Dhyan Sutra #3
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, when a seeker receives a ray of light, what should be done to keep it continuous?
I said this morning: whatever is experienced—of peace, of bliss—let us keep it alive within us for twenty‑four hours a day. How will we keep it?
There are two ways. One way is to repeatedly recall the state of mind that was experienced in meditation, whenever an opportunity arises. For example, in meditation you breathed calmly. Whenever during the day you have a free moment—when you are not engaged in some particular work—slow your breath a little and remember, just a little, the subtle vibration of the breath near the nostrils. Along with that remembrance, imprint the feeling once again that you are blissful, buoyant, serene, healthy. Remember that feeling again. Whenever remembrance arises—at bedtime, on waking, while walking on the road—wherever it comes, evoke it again.
The result will be that many times a day that memory, that recollection, will strike within you; and after a while you will no longer need to remember it separately—it will begin to stay with you the way your breath stays with you.
So first, remember that feeling‑state again and again. Whenever the thought occurs—lying in bed and remembrance comes—recreate the meditative state. You’re out walking, sitting under the moon at night, sitting by a tree, alone in a room—remember it again. Traveling by bus or train, sitting alone—close your eyes and recall that state. Even amid the day’s busy work, in the office, stand up for two minutes, go by the window, take a deep breath, and remember that state.
If, ten to twenty‑five times a day, even for a minute or half a minute you recall that state, its continuity will grow dense; and in a few days you will find you don’t have to remember it—it remains remembered. So this is one way: to give the experience of meditation a constant entry into your own memory through deliberate thought and recollection.
The second way: at night before sleep, just as I described for making a resolve, along the very route by which your resolve (sankalp) becomes deep, the memory of meditation can be maintained. When some taste of meditation begins to come, then at night before sleep follow the same process and repeat within the mind: whatever I experience in meditation, its remembrance will remain with me for twenty‑four hours. Use the method I gave for resolve—exhaling and making the resolve, or inhaling and making the resolve. When a taste of peace begins to come, repeat through this very process: whatever I experience in meditation will remain with me for twenty‑four hours; a continuous inner remembrance of it will be present within me.
By repeating this, you will find that for no reason at all, many times during the day, the remembrance of the meditative state will suddenly arise. If you combine both ways, the benefit will be greater. Later, when we speak about the purification of thought and feeling, much more can be discussed in this regard. But these two can certainly be practiced.
Much of our twenty‑four hours is wasted time that we do not use at all. If, in that wasted time, you repeat the remembrance of meditation, a great difference will be made.
Consider it this way: if two years ago someone insulted you, if two years ago there was some humiliation, or some accident befell you—if you sit today to remember it, you will be astonished to see that as you recall the whole incident, your body and your mind take on the same imprint that existed two years ago. If two years ago you suffered a heavy humiliation, and today you sit and remember how it happened, you will be amazed: your body and your mind enter the same state again, as though you are experiencing the humiliation once more.
Our mind stores everything; it does not dissolve. Whatever experiences occur are stored. If their memory is invoked again, those experiences can be awakened, and we can enter those very felt states again. No memory is destroyed from the human mind.
So if this morning you felt good in meditation, then remembering it five or ten times during the day will be very important. In this way, that memory will deepen; and by remembering it again and again, it will begin to become part of the mind’s enduring nature. If this question is approached experimentally in this way, there will be benefit—and it should be done.
Often man’s mistake is that he remembers what is wrong and does not remember what is auspicious. One of man’s basic errors is to remember what is negative and to forget what is constructive. Rarely do you recall the moments when you were filled with love; rarely the moments when you felt some wondrous sense of well‑being; rarely the moments when you became very quiet. But what you recall daily are the times you were angry, you were restless; when someone insulted you, or when you took revenge. You keep remembering those very things that are harmful; and hardly remember what could be constructive for your life.
The remembrance of constructive experiences is immensely valuable. By remembering such experiences again and again two things will happen. The most important is this: if you remember constructive experiences, the likelihood of those experiences arising again will increase within you. One who repeatedly remembers incidents of hatred will very likely encounter hatred again today. One who repeatedly remembers episodes of sadness will quite possibly be sad again today. Because a certain inclination forms, and the same feelings are repeated; they become settled dispositions, and the repeated arising of those feelings in life becomes easy.
Examine within yourself what kinds of feelings you are in the habit of remembering. Everyone remembers—what kinds of feelings are you habituated to recall? And keep in mind: the feelings from the past that you remember are the very seeds you are sowing for the future, and you will reap their harvest. The remembrance of the past becomes the road to the future.
Consciously, do not remember what is useless, what serves no purpose. It has no value. If such a memory does arise, stop and tell it, “Go out; you are not needed.” Forget the thorns and remember the flowers. Thorns are many, certainly—but there are flowers too. For the one who remembers the flowers, the thorns in life will thin out and the flowers will increase. For the one who remembers the thorns, it may be that the flowers vanish and only thorns remain.
We become what we remember. What we remember, we become. What we think upon continuously transforms us and becomes our very life‑breath. Therefore, remember the auspicious, the good, whatever appears noble to you. And in life—no life is so poor that no moments of peace, bliss, beauty, or love have ever occurred in it. If you become capable of remembering them, it can happen that darkness surrounds you, yet in your memory there is light—and so the surrounding darkness is not even visible to you. It can happen that sorrow is all around, yet within you there is some experience of love, of beauty, of peace—and even the surrounding sorrow does not appear. It is possible—entirely possible—that someone is among thorns and yet is among flowers. The opposite is possible too. And this depends on us.
It depends on the human being where he establishes himself, where he seats himself. It depends on us whether we live in heaven or in hell. I would like to tell you: heaven and hell are not geographical places; they are mental, psychological states. Most of us go to hell many times in a day and many times come to heaven. Many of us live the whole day in hell. Many of us forget the path back to heaven. But there are also those who live in heaven twenty‑four hours a day. On this very earth, in these very circumstances, there are those who live in heaven. You too can be one of them. There is no obstacle, except understanding a few scientific laws.
A remembrance came to me. Buddha had a disciple, Purna. His initiation was complete; his sadhana was complete. Purna said, “Now let me go and give your message to those who need it.” Buddha said, “I will give you permission to go, but let me ask one thing: where would you like to go?” There was a small region in Bihar called “Sookha.” Purna said, “Let me go toward Sookha. Until now no monk has gone there, and the people there are deprived of your immortal message.”
Buddha said, “No one has gone there because there is a reason. The people there are very bad. It may be that if you go, they will insult you, abuse you, trouble you—what will happen in your mind then?” Purna said, “I will thank them—thank them that they only abuse and insult, but do not beat me. They could beat me.” Buddha said, “It may also be that some of them beat you—what will happen in your mind then?” He said, “I will thank them that they beat me, but do not kill me. They could kill me.” Buddha said, “Let me ask one last thing. It may be that someone kills you—what will happen in your mind then?” He said, “I will thank them that they freed me from a life in which mistakes were still possible. I will regard it as their grace.” Buddha said, “Then you may go anywhere. Now this whole earth is family to you, because for one whose heart is in such a state, there are no thorns anywhere on this earth.”
Yesterday as I spoke on the road, I mentioned what is said about Mahavira—what sounds like a great untruth. It is said that when Mahavira walked along pathways, if thorns were lying upright, they would turn upside down. How false that sounds! What concern have thorns with who is walking? Why should a thorn care whether Mahavira walks or someone else? And how would upright thorns turn over? And I have heard it said about Mohammed that when he walked in the hot deserts of Arabia, a cloud drifted above him, casting shade. How false that sounds! What concern have clouds with who walks below? Whether Mohammed walks or someone else—how would clouds give shade?
But let me tell you: these things are true. No thorn actually flips itself over, and no cloud actually moves in attendance; but through these tales we have expressed certain truths. We have uttered love‑filled meanings. We wanted to say: for the person in whose heart no thorn remains, no thorn in this world stands upright against him. And we wanted to say: for the person in whose heart no heat remains, everywhere in this world there is a shady cloud for him, and no scorching sun. This is what we wanted to say—and it is a very true thing.
As we keep the state of our mind, so this world becomes for us. Who knows by what miracle it happens that as a person begins to be good, the whole world is transformed into a good world for him; and as a person fills with love, the love of the whole world begins to flow toward him. And the law is so eternal that the one who fills with hate will, in return, receive hate. We get back exactly what we throw around us. There is no other way.
So remember for twenty‑four hours those moments that were wondrous and divine in life. Those small moments—remember them, and build your life upon them. And forget the big events that are of sorrow, pain, hatred, violence. They have no value. Let them be dissolved; let them fall away, as dry leaves fall from trees. Let what is meaningful and alive be held fast in remembrance. Let a stream flow in the mind—of the auspicious, of beauty, of love, of bliss—unceasingly, all day.
