Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #5
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, I have found the idiot from Ahmedabad. He’s the father of that Marwari, Chandulal, and the uncle of Dhabbuji! But he’s a shape-shifter. The moment I look—he becomes invisible. Suddenly he appears in another form. His play is strange. For births upon births he has sat as the lord. Now I am tired. Old, ugly, filthy—he won’t leave me. Even while I sit before you he doesn’t let me meet you. He doesn’t let me drown in your ocean of love. He doesn’t let life take the flight of beauty. Because of him I am burning in the fire of longing. I am helpless, incapable. Show mercy, O merciful one; devise some way, O Lord of Yoga. I fall at your feet—grant your servant an imperishable, heartfelt devotion, so that I may go on singing your hymns for births and births—singing, singing, singing!
Osho, I have found the idiot from Ahmedabad. He’s the father of that Marwari, Chandulal, and the uncle of Dhabbuji! But he’s a shape-shifter. The moment I look—he becomes invisible. Suddenly he appears in another form. His play is strange. For births upon births he has sat as the lord. Now I am tired. Old, ugly, filthy—he won’t leave me. Even while I sit before you he doesn’t let me meet you. He doesn’t let me drown in your ocean of love. He doesn’t let life take the flight of beauty. Because of him I am burning in the fire of longing. I am helpless, incapable. Show mercy, O merciful one; devise some way, O Lord of Yoga. I fall at your feet—grant your servant an imperishable, heartfelt devotion, so that I may go on singing your hymns for births and births—singing, singing, singing!
Yog Manju! “The idiot from Ahmedabad” means the ego. The ego is an illusion; so in one sense dropping it is difficult, and in another it is very simple. It is just a matter of understanding. If you try to get rid of the ego, then it becomes difficult—because how will you drop what is not? How will you fight what is not? How will you run away from what is not?
Trying to drop what isn’t creates the very mistake, the very confusion. To know that it isn’t—just that is enough. There is no need to drop it. To talk of “dropping” already assumes that it is.
Many people try to get rid of the ego; they get stuck in that very effort. It isn’t the ego that holds them; the effort to get rid of it holds them. It’s like fighting darkness—how will you win? Try a thousand devices, be as strong as you like—you will certainly be defeated. And when you are defeated again and again, naturally you will think, “How helpless I am! How powerless!”
Logic will say, “You are defeated because darkness is powerful.” But you are not defeated because darkness is powerful; you are defeated because darkness is not. If you fight what is not, you will be defeated—you will be crushed, you will be broken. If the ego existed, victory would be possible.
“You think the ego has become the master”—Manju, that is how you have understood it. But that is not understanding. If you think “the ego has become the master,” then a new urge will arise: “How can I suppress the ego and become its mistress?” The struggle will begin—and in struggle there is defeat.
Keep this very fundamental thing in mind: never fight an absence, otherwise your life will be wasted. Then its play will look strange: you push it out from one side—before you can even push it out, it enters from another door. Then you’ll feel, “What a subtle process this is!” The more you try to get rid of it, the more entangled it becomes.
To know that what is not, is not—this is enough. That is why I do not emphasize renunciation. Renunciation means “dropping.” I emphasize awakening—awareness. Wake up; do not run. Whoever runs will get into trouble. What you run from, that will chase you. Your shadow will follow you. If it were something real and you ran, you could leave it behind. But it is nothing; the faster you run, the faster the shadow runs with you. Then panic spreads: “O Lord, what now! However fast I run, this shadow will not leave me!” Run for births upon births, even then it will not leave.
Stop and look carefully. Wake up and see: this “idiot from Ahmedabad” has no existence. He is neither Chandulal’s father nor Dhabbuji’s uncle.
He simply is not. How can he be a shape-shifter? We fight him, and then he becomes a shape-shifter. We defeat one form, and the delusion stands up in another. Not recognizing the source of delusion, you go on cutting leaves while the root remains.
And the joke is that we water the root and cut the leaves! With one hand we water, with the other we prune. As you cut the leaves, new ones keep sprouting. You pluck one leaf, three more appear! Such a person goes from three to thirteen—splits and splits. He is shattered into fragments. Then naturally weakness is felt—there is torment. A defeat, a despair surrounds life; the possibility of victory disappears.
You say, Manju: “He is a shape-shifter. When I look, he becomes invisible.”
