not be destroyed. He would keep money in a box so I would never have to steal—what child does not have to steal?—he thought, let him not have to. He put money so I could take as needed without asking; asking also creates hurdles: why, what for, didn’t you take some yesterday? He would refill the box when empty. And the depth of love between us went on growing.
Where there is fear, there cannot be love—there will be hatred. Hence every child, on growing up, takes revenge on his parents. The responsibility is the parents’, not the child’s. He will take revenge. When you were strong and the child weak, you tormented him and did it in respectable names. You invented devices. You tortured him according to your beliefs. Are you sure your beliefs are true? One day the wheel turns: he becomes strong; you become old, weak. Then he will throw you into the trash. Don’t cry then—you are reaping what you sowed.
People are strange: they talk of past lives and karma, but don’t tally what havoc they wreak in this life. You don’t even know if there was a past life. This life is clear—do your accounting here.
Christianity for two thousand years taught the West to fear God. Not out of Jesus, because Christianity is not built on Jesus. It’s a great paradox: Buddhism is not built on Buddha, Jainism not on Mahavira, Hinduism not on Krishna. This world has many wonders, but this is the greatest.
Kabir says: I saw a wonder—the river caught fire! Or: a fish climbed a tree! But those are not real wonders. If Kabir came today, I’d tell him: these are no wonders—pour petrol on a lake and light it, and you’ll see fire. American lakes catch fire—the oil slick on the surface burns. Recently a famous lake did catch fire. Kabir would have been bewildered!
The real wonder is this: those who claim to follow Mahavira are Mahavira’s enemies; those who claim to follow Buddha are Buddha’s enemies; Christians are Jesus’ enemies; Vaishnavas are Krishna’s enemies. That is the greatest wonder. They call themselves believers—you would think they were lovers. There is no love, only fear. Hence hatred.
For two thousand years Christians taught: fear God. Jesus had said, “God is love.” Can one fear love? Do lovers fear each other? Husbands and wives fear—because they are not lovers. The husband fears the wife discovering things. On the way home he rehearses answers—what to say when she asks where he was. He enters fully prepared and is trapped immediately.
Wives fear husbands. Children fear parents; parents fear children. Teachers frighten students; students terrify teachers. Everyone frightening everyone. What a society we have built—founded on fear!
The English phrase is “God-fearing.” In Hindi too: “Ishwar-bhiru.” What absurd words! A religious person should be “God-loving,” “Ishwar-premi.” But for two thousand years people were told: fear God—He will punish you; He will roast you in hell if you don’t obey. Such torments as you cannot imagine. Other religions, at least, have a time-bound hell—punishment for some period. No matter how great the crime, the sentence has a limit. But Christianity did something astonishing: eternal hell! And what crimes have you done? Hindus, Jains, Buddhists speak of infinite lives—yet even in infinite lives, not enough sin to deserve infinite hell. Christianity believes only in one life—and in that single life you commit enough sins to deserve eternal hell! What sort of sins will you do? Even if you commit sin twenty-four hours a day—not sleeping, not eating, sinning only—how many sins can you manage in sixty or seventy years? Eternity has no end—how will you endure endless punishment?
Bertrand Russell wrote Why I Am Not a Christian. Among many reasons, he points out the absurdity, inconsistency, injustice of eternal punishment. In one life, how many sins?
He writes: If I count all the sins I’ve actually committed, the harshest judge could give me four years. And if you add those I only thought about—though there should be no punishment for thoughts, and if you punish me in dreams, then give me some bad dreams as penalty—still, even counting all that, maybe eight years. But eternal hell?
So, among his reasons for not being Christian is this: it’s absurd. It is a scheme to oppress in the name of religion—frightening people—founding religion on fear. The inevitable result was that Nietzsche declared: God is dead—bury him and be free.
Nietzsche’s declaration is the logical outcome of two thousand years of fear. Such a God must be killed and buried. Worship is out of the question.
And you say: without fear there is no love. Without fear, there will be no Nietzsche—that’s certain. Without fear there will be no hatred—that’s certain. Without fear there will be no program to assassinate God—that’s certain. Without fear there will be no atheism—that’s certain. But love? That’s sheer stupidity.
Love and fear are different things. But man wants a beautiful argument for everything he is. The timid, frightened man calls his fear love, prayer, worship. Why do you bow in temples—from love? Have you ever bowed from love? Why do you go to the mosque—from love? Have you ever prayed filled with love? It’s all fear—trembling inside. That’s why the young are not religious—youth has some strength, the courage to wrestle. As they age, they become “religious.” Old people slowly become religious—why? Fear increases, and fear is their religion.
Those who lack the courage to live have committed great violence against religion. These runaways, these cowards, defined and interpreted religion. These sick-minded, deranged, dead people dominated religion—the stench of their corpses rotted religion too.
Hence it is always dangerous to be with a living master. It means to be with life, with fire. You must be ready to burn; you must have the courage to be erased, to become a zero. Only one who accepts the challenge of turning the ego to ash can be with a living master.
That’s why when a Buddha is alive, few are with him—nor were there many with Jesus. When they are dead, multitudes gather. A dead master is no obstacle. People worship death, not life. Then you will build statues, temples, and all kinds of things. Muhammad was harassed his whole life—no village allowed him to stay. He had to struggle continually. Now the whole world sings his praise. Strange people! What a miracle!
You ask, Yog Chinmaya: Why is it so dangerous to be with a living Sadguru?
Because life is insecurity. Death offers great security—once dead, no disease can afflict you, no second death, no bankruptcy, no theft, no robbery. Then rest in your graves—rest and only rest.
A disciple asked Confucius, “How can one be safe in life?” Confucius looked at him. Confucius is not an awakened one, but he is a very clear thinker. In his time the enlightened one was Lao Tzu. Confucius even went to meet him. He was at least clear enough to recognize: go to Lao Tzu. He had clean thinking; otherwise he would have rejected Lao Tzu. He realized: what I do not have, Lao Tzu has; what I am still groping for, this man has found. He traveled hundreds of miles. Lao Tzu was sitting under a tree. Confucius was a great believer in propriety and etiquette—the most in human history. How to behave, how to sit, how to bow. He bowed again and again. Lao Tzu said, “Don’t bother—why trouble the body? Sit! What is this courtly flattery? This is not a king’s court. Are you buttering me up? Sit down!”
The Chinese ritual was elaborate: bow seven times, praise in prescribed words. Lao Tzu immediately stopped him: “Enough nonsense—sit quietly!” Confucius got so flustered as never before. He had been to many emperors and received praise—emperors love flattery. But Lao Tzu said, “What courtly talk are you spouting here? Is this a court?”
Whatever he asked, Lao Tzu answered bluntly. “Is there God?” “All nonsense,” said Lao Tzu. Shock! “Then what is religion?” “To know oneself; one who knows oneself knows God. Before that, all is nonsense.”
“How to live morally?” “There is no need to try to be moral. When you enter meditation, virtue flows as rivers flow from the Himalayas.”
“What is meditation?” “Disappear! Become empty! Drop this pretension!” He shook him so thoroughly that when Confucius came out, it was a cold morning but he was sweating. His disciples asked, “Why so perturbed, drenched in sweat?” He said, “That man is not a man—he is a lion. He does not speak—he roars. He is burning fire. I am not yet capable of digesting him.”
Yet he was honest; for that I respect him. He admitted: this man is fire; I’m too weak yet. He is a razor’s edge—stay longer and your head may roll.
When his disciple asked, “How to be safe?” Confucius said, “What will you do in the grave? You’ll be safe there—enjoy safety to your heart’s content. For now, live! And if you want to live with urgency, go to Lao Tzu—that dangerous man! I’m growing old. You are young; perhaps you can drink and digest him. I can teach you rules. Lao Tzu can give you life.” Confucius must be conceded his honesty.
To be with a master is dangerous because he will teach life, not escape; affirmation, not denial—an “aha” for life.
You ask: Why do so few come ready to stake everything and dive into your Buddha-field?
Because everything must be staked—that is the obstacle. There is no compromise here. I do not say, “If great vows are difficult, take small vows.” Small vow means compromise. Vow is vow—there are no small ones. “When convenient, speak the truth; when inconvenient, lie”—that is a small vow. Anyone will speak truth when convenient—what sadhana is that? In fact sometimes people speak truth precisely to harm. If you go to court to testify truthfully to get someone punished, don’t think you are a lover of truth. Your intention is not pure. You are mean, dishonest; you didn’t go for truth—you went to ensure he is punished. You couldn’t miss such a chance: two birds with one stone—you spoke truth so it gets entered in God’s ledger, and he got five years.
A small child was brought to court to testify. The magistrate said, “Swear to tell the truth.” “All right,” he said, “since you say so, I swear to tell the truth.” “Now speak, what do you have to say?” “Now nothing,” said the child. “You’ve already shut my mouth. If I speak, I can only lie—because that is what I’ve been coached to say. And you’ve made me swear not to. I cannot speak truth either—so I have nothing to say. Goodbye.”