Then gradually you will find that the events you remember begin to increase. What you practice steadily begins to appear all around you. And then this very world looks utterly different. The very people, the very eyes, the very flowers and the very stones take on a new meaning we had never known before—because we were entangled in other things.
So, as I said: whatever you experience in meditation—even a little light, a few rays, a little peace—remember it. Like a mother caring for her small child, tend even the smallest experiences. If you don’t care for them, they will die; and the more valuable a thing is, the more care it requires.
Animals also have young, but they need little care. The less evolved the animal, the less its young need to be tended; they manage by themselves. As we climb the ladder of evolution, we find that if a human child is not tended, he cannot survive. If a human child is not cared for, he cannot live—his life will end. The more excellent a state is in life, the more it needs to be cared for.
So the valuable experiences in life must be cared for—the more valuable, the more lovingly. Even the smallest experiences—guard them; just as… You asked, how to guard them? If I were to give you a few diamonds, how would you guard them? If you were to find some precious treasure, how would you keep it? Where would you place it? You would want to hide it; you would want to keep it close to your heart.
A beggar was dying in a hospital. The priest came to him after the doctors had said he was about to die, to have him offer a last prayer to God. He said to him, “Fold your hands.” The man raised only one hand—the other remained clenched in a fist. The priest said, “Fold both hands.” He said, “Forgive me, I cannot open the other.”
The man is about to die, and he will not open his other hand! He died a moment later. His hand was opened. He had gathered a few dirty coins, clenched in that fist. A few dirty coins! He knows he is dying, yet the fist is clenched!
We all know how to guard ordinary coins. But of the highest coins, we know nothing of how to guard them. And we are like that beggar, who one day will be found with a closed fist—and when it is opened, there will be nothing there but a few dirty coins.
Guard those experiences—they are the real coins—which have given your life a spark, an inspiration; which have changed something within you, stirred something, ignited a flame toward the higher. And guard them in this way. These are the two ways I have given. By practicing them gradually, the point will become clear.
There are two ways. One way is to repeatedly recall the state of mind that was experienced in meditation, whenever an opportunity arises. For example, in meditation you breathed calmly. Whenever during the day you have a free moment—when you are not engaged in some particular work—slow your breath a little and remember, just a little, the subtle vibration of the breath near the nostrils. Along with that remembrance, imprint the feeling once again that you are blissful, buoyant, serene, healthy. Remember that feeling again. Whenever remembrance arises—at bedtime, on waking, while walking on the road—wherever it comes, evoke it again.
The result will be that many times a day that memory, that recollection, will strike within you; and after a while you will no longer need to remember it separately—it will begin to stay with you the way your breath stays with you.
So first, remember that feeling‑state again and again. Whenever the thought occurs—lying in bed and remembrance comes—recreate the meditative state. You’re out walking, sitting under the moon at night, sitting by a tree, alone in a room—remember it again. Traveling by bus or train, sitting alone—close your eyes and recall that state. Even amid the day’s busy work, in the office, stand up for two minutes, go by the window, take a deep breath, and remember that state.
If, ten to twenty‑five times a day, even for a minute or half a minute you recall that state, its continuity will grow dense; and in a few days you will find you don’t have to remember it—it remains remembered. So this is one way: to give the experience of meditation a constant entry into your own memory through deliberate thought and recollection.
The second way: at night before sleep, just as I described for making a resolve, along the very route by which your resolve (sankalp) becomes deep, the memory of meditation can be maintained. When some taste of meditation begins to come, then at night before sleep follow the same process and repeat within the mind: whatever I experience in meditation, its remembrance will remain with me for twenty‑four hours. Use the method I gave for resolve—exhaling and making the resolve, or inhaling and making the resolve. When a taste of peace begins to come, repeat through this very process: whatever I experience in meditation will remain with me for twenty‑four hours; a continuous inner remembrance of it will be present within me.
By repeating this, you will find that for no reason at all, many times during the day, the remembrance of the meditative state will suddenly arise. If you combine both ways, the benefit will be greater. Later, when we speak about the purification of thought and feeling, much more can be discussed in this regard. But these two can certainly be practiced.
Much of our twenty‑four hours is wasted time that we do not use at all. If, in that wasted time, you repeat the remembrance of meditation, a great difference will be made.
Consider it this way: if two years ago someone insulted you, if two years ago there was some humiliation, or some accident befell you—if you sit today to remember it, you will be astonished to see that as you recall the whole incident, your body and your mind take on the same imprint that existed two years ago. If two years ago you suffered a heavy humiliation, and today you sit and remember how it happened, you will be amazed: your body and your mind enter the same state again, as though you are experiencing the humiliation once more.
Our mind stores everything; it does not dissolve. Whatever experiences occur are stored. If their memory is invoked again, those experiences can be awakened, and we can enter those very felt states again. No memory is destroyed from the human mind.
So if this morning you felt good in meditation, then remembering it five or ten times during the day will be very important. In this way, that memory will deepen; and by remembering it again and again, it will begin to become part of the mind’s enduring nature. If this question is approached experimentally in this way, there will be benefit—and it should be done.
Often man’s mistake is that he remembers what is wrong and does not remember what is auspicious. One of man’s basic errors is to remember what is negative and to forget what is constructive. Rarely do you recall the moments when you were filled with love; rarely the moments when you felt some wondrous sense of well‑being; rarely the moments when you became very quiet. But what you recall daily are the times you were angry, you were restless; when someone insulted you, or when you took revenge. You keep remembering those very things that are harmful; and hardly remember what could be constructive for your life.
The remembrance of constructive experiences is immensely valuable. By remembering such experiences again and again two things will happen. The most important is this: if you remember constructive experiences, the likelihood of those experiences arising again will increase within you. One who repeatedly remembers incidents of hatred will very likely encounter hatred again today. One who repeatedly remembers episodes of sadness will quite possibly be sad again today. Because a certain inclination forms, and the same feelings are repeated; they become settled dispositions, and the repeated arising of those feelings in life becomes easy.
Examine within yourself what kinds of feelings you are in the habit of remembering. Everyone remembers—what kinds of feelings are you habituated to recall? And keep in mind: the feelings from the past that you remember are the very seeds you are sowing for the future, and you will reap their harvest. The remembrance of the past becomes the road to the future.
Consciously, do not remember what is useless, what serves no purpose. It has no value. If such a memory does arise, stop and tell it, “Go out; you are not needed.” Forget the thorns and remember the flowers. Thorns are many, certainly—but there are flowers too. For the one who remembers the flowers, the thorns in life will thin out and the flowers will increase. For the one who remembers the thorns, it may be that the flowers vanish and only thorns remain.
We become what we remember. What we remember, we become. What we think upon continuously transforms us and becomes our very life‑breath. Therefore, remember the auspicious, the good, whatever appears noble to you. And in life—no life is so poor that no moments of peace, bliss, beauty, or love have ever occurred in it. If you become capable of remembering them, it can happen that darkness surrounds you, yet in your memory there is light—and so the surrounding darkness is not even visible to you. It can happen that sorrow is all around, yet within you there is some experience of love, of beauty, of peace—and even the surrounding sorrow does not appear. It is possible—entirely possible—that someone is among thorns and yet is among flowers. The opposite is possible too. And this depends on us.
It depends on the human being where he establishes himself, where he seats himself. It depends on us whether we live in heaven or in hell. I would like to tell you: heaven and hell are not geographical places; they are mental, psychological states. Most of us go to hell many times in a day and many times come to heaven. Many of us live the whole day in hell. Many of us forget the path back to heaven. But there are also those who live in heaven twenty‑four hours a day. On this very earth, in these very circumstances, there are those who live in heaven. You too can be one of them. There is no obstacle, except understanding a few scientific laws.
A remembrance came to me. Buddha had a disciple, Purna. His initiation was complete; his sadhana was complete. Purna said, “Now let me go and give your message to those who need it.” Buddha said, “I will give you permission to go, but let me ask one thing: where would you like to go?” There was a small region in Bihar called “Sookha.” Purna said, “Let me go toward Sookha. Until now no monk has gone there, and the people there are deprived of your immortal message.”
Buddha said, “No one has gone there because there is a reason. The people there are very bad. It may be that if you go, they will insult you, abuse you, trouble you—what will happen in your mind then?” Purna said, “I will thank them—thank them that they only abuse and insult, but do not beat me. They could beat me.” Buddha said, “It may also be that some of them beat you—what will happen in your mind then?” He said, “I will thank them that they beat me, but do not kill me. They could kill me.” Buddha said, “Let me ask one last thing. It may be that someone kills you—what will happen in your mind then?” He said, “I will thank them that they freed me from a life in which mistakes were still possible. I will regard it as their grace.” Buddha said, “Then you may go anywhere. Now this whole earth is family to you, because for one whose heart is in such a state, there are no thorns anywhere on this earth.”