Whatever disappears when you look at it is not—neither of one form nor of many. That which cannot stand before your gaze, which vanishes the very moment you see it, and stands there again as soon as you turn your back—know that it is delusion, ignorance, a lack of awareness. Light the lamp of meditation, and the revolution happens by itself.
Therefore to my sannyasin I give nothing but meditation. I do not say “renounce.” I do not say “practice austerity.” I do not say “be humble”—for humility is also a form of ego. I say only this: awareness. Break your unconsciousness. Break this sleep. These are dreams—wake up from them. Awake, and dreams have no existence. The moment you awaken, dreams disappear.
Seth Chandulal, the Marwari’s clerk, Poppatlal, had for years longed for a little raise in salary. But seeing Chandulal’s miserliness, he never found the courage to ask. It was dangerous to ask him—he might even dismiss you. What you already get might stop. So Poppatlal kept quiet—waiting for an opportunity. But Chandulal never gave an opportunity. He never even smiled. He never looked properly at Poppatlal. How to speak to such a man? He was like a stone wall. Then Poppatlal found a trick.
One morning he came and said, “Sethji, last night I saw a dream—you raised my salary by twenty-five rupees a month!”
Chandulal said, “Don’t get smart. I’ll deduct it next month. You must have made a mistake in your dream.”
A raise in a dream—and a deduction in reality!
Dreams vanish when you wake.
Chandulal’s wife, Gulabo, was saying to a friend, “I suspect this Chandulal—I really suspect him. He’s certainly entangled with some woman. Just yesterday: I saw a dream—he was gazing intently at a woman and inching closer!”
The friend said, “Oh, don’t be silly! That was a dream!”
Gulabo said, “When in my dream he has such courage, just think what he must be doing in his own dream! Even with me present—in my dream—he was sliding toward her! I suspect him. I can’t trust him. He must be after someone. Just look at his manner! Since I saw that dream, I suspect him in everything. He enters the house like a thief. He looks around everywhere!”
A married man does enter like a thief. What can he do!
A boy was telling his friend, “My father roars like a lion. He walks with the stately gait of an elephant. He can run like a deer!”
The other boy said, “Oh, stop it. And when he walks with your mother—then he’s a soaked cat! All that elephant gait, roaring like a lion, running like a deer—that’s not the reality. Reality is what he is in front of his wife...!”
A son asked his father, “Why is our language called the mother tongue?”
The father looked around. The boy said, “What are you looking for?”
He said, “I’m looking for your mother!” Then he whispered in his ear—though the mother was nowhere around—“Son, listen, it’s called the mother tongue because the father never gets a chance to speak! Can a father speak while the mother is present? So—mother tongue! We can never call it father tongue!”
So if poor Chandulal sneaks into the house looking all around—it only shows he’s married. But ever since the wife saw that dream, she has been suspicious.
We trust dreams! We start living in dreams. And don’t think this mistake is only Gulabo’s, Manju—this is everyone’s mistake. Even while awake we are living in dreams.
Trying to drop what isn’t creates the very mistake, the very confusion. To know that it isn’t—just that is enough. There is no need to drop it. To talk of “dropping” already assumes that it is.
Many people try to get rid of the ego; they get stuck in that very effort. It isn’t the ego that holds them; the effort to get rid of it holds them. It’s like fighting darkness—how will you win? Try a thousand devices, be as strong as you like—you will certainly be defeated. And when you are defeated again and again, naturally you will think, “How helpless I am! How powerless!”
Logic will say, “You are defeated because darkness is powerful.” But you are not defeated because darkness is powerful; you are defeated because darkness is not. If you fight what is not, you will be defeated—you will be crushed, you will be broken. If the ego existed, victory would be possible.
“You think the ego has become the master”—Manju, that is how you have understood it. But that is not understanding. If you think “the ego has become the master,” then a new urge will arise: “How can I suppress the ego and become its mistress?” The struggle will begin—and in struggle there is defeat.
Keep this very fundamental thing in mind: never fight an absence, otherwise your life will be wasted. Then its play will look strange: you push it out from one side—before you can even push it out, it enters from another door. Then you’ll feel, “What a subtle process this is!” The more you try to get rid of it, the more entangled it becomes.