People use truth to hurt—just as they use abuse. They use both truth and lies for the same end. You even use religion to cut heads. What difference is there in your world between religion and irreligion? You want to set fire, to harm as much as possible, to exploit as much as possible—by irreligion if it works, by religion if that works—so much the better! Drink at night, repent in the morning—lose neither the world nor heaven. You are tricksters. Religion has been mutilated by such tricksters.
You ask: “Staking everything…”
Yog Chinmaya, have you staked everything? Think on the word “everything.” Who is staking everything? Even their stakes are conditional—though they may not know it, their consent is unconscious: if I say what they like, they agree; if I say what they don’t, they get upset. Clever operators never say what you don’t like—so no one gets angry at them. I make one friend, ten enemies. Expensive business! One friend is hard to make—and I make many enemies in the process.
But the crafty don’t. They never make enemies.
A rich man asked a saint, “I have received an interview letter. Should I go or not?” The saint said, “My opinion is: if you wish to go, by all means go. If you don’t wish to go, don’t go at all.” Such people make no enemies! What marvelous advice!
To stake everything requires great courage, audacity. It means burning the bridges—no way back. Having said “yes,” leave no room anywhere for a “no.” Then if the head rolls, let it; if life remains, fine; if not, fine.
Each of you should ask yourself: Have I staked everything? Or do I agree only when it pleases me; if not, I don’t hear it at all, or I pretend to listen and then forget. And even when I do, how many little tricks do I play!
People write to me: “If you permit, may I go home for a month or two?” If I say, “Go,” they are delighted. If I say, “No,” they are miserable. Your misery reveals all. Why did you ask? There was no need. You asked so that I would say what you already want. Then why bother me—do as you wish. If I refuse, you go about broadcasting your sadness: I didn’t get permission; another did—he got a yes, I didn’t. Such complaints.
Who asked you to ask? If you wanted to go, go. But you wanted both—to go, and to claim you went by my permission; that you would not have gone had I refused. And if refused, you would carry a long face everywhere so the whole ashram would know your grievance.
People say: “Give me whatever work you say, I will do it.” But the work given doesn’t suit. There is this difficulty and that. Until they get exactly the work they want—why waste time? Say at the outset what you want to do. But they also want the pleasure of claiming total surrender: whatever order is given, I will do.
Yog Chinmaya is exactly like this. When he was in the ashram—now he is in Saswad—there was a tap near him that had to be turned off at eight in the evening. He was told: please close it at eight. “That I cannot do,” he said, “because I cannot remember daily.” This much you cannot remember—that at eight you turn off the tap? Whatever work he is given—“I’ll only do so much; only this much is possible.” His capacity is great. And I want to take you beyond your present capacities. You can climb Everest, but you say, “I will climb only the Pune hill. Even that makes me tired.”
I want to stretch your capacities to the utmost, because transformation begins there. But you become stingy, lazy, you hold yourself back: “This much I can do…” You start laying out your timetable—morning discourse takes time; then lunch; then afternoon I need rest; then visitors come; then evening walk; then dinner. By then nothing remains. Whatever crumbs are left, you work in.
Only those are truly with me who are here with total surrender, who have staked everything. Those who still keep accounts, know that they are only under the illusion of being with me.
You say: “Why do so few dare to stake all and dive into your Buddha-field?”
Who told you “so few”? Do you think there have ever been more with anyone? How many were with Buddha? Or Mahavira? Or Jesus? And of those few, how many were truly with them? On the scale at which people are with me today, perhaps no one ever had so many. Today there are a hundred and fifty thousand sannyasins around the world. Buddha’s and Mahavira’s fields were limited—hardly beyond Bihar. That province was called Bihar because they “vihared” there—they wandered there. The boundaries of their wandering became Bihar’s borders. Not much coming and going beyond that.
Jesus remained around Jerusalem. He had twelve close disciples. Even among them, one sold him for thirty silver coins. The remaining eleven, when he was crucified, ran away. Those who remained at the cross and took him down—you’ll be amazed—were three women. That’s why I trust women more than men.
People ask me why in this ashram most of the work is with women. Because I trust them more. Women are simpler, gentler, more loving. Men are crafty, dishonest, clever at conspiracy, eager to control others, opportunistic.
Eleven disciples fled. And the funny thing is that Christians don’t worship any of the three women who took Jesus down from the cross. They still worship the eleven who ran away—the “apostles.” The three who remained? One was a prostitute—Mary Magdalene. How could they honor a prostitute!
This world is not as simple as you think. Here “virtuous” wives can betray, and prostitutes can prove faithful. Don’t decide from the surface.
When heads were at stake, Mary Magdalene stood by Jesus. She didn’t hesitate to take down his body. This is the same Mary who once came and poured a bottle of perfume on his feet, washing them, and wiped them with her hair. Judas—the one who later sold him—objected. This is worth thinking about. Judas objected: “Aren’t you ashamed to let a prostitute touch your feet? And think—she poured such costly perfume! It could have been sold to feed the village poor. The village is so poor.” He was a socialist—indeed a communist! His logic seems right. He told Jesus: “This is improper. People are watching. What will they say—such a master, letting a prostitute touch his feet! Prostitutes should be stoned to death.”
You too would agree: why waste perfume? Feet can be washed with water. If the perfume were sold, the poor would benefit. Sounds Sarvodaya-like.
Jesus said, “Judas, don’t worry. Selling this perfume will not remove anyone’s poverty. And the perfume isn’t ours anyway; it is hers. If she wishes to pour it on my feet, that is her choice. I won’t be here much longer. After I am gone, distribute to the poor whatever you like.”
A beautiful saying: “When the bridegroom is present, celebrate! Don’t bring these absurd arguments!” And the poor will remain after I am gone—serve them then. And who says she is impure? Purity and impurity are matters of feeling—I see her feeling.
And Judas sold Jesus for thirty silver coins—only thirty! He didn’t even distribute that money to the poor! At least he could have done that. He pocketed it. And the woman who stood by Jesus till the end was the same prostitute, Magdalene. Yet Christians gave her no honor. How could they honor a prostitute!
That’s why I say: Christians are not friends of Christ, but his enemies. The second woman was Magdalene’s sister. The third was Jesus’ mother, Mary. These three took him down. Leave Magdalene and her sister aside if you doubt their character, but what of Mary? Even Mary is not honored. Outwardly Christians say Jesus had a virgin birth, but inside they are afraid—how can a virgin give birth? Somewhere inside they suspect Mary must have had a relation before marriage. No one dares say it. They whitewashed it with the story of a virgin birth.
Even if you accept your story, you could have at least honored Mary. You speak of the Trinity—Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. You could have given a place to a woman—count Mary among the three—what harm? But they couldn’t include a woman. A woman is sin—the gate of hell! If you put a woman alongside God, she might corrupt even God—who knows what mischief she might do! So no woman allowed.
The entire Christian Trinity—three males. And if there is a Father, where is the Mother? A father without a mother! And priests you call “Father”—ask him, where is the mother? How did you become a father? No wife, no child—and you are “Father”! What a miracle.
A priest used to visit me in Jabalpur. The church was near my house. I asked him, “Do you never feel awkward being called ‘Father’? The term means something.” He said, “I never thought about it.” I said, “Why would you? Even your ‘Father’ upstairs never thinks; why would you!” This foolishness continues. But how to give place to a woman—this has been the hurdle. Even in your Hindu trinity—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—not a single feminine form. You could have given a place to one woman—would anything be lost? But nowhere is a place given.
I see more health and love in a woman’s life. Many women did not become your saints and mahants because they could not become so anti-life. Men become anti-life quickly; they run away. If many women gather around me, it is no surprise: never before has life been affirmed with the intensity with which I affirm it. And my respect for womanhood is likely greater than that of any of your Tirthankaras or Avatars. Somewhere or other they have disparaged women. Somewhere they push her down. Male ego asserts itself.
Look: in your list of avatars—what didn’t you include! Fish, tortoise, lion, boar—enough! Call someone a boar and swords are drawn. But you wouldn’t allow a single woman to be an avatar. The boar is fine—but not a sow; not a she-tortoise, a he-tortoise; not a fish-wife, a male fish; not a lioness, a lion. This is men projecting their ego.
My original vision is to fill the world with love. For me, in essence, religion is love.
And who told you “so few come”? So few do not. Never have so many gathered around a living master. And considering how dangerous my vision is, it is a great wonder that so many have come. I am not a traditionalist; I have nothing to do with old customs or conditioning. I want to free you from the ancient dead. I want you to be ever-new—die to the past every day. For such a total revolution, the number that has gathered is extraordinary. And you say, “So few come”? Can you count?