Yesterday as I spoke on the road, I mentioned what is said about Mahavira—what sounds like a great untruth. It is said that when Mahavira walked along pathways, if thorns were lying upright, they would turn upside down. How false that sounds! What concern have thorns with who is walking? Why should a thorn care whether Mahavira walks or someone else? And how would upright thorns turn over? And I have heard it said about Mohammed that when he walked in the hot deserts of Arabia, a cloud drifted above him, casting shade. How false that sounds! What concern have clouds with who walks below? Whether Mohammed walks or someone else—how would clouds give shade?
But let me tell you: these things are true. No thorn actually flips itself over, and no cloud actually moves in attendance; but through these tales we have expressed certain truths. We have uttered love‑filled meanings. We wanted to say: for the person in whose heart no thorn remains, no thorn in this world stands upright against him. And we wanted to say: for the person in whose heart no heat remains, everywhere in this world there is a shady cloud for him, and no scorching sun. This is what we wanted to say—and it is a very true thing.
As we keep the state of our mind, so this world becomes for us. Who knows by what miracle it happens that as a person begins to be good, the whole world is transformed into a good world for him; and as a person fills with love, the love of the whole world begins to flow toward him. And the law is so eternal that the one who fills with hate will, in return, receive hate. We get back exactly what we throw around us. There is no other way.
So remember for twenty‑four hours those moments that were wondrous and divine in life. Those small moments—remember them, and build your life upon them. And forget the big events that are of sorrow, pain, hatred, violence. They have no value. Let them be dissolved; let them fall away, as dry leaves fall from trees. Let what is meaningful and alive be held fast in remembrance. Let a stream flow in the mind—of the auspicious, of beauty, of love, of bliss—unceasingly, all day.
Then gradually you will find that the events you remember begin to increase. What you practice steadily begins to appear all around you. And then this very world looks utterly different. The very people, the very eyes, the very flowers and the very stones take on a new meaning we had never known before—because we were entangled in other things.
So, as I said: whatever you experience in meditation—even a little light, a few rays, a little peace—remember it. Like a mother caring for her small child, tend even the smallest experiences. If you don’t care for them, they will die; and the more valuable a thing is, the more care it requires.
Animals also have young, but they need little care. The less evolved the animal, the less its young need to be tended; they manage by themselves. As we climb the ladder of evolution, we find that if a human child is not tended, he cannot survive. If a human child is not cared for, he cannot live—his life will end. The more excellent a state is in life, the more it needs to be cared for.
So the valuable experiences in life must be cared for—the more valuable, the more lovingly. Even the smallest experiences—guard them; just as… You asked, how to guard them? If I were to give you a few diamonds, how would you guard them? If you were to find some precious treasure, how would you keep it? Where would you place it? You would want to hide it; you would want to keep it close to your heart.
A beggar was dying in a hospital. The priest came to him after the doctors had said he was about to die, to have him offer a last prayer to God. He said to him, “Fold your hands.” The man raised only one hand—the other remained clenched in a fist. The priest said, “Fold both hands.” He said, “Forgive me, I cannot open the other.”
The man is about to die, and he will not open his other hand! He died a moment later. His hand was opened. He had gathered a few dirty coins, clenched in that fist. A few dirty coins! He knows he is dying, yet the fist is clenched!
We all know how to guard ordinary coins. But of the highest coins, we know nothing of how to guard them. And we are like that beggar, who one day will be found with a closed fist—and when it is opened, there will be nothing there but a few dirty coins.
Guard those experiences—they are the real coins—which have given your life a spark, an inspiration; which have changed something within you, stirred something, ignited a flame toward the higher. And guard them in this way. These are the two ways I have given. By practicing them gradually, the point will become clear.
Another friend has asked: Osho, sex is a creative force. How can it be used creatively in the relationship between husband and wife?
You have asked a very precious thing. There are hardly any people for whom such a question would not be useful, would not be meaningful. In the world there are only two kinds of people: those who are afflicted by the power of sex, and those who have transformed the power of sex into the power of love.
You will be surprised to know: love and sex are opposites. The more love develops, the more sex wanes. And the less love there is, the more sex there will be. The more love a person has, the more sex in him dissolves. If you become filled with perfect love, nothing like sex will remain within you. And if there is no love within, then inside you it is all sex.
The power of sex is transformed, sublimated, into love. Therefore, if you want to be free of sex, nothing will happen by suppressing it. By suppressing it one can go mad. And of all the mad people in the world, ninety out of a hundred are those who have tried to suppress their sexual energy. You may also know that the more civilization develops, the more the number of the insane increases, because civilization enforces the maximum suppression of sex. Civilization compels the greatest suppression of sex! Hence everyone suppresses and shrinks their sexuality. That suppressed sex creates derangement, it creates many illnesses, many mental diseases.
Any attempt to repress sex is madness. Many sadhus are found to be mad; there is no reason except that they are engaged in suppressing sex. And they do not know that sex cannot be suppressed. Open the doors of love, and the energy that used to flow through the channel of sex will be transmuted into the light of love. What looked like the flames of sex will become the radiance of love. Expand love. Love is the creative use of sex, its truly creative application. Fill life with love.
You will say, “We all love.” I say to you, you hardly love; you want to be loved. And between these two there is the distance of earth and sky. To love and to want love are very different things. Most of us die as children, because everyone wants love. To love is a wondrous thing; to want love is entirely childish.
Little children want love. The mother gives them love. Then they grow up; they want love from others too, and the family gives them love. Then they grow more. If they are husbands, they want love from their wives; if they are wives, they want love from their husbands. And whoever wants love suffers, because love cannot be asked for; love can only be given. In wanting there is no certainty that it will be received. And the one from whom you are wanting will also want from you. Then there will be great difficulty: two beggars will meet and both will beg. The conflict between husbands and wives in the world has only one cause: they both want love from each other, and neither is capable of giving.
Look into your own mind a little. Your longing is always to be loved. You want someone to love you. And when someone loves you, it feels good. But you do not realize that the other too is “loving” only as one throws dough to fish. He is not throwing the dough for the sake of the fish; he throws it to hook the fish. He is not giving the dough; he wants the fish, therefore he throws it. As many people as appear to be loving in this world are merely throwing dough to obtain love. For a little while they will feed you dough, then...
And the other person who is interested in them is interested with the hope that perhaps love will be received from this one. He too will display a little love. After a short while it becomes clear they are both beggars who were in delusion, each mistaking the other for a king! And soon they realize that no one is giving love to anyone, and then the struggle begins.
Married life has become a hell in this world because we all demand love; no one knows how to give it. Behind every quarrel this is the basic cause. And whatever change you attempt—whatever kind of marriage, whatever kind of social arrangement—until what I am saying happens, the relations between men and women cannot become good. There is only one way for them to become good: understand that love is given; love is not demanded, it is only given. What comes back is grace, a blessing; it is not its price. Love is given. What comes in return is its prasad, its grace; it is not its value. And even if nothing comes, the giver rejoices that he has given.
If husband and wife begin to give love to each other and stop asking, life can become a heaven. And the more they give love and stop asking, the more—such is the wondrous arrangement of existence—they will receive love. And they will experience something marvelous: the more they give love, the more sex will go on dissolving.
Once, Gandhi was in Ceylon. He had gone there with Kasturba. The person who introduced him at the first meeting saw Ba with him and thought she might be Gandhi’s mother. From Ba he understood that Gandhi’s mother too had come along. In the introduction he said, “It is a great good fortune that Gandhi-ji has come, and his mother has also come.”
Ba was very surprised. Gandhi’s secretary, who was with them, became very nervous, feeling it was his mistake—he should have told them who was accompanying Gandhi. He was afraid Bapu would scold him: “What an awkward thing you let happen!” But what Gandhi said was remarkable. He said, “In introducing me, our brother here has, by mistake, spoken a truth. For some years now, Ba has not been my wife; she has become my mother.” He said, “For some years now, Ba has not been my wife; she has become my mother!”
The true sannyasin is he whose wife one day becomes his mother; not the one who runs away from his wife. The true sannyasini is she who one day can experience her husband as her son.
In the ancient seers’ aphorisms a remarkable thing was said. An old rishi would bless a bride: “May you have ten sons, and may God grant that your eleventh son be your husband.” It was a wondrous people with wondrous insight, and behind it was a great mystery.
If love grows between husband and wife, they will no longer remain husband and wife; their relationship will become something else. Sex will dissolve from it, and the relationship will be of love. As long as sex is there, exploitation is there. Sex is exploitation! And how can we exploit the one we love? Sex is a most ignoble and base use of a living person. If we can love, how can we use someone in this way? How could we make such use of a living person if we love them? The deeper the love, the more that “use” will dissolve. And the less the love, the more that use will increase.