To know that what is not, is not—this is enough. That is why I do not emphasize renunciation. Renunciation means “dropping.” I emphasize awakening—awareness. Wake up; do not run. Whoever runs will get into trouble. What you run from, that will chase you. Your shadow will follow you. If it were something real and you ran, you could leave it behind. But it is nothing; the faster you run, the faster the shadow runs with you. Then panic spreads: “O Lord, what now! However fast I run, this shadow will not leave me!” Run for births upon births, even then it will not leave.
Stop and look carefully. Wake up and see: this “idiot from Ahmedabad” has no existence. He is neither Chandulal’s father nor Dhabbuji’s uncle.
He simply is not. How can he be a shape-shifter? We fight him, and then he becomes a shape-shifter. We defeat one form, and the delusion stands up in another. Not recognizing the source of delusion, you go on cutting leaves while the root remains.
And the joke is that we water the root and cut the leaves! With one hand we water, with the other we prune. As you cut the leaves, new ones keep sprouting. You pluck one leaf, three more appear! Such a person goes from three to thirteen—splits and splits. He is shattered into fragments. Then naturally weakness is felt—there is torment. A defeat, a despair surrounds life; the possibility of victory disappears.
You say, Manju: “He is a shape-shifter. When I look, he becomes invisible.”
Whatever disappears when you look at it is not—neither of one form nor of many. That which cannot stand before your gaze, which vanishes the very moment you see it, and stands there again as soon as you turn your back—know that it is delusion, ignorance, a lack of awareness. Light the lamp of meditation, and the revolution happens by itself.
Therefore to my sannyasin I give nothing but meditation. I do not say “renounce.” I do not say “practice austerity.” I do not say “be humble”—for humility is also a form of ego. I say only this: awareness. Break your unconsciousness. Break this sleep. These are dreams—wake up from them. Awake, and dreams have no existence. The moment you awaken, dreams disappear.
Seth Chandulal, the Marwari’s clerk, Poppatlal, had for years longed for a little raise in salary. But seeing Chandulal’s miserliness, he never found the courage to ask. It was dangerous to ask him—he might even dismiss you. What you already get might stop. So Poppatlal kept quiet—waiting for an opportunity. But Chandulal never gave an opportunity. He never even smiled. He never looked properly at Poppatlal. How to speak to such a man? He was like a stone wall. Then Poppatlal found a trick.
One morning he came and said, “Sethji, last night I saw a dream—you raised my salary by twenty-five rupees a month!”
Chandulal said, “Don’t get smart. I’ll deduct it next month. You must have made a mistake in your dream.”
A raise in a dream—and a deduction in reality!
Dreams vanish when you wake.
Chandulal’s wife, Gulabo, was saying to a friend, “I suspect this Chandulal—I really suspect him. He’s certainly entangled with some woman. Just yesterday: I saw a dream—he was gazing intently at a woman and inching closer!”
The friend said, “Oh, don’t be silly! That was a dream!”
Gulabo said, “When in my dream he has such courage, just think what he must be doing in his own dream! Even with me present—in my dream—he was sliding toward her! I suspect him. I can’t trust him. He must be after someone. Just look at his manner! Since I saw that dream, I suspect him in everything. He enters the house like a thief. He looks around everywhere!”
A married man does enter like a thief. What can he do!
A boy was telling his friend, “My father roars like a lion. He walks with the stately gait of an elephant. He can run like a deer!”
The other boy said, “Oh, stop it. And when he walks with your mother—then he’s a soaked cat! All that elephant gait, roaring like a lion, running like a deer—that’s not the reality. Reality is what he is in front of his wife...!”
A son asked his father, “Why is our language called the mother tongue?”
The father looked around. The boy said, “What are you looking for?”
He said, “I’m looking for your mother!” Then he whispered in his ear—though the mother was nowhere around—“Son, listen, it’s called the mother tongue because the father never gets a chance to speak! Can a father speak while the mother is present? So—mother tongue! We can never call it father tongue!”
So if poor Chandulal sneaks into the house looking all around—it only shows he’s married. But ever since the wife saw that dream, she has been suspicious.
We trust dreams! We start living in dreams. And don’t think this mistake is only Gulabo’s, Manju—this is everyone’s mistake. Even while awake we are living in dreams.
A friend has asked, “I am reading Lobsang Rampa’s books. They impress me greatly. But when I listen to you, sometimes I doubt whether these things are true or not!”