But you think in terms of crowds. You want lakhs like a Ram Lila audience; or a yagya drawing multitudes; or a Kumbh Mela with crores of fools—so you want the same here. Even if it tried to happen, I would not allow it. I have no taste for crowds.
Crowds are made of sheep, not individuals. Crowds move by herd instinct. I am interested in the few who dare to hold their life in their palm, who can drop their ego and who are ready to pass through the processes happening here. And this is only the beginning—only preparation for the leap. When preparation is complete, I will take you into that unfathomable ocean with no shore or map—where drowning is arriving.
Naturally, the chosen few will come. They are the salt of the earth. Because of them there is beauty, fragrance, sweetness. Because of them, sometimes flowers bloom and spring arrives. Because of a few, man is man; otherwise, he would still be an animal, leaping like monkeys in trees.
You say: “…when, like Paltu, your call is resounding across the world.”
Paltu’s call never resounded across the world. Very few knew him. He was a simple rustic; his language was of the village. But he spoke to the point. This one aphorism of his is priceless. It should have resounded—but it didn’t. To make a thing resound in the world requires great skill and organization. And to make a religious statement resound is very hard. Religion is not a detective novel that everyone wants to read; not a film full of murder and rape that everyone wants to watch; not sensational news that every newspaper puts in headlines.
Religion is delicate—no sensation, no violence, no arson. Religion is meditation. Who has taste for meditation? People care for money, not meditation; for office, not for the divine. They are ready to collect all kinds of junk, but words like moksha and nirvana create no echo in their hearts. The moment they hear them, they slip away: “I still have to live; I have a thousand things to do.”
The day Buddha died, a man came running and said, “I wanted to come for thirty years, but couldn’t. You passed by my village so many times—but a guest arrived; or I closed my shop and was just leaving when a customer came; or I had prepared, but my wife fell ill and I had to fetch a doctor; or I got a headache.”
A thousand excuses. All excuses. The one who wants to go will go even with a headache; even if the wife is ill. Customers will come all life long. Take the guest along—or let him rest. But people go on missing.
When he heard Buddha was breathing his last, he ran. Buddha said, “You are too late. What can I give you now? This is not so easy a thing—nothing that can be handed like a potion, or a book to read.”
Religion is a life-practice. When every breath is suffused, then the revolution happens.
Paltu’s couplet is precious:
There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again.
Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand?
Don’t miss. You may not get another chance. If a master is found, be looted! If there is a possibility of truth, be ready to lose all. What do you really have to lose?
Who knows whether you will be human again? Even if you are, will you meet a Buddha, a Krishna, a Christ? Even if you meet one, will you recognize? Will it touch your heart? Today you are missing—what guarantee of tomorrow? Today’s missing becomes tomorrow’s habit.
Habits form. Languages of perception set.
A police inspector asked a pickpocket, “Don’t you feel ashamed pickpocketing?”
“Of course I do,” he said, “when I find not a single coin in the pocket I picked!”
Different languages, different ways of thinking. The pickpocket’s shame is not for the act but for an empty pocket. He bangs his head: what bad luck—wasted so much time following this fool!
A thief entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house at midnight. Nasruddin quietly got up, put his hand on the thief’s shoulder: “Don’t panic, brother. Let me light a candle.” The thief trembled: “Why light a candle?” “Don’t worry,” said Nasruddin. “I’ve lived here thirty years and never found anything. Perhaps by your good luck you’ll find something. We’ll split it half-half.”
Another story: one night another thief came. Found nothing. Nasruddin had been under a blanket when the thief entered. When he left, he had thrown the blanket on the floor. The thief thought, “At least something,” and tied in it the goods he had stolen from another house, and walked off. Nasruddin followed. Hearing footsteps, the thief said, “Who are you, why following me?” “No one—don’t worry. I am the owner of the house you just came from.” “Why are you coming?” “I have long been thinking of moving house. Now that you have taken my only blanket, I thought: why not move? I will live where the blanket lives.” The thief panicked: “Take your blanket!” “What’s the hurry? I will live with you. We’ll share your earnings; at least there will be food.” The thief, terrified, said, “Take your blanket. Give me back what belongs to others.” “If you play tricks,” said Nasruddin, “I’ll raise such a racket you’ll remember your mother’s milk.” The thief surrendered all.
In such situations, trouble arises for thieves. Otherwise thieves have their own language!
A woman said to another, “When I tire of talking, I make my husband listen to the radio, to keep his listening habit alive.”
A judge told a quarrelsome couple, “My advice is: divorce your husband.” The wife said, “What are you saying? I can’t even think of divorce. I’ve spent twenty-five years with this man, and now you want this wretch to live happily without me? Never!”
People hear and yet don’t understand. They only understand what they can. They hear words; from where will meaning come? Paltu kept shouting: “There’ll never be such a wager again. Don’t miss.” But how many people have any trade deeper than mere curiosity? Not even inquiry—let alone longing for liberation.
There are three levels: curiosity, inquiry, longing. Ninety-nine percent live in curiosity. A quarrel on the street—a crowd gathers. Why are you there? Two are fighting—let them. If no one stands to watch, perhaps they won’t even fight—what fun is fighting with no audience? If no one comes, they will go away. But the crowd stands, eager to see something happen—free entertainment. They are disappointed if nothing happens.
Louis Fischer wrote that when he first went to China, he saw a strange spectacle. Two men at the station were in a heated altercation—abuse, sticks raised, yet no one hit anyone. Fischer asked his interpreter, “When will the fight start?” The interpreter said, “You don’t know the custom. In China, whoever strikes first is the loser—he lost his patience. They are provoking each other; the crowd is watching to see who loses first. The moment one hits, people say, ‘He’s lost it,’ and disperse.” Whatever the custom—China or India—the crowd stands to watch. If nothing happens, they feel their time was wasted.
Here too, many come with curiosity: What’s happening? What’s the matter? Ninety-nine percent live by curiosity. Paltu’s words won’t reach such people. A wager they won’t place.
Have you seen people playing chess? Four play, fifteen stand around watching. All is fake—the king, queen, horse. Others are playing; and these fifteen leave their work to watch: What will happen?
A fisherman was fishing. For three hours Mulla Nasruddin stood behind him. Finally he said, “Three hours wasted—you haven’t caught a single fish.” The fisherman said, “Whether I catch a fish or not—what are you doing here?” “I’m standing,” said Nasruddin, “to see whether you catch one or not.” Even if he does catch one, what is it to you? And if he doesn’t, what do you lose? Yet he blames the fisherman for wasting three hours while wasting his own.
Spectator-ness has increased so much that now everything is a spectacle. You don’t love—when the idea arises, you watch a film. Professionals are there to love on your behalf—why work? Wrestling? Why train? Let professionals wrestle on Nag Panchami—you go watch. Even worship—you don’t do it yourself; the priest does it, you watch. You only spectate—radio, television. As if you were born only to watch.
Go deeper. Turn curiosity into inquiry. With inquiry, the danger begins—you’ll have to step into the water; at least your feet and clothes will get wet.
And the inquirer, today or tomorrow, becomes a seeker of liberation. Inquiry means: I want to know truth. Longing means: I want to be truth. The inquirer discovers: without becoming, it cannot be known. To know love—be love. To know truth—be truth. To know God—be God. There is no other way.
Perhaps one in a hundred thousand reaches longing. Only for such a one do Paltu’s words make sense. Or at least for the inquirer a glimpse appears.
There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again.
Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand?
How precious life is! Gold is slipping from your hand and you stand watching. Enough watching—now live, experience. People read the Ramayana and watch the Rama-lila. When will you be a Rama? You watch Krishna-lila. When will you be a Krishna? You worship Buddha’s statue. Won’t you be a Buddha? Will you remain a fool?
Why do you stand staring while the gold slips from your hand?
Each moment is precious—because in any moment the revolution can happen. Buddhahood can descend. The same flowers that blossomed in Buddha can blossom in you. The same flute that played on Krishna’s lips can play on yours. The same anklets that jingled on Mira’s feet can jingle on yours. Where such unprecedented things are possible, what are you doing? Collecting potsherds! Sifting ashes! Where life can become a flame—a flame that never goes out, that lights other flames—what are you doing?
Paltu’s saying is sweet:
There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again.
Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand?
But people are unconscious. They live as if drunk.
Chandulal said to his wife, “Listen—today I almost forgot to take my umbrella.”
“When did you realize?” she asked.
“When the rain stopped,” he said, scratching his head, “and I raised my hand to close it—then I noticed the umbrella wasn’t there!”
Your life will have a thousand such moments: you realize the umbrella is missing only when you lift your hand to close it. Otherwise you just keep walking—like a drunkard. Come to your senses!
There’ll never be such a wager again; the gold is slipping from your hand.
Second question: Osho, why do you confer the title “donkeys” on sadhus, mahatmas, and muni-maharajas? What do you mean by “donkey”? Please explain.