Therefore, to those who have asked how sex can become a creative force, I would say that sex is a tremendously wondrous power. Perhaps there is no power on this earth greater than sex. That which sets man in motion, that around which ninety percent of human life revolves, is sex; it is not God. Very few are there whose lives move within the orbit of the divine. Most people revolve around the center of sex and live by it.
Sex is the greatest power. That is, if we understand rightly, what other power is there within a human being besides sex that sets him in motion, that propels and conducts him? This very power of sex—this very energy—can be transformed into love. And the same energy, transformed, becomes the path to reach the divine.
Therefore, remember: religion has a very deep relationship with sex—not with the repression of sex, as is commonly believed, but with the sublimation of sex. Religion has nothing to do with repressing sex. Brahmacharya is not an opposition to sex; brahmacharya is the ennoblement, the sublimation, of sexual energy. The very energy of sex is transformed into the energy of the Absolute. The same energy that was flowing downward, descending, begins to move upward. If sex becomes upward-moving, it becomes a vehicle that leads to the divine. And if sex is downward-moving, it becomes the cause of being carried into the world.
That transformation will happen through love. Learn to love. And the meaning of loving—when we later speak about emotions—you will be able to understand fully how to learn to love. But for now, let me say only this much.
You will be surprised to know: love and sex are opposites. The more love develops, the more sex wanes. And the less love there is, the more sex there will be. The more love a person has, the more sex in him dissolves. If you become filled with perfect love, nothing like sex will remain within you. And if there is no love within, then inside you it is all sex.
The power of sex is transformed, sublimated, into love. Therefore, if you want to be free of sex, nothing will happen by suppressing it. By suppressing it one can go mad. And of all the mad people in the world, ninety out of a hundred are those who have tried to suppress their sexual energy. You may also know that the more civilization develops, the more the number of the insane increases, because civilization enforces the maximum suppression of sex. Civilization compels the greatest suppression of sex! Hence everyone suppresses and shrinks their sexuality. That suppressed sex creates derangement, it creates many illnesses, many mental diseases.
Any attempt to repress sex is madness. Many sadhus are found to be mad; there is no reason except that they are engaged in suppressing sex. And they do not know that sex cannot be suppressed. Open the doors of love, and the energy that used to flow through the channel of sex will be transmuted into the light of love. What looked like the flames of sex will become the radiance of love. Expand love. Love is the creative use of sex, its truly creative application. Fill life with love.
You will say, “We all love.” I say to you, you hardly love; you want to be loved. And between these two there is the distance of earth and sky. To love and to want love are very different things. Most of us die as children, because everyone wants love. To love is a wondrous thing; to want love is entirely childish.
Little children want love. The mother gives them love. Then they grow up; they want love from others too, and the family gives them love. Then they grow more. If they are husbands, they want love from their wives; if they are wives, they want love from their husbands. And whoever wants love suffers, because love cannot be asked for; love can only be given. In wanting there is no certainty that it will be received. And the one from whom you are wanting will also want from you. Then there will be great difficulty: two beggars will meet and both will beg. The conflict between husbands and wives in the world has only one cause: they both want love from each other, and neither is capable of giving.
Look into your own mind a little. Your longing is always to be loved. You want someone to love you. And when someone loves you, it feels good. But you do not realize that the other too is “loving” only as one throws dough to fish. He is not throwing the dough for the sake of the fish; he throws it to hook the fish. He is not giving the dough; he wants the fish, therefore he throws it. As many people as appear to be loving in this world are merely throwing dough to obtain love. For a little while they will feed you dough, then...
And the other person who is interested in them is interested with the hope that perhaps love will be received from this one. He too will display a little love. After a short while it becomes clear they are both beggars who were in delusion, each mistaking the other for a king! And soon they realize that no one is giving love to anyone, and then the struggle begins.
Married life has become a hell in this world because we all demand love; no one knows how to give it. Behind every quarrel this is the basic cause. And whatever change you attempt—whatever kind of marriage, whatever kind of social arrangement—until what I am saying happens, the relations between men and women cannot become good. There is only one way for them to become good: understand that love is given; love is not demanded, it is only given. What comes back is grace, a blessing; it is not its price. Love is given. What comes in return is its prasad, its grace; it is not its value. And even if nothing comes, the giver rejoices that he has given.
If husband and wife begin to give love to each other and stop asking, life can become a heaven. And the more they give love and stop asking, the more—such is the wondrous arrangement of existence—they will receive love. And they will experience something marvelous: the more they give love, the more sex will go on dissolving.
Once, Gandhi was in Ceylon. He had gone there with Kasturba. The person who introduced him at the first meeting saw Ba with him and thought she might be Gandhi’s mother. From Ba he understood that Gandhi’s mother too had come along. In the introduction he said, “It is a great good fortune that Gandhi-ji has come, and his mother has also come.”
Ba was very surprised. Gandhi’s secretary, who was with them, became very nervous, feeling it was his mistake—he should have told them who was accompanying Gandhi. He was afraid Bapu would scold him: “What an awkward thing you let happen!” But what Gandhi said was remarkable. He said, “In introducing me, our brother here has, by mistake, spoken a truth. For some years now, Ba has not been my wife; she has become my mother.” He said, “For some years now, Ba has not been my wife; she has become my mother!”
The true sannyasin is he whose wife one day becomes his mother; not the one who runs away from his wife. The true sannyasini is she who one day can experience her husband as her son.
In the ancient seers’ aphorisms a remarkable thing was said. An old rishi would bless a bride: “May you have ten sons, and may God grant that your eleventh son be your husband.” It was a wondrous people with wondrous insight, and behind it was a great mystery.
If love grows between husband and wife, they will no longer remain husband and wife; their relationship will become something else. Sex will dissolve from it, and the relationship will be of love. As long as sex is there, exploitation is there. Sex is exploitation! And how can we exploit the one we love? Sex is a most ignoble and base use of a living person. If we can love, how can we use someone in this way? How could we make such use of a living person if we love them? The deeper the love, the more that “use” will dissolve. And the less the love, the more that use will increase.
Therefore, to those who have asked how sex can become a creative force, I would say that sex is a tremendously wondrous power. Perhaps there is no power on this earth greater than sex. That which sets man in motion, that around which ninety percent of human life revolves, is sex; it is not God. Very few are there whose lives move within the orbit of the divine. Most people revolve around the center of sex and live by it.
Sex is the greatest power. That is, if we understand rightly, what other power is there within a human being besides sex that sets him in motion, that propels and conducts him? This very power of sex—this very energy—can be transformed into love. And the same energy, transformed, becomes the path to reach the divine.
Therefore, remember: religion has a very deep relationship with sex—not with the repression of sex, as is commonly believed, but with the sublimation of sex. Religion has nothing to do with repressing sex. Brahmacharya is not an opposition to sex; brahmacharya is the ennoblement, the sublimation, of sexual energy. The very energy of sex is transformed into the energy of the Absolute. The same energy that was flowing downward, descending, begins to move upward. If sex becomes upward-moving, it becomes a vehicle that leads to the divine. And if sex is downward-moving, it becomes the cause of being carried into the world.
That transformation will happen through love. Learn to love. And the meaning of loving—when we later speak about emotions—you will be able to understand fully how to learn to love. But for now, let me say only this much.
A friend has asked: Osho, why don’t saints or sadhus work together as a team?
You have asked very well: why don’t saints—those who have attained truth—work together in harmony? Let me tell you, saints have always worked together. And let me also tell you that not only do living saints work together, but those who died twenty-five hundred years ago are working today with those who are alive. That is to say, not only do contemporaneous saints work together, but historically—traditionally—the work of the saints is one and together.
What I am saying—if it is true—has the hands of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, and Christ behind it. If what I am saying is true, their voices are mingled in it. And if there seems to be any strength in my voice, it cannot be mine alone; it belongs to all those who have ever spoken these words.
But those who are not saints certainly cannot work together. And there are many “saints” who are not saints at all, though they appear to be. In that case, wicked people can unite and work together, but such so‑called sadhus cannot. Why not? Because their sainthood has not arisen from the dissolution of ego; their sainthood is itself a means to gratify the ego. And where there is ego, there is no meeting. Where there is ego, no union is possible—because ego always wants to be above.
I was once at a place where many sadhus had been invited. It was a big gathering with very prominent sadhus—names I won’t mention, lest anyone be hurt. Many of the country’s eminent people were there. The organizers had a great wish that all would sit on a single platform and speak. But those “saints” would not agree! They asked, “Who will sit below and who will sit above?” They said, “We will sit above; we cannot sit below.” They said it—or had it said. And the one who says it directly is still simple; the one who has it said on his behalf is even more complex and cunning. They had it conveyed that they could not sit together.