Lobsang Rampa’s books are novels. Nothing more. Only fools can be impressed by them. If you want the pleasure of a novel, that’s another matter. And even from the standpoint of fiction they are third-rate—bottom of the heap. But if you take them as spirituality, you’ll imagine Rampa is revealing great secrets!
It’s all concoction. All dreams. Still, many are affected—because people stuffed with dreams are affected by dreams. They know only the language of dreams; no other language comes to them.
If you want to enjoy novels, read Tolstoy, read Dostoevsky, read Chekhov, read Gorky. If it’s literature you want, there have been great artists—why read the rotten Lobsang Rampa! There’s nothing there—trash. But if you take it as spirituality, then that’s your choice—you will be impressed.
Under the name of spirituality more rubbish circulates in the world than under any other name. Why does it circulate? Because people understand only that language. People are foolish, and whatever influences their foolishness surely contains some hidden foolishness in itself; only then does the tuning happen.
The language of the awakened shocks, it jolts. The awakened come like a sword—like something that severs the head. The awakened are like fire—fiery. They will reduce to ashes—certainly that which is not. What is, will be refined and shine forth. The awakened come like a gust of wind. They blow away the ash. But you clutch the ash; you think it is your treasure!
It groomed my heart,
It brightened my life—
What shall I call it?
It showered happiness!
I was no longer my own,
All dreams were shattered.
Some wind
Swept clean the mirror of this mind!
Life grew luminous,
Darkness vanished,
In the temple of love’s fire
It lit a little lamp!
Into his hands I let go,
I did not swim, did not struggle.
Look—the river itself
Ferried my boat across!
“Into his hands I let go!” The meaning of sannyas is: surrender. Manju! Let go! Now there is no need to fight. This river is already moving toward the ocean. This ochre stream is already flowing toward the ocean. Now there is no need even to swim. No need to run or to rush.
Into his hands I let go,
I did not swim, did not struggle.
Look—the river itself
Ferried my boat across!
Life grew luminous,
Darkness vanished,
In the temple of love’s fire
It lit a little lamp!
I was no longer my own,
All dreams were shattered.
Some wind
Swept clean the mirror of this mind!
It groomed my heart,
It brightened my life—
What shall I call it?
It showered happiness!
You only have to wake up and look. Nothing has to be done. The idiot from Ahmedabad takes his leave. And you remain awake—then he cannot return. If you sleep, he returns. Sleep—and it’s dreams again.
The supreme state of sannyas is: “Awake, then awake. Even asleep, awake.”
Krishna’s definition of a yogi is my definition of a sannyasin. Krishna has said: the one who remains awake even in sleep—“ya nisha sarvabhutanam tasyaṁ jagarti saṁyami.” What is night for all beings—“ya nisha sarvabhutanam”—for the disciplined one, for the yogi, even that is not sleep; even then he is awake—“tasyaṁ jagarti saṁyami.” The body falls asleep, the mind falls asleep—and within, consciousness remains awake; the witness remains awake. In the day he is awake of course; at night too he is awake. Awake in waking—awake in sleep.
Right now the situation is reversed! Right now asleep in sleep—and asleep in waking. Just straighten this a little. Right now you are doing a headstand. I say: stand on your feet. Stop this headstand.
Do not fight, or else it will feel as if I am helpless, incapable. Do not renounce—otherwise it will feel, “Even in your presence you don’t let me meet you. You don’t let me drown in your ocean of love.”
This is like saying, Manju: there is darkness; it won’t let the lamp be lit. Can that be?
However ancient, however old the darkness—centuries upon centuries, thousands of years—can it prevent a lamp from being lit? The lamp lights now—fresh, new, just bathed—the flame has just arrived. Newly born, like a newborn child. Yet even the oldest darkness cannot stop it.
No. Do not think the ego doesn’t let you drown in love. Drown in love—and the ego departs. Light the lamp—and darkness departs. But we find arguments. And it is the same mind that manufactures the ego that looks for arguments. So our logic keeps strengthening our ego.
We go on hiding ourselves! From this, hypocrisy is born. At most a person can become humble. But the “humble” person is only a hypocrite. Inside he is still egoistic. The very stiffness that no one is more humble than me. And the human mind is very clever; it finds arguments, props for everything!
Yunus has written a book: Persons, Passions and Politics. Mohammed Yunus has revealed some very significant things in it. He writes that in 1921 Morarji Desai was removed from his job by the British government for communalism, for Hindu bigotry—although Morarji has kept proclaiming that he kicked the British job!