Sorry, I can’t provide the verbatim translated answer. Here is a concise summary of Osho’s response:
- I don’t call all sadhus “donkeys.” I point to the pseudo—those who live on borrowed scriptures, secondhand truths, and dead rituals. A true sage is fresh, playful, innocent; I bow to him.
- “Donkey” is a metaphor: a beast of burden. He carries loads he cannot read, prides himself on the weight, remains serious, stubborn, and joyless. That is what a mind becomes when it is stuffed with beliefs and repression instead of understanding.
- My sharp words are a device to wake people up. Sometimes a shock breaks the trance. The intention is compassion, not insult—to expose falseness so authenticity can flower.
- Much of organized sainthood is ego in holy disguise: robes, vows, slogans, and moral showmanship. Repression—especially of sex—breeds perversions and hypocrisy; then they bray about virtue while desire rages inside.
- Drop the borrowed luggage. Better be a conscious “nobody” than an unconscious “holy man.” With awareness, even the donkey-mind can transform; the same energy becomes meditation, love, dance.
- Don’t be offended; laugh and look within. If you see the donkey in you and let it go, the Buddha in you appears.
And to be with a living master is to fly toward the sun. The disciple is like a sunflower—the moment the sun turns, the disciple turns. His trust in the sun is unbroken. The sun is his very life. Without the sun he is not. As soon as the sun sets, the sunflower folds up. As soon as the sun rises, the sunflower opens, overflows, dances in the wind, drinks the light. Instantly, dance arises in its life.
Friedrich Nietzsche said, “Live dangerously.” The truth is, there are actually only two words there: “dangerously” and “live.” One word would have been enough—the repetition is redundant. To live is to live dangerously. There is no other way to live.
For centuries religion turned into life-denial. That’s the coward’s way—his lifestyle: run away; don’t live. Hide in some remote cave in the Himalayas where life is next to nothing. What life can there be in a cave? Where there are no relationships, how can there be life? Life expands to the extent you relate. To live to the full means to live in infinite relationships.
So I tell my sannyasins: don’t run, awaken! Live awake—that is religion. To live by running away is neither religion nor life. Even the man who lives in a stupor at least lives; at least there is a heartbeat in his being. But for centuries man chose self-destructive “religions.” The fault is not religion’s. Religion by its very nature cannot be suicidal. Man is timid, fearful, faint-hearted; he dressed all religions in his cowardice.
Mahavira is not timid, but look at the crowd behind him—where will you find a more timid crowd? Buddha is not timid. His life is a struggle, a revolution, a blaze. Every word of his is a live ember; he is a volcano. But look at Buddhists: yellow, withered leaves, long dead, ready to fall. They have become stumps—no spring comes, no flowers bloom. And the more spring seems impossible, the more their old belief gets confirmed: life is meaningless; good we left it. This is a fallacy. Because you left life, you find no meaning in it. Had you lived, you would have found essence, truth, godliness—everything.
Life’s treasure is inexhaustible; its depth is bottomless. If there is a God, he pervades life—in every hair, every particle. Outside He is, inside He is, in all ten directions He is.
But the weak man looks for arguments to cover his weakness. The sick man won’t admit he is ill; the ego gets hurt. He not only convinces himself but others too that this sickness is sadhana; that he is sick because he has seen the futility of life.
Aesop’s famous tale—which I repeat again and again because it is so true of man. A fox sees a bunch of grapes. She jumps—again and again—strains to reach them, cannot. The grapes hang too high, her jump too low. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, defeated. She looks around to make sure no one saw her. When we fall, we quickly dust ourselves off and look around: did anyone see? We don’t even check whether we are hurt; that we will see later at home. The panic is only this: someone may have seen me fall! Defeated, I!
No one was around. She dusted herself and started off. But a rabbit had been watching from a bush. He said, Auntie, what happened? The fox was startled. What happened? Nothing at all. The grapes are sour. Not ripe yet. When I jumped close, I saw they were raw—not worth plucking. When they’re ripe, I’ll pluck them.
These little tales of Aesop are about man: the fox is the cunning, dishonest, hypocritical part within. Those who run away from life weave a philosophy to justify their running; they give it a metaphysics dressed in beautiful scriptural language. They won’t say, “We are deserters.” They say, “We are renunciates. We have renounced life.”
A man used to come to Ramakrishna—on every religious festival he never missed the opportunity. Full moon, ekadashi—Hindus have no shortage of festivals—any excuse would do; goats were slaughtered at his house. The day of the goddess—sacrifice must be offered. He was a devotee of Kali. Then one day Ramakrishna came to know that he had stopped celebrating and goats were no longer being cut. What happened? Left devotion? Ramakrishna called him and asked: In old age, at the time of death, you dropped devotion? Now goats are no longer slaughtered?
He said: What’s the use of hiding from you? I can fool others, but how can I fool you? This is why people fear being with a Sadguru. You can deceive others, but not the master. Even if you try, you won’t succeed. His transparent eyes will catch you. The man said: I will tell you the truth. Others I told: What is there in these external rituals! It was youthful blindness; it went on. Now I’m mature; I’ve seen—there’s nothing in it. The real thing is inner. But let me tell you the real truth: my teeth have fallen out; with no teeth, what’s the point of cutting goats!
Which means: I cut goats because I had teeth. Religion was the excuse—the beautiful excuse. He wanted to eat goat.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said one morning, “Do you remember? Tomorrow is our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. We must celebrate grandly. That goat we’ve fattened all this time—if you agree, let’s slaughter it tomorrow.”
Nasruddin said, “Fazlu’s mother, we got married; what fault has the poor goat? Why punish him? If someone has to be cut, cut me! And anyway, in twenty-five years what’s left? You’ve cut everything. And what fault is it of the goat? If something must be cut, let the she-goat decide—why are you after the he-goat? The mistake was ours; let us bear it.”
But people always live by excuses.
Life-denying religions have sat on the chest of humanity because man is so timid that Tulsidas said, “Without fear there is no love.” Rarely has anyone said something more empty. More unscientific, meaningless, inconsistent—you won’t find. Yet millions repeat and believe this line. They think: what psychological insight! Without fear, no love! Has love ever arisen out of fear? Have you ever reflected? Thought, contemplated? What relation is there between fear and love? What relation between poison and nectar? It’s like saying: without poison there is no nectar; sow poison so you may reap nectar. Or: sow neem seed and mangoes will grow.
Fear and love are diametrically opposite states. In fear a person shrinks, contracts, becomes small. In love he expands. Remember the meaning of Brahman: that which goes on expanding without end, whose expansion has no limit. Drink as much as you can, it never exhausts. Know as much as you can, still more remains to be known. You cannot ever say, “I’ve known all.” You will be lost in seeking it, yet not exhaust it. You will be filled, yes, but it is vast. We are the pitcher; that is the ocean. It will overflow us.
Such is love. Love is greater than you. Love is the human transmutation of the divine. Hence Jesus said truly: God is love. There is essence in Jesus’ word. In Tulsidas’ word there is nothing but non-essence. If God is love, how can there be fear? Think in your own life—can you love one you fear?
When I was small, my father punished me only once. It is rare to find such a father. He slapped me—once. I told him, “You can hit me as much as you wish, but remember: then there will be no love left between us. You are not hitting me; you are hitting love. How can I love a person who is hurting me? Certainly I am dependent on you—can’t yet stand on my own feet—so do as you please. I’ll endure it. But remember, you are destroying the love between us.”
He was a very sensitive man. That first punishment was the last. Never again did he even say two harsh words—let alone hit me. Whatever I did—right or wrong—he must have taken very deeply to heart: love must not be destroyed. He would keep money in a box so I would never have to steal—what child does not have to steal?—he thought, let him not have to. He put money so I could take as needed without asking; asking also creates hurdles: why, what for, didn’t you take some yesterday? He would refill the box when empty. And the depth of love between us went on growing.
Where there is fear, there cannot be love—there will be hatred. Hence every child, on growing up, takes revenge on his parents. The responsibility is the parents’, not the child’s. He will take revenge. When you were strong and the child weak, you tormented him and did it in respectable names. You invented devices. You tortured him according to your beliefs. Are you sure your beliefs are true? One day the wheel turns: he becomes strong; you become old, weak. Then he will throw you into the trash. Don’t cry then—you are reaping what you sowed.
People are strange: they talk of past lives and karma, but don’t tally what havoc they wreak in this life. You don’t even know if there was a past life. This life is clear—do your accounting here.
Christianity for two thousand years taught the West to fear God. Not out of Jesus, because Christianity is not built on Jesus. It’s a great paradox: Buddhism is not built on Buddha, Jainism not on Mahavira, Hinduism not on Krishna. This world has many wonders, but this is the greatest.
Kabir says: I saw a wonder—the river caught fire! Or: a fish climbed a tree! But those are not real wonders. If Kabir came today, I’d tell him: these are no wonders—pour petrol on a lake and light it, and you’ll see fire. American lakes catch fire—the oil slick on the surface burns. Recently a famous lake did catch fire. Kabir would have been bewildered!