Their stage went to waste. People had to speak one by one. A great platform had been built to seat a hundred people. But how can a hundred sadhus sit together? There was a Shankaracharya who cannot sit below without his throne. And if he cannot sit low, then how can other saints sit low next to his throne!
Then you will be astonished: those who still have heights and lows even in chairs, who are still measuring who sits how high and who how low—you can guess where their minds are seated.
Two sadhus cannot come together because—who will greet first? Who will fold hands first? For the one who folds hands first will become lower! It is astonishing. We have always believed that the one who folds his hands first is higher. But these “saints” think that the one who folds first becomes lower.
I was once at the satsang of a great sadhu. A very prominent politician was there. The sadhu had been seated above on a dais; we were all seated below. The satsang began. The politician said, “First I want to ask: why are we seated below while you are seated above? Even if you were giving a speech, it would be fine; but this is a satsang, a dialogue. And you are seated so high that conversation itself will be difficult. Kindly come down.” But the sadhu could not come down. The politician asked, “If you cannot come down, for some reason, then please explain why you must sit above.”
He himself could not speak; he became very nervous. One of his disciples answered, “It is traditional for him to sit above.” The politician said, “He may be your guru—but he is not our guru!” The politician also said, “We folded our hands in greeting; you did not fold hands—you gave us a blessing. Suppose another sadhu had come to meet you and you had blessed him—there would have been a quarrel. You should also fold your hands.” The reply came: “He cannot fold his hands; it is not traditional.” Things became so sour the gathering could not proceed.
I asked that sadhu, “Give me permission to say a few things to this politician.” He permitted me—thinking the matter would be settled and we could move on. I said to the politician, “Why did you first notice that he is seated above? Let me ask: did you see that he is seated above—or did you see that you have been seated below? For it could also be that if you too had been seated above, I don’t think you would have asked this question. If we were all below and you were seated above with him, I don’t think you would have asked it. So the difficulty is not that he is sitting above; the difficulty is that you are sitting below.”
The politician looked at me. At that time he was in great power, one of the foremost figures in India. He looked intently and showed great simplicity. He said, “I admit it—no one has ever said this to me. I have a lot of ego.”
The sadhus were very pleased. And when we were taking leave, the sadhu placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “You gave a good, fitting reply.” I said to him, “That reply was not for him alone—it was for you as well.” And I added, “I’m sorry to say, that man proved to be simpler; you did not prove even that simple. He admitted, ‘I have ego,’ but you did not admit anything; instead, you nourished your ego with my answer.”
Such “saints,” such sadhus, cannot work together. Their whole work is fueled by someone’s enmity. Their entire zeal comes from having an enemy. If there is no enemy, they cannot do anything. All their activity springs from hatred and opposition. With so many sects, so many religions—those who stand as sadhus in the name of these can be called sadhus only by the ignorant. For the first mark of a saint is that he no longer belongs to any religion. The first mark is that he has no boundaries, no sect. He has no circle. He belongs to all. And his first mark is that his ego has melted away, his “I-ness” has dissolved.
But all these are ways of inflating and feeding the ego. Remember: great wealth satisfies the ego; great renunciation—“I have renounced so much”—also satisfies it. Great knowledge—“I possess so much learning”—satisfies it. “I have kicked the world aside”—that, too, satisfies it. And those whose gratifications are of this kind can never be together. Ego is the sole dividing element, and egolessness the only unifying element. Where there is egolessness, there is union.
Once, near Kabir’s village, a Muslim fakir—Farid—was passing by. He and some companions were on a journey. His companions said, “A great opportunity! On the way is Kabir’s dwelling. Let us stay at his hut for two days. If you two discuss, we will be immensely delighted. If you meet and talk, we will be greatly benefited.” Farid said, “We will certainly stop, and we will meet—but there may not be any discussion.” They asked, “Why?” Farid said, “We will stop and meet, we will stay—but there may not be a discussion.”
Kabir’s disciples heard and said, “Farid will be passing. Let us stop him. It will be a joy—two days of your talks.” Kabir said, “We will certainly meet. Do stop him—it will be a great joy.”
Farid was stopped. Farid and Kabir embraced. They both wept with joy. But for two days, not a word passed between them. Then they departed. The disciples were disappointed. After they had gone, the disciples of both asked, “You did not speak!” They replied, “What were we to say? What he knows, I know.” Farid said, “What I know, Kabir knows. What could we say? And where are there two of us, that we could talk? There is a depth at which we are one.”
At that depth, there is not even the opposition that belongs to speaking—not even that. Dialogue itself is not possible; it too is a kind of opposition. On that plane, the eternal work of the saints is one. There is no question of conflict. They may be born in different lands, of different communities, living in different ways—still, there is no opposition among them. But among those who are not saints, naturally there will be opposition. So remember: among saints there is no opposition. And wherever you find opposition, take it as a touchstone—they cannot be saints.
What I am saying—if it is true—has the hands of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, and Christ behind it. If what I am saying is true, their voices are mingled in it. And if there seems to be any strength in my voice, it cannot be mine alone; it belongs to all those who have ever spoken these words.
But those who are not saints certainly cannot work together. And there are many “saints” who are not saints at all, though they appear to be. In that case, wicked people can unite and work together, but such so‑called sadhus cannot. Why not? Because their sainthood has not arisen from the dissolution of ego; their sainthood is itself a means to gratify the ego. And where there is ego, there is no meeting. Where there is ego, no union is possible—because ego always wants to be above.
I was once at a place where many sadhus had been invited. It was a big gathering with very prominent sadhus—names I won’t mention, lest anyone be hurt. Many of the country’s eminent people were there. The organizers had a great wish that all would sit on a single platform and speak. But those “saints” would not agree! They asked, “Who will sit below and who will sit above?” They said, “We will sit above; we cannot sit below.” They said it—or had it said. And the one who says it directly is still simple; the one who has it said on his behalf is even more complex and cunning. They had it conveyed that they could not sit together.
Their stage went to waste. People had to speak one by one. A great platform had been built to seat a hundred people. But how can a hundred sadhus sit together? There was a Shankaracharya who cannot sit below without his throne. And if he cannot sit low, then how can other saints sit low next to his throne!
Then you will be astonished: those who still have heights and lows even in chairs, who are still measuring who sits how high and who how low—you can guess where their minds are seated.
Two sadhus cannot come together because—who will greet first? Who will fold hands first? For the one who folds hands first will become lower! It is astonishing. We have always believed that the one who folds his hands first is higher. But these “saints” think that the one who folds first becomes lower.
I was once at the satsang of a great sadhu. A very prominent politician was there. The sadhu had been seated above on a dais; we were all seated below. The satsang began. The politician said, “First I want to ask: why are we seated below while you are seated above? Even if you were giving a speech, it would be fine; but this is a satsang, a dialogue. And you are seated so high that conversation itself will be difficult. Kindly come down.” But the sadhu could not come down. The politician asked, “If you cannot come down, for some reason, then please explain why you must sit above.”
He himself could not speak; he became very nervous. One of his disciples answered, “It is traditional for him to sit above.” The politician said, “He may be your guru—but he is not our guru!” The politician also said, “We folded our hands in greeting; you did not fold hands—you gave us a blessing. Suppose another sadhu had come to meet you and you had blessed him—there would have been a quarrel. You should also fold your hands.” The reply came: “He cannot fold his hands; it is not traditional.” Things became so sour the gathering could not proceed.
I asked that sadhu, “Give me permission to say a few things to this politician.” He permitted me—thinking the matter would be settled and we could move on. I said to the politician, “Why did you first notice that he is seated above? Let me ask: did you see that he is seated above—or did you see that you have been seated below? For it could also be that if you too had been seated above, I don’t think you would have asked this question. If we were all below and you were seated above with him, I don’t think you would have asked it. So the difficulty is not that he is sitting above; the difficulty is that you are sitting below.”
The politician looked at me. At that time he was in great power, one of the foremost figures in India. He looked intently and showed great simplicity. He said, “I admit it—no one has ever said this to me. I have a lot of ego.”
The sadhus were very pleased. And when we were taking leave, the sadhu placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “You gave a good, fitting reply.” I said to him, “That reply was not for him alone—it was for you as well.” And I added, “I’m sorry to say, that man proved to be simpler; you did not prove even that simple. He admitted, ‘I have ego,’ but you did not admit anything; instead, you nourished your ego with my answer.”
Such “saints,” such sadhus, cannot work together. Their whole work is fueled by someone’s enmity. Their entire zeal comes from having an enemy. If there is no enemy, they cannot do anything. All their activity springs from hatred and opposition. With so many sects, so many religions—those who stand as sadhus in the name of these can be called sadhus only by the ignorant. For the first mark of a saint is that he no longer belongs to any religion. The first mark is that he has no boundaries, no sect. He has no circle. He belongs to all. And his first mark is that his ego has melted away, his “I-ness” has dissolved.