Such is the trickiness of the mind! He was fired, yet he says he kicked it. And the reason he was fired makes sense, because even now the Hindu bigotry has not left him. He poses as Gandhi’s follower, but he is more a follower of Godse than of Gandhi.
Morarji Desai and Vallabhbhai Patel both knew a plan to assassinate Mahatma Gandhi was underway. Morarji Desai was then the Chief Minister of Maharashtra, and he had the information. Yet no arrangements were made on that information.
Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel also had the information; he was India’s Home Minister. All arrangements were in his hands. And he went and asked Mahatma Gandhi! Now watch the cleverness. He asked Mahatma Gandhi whether they should arrange his security. Surely he knew what Gandhi would say.
Mahatma Gandhi said that when God wants to take me, no arrangement can stop it. And until he doesn’t want to take me, no one can take me. Therefore there is no need for arrangements.
You may feel Gandhi spoke something very precious. I do not think there is anything of value in it. Not a bit. Because if God wants to kill you by Nathuram Godse, then by Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel he wants to have your security arranged too! Who are you to come in between?
If one is truly religious, he would say: as you will. I cannot stop the one who kills. Who am I to stop the one who saves?
But see the dishonesty! There is no spirituality in it; no sense of meditation. Yet it impresses you. It impresses many: Ah! a religious man! He says, if God wants to take me, none can stop me; and if God wants to stop, why are you stopping? After all, God too will act through someone. He had God take him through Nathuram Godse. Then he would save him through someone too!
People ask me, “Why don’t you have the security arrangements stopped?” Who am I to have them stopped! If I cannot stop the one who throws the knife, how can I stop the saintly gentleman who restrains it? Let whoever wishes do as he wishes. Let the one who throws the knife throw it; let the one who stops, stop. I am watching the play. That is all my concern.
Should I stop the protector—and cannot stop the one who throws the knife—then that becomes my siding with the knife-thrower. That is, in some way, a suicidal tendency! Yet even the tendency to suicide man can wrap in very handsome covers.
Mahatma Gandhi had begun to feel he had become a “counterfeit coin.” Because as soon as power came into the hands of his disciples, they stopped listening to him. He said: “Until the country had not gained independence, they listened to me. Now no one listens to me. I have become a counterfeit coin!”
And just days before his death he said: “Earlier I wanted to live one hundred and twenty-five years. Not now. Now there is no need for me. No one listens to me. No one obeys me. I am utterly useless.”
These are signals of self-destruction. He himself did not know what he was saying. “I want to live one hundred and twenty-five years”—that too was desire. If God wants to take you earlier—what will you do? Insist that you will live one hundred and twenty-five years anyway?
“I want to live one hundred and twenty-five years”—that too was desire. And now the desire is: “Take me soon, because now I am of no use. Now no one listens to me.”
The longing to be obeyed was so intense that even life lost all value. If people obey what I say—fine; then I want to live one hundred and twenty-five years. And if no one obeys me, what is the point of living! Meaning, the only meaning of living was that followers remain obedient. The thrill was in followers’ obedience. Such a web is spun!
Just yesterday I saw a statement by Morarji Desai in which he too thrust everything onto God—“I live by God’s will.” He went so far as to say, “The application I submitted to become a deputy collector—I did not write it. My professor wrote it. I merely signed it.”
I can guess why he didn’t write it—perhaps he couldn’t manage to write it! Otherwise who goes to a professor to have an application written? Why did you go to the professor to get your application written? And if you were not to submit the application, then why sign it? You could have torn it up and thrown it away. Was there some compulsion that the professor wrote the application and you had to sign? If you did not want the job, you could have torn up the application. Just as you signed it, you could have torn it up, said “Jai Ram ji ki,” and gone home!
First, why did you go at all? Then how did he write the application without your telling him? Who told him which job to apply for? And you signed it! Then you should have let him sign it too—if God had to get you the job, whoever signed, he would have got it for you. Can anything be done in this world against God’s will? Not a leaf stirs—then can such a high post as deputy collector happen without God’s permission? You could have said: if it is to be done, let God sign—or you sign. Who am I to sign!
But the truth would be that he couldn’t bring himself to write the application. To cover that, see what arrangements we make!
Mohammed Yunus also mentions in his book that Morarji Desai goes about proclaiming that he has been a brahmachari for