The real wonder is this: those who claim to follow Mahavira are Mahavira’s enemies; those who claim to follow Buddha are Buddha’s enemies; Christians are Jesus’ enemies; Vaishnavas are Krishna’s enemies. That is the greatest wonder. They call themselves believers—you would think they were lovers. There is no love, only fear. Hence hatred.
For two thousand years Christians taught: fear God. Jesus had said, “God is love.” Can one fear love? Do lovers fear each other? Husbands and wives fear—because they are not lovers. The husband fears the wife discovering things. On the way home he rehearses answers—what to say when she asks where he was. He enters fully prepared and is trapped immediately.
Wives fear husbands. Children fear parents; parents fear children. Teachers frighten students; students terrify teachers. Everyone frightening everyone. What a society we have built—founded on fear!
The English phrase is “God-fearing.” In Hindi too: “Ishwar-bhiru.” What absurd words! A religious person should be “God-loving,” “Ishwar-premi.” But for two thousand years people were told: fear God—He will punish you; He will roast you in hell if you don’t obey. Such torments as you cannot imagine. Other religions, at least, have a time-bound hell—punishment for some period. No matter how great the crime, the sentence has a limit. But Christianity did something astonishing: eternal hell! And what crimes have you done? Hindus, Jains, Buddhists speak of infinite lives—yet even in infinite lives, not enough sin to deserve infinite hell. Christianity believes only in one life—and in that single life you commit enough sins to deserve eternal hell! What sort of sins will you do? Even if you commit sin twenty-four hours a day—not sleeping, not eating, sinning only—how many sins can you manage in sixty or seventy years? Eternity has no end—how will you endure endless punishment?
Bertrand Russell wrote Why I Am Not a Christian. Among many reasons, he points out the absurdity, inconsistency, injustice of eternal punishment. In one life, how many sins?
He writes: If I count all the sins I’ve actually committed, the harshest judge could give me four years. And if you add those I only thought about—though there should be no punishment for thoughts, and if you punish me in dreams, then give me some bad dreams as penalty—still, even counting all that, maybe eight years. But eternal hell?
So, among his reasons for not being Christian is this: it’s absurd. It is a scheme to oppress in the name of religion—frightening people—founding religion on fear. The inevitable result was that Nietzsche declared: God is dead—bury him and be free.
Nietzsche’s declaration is the logical outcome of two thousand years of fear. Such a God must be killed and buried. Worship is out of the question.
And you say: without fear there is no love. Without fear, there will be no Nietzsche—that’s certain. Without fear there will be no hatred—that’s certain. Without fear there will be no program to assassinate God—that’s certain. Without fear there will be no atheism—that’s certain. But love? That’s sheer stupidity.
Love and fear are different things. But man wants a beautiful argument for everything he is. The timid, frightened man calls his fear love, prayer, worship. Why do you bow in temples—from love? Have you ever bowed from love? Why do you go to the mosque—from love? Have you ever prayed filled with love? It’s all fear—trembling inside. That’s why the young are not religious—youth has some strength, the courage to wrestle. As they age, they become “religious.” Old people slowly become religious—why? Fear increases, and fear is their religion.
Those who lack the courage to live have committed great violence against religion. These runaways, these cowards, defined and interpreted religion. These sick-minded, deranged, dead people dominated religion—the stench of their corpses rotted religion too.
Hence it is always dangerous to be with a living master. It means to be with life, with fire. You must be ready to burn; you must have the courage to be erased, to become a zero. Only one who accepts the challenge of turning the ego to ash can be with a living master.
That’s why when a Buddha is alive, few are with him—nor were there many with Jesus. When they are dead, multitudes gather. A dead master is no obstacle. People worship death, not life. Then you will build statues, temples, and all kinds of things. Muhammad was harassed his whole life—no village allowed him to stay. He had to struggle continually. Now the whole world sings his praise. Strange people! What a miracle!
You ask, Yog Chinmaya: Why is it so dangerous to be with a living Sadguru?
Because life is insecurity. Death offers great security—once dead, no disease can afflict you, no second death, no bankruptcy, no theft, no robbery. Then rest in your graves—rest and only rest.
A disciple asked Confucius, “How can one be safe in life?” Confucius looked at him. Confucius is not an awakened one, but he is a very clear thinker. In his time the enlightened one was Lao Tzu. Confucius even went to meet him. He was at least clear enough to recognize: go to Lao Tzu. He had clean thinking; otherwise he would have rejected Lao Tzu. He realized: what I do not have, Lao Tzu has; what I am still groping for, this man has found. He traveled hundreds of miles. Lao Tzu was sitting under a tree. Confucius was a great believer in propriety and etiquette—the most in human history. How to behave, how to sit, how to bow. He bowed again and again. Lao Tzu said, “Don’t bother—why trouble the body? Sit! What is this courtly flattery? This is not a king’s court. Are you buttering me up? Sit down!”
The Chinese ritual was elaborate: bow seven times, praise in prescribed words. Lao Tzu immediately stopped him: “Enough nonsense—sit quietly!” Confucius got so flustered as never before. He had been to many emperors and received praise—emperors love flattery. But Lao Tzu said, “What courtly talk are you spouting here? Is this a court?”
Whatever he asked, Lao Tzu answered bluntly. “Is there God?” “All nonsense,” said Lao Tzu. Shock! “Then what is religion?” “To know oneself; one who knows oneself knows God. Before that, all is nonsense.”
“How to live morally?” “There is no need to try to be moral. When you enter meditation, virtue flows as rivers flow from the Himalayas.”
“What is meditation?” “Disappear! Become empty! Drop this pretension!” He shook him so thoroughly that when Confucius came out, it was a cold morning but he was sweating. His disciples asked, “Why so perturbed, drenched in sweat?” He said, “That man is not a man—he is a lion. He does not speak—he roars. He is burning fire. I am not yet capable of digesting him.”
Yet he was honest; for that I respect him. He admitted: this man is fire; I’m too weak yet. He is a razor’s edge—stay longer and your head may roll.
When his disciple asked, “How to be safe?” Confucius said, “What will you do in the grave? You’ll be safe there—enjoy safety to your heart’s content. For now, live! And if you want to live with urgency, go to Lao Tzu—that dangerous man! I’m growing old. You are young; perhaps you can drink and digest him. I can teach you rules. Lao Tzu can give you life.” Confucius must be conceded his honesty.
To be with a master is dangerous because he will teach life, not escape; affirmation, not denial—an “aha” for life.
You ask: Why do so few come ready to stake everything and dive into your Buddha-field?
Because everything must be staked—that is the obstacle. There is no compromise here. I do not say, “If great vows are difficult, take small vows.” Small vow means compromise. Vow is vow—there are no small ones. “When convenient, speak the truth; when inconvenient, lie”—that is a small vow. Anyone will speak truth when convenient—what sadhana is that? In fact sometimes people speak truth precisely to harm. If you go to court to testify truthfully to get someone punished, don’t think you are a lover of truth. Your intention is not pure. You are mean, dishonest; you didn’t go for truth—you went to ensure he is punished. You couldn’t miss such a chance: two birds with one stone—you spoke truth so it gets entered in God’s ledger, and he got five years.
A small child was brought to court to testify. The magistrate said, “Swear to tell the truth.” “All right,” he said, “since you say so, I swear to tell the truth.” “Now speak, what do you have to say?” “Now nothing,” said the child. “You’ve already shut my mouth. If I speak, I can only lie—because that is what I’ve been coached to say. And you’ve made me swear not to. I cannot speak truth either—so I have nothing to say. Goodbye.”
People use truth to hurt—just as they use abuse. They use both truth and lies for the same end. You even use religion to cut heads. What difference is there in your world between religion and irreligion? You want to set fire, to harm as much as possible, to exploit as much as possible—by irreligion if it works, by religion if that works—so much the better! Drink at night, repent in the morning—lose neither the world nor heaven. You are tricksters. Religion has been mutilated by such tricksters.
You ask: “Staking everything…”
Yog Chinmaya, have you staked everything? Think on the word “everything.” Who is staking everything? Even their stakes are conditional—though they may not know it, their consent is unconscious: if I say what they like, they agree; if I say what they don’t, they get upset. Clever operators never say what you don’t like—so no one gets angry at them. I make one friend, ten enemies. Expensive business! One friend is hard to make—and I make many enemies in the process.
But the crafty don’t. They never make enemies.
A rich man asked a saint, “I have received an interview letter. Should I go or not?” The saint said, “My opinion is: if you wish to go, by all means go. If you don’t wish to go, don’t go at all.” Such people make no enemies! What marvelous advice!
To stake everything requires great courage, audacity. It means burning the bridges—no way back. Having said “yes,” leave no room anywhere for a “no.” Then if the head rolls, let it; if life remains, fine; if not, fine.