But all these are ways of inflating and feeding the ego. Remember: great wealth satisfies the ego; great renunciation—“I have renounced so much”—also satisfies it. Great knowledge—“I possess so much learning”—satisfies it. “I have kicked the world aside”—that, too, satisfies it. And those whose gratifications are of this kind can never be together. Ego is the sole dividing element, and egolessness the only unifying element. Where there is egolessness, there is union.
Once, near Kabir’s village, a Muslim fakir—Farid—was passing by. He and some companions were on a journey. His companions said, “A great opportunity! On the way is Kabir’s dwelling. Let us stay at his hut for two days. If you two discuss, we will be immensely delighted. If you meet and talk, we will be greatly benefited.” Farid said, “We will certainly stop, and we will meet—but there may not be any discussion.” They asked, “Why?” Farid said, “We will stop and meet, we will stay—but there may not be a discussion.”
Kabir’s disciples heard and said, “Farid will be passing. Let us stop him. It will be a joy—two days of your talks.” Kabir said, “We will certainly meet. Do stop him—it will be a great joy.”
Farid was stopped. Farid and Kabir embraced. They both wept with joy. But for two days, not a word passed between them. Then they departed. The disciples were disappointed. After they had gone, the disciples of both asked, “You did not speak!” They replied, “What were we to say? What he knows, I know.” Farid said, “What I know, Kabir knows. What could we say? And where are there two of us, that we could talk? There is a depth at which we are one.”
At that depth, there is not even the opposition that belongs to speaking—not even that. Dialogue itself is not possible; it too is a kind of opposition. On that plane, the eternal work of the saints is one. There is no question of conflict. They may be born in different lands, of different communities, living in different ways—still, there is no opposition among them. But among those who are not saints, naturally there will be opposition. So remember: among saints there is no opposition. And wherever you find opposition, take it as a touchstone—they cannot be saints.
Another friend has asked:
Osho, what is your ultimate aim or final goal? I have been asked: what is my goal?
Osho, what is your ultimate aim or final goal? I have been asked: what is my goal?
I have no goal. Therefore there is no goal... This needs a little understanding. In life there are two kinds of actions. One kind of action arises out of desire; in that, there is a goal. And another kind arises out of love or compassion; in that, there is no goal. If someone were to ask a mother, “You love your child—what’s the goal in that?” what would she say? She would say, “There is no goal. We simply love, and loving is bliss.” Not that we love today and the bliss will come tomorrow. Loving itself is the bliss.
So there is an action that arises from desire. I am speaking here. I could speak because by speaking I might get something—whether that getting is in coins of money, coins of fame, coins of respect, in the form of prestige—some form of gain. Then there would be a goal.
Or I can speak simply because I cannot remain silent; something has happened within and it longs to be shared. I can speak the way a flower blossoms and releases its fragrance. If you ask them, “What is the goal?”—there is none.
When actions arise from desire, there is a goal. When actions arise from compassion, there is no goal. And that is why actions arising from desire create karmic bondage, while actions arising from compassion do not. Wherever there is a goal, there will be bondage; wherever there is no goal, there will be no bondage.
And you will be surprised to know: you cannot do a bad act without a goal. It is a strange fact. Sin always has a goal; virtue has none. And any “virtue” that has a goal is only a form of sin. Sin always has a goal; without a goal no one can commit sin. Even with a goal it is difficult; without a goal it is impossible. I cannot kill you without a goal—why would I? Sin can never be without a goal, because sin can never arise from compassion. Sin always arises from desire; and desire always carries a goal, an urge to get something.
There are actions in which there is no urge to get anything. Mahavira attained kevalya; thereafter he remained active for forty to forty-five years. One could ask: for all those years he acted—he ate, he went, he came, he spoke, he taught—continuously active for forty to forty-five years, so why did those actions not bind him? Buddha attained nirvana; after that he too remained active for forty years. Why was there no bondage? Because in that activity there was no goal. Those actions were goal-less; they were pure compassion.
Many times I wonder: why am I speaking to you? What purpose could there be? I can find no purpose, except that something is being seen and there is a compulsion that it cannot remain unspoken. To leave it unsaid would mean only that some violence is still lingering within; that would be violence.
In the morning I told you a story. If I see you holding a snake in your hand and, without saying anything, I walk on—thinking, “What is my goal?”—that is possible only if there is great violence, great cruelty in me. Otherwise I will say, “It is a snake; drop it.” And if someone asks me, “Why are you saying, ‘It is a snake, drop it’? What is your goal?” I will say, “There is no goal at all, except that my inner being cannot remain silent in this situation.” That is, the stimulus is not outside in the form of a goal; the inspiration is inner, and it has no goal.
You will be surprised: whenever there is a goal, the motivation lies outside. And when there is no goal, the motivation is within. Some things pull us—then there is a goal. And some things push us from within—then there is no goal.
Compassion and love are always goal-less; desire and craving are always goal-ridden. So it is more accurate to say that desire pulls—from outside—as if I tie a rope to you and drag you. Desire pulls, like a rope binding and yanking you along.
Therefore, one in whom desire is present is called a pashu in our scriptures. Pashu means one bound by a pasha, a tether; one who is tied to something and being pulled. Pashu does not mean “animal” in the ordinary sense. Pashu means one tied by some bond and dragged along.
So long as some goal of desire is pulling us, we are bound by the tether, we are pashu—unfree. Freedom, moksha, is the opposite of pashutva. For pashu means being pulled along in bondage; and free means not being pulled by any bondage, but allowing movement to arise from within.
I have no goal. Therefore if at this very moment my life-breath were to leave, not for a single instant would I feel that something has been left unfinished. If I were to die right now, sitting here, not for a moment would the thought arise that what I was saying has remained incomplete. Because there was no “work” in it; there was nothing to complete. While there was breath, that action was complete; when breath is no more, it remains where it is. There was no purpose in it; nothing has been left incomplete.
So there is no goal, except that there is an inner prompting, an inner compulsion, an inner inevitability. And whatever happens through that will happen. In our land we say: such a person has surrendered himself into the hands of God. Now whatever God wills, let Him have it done. He has no goal of his own. This is only a way of saying; it simply means that he has no goal left of his own. He has placed his life in the hands of the Infinite. Now whatever will be, will be. The responsibility is that of the Infinite; he has no personal responsibility.
What you have asked is good. Through this I want to say to you: transform life from desire into compassion. Create a life in which the goal drops, and an inner prompting enters. Create a life in which the urge to get disappears, and the urge to give becomes strong. What I have called love—not getting, but giving. And love has no goal, except that we give. What I have called love, I have in other words called compassion. So you can say—say that there is no goal, except that there is love. And love has no goal, because love itself is its goal.
One final question, regarding anger, is that…
So there is an action that arises from desire. I am speaking here. I could speak because by speaking I might get something—whether that getting is in coins of money, coins of fame, coins of respect, in the form of prestige—some form of gain. Then there would be a goal.
Or I can speak simply because I cannot remain silent; something has happened within and it longs to be shared. I can speak the way a flower blossoms and releases its fragrance. If you ask them, “What is the goal?”—there is none.
When actions arise from desire, there is a goal. When actions arise from compassion, there is no goal. And that is why actions arising from desire create karmic bondage, while actions arising from compassion do not. Wherever there is a goal, there will be bondage; wherever there is no goal, there will be no bondage.
And you will be surprised to know: you cannot do a bad act without a goal. It is a strange fact. Sin always has a goal; virtue has none. And any “virtue” that has a goal is only a form of sin. Sin always has a goal; without a goal no one can commit sin. Even with a goal it is difficult; without a goal it is impossible. I cannot kill you without a goal—why would I? Sin can never be without a goal, because sin can never arise from compassion. Sin always arises from desire; and desire always carries a goal, an urge to get something.
There are actions in which there is no urge to get anything. Mahavira attained kevalya; thereafter he remained active for forty to forty-five years. One could ask: for all those years he acted—he ate, he went, he came, he spoke, he taught—continuously active for forty to forty-five years, so why did those actions not bind him? Buddha attained nirvana; after that he too remained active for forty years. Why was there no bondage? Because in that activity there was no goal. Those actions were goal-less; they were pure compassion.
Many times I wonder: why am I speaking to you? What purpose could there be? I can find no purpose, except that something is being seen and there is a compulsion that it cannot remain unspoken. To leave it unsaid would mean only that some violence is still lingering within; that would be violence.
In the morning I told you a story. If I see you holding a snake in your hand and, without saying anything, I walk on—thinking, “What is my goal?”—that is possible only if there is great violence, great cruelty in me. Otherwise I will say, “It is a snake; drop it.” And if someone asks me, “Why are you saying, ‘It is a snake, drop it’? What is your goal?” I will say, “There is no goal at all, except that my inner being cannot remain silent in this situation.” That is, the stimulus is not outside in the form of a goal; the inspiration is inner, and it has no goal.