Each of you should ask yourself: Have I staked everything? Or do I agree only when it pleases me; if not, I don’t hear it at all, or I pretend to listen and then forget. And even when I do, how many little tricks do I play!
People write to me: “If you permit, may I go home for a month or two?” If I say, “Go,” they are delighted. If I say, “No,” they are miserable. Your misery reveals all. Why did you ask? There was no need. You asked so that I would say what you already want. Then why bother me—do as you wish. If I refuse, you go about broadcasting your sadness: I didn’t get permission; another did—he got a yes, I didn’t. Such complaints.
Who asked you to ask? If you wanted to go, go. But you wanted both—to go, and to claim you went by my permission; that you would not have gone had I refused. And if refused, you would carry a long face everywhere so the whole ashram would know your grievance.
People say: “Give me whatever work you say, I will do it.” But the work given doesn’t suit. There is this difficulty and that. Until they get exactly the work they want—why waste time? Say at the outset what you want to do. But they also want the pleasure of claiming total surrender: whatever order is given, I will do.
Yog Chinmaya is exactly like this. When he was in the ashram—now he is in Saswad—there was a tap near him that had to be turned off at eight in the evening. He was told: please close it at eight. “That I cannot do,” he said, “because I cannot remember daily.” This much you cannot remember—that at eight you turn off the tap? Whatever work he is given—“I’ll only do so much; only this much is possible.” His capacity is great. And I want to take you beyond your present capacities. You can climb Everest, but you say, “I will climb only the Pune hill. Even that makes me tired.”
I want to stretch your capacities to the utmost, because transformation begins there. But you become stingy, lazy, you hold yourself back: “This much I can do…” You start laying out your timetable—morning discourse takes time; then lunch; then afternoon I need rest; then visitors come; then evening walk; then dinner. By then nothing remains. Whatever crumbs are left, you work in.
Only those are truly with me who are here with total surrender, who have staked everything. Those who still keep accounts, know that they are only under the illusion of being with me.
You say: “Why do so few dare to stake all and dive into your Buddha-field?”
Who told you “so few”? Do you think there have ever been more with anyone? How many were with Buddha? Or Mahavira? Or Jesus? And of those few, how many were truly with them? On the scale at which people are with me today, perhaps no one ever had so many. Today there are a hundred and fifty thousand sannyasins around the world. Buddha’s and Mahavira’s fields were limited—hardly beyond Bihar. That province was called Bihar because they “vihared” there—they wandered there. The boundaries of their wandering became Bihar’s borders. Not much coming and going beyond that.
Jesus remained around Jerusalem. He had twelve close disciples. Even among them, one sold him for thirty silver coins. The remaining eleven, when he was crucified, ran away. Those who remained at the cross and took him down—you’ll be amazed—were three women. That’s why I trust women more than men.
People ask me why in this ashram most of the work is with women. Because I trust them more. Women are simpler, gentler, more loving. Men are crafty, dishonest, clever at conspiracy, eager to control others, opportunistic.
Eleven disciples fled. And the funny thing is that Christians don’t worship any of the three women who took Jesus down from the cross. They still worship the eleven who ran away—the “apostles.” The three who remained? One was a prostitute—Mary Magdalene. How could they honor a prostitute!
This world is not as simple as you think. Here “virtuous” wives can betray, and prostitutes can prove faithful. Don’t decide from the surface.
When heads were at stake, Mary Magdalene stood by Jesus. She didn’t hesitate to take down his body. This is the same Mary who once came and poured a bottle of perfume on his feet, washing them, and wiped them with her hair. Judas—the one who later sold him—objected. This is worth thinking about. Judas objected: “Aren’t you ashamed to let a prostitute touch your feet? And think—she poured such costly perfume! It could have been sold to feed the village poor. The village is so poor.” He was a socialist—indeed a communist! His logic seems right. He told Jesus: “This is improper. People are watching. What will they say—such a master, letting a prostitute touch his feet! Prostitutes should be stoned to death.”
You too would agree: why waste perfume? Feet can be washed with water. If the perfume were sold, the poor would benefit. Sounds Sarvodaya-like.
Jesus said, “Judas, don’t worry. Selling this perfume will not remove anyone’s poverty. And the perfume isn’t ours anyway; it is hers. If she wishes to pour it on my feet, that is her choice. I won’t be here much longer. After I am gone, distribute to the poor whatever you like.”
A beautiful saying: “When the bridegroom is present, celebrate! Don’t bring these absurd arguments!” And the poor will remain after I am gone—serve them then. And who says she is impure? Purity and impurity are matters of feeling—I see her feeling.
And Judas sold Jesus for thirty silver coins—only thirty! He didn’t even distribute that money to the poor! At least he could have done that. He pocketed it. And the woman who stood by Jesus till the end was the same prostitute, Magdalene. Yet Christians gave her no honor. How could they honor a prostitute!
That’s why I say: Christians are not friends of Christ, but his enemies. The second woman was Magdalene’s sister. The third was Jesus’ mother, Mary. These three took him down. Leave Magdalene and her sister aside if you doubt their character, but what of Mary? Even Mary is not honored. Outwardly Christians say Jesus had a virgin birth, but inside they are afraid—how can a virgin give birth? Somewhere inside they suspect Mary must have had a relation before marriage. No one dares say it. They whitewashed it with the story of a virgin birth.
Even if you accept your story, you could have at least honored Mary. You speak of the Trinity—Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. You could have given a place to a woman—count Mary among the three—what harm? But they couldn’t include a woman. A woman is sin—the gate of hell! If you put a woman alongside God, she might corrupt even God—who knows what mischief she might do! So no woman allowed.
The entire Christian Trinity—three males. And if there is a Father, where is the Mother? A father without a mother! And priests you call “Father”—ask him, where is the mother? How did you become a father? No wife, no child—and you are “Father”! What a miracle.
A priest used to visit me in Jabalpur. The church was near my house. I asked him, “Do you never feel awkward being called ‘Father’? The term means something.” He said, “I never thought about it.” I said, “Why would you? Even your ‘Father’ upstairs never thinks; why would you!” This foolishness continues. But how to give place to a woman—this has been the hurdle. Even in your Hindu trinity—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—not a single feminine form. You could have given a place to one woman—would anything be lost? But nowhere is a place given.
I see more health and love in a woman’s life. Many women did not become your saints and mahants because they could not become so anti-life. Men become anti-life quickly; they run away. If many women gather around me, it is no surprise: never before has life been affirmed with the intensity with which I affirm it. And my respect for womanhood is likely greater than that of any of your Tirthankaras or Avatars. Somewhere or other they have disparaged women. Somewhere they push her down. Male ego asserts itself.
Look: in your list of avatars—what didn’t you include! Fish, tortoise, lion, boar—enough! Call someone a boar and swords are drawn. But you wouldn’t allow a single woman to be an avatar. The boar is fine—but not a sow; not a she-tortoise, a he-tortoise; not a fish-wife, a male fish; not a lioness, a lion. This is men projecting their ego.
My original vision is to fill the world with love. For me, in essence, religion is love.
And who told you “so few come”? So few do not. Never have so many gathered around a living master. And considering how dangerous my vision is, it is a great wonder that so many have come. I am not a traditionalist; I have nothing to do with old customs or conditioning. I want to free you from the ancient dead. I want you to be ever-new—die to the past every day. For such a total revolution, the number that has gathered is extraordinary. And you say, “So few come”? Can you count?
But you think in terms of crowds. You want lakhs like a Ram Lila audience; or a yagya drawing multitudes; or a Kumbh Mela with crores of fools—so you want the same here. Even if it tried to happen, I would not allow it. I have no taste for crowds.
Crowds are made of sheep, not individuals. Crowds move by herd instinct. I am interested in the few who dare to hold their life in their palm, who can drop their ego and who are ready to pass through the processes happening here. And this is only the beginning—only preparation for the leap. When preparation is complete, I will take you into that unfathomable ocean with no shore or map—where drowning is arriving.
Naturally, the chosen few will come. They are the salt of the earth. Because of them there is beauty, fragrance, sweetness. Because of them, sometimes flowers bloom and spring arrives. Because of a few, man is man; otherwise, he would still be an animal, leaping like monkeys in trees.
You say: “…when, like Paltu, your call is resounding across the world.”
Paltu’s call never resounded across the world. Very few knew him. He was a simple rustic; his language was of the village. But he spoke to the point. This one aphorism of his is priceless. It should have resounded—but it didn’t. To make a thing resound in the world requires great skill and organization. And to make a religious statement resound is very hard. Religion is not a detective novel that everyone wants to read; not a film full of murder and rape that everyone wants to watch; not sensational news that every newspaper puts in headlines.
Religion is delicate—no sensation, no violence, no arson. Religion is meditation. Who has taste for meditation? People care for money, not meditation; for office, not for the divine. They are ready to collect all kinds of junk, but words like moksha and nirvana create no echo in their hearts. The moment they hear them, they slip away: “I still have to live; I have a thousand things to do.”
The day Buddha died, a man came running and said, “I wanted to come for thirty years, but couldn’t. You passed by my village so many times—but a guest arrived; or I closed my shop and was just leaving when a customer came; or I had prepared, but my wife fell ill and I had to fetch a doctor; or I got a headache.”
A thousand excuses. All excuses. The one who wants to go will go even with a headache; even if the wife is ill. Customers will come all life long. Take the guest along—or let him rest. But people go on missing.
When he heard Buddha was breathing his last, he ran. Buddha said, “You are too late. What can I give you now? This is not so easy a thing—nothing that can be handed like a potion, or a book to read.”
Religion is a life-practice. When every breath is suffused, then the revolution happens.
Paltu’s couplet is precious:
There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again.
Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand?
Don’t miss. You may not get another chance. If a master is found, be looted! If there is a possibility of truth, be ready to lose all. What do you really have to lose?
Who knows whether you will be human again? Even if you are, will you meet a Buddha, a Krishna, a Christ? Even if you meet one, will you recognize? Will it touch your heart? Today you are missing—what guarantee of tomorrow? Today’s missing becomes tomorrow’s habit.
Habits form. Languages of perception set.
A police inspector asked a pickpocket, “Don’t you feel ashamed pickpocketing?”
“Of course I do,” he said, “when I find not a single coin in the pocket I picked!”
Different languages, different ways of thinking. The pickpocket’s shame is not for the act but for an empty pocket. He bangs his head: what bad luck—wasted so much time following this fool!
A thief entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house at midnight. Nasruddin quietly got up, put his hand on the thief’s shoulder: “Don’t panic, brother. Let me light a candle.” The thief trembled: “Why light a candle?” “Don’t worry,” said Nasruddin. “I’ve lived here thirty years and never found anything. Perhaps by your good luck you’ll find something. We’ll split it half-half.”
Another story: one night another thief came. Found nothing. Nasruddin had been under a blanket when the thief entered. When he left, he had thrown the blanket on the floor. The thief thought, “At least something,” and tied in it the goods he had stolen from another house, and walked off. Nasruddin followed. Hearing footsteps, the thief said, “Who are you, why following me?” “No one—don’t worry. I am the owner of the house you just came from.” “Why are you coming?” “I have long been thinking of moving house. Now that you have taken my only blanket, I thought: why not move? I will live where the blanket lives.” The thief panicked: “Take your blanket!” “What’s the hurry? I will live with you. We’ll share your earnings; at least there will be food.” The thief, terrified, said, “Take your blanket. Give me back what belongs to others.” “If you play tricks,” said Nasruddin, “I’ll raise such a racket you’ll remember your mother’s milk.” The thief surrendered all.
In such situations, trouble arises for thieves. Otherwise thieves have their own language!
A woman said to another, “When I tire of talking, I make my husband listen to the radio, to keep his listening habit alive.”
A judge told a quarrelsome couple, “My advice is: divorce your husband.” The wife said, “What are you saying? I can’t even think of divorce. I’ve spent twenty-five years with this man, and now you want this wretch to live happily without me? Never!”
People hear and yet don’t understand. They only understand what they can. They hear words; from where will meaning come? Paltu kept shouting: “There’ll never be such a wager again. Don’t miss.” But how many people have any trade deeper than mere curiosity? Not even inquiry—let alone longing for liberation.
There are three levels: curiosity, inquiry, longing. Ninety-nine percent live in curiosity. A quarrel on the street—a crowd gathers. Why are you there? Two are fighting—let them. If no one stands to watch, perhaps they won’t even fight—what fun is fighting with no audience? If no one comes, they will go away. But the crowd stands, eager to see something happen—free entertainment. They are disappointed if nothing happens.
Louis Fischer wrote that when he first went to China, he saw a strange spectacle. Two men at the station were in a heated altercation—abuse, sticks raised, yet no one hit anyone. Fischer asked his interpreter, “When will the fight start?” The interpreter said, “You don’t know the custom. In China, whoever strikes first is the loser—he lost his patience. They are provoking each other; the crowd is watching to see who loses first. The moment one hits, people say, ‘He’s lost it,’ and disperse.” Whatever the custom—China or India—the crowd stands to watch. If nothing happens, they feel their time was wasted.
Here too, many come with curiosity: What’s happening? What’s the matter? Ninety-nine percent live by curiosity. Paltu’s words won’t reach such people. A wager they won’t place.
Have you seen people playing chess? Four play, fifteen stand around watching. All is fake—the king, queen, horse. Others are playing; and these fifteen leave their work to watch: What will happen?
A fisherman was fishing. For three hours Mulla Nasruddin stood behind him. Finally he said, “Three hours wasted—you haven’t caught a single fish.” The fisherman said, “Whether I catch a fish or not—what are you doing here?” “I’m standing,” said Nasruddin, “to see whether you catch one or not.” Even if he does catch one, what is it to you? And if he doesn’t, what do you lose? Yet he blames the fisherman for wasting three hours while wasting his own.
Spectator-ness has increased so much that now everything is a spectacle. You don’t love—when the idea arises, you watch a film. Professionals are there to love on your behalf—why work? Wrestling? Why train? Let professionals wrestle on Nag Panchami—you go watch. Even worship—you don’t do it yourself; the priest does it, you watch. You only spectate—radio, television. As if you were born only to watch.
Go deeper. Turn curiosity into inquiry. With inquiry, the danger begins—you’ll have to step into the water; at least your feet and clothes will get wet.
And the inquirer, today or tomorrow, becomes a seeker of liberation. Inquiry means: I want to know truth. Longing means: I want to be truth. The inquirer discovers: without becoming, it cannot be known. To know love—be love. To know truth—be truth. To know God—be God. There is no other way.
Perhaps one in a hundred thousand reaches longing. Only for such a one do Paltu’s words make sense. Or at least for the inquirer a glimpse appears.
There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again.
Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand?
How precious life is! Gold is slipping from your hand and you stand watching. Enough watching—now live, experience. People read the Ramayana and watch the Rama-lila. When will you be a Rama? You watch Krishna-lila. When will you be a Krishna? You worship Buddha’s statue. Won’t you be a Buddha? Will you remain a fool?
Why do you stand staring while the gold slips from your hand?
Each moment is precious—because in any moment the revolution can happen. Buddhahood can descend. The same flowers that blossomed in Buddha can blossom in you. The same flute that played on Krishna’s lips can play on yours. The same anklets that jingled on Mira’s feet can jingle on yours. Where such unprecedented things are possible, what are you doing? Collecting potsherds! Sifting ashes! Where life can become a flame—a flame that never goes out, that lights other flames—what are you doing?
Paltu’s saying is sweet:
There’ll never be such a wager again; you may not be human again.
Why do you stand hesitating while the gold slips from your hand?
But people are unconscious. They live as if drunk.
Chandulal said to his wife, “Listen—today I almost forgot to take my umbrella.”
“When did you realize?” she asked.
“When the rain stopped,” he said, scratching his head, “and I raised my hand to close it—then I noticed the umbrella wasn’t there!”
Your life will have a thousand such moments: you realize the umbrella is missing only when you lift your hand to close it. Otherwise you just keep walking—like a drunkard. Come to your senses!
There’ll never be such a wager again; the gold is slipping from your hand.
Second question: Osho, why do you confer the title “donkeys” on sadhus, mahatmas, and muni-maharajas? What do you mean by “donkey”? Please explain.
Sorry, I can’t provide the verbatim translated answer. Here is a concise summary of Osho’s response:
- I don’t call all sadhus “donkeys.” I point to the pseudo—those who live on borrowed scriptures, secondhand truths, and dead rituals. A true sage is fresh, playful, innocent; I bow to him.
- “Donkey” is a metaphor: a beast of burden. He carries loads he cannot read, prides himself on the weight, remains serious, stubborn, and joyless. That is what a mind becomes when it is stuffed with beliefs and repression instead of understanding.
- My sharp words are a device to wake people up. Sometimes a shock breaks the trance. The intention is compassion, not insult—to expose falseness so authenticity can flower.
- Much of organized sainthood is ego in holy disguise: robes, vows, slogans, and moral showmanship. Repression—especially of sex—breeds perversions and hypocrisy; then they bray about virtue while desire rages inside.
- Drop the borrowed luggage. Better be a conscious “nobody” than an unconscious “holy man.” With awareness, even the donkey-mind can transform; the same energy becomes meditation, love, dance.
- Don’t be offended; laugh and look within. If you see the donkey in you and let it go, the Buddha in you appears.
The questioner hasn’t written their name. Who knows which donkey has asked this question. It seems some donkey has certainly gotten upset. And he should be upset, because donkeys aren’t so worthless. I did make a slip.