You will be surprised: whenever there is a goal, the motivation lies outside. And when there is no goal, the motivation is within. Some things pull us—then there is a goal. And some things push us from within—then there is no goal.
Compassion and love are always goal-less; desire and craving are always goal-ridden. So it is more accurate to say that desire pulls—from outside—as if I tie a rope to you and drag you. Desire pulls, like a rope binding and yanking you along.
Therefore, one in whom desire is present is called a pashu in our scriptures. Pashu means one bound by a pasha, a tether; one who is tied to something and being pulled. Pashu does not mean “animal” in the ordinary sense. Pashu means one tied by some bond and dragged along.
So long as some goal of desire is pulling us, we are bound by the tether, we are pashu—unfree. Freedom, moksha, is the opposite of pashutva. For pashu means being pulled along in bondage; and free means not being pulled by any bondage, but allowing movement to arise from within.
I have no goal. Therefore if at this very moment my life-breath were to leave, not for a single instant would I feel that something has been left unfinished. If I were to die right now, sitting here, not for a moment would the thought arise that what I was saying has remained incomplete. Because there was no “work” in it; there was nothing to complete. While there was breath, that action was complete; when breath is no more, it remains where it is. There was no purpose in it; nothing has been left incomplete.
So there is no goal, except that there is an inner prompting, an inner compulsion, an inner inevitability. And whatever happens through that will happen. In our land we say: such a person has surrendered himself into the hands of God. Now whatever God wills, let Him have it done. He has no goal of his own. This is only a way of saying; it simply means that he has no goal left of his own. He has placed his life in the hands of the Infinite. Now whatever will be, will be. The responsibility is that of the Infinite; he has no personal responsibility.
What you have asked is good. Through this I want to say to you: transform life from desire into compassion. Create a life in which the goal drops, and an inner prompting enters. Create a life in which the urge to get disappears, and the urge to give becomes strong. What I have called love—not getting, but giving. And love has no goal, except that we give. What I have called love, I have in other words called compassion. So you can say—say that there is no goal, except that there is love. And love has no goal, because love itself is its goal.
One final question, regarding anger, is that…
Osho, when anger arises it produces an adverse result in the mind and affects the whole body. In such a situation, which gland gets formed in the body?
I spoke about this in the morning. I told you—anger was only taken as an example—all emotional surges are energies. And if those energies are not given any creative use, they spend themselves by distorting some organ of the body or some state of the mind. Energy has to be expended. The energy that remains unspent inside will become a granthi. By granthi I mean it will become a knot; it will become a disease.
Understand: it is not only about anger. If there is love within me to give and I cannot give it to anyone, that love will turn into a knot. If there is anger within me and I cannot express it, the anger will turn into a knot. If fear arises in me and I cannot express the fear, the fear will become a knot. All emotional excitements generate an energy. That energy needs discharge.
Discharge can happen in two ways. One is a negative way. For example, a man gets angry: the negative way is that he goes and throws stones, hits with a stick, hurls abuses. It is negative because the energy is spent, but he gains nothing. The result will be that the one he abuses will return an abuse of double weight. The one at whom he throws a stone will also feel anger arise within him. And he too is an ordinary man; his way of expressing anger will be negative—he will also pick up a stick. If you throw a stone at someone, he will throw a bigger stone at you.
The negative use of anger only creates more anger. The energy is spent; again anger is produced; the negative habit again provokes anger. Again the energy is spent; in return, again anger is produced. The chain of anger will be endless—only energy will go on being wasted; there will be no result.
You can break the chain of anger only when you make some active, creative use of anger. Hence Mahavira has said: one who hates receives hate in return; one who is angry produces anger; one who is inimical gives birth to enmity. And this chain has no end. And in it only energy can be spent. What result can there be? Understand this: I get angry, you answer me with anger; I again get angry, you again answer me with anger—what will be the result? Each bout of anger will weaken me and spend my energy. For this reason civilization made a rule: do not be angry. For this reason civilization made a rule: do not express anger upon anyone.
This rule is good. Anger will not be expressed; the chain will not be created. But that energy—that surge inside me—will go on circling. Where will it go? Where will it go?
Look into an animal’s eyes! The eyes of even the fiercest animal are more limpid than yours. Even a violent animal’s eyes are clearer than a human’s. Why is that? There, nothing is repressed. When anger comes, it expresses it. It growls, makes noise, attacks, throws it out. It is not civilized. Whatever happens, it brings it out.
What is the reason for the clarity in children’s eyes? Whatever happens in them, they let it out. No granthis are formed in them. If anger comes, they express it. If jealousy arises, they express it. If a child wants to snatch someone’s toy, he snatches it. There is no repression in a child’s life; hence there appears a simplicity. And in your life there is repression; hence complexity begins.
Granthi means complexity. Something is going on inside; you show something else outside. That energy which cannot come out—where will it go? It becomes a granthi. By granthi I mean it gets blocked like a knot in your consciousness or in your body. As in a river, if some part of the water begins to flow as chunks of ice, then the larger those chunks become, the more the current is blunted. If all becomes ice, the river freezes and ends right there.
So we are like those rivers in which huge chunks of ice are floating. They need to be melted. By granthis I mean those big blocks of ice flowing through our lives. Our suppressed surges of hatred, anger, sex have created large chunks of ice within us. Now they do not let our current flow. In some people the current is such that it is all ice—there is no current at all.
That has to be melted. And to melt it I say: give it creative use. And for creative use I have suggested two paths—how to dissolve the old surge, and how to give a creative direction to a new surge.
Now look: small children have great momentum, great energy. If you leave them in the house, they pick up this thing and throw it down; they break this, smash that. You tell them, don’t do this, don’t do that. You tell them what not to do, but you never tell them what to do. And you do not know why a child picks up a glass and bangs it down! There is energy inside, and energy seeks an outlet. When nothing else is found, he bangs a glass. By slamming that glass, his energy is released.
But you said, “Don’t break the glass.” He stops from breaking the glass. He goes outside; he wants to pluck a flower. You say, “Look, don’t touch the flower.” He cannot touch the flower either. He comes inside; he picks up a book. You say, “Look, don’t spoil the book.” So you told him what not to do; you did not tell him what to do. This is where granthis begin in the child; complexes start forming. Knots will go on accumulating. One day he will become nothing but knots. Inside him there will be only: don’t do this, don’t do that—he will not understand what to do.
What I mean by creative use is: tell him what to do. If he is lifting a glass to throw it, it means he has energy and wants to do something. Instead of saying don’t do it, it would have been better to give him clay and say, make a glass—make a glass like this. That would be creative use. He went to pluck a flower: give him paper and say, make a flower like this—this would be creative use. He was tearing a book or had picked up a book: you should have given him something through which that energy could be used.
Right now education is utterly uncreative; therefore the lives of children get spoiled from childhood. And we are all spoiled children. We are all spoiled children. We have only grown up—that is the only difference. Otherwise, we are spoiled children whose childhood was spoiled; and we keep doing the same spoiled things all our lives.
So when I speak of creativity, I mean: whenever energy arises, give it some creative use—so that something is made, something is created; nothing is destroyed.
Now, a man who continually indulges in condemnation—he could have written a song. And you know, those who cannot write songs, who cannot write poetry, become critics. It is the same energy. Those critics—it is the same energy that could have written a song, created poetry. But they did not make creative use of it. They are only busy criticizing others: who has written wrongly, who is doing what!
This is destructive use. The world would become a much better world if we used our energies creatively—every energy. And remember, energy is neither bad nor good. The energy of anger is neither bad nor good. It is a matter of use. Do not think the energy of anger is bad. No energy is bad or good in itself.
Atomic energy is neither bad nor good; through it the whole world can be destroyed, through it the whole world can be created. All energies are neutral. No energy is bad or good. If the use is destructive, it becomes bad; if the use is creative, it becomes good.
Transform your anger, your lust, your sex, your hatred—transform them all and use them creatively. As when someone brings manure, it stinks, it reeks. The gardener puts that manure in the garden, waters it and sows seeds. Through those seeds, that very manure becomes a plant. Passing through the veins of those plants, that very filth of the manure becomes the fragrance of flowers. The same filth, the same manure that emitted stench, coming into the flower emits fragrance. This is transformation of energy. This is the sublimation of energy.
Whatever in you is giving off stench can become the very cause of fragrance in you—the very same. Because only that which gives off stench can give off fragrance. So never take it badly that you are angry. It is energy, and it is your good fortune. And never take it badly that you are sexual, that you are lustful. It is energy, and it is your good fortune. Misfortune would be if you were not sexual. Misfortune would be if there were no anger in you—then you would be impotent; then you would be without manliness; then you would be of no use. Because there would be no energy in you with which anything could be done. So regard energy as your good fortune. And whatever energies there are within you, be grateful for them, because they are energies. Now it is in your hands how you use them.
All the great men of the world were extreme sexualists. All the great men of the world were highly sexual. It is impossible otherwise. If they had not been highly sexual, they could not have been great men.
You know Gandhi-ji—he was highly sexual. And the day his father died, the doctors had said that the father was on the verge of death; yet even that night he could not sit by his father’s side. When his father died, he was lying with his wife. The doctors had said the father was dying, and even that night he could not sit by his father. It was evident he would die that night. Gandhi-ji was deeply shocked by this: what kind of man am I! What kind of man am I!
But blessed was he that he was so sexual. That very sexuality became his brahmacharya—that very sexuality. Had he sat by his father that night, take it as certain, a Gandhi would not have been born in the world. Most of us would have sat. Not only one night—we would have sat two nights. But then Gandhi would not have been born. That stench which must have been felt in his mind that day later became the whole fragrance of his life.
So do not disrespect any energy. Do not disrespect any energy that arises within you. Consider it your good fortune and engage yourself in transforming it. Every energy changes and every energy is transmutable. And that which appears bad in you turns into fragrance and flowers.
I have discussed a few of the questions. Two or four remain; we will consider them tomorrow.
Understand: it is not only about anger. If there is love within me to give and I cannot give it to anyone, that love will turn into a knot. If there is anger within me and I cannot express it, the anger will turn into a knot. If fear arises in me and I cannot express the fear, the fear will become a knot. All emotional excitements generate an energy. That energy needs discharge.
Discharge can happen in two ways. One is a negative way. For example, a man gets angry: the negative way is that he goes and throws stones, hits with a stick, hurls abuses. It is negative because the energy is spent, but he gains nothing. The result will be that the one he abuses will return an abuse of double weight. The one at whom he throws a stone will also feel anger arise within him. And he too is an ordinary man; his way of expressing anger will be negative—he will also pick up a stick. If you throw a stone at someone, he will throw a bigger stone at you.
The negative use of anger only creates more anger. The energy is spent; again anger is produced; the negative habit again provokes anger. Again the energy is spent; in return, again anger is produced. The chain of anger will be endless—only energy will go on being wasted; there will be no result.
You can break the chain of anger only when you make some active, creative use of anger. Hence Mahavira has said: one who hates receives hate in return; one who is angry produces anger; one who is inimical gives birth to enmity. And this chain has no end. And in it only energy can be spent. What result can there be? Understand this: I get angry, you answer me with anger; I again get angry, you again answer me with anger—what will be the result? Each bout of anger will weaken me and spend my energy. For this reason civilization made a rule: do not be angry. For this reason civilization made a rule: do not express anger upon anyone.
This rule is good. Anger will not be expressed; the chain will not be created. But that energy—that surge inside me—will go on circling. Where will it go? Where will it go?
Look into an animal’s eyes! The eyes of even the fiercest animal are more limpid than yours. Even a violent animal’s eyes are clearer than a human’s. Why is that? There, nothing is repressed. When anger comes, it expresses it. It growls, makes noise, attacks, throws it out. It is not civilized. Whatever happens, it brings it out.
What is the reason for the clarity in children’s eyes? Whatever happens in them, they let it out. No granthis are formed in them. If anger comes, they express it. If jealousy arises, they express it. If a child wants to snatch someone’s toy, he snatches it. There is no repression in a child’s life; hence there appears a simplicity. And in your life there is repression; hence complexity begins.
Granthi means complexity. Something is going on inside; you show something else outside. That energy which cannot come out—where will it go? It becomes a granthi. By granthi I mean it gets blocked like a knot in your consciousness or in your body. As in a river, if some part of the water begins to flow as chunks of ice, then the larger those chunks become, the more the current is blunted. If all becomes ice, the river freezes and ends right there.
So we are like those rivers in which huge chunks of ice are floating. They need to be melted. By granthis I mean those big blocks of ice flowing through our lives. Our suppressed surges of hatred, anger, sex have created large chunks of ice within us. Now they do not let our current flow. In some people the current is such that it is all ice—there is no current at all.
That has to be melted. And to melt it I say: give it creative use. And for creative use I have suggested two paths—how to dissolve the old surge, and how to give a creative direction to a new surge.
Now look: small children have great momentum, great energy. If you leave them in the house, they pick up this thing and throw it down; they break this, smash that. You tell them, don’t do this, don’t do that. You tell them what not to do, but you never tell them what to do. And you do not know why a child picks up a glass and bangs it down! There is energy inside, and energy seeks an outlet. When nothing else is found, he bangs a glass. By slamming that glass, his energy is released.
But you said, “Don’t break the glass.” He stops from breaking the glass. He goes outside; he wants to pluck a flower. You say, “Look, don’t touch the flower.” He cannot touch the flower either. He comes inside; he picks up a book. You say, “Look, don’t spoil the book.” So you told him what not to do; you did not tell him what to do. This is where granthis begin in the child; complexes start forming. Knots will go on accumulating. One day he will become nothing but knots. Inside him there will be only: don’t do this, don’t do that—he will not understand what to do.
What I mean by creative use is: tell him what to do. If he is lifting a glass to throw it, it means he has energy and wants to do something. Instead of saying don’t do it, it would have been better to give him clay and say, make a glass—make a glass like this. That would be creative use. He went to pluck a flower: give him paper and say, make a flower like this—this would be creative use. He was tearing a book or had picked up a book: you should have given him something through which that energy could be used.
Right now education is utterly uncreative; therefore the lives of children get spoiled from childhood. And we are all spoiled children. We are all spoiled children. We have only grown up—that is the only difference. Otherwise, we are spoiled children whose childhood was spoiled; and we keep doing the same spoiled things all our lives.
So when I speak of creativity, I mean: whenever energy arises, give it some creative use—so that something is made, something is created; nothing is destroyed.
Now, a man who continually indulges in condemnation—he could have written a song. And you know, those who cannot write songs, who cannot write poetry, become critics. It is the same energy. Those critics—it is the same energy that could have written a song, created poetry. But they did not make creative use of it. They are only busy criticizing others: who has written wrongly, who is doing what!
This is destructive use. The world would become a much better world if we used our energies creatively—every energy. And remember, energy is neither bad nor good. The energy of anger is neither bad nor good. It is a matter of use. Do not think the energy of anger is bad. No energy is bad or good in itself.
Atomic energy is neither bad nor good; through it the whole world can be destroyed, through it the whole world can be created. All energies are neutral. No energy is bad or good. If the use is destructive, it becomes bad; if the use is creative, it becomes good.
Transform your anger, your lust, your sex, your hatred—transform them all and use them creatively. As when someone brings manure, it stinks, it reeks. The gardener puts that manure in the garden, waters it and sows seeds. Through those seeds, that very manure becomes a plant. Passing through the veins of those plants, that very filth of the manure becomes the fragrance of flowers. The same filth, the same manure that emitted stench, coming into the flower emits fragrance. This is transformation of energy. This is the sublimation of energy.
Whatever in you is giving off stench can become the very cause of fragrance in you—the very same. Because only that which gives off stench can give off fragrance. So never take it badly that you are angry. It is energy, and it is your good fortune. And never take it badly that you are sexual, that you are lustful. It is energy, and it is your good fortune. Misfortune would be if you were not sexual. Misfortune would be if there were no anger in you—then you would be impotent; then you would be without manliness; then you would be of no use. Because there would be no energy in you with which anything could be done. So regard energy as your good fortune. And whatever energies there are within you, be grateful for them, because they are energies. Now it is in your hands how you use them.
All the great men of the world were extreme sexualists. All the great men of the world were highly sexual. It is impossible otherwise. If they had not been highly sexual, they could not have been great men.
You know Gandhi-ji—he was highly sexual. And the day his father died, the doctors had said that the father was on the verge of death; yet even that night he could not sit by his father’s side. When his father died, he was lying with his wife. The doctors had said the father was dying, and even that night he could not sit by his father. It was evident he would die that night. Gandhi-ji was deeply shocked by this: what kind of man am I! What kind of man am I!
But blessed was he that he was so sexual. That very sexuality became his brahmacharya—that very sexuality. Had he sat by his father that night, take it as certain, a Gandhi would not have been born in the world. Most of us would have sat. Not only one night—we would have sat two nights. But then Gandhi would not have been born. That stench which must have been felt in his mind that day later became the whole fragrance of his life.
So do not disrespect any energy. Do not disrespect any energy that arises within you. Consider it your good fortune and engage yourself in transforming it. Every energy changes and every energy is transmutable. And that which appears bad in you turns into fragrance and flowers.
I have discussed a few of the questions. Two or four remain; we will consider them tomorrow.
Osho's Commentary