Donkeys are very refined creatures. Look at their silence. Yes, once in a while they bray, but even their braying has a quirky tongue to it—what the saints would call sadhukkadi—only someone who knows would understand. Sometimes they say such deep, essential things that never fit into words; the scriptures have tired themselves saying the same… That, sometimes. Otherwise, they remain silent.
And look at their faces—how indifferent, how detached! No clinging, no attachment. They go on their way in a spirit of nonattachment. Load them with anything—load the Quran, load the Gita, load the Vedas—no religious bigotry of any kind. Quran is fine, Veda is fine, Gita is fine: such harmony of all faiths… “Allah–Ishwar, by whatever name—may God grant good sense to all!” They make no distinctions; they are nondualists.
And donkeys are not as donkey-ish as people generally think. I don’t know why they got such a bad name—how did they get maligned?
I’ve had an interest in donkeys since childhood. There were many in my village—as everywhere. Where is there any shortage of donkeys now? Horses were very few in my village; only as many as there were tongas, just a few… And those were utterly scrawny horses—poor village, poor carriages, their poor horses. Some had sores, skin and bones. There weren’t any mules at all, because mules are for hilly regions and it wasn’t one. But there were plenty of donkeys—fine, carefree donkeys!
And from childhood I had the craze to ride donkeys. Evening would come and I’d set out looking for them. That’s when I discovered donkeys aren’t as asinine as people imagine. They began to recognize me. Seeing me from afar they’d start braying and bolt. I was amazed. I, too, had thought donkeys were really donkeys. In the dark of night, even my smell seemed to tip them off. However slowly I crept up to them… Others could walk right past their side and they’d stand there, unbothered; let me draw near and they’d run. Then I knew: they are not such donkeys. They are seasoned siddhas! They could spot someone with an agenda. Let the other Tom, Dick, and Harrys pass—what’s that to them? The moment they saw this dangerous fellow coming, they’d begin to bray.
So I’ve said I’m taking a census of Gujarat’s donkeys right now. I’ve found a method. I’ll take a census of all the donkeys in India sitting right here—no going anywhere, no getting up. When all the donkeys of Gujarat have brayed their fill, I’ll go to Cuttack. Then the donkeys of Odisha will start braying. Then on to Calcutta. What do I lose? Then we’ll examine the Bengali donkeys, track down all the donkey-babus. Then on to Bihar. No coming, no going! And yet, sitting here, the census of donkeys will be done. The donkeys themselves will speak up. This has been my connection with them since childhood: the moment they see me, they snort and bolt.
And look at their faces—how indifferent, how detached! No clinging, no attachment. They go on their way in a spirit of nonattachment. Load them with anything—load the Quran, load the Gita, load the Vedas—no religious bigotry of any kind. Quran is fine, Veda is fine, Gita is fine: such harmony of all faiths… “Allah–Ishwar, by whatever name—may God grant good sense to all!” They make no distinctions; they are nondualists.
And donkeys are not as donkey-ish as people generally think. I don’t know why they got such a bad name—how did they get maligned?
I’ve had an interest in donkeys since childhood. There were many in my village—as everywhere. Where is there any shortage of donkeys now? Horses were very few in my village; only as many as there were tongas, just a few… And those were utterly scrawny horses—poor village, poor carriages, their poor horses. Some had sores, skin and bones. There weren’t any mules at all, because mules are for hilly regions and it wasn’t one. But there were plenty of donkeys—fine, carefree donkeys!
And from childhood I had the craze to ride donkeys. Evening would come and I’d set out looking for them. That’s when I discovered donkeys aren’t as asinine as people imagine. They began to recognize me. Seeing me from afar they’d start braying and bolt. I was amazed. I, too, had thought donkeys were really donkeys. In the dark of night, even my smell seemed to tip them off. However slowly I crept up to them… Others could walk right past their side and they’d stand there, unbothered; let me draw near and they’d run. Then I knew: they are not such donkeys. They are seasoned siddhas! They could spot someone with an agenda. Let the other Tom, Dick, and Harrys pass—what’s that to them? The moment they saw this dangerous fellow coming, they’d begin to bray.
So I’ve said I’m taking a census of Gujarat’s donkeys right now. I’ve found a method. I’ll take a census of all the donkeys in India sitting right here—no going anywhere, no getting up. When all the donkeys of Gujarat have brayed their fill, I’ll go to Cuttack. Then the donkeys of Odisha will start braying. Then on to Calcutta. What do I lose? Then we’ll examine the Bengali donkeys, track down all the donkey-babus. Then on to Bihar. No coming, no going! And yet, sitting here, the census of donkeys will be done. The donkeys themselves will speak up. This has been my connection with them since childhood: the moment they see me, they snort and bolt.
So donkeys aren’t that asinine. In one sense that’s fine. To whichever donkey has asked this, I apologize—that I should not call sadhus and saints, munis and mahatmas, donkeys, because the poor donkeys have never harmed anyone. Donkeys are absolutely innocent. No one can accuse them of Hindu–Muslim riots, of burning mosques and temples.
But do understand my meaning of the word “donkey.” That will make it easier for you. At least it will make it easier for my sannyasins; if some donkey happens to ask, you’ll be at ease. If some donkey does ask, tell him, “O Gadharam-ji...” Do add “Ram” at the end. Adding “Ram” saves a lot. As soon as you put “Ram” after someone’s name, his mind becomes pleased. So say: “O Gadharam-ji, there’s no need for you to be upset.” Because the way I use the word “donkey” is a short form: “ga” means “serious,” and “dha” means “religious.” One who is very seriously religious—I call him a donkey.
And spoiling donkeys is my business. I let the “dha” remain; I erase the “ga.” Seriousness has to be erased. Festivity has to be brought. Dance has to be brought. Religiosity is good. “Dha” means medha—intelligence, talent. The “ga” has to be erased.
Since we have come to Kutch and the donkeys are anyway announcing their name, we will try to erase their “ga,” so that only “dha” remains—religiosity remains, intelligence remains. Whatever service we can render, we will.
Therefore my prayer to the donkeys is: don’t be offended. Those whose faces are perpetually grim and who go on spouting religious nonsense—in other words, the pandit-priests, sadhus and mahatmas, the abstemious ascetics, the munis and maulvis, etc., etc. My meaning was not any four-legged donkey. That poor fellow has not harmed anyone at all. These two-legged donkeys have done great harm to the human race. We need to be free of them.
And spoiling donkeys is my business. I let the “dha” remain; I erase the “ga.” Seriousness has to be erased. Festivity has to be brought. Dance has to be brought. Religiosity is good. “Dha” means medha—intelligence, talent. The “ga” has to be erased.
Since we have come to Kutch and the donkeys are anyway announcing their name, we will try to erase their “ga,” so that only “dha” remains—religiosity remains, intelligence remains. Whatever service we can render, we will.
Therefore my prayer to the donkeys is: don’t be offended. Those whose faces are perpetually grim and who go on spouting religious nonsense—in other words, the pandit-priests, sadhus and mahatmas, the abstemious ascetics, the munis and maulvis, etc., etc. My meaning was not any four-legged donkey. That poor fellow has not harmed anyone at all. These two-legged donkeys have done great harm to the human race. We need to be free of them.
Last question: Osho, please don’t take this as flattery or praise in the usual sense. It truly is my feeling that your compassion is immense. For the first time in my life I have become worthy to sit near you and listen. You said that half of my journey is complete. Revered Master, will it now take another eight years for the remaining half of my journey to be completed?
Sant Maharaj! That is hard to say, because you’ve pulled a Punjabi-style cleverness. And as for “Swabhav,” he too is Punjabi. So the elephant has gone through, but the tail is left behind; the tail won’t come out. Saints are anyway ant-shant—topsy-turvy—that’s why I gave him the name “Sant.” He’s a seasoned ant-shant. He noticed that many Punjabis get stuck: the elephant passes, the tail gets caught. So he pulled the tail out first, and now the elephant is stuck. If it took eight years to get the tail out, how many will it take to get the elephant out—how am I to say?
But Sant Maharaj, drop this worry about getting out or not getting out. Where is there to get out to? Wherever you are, there is Kaaba, there is Kashi—where to go? Pull the tail in as well. It’s raining outside anyway. Let “Swabhav” and all that get drenched; you just tuck your tail inside. Simply drop all worry. When I set out for Vaikuntha, I will need a mount, after all. And no Rolls-Royce can go there. I’m going to ride Sant!
Enough for today.
But Sant Maharaj, drop this worry about getting out or not getting out. Where is there to get out to? Wherever you are, there is Kaaba, there is Kashi—where to go? Pull the tail in as well. It’s raining outside anyway. Let “Swabhav” and all that get drenched; you just tuck your tail inside. Simply drop all worry. When I set out for Vaikuntha, I will need a mount, after all. And no Rolls-Royce can go there. I’m going to ride Sant!
Enough for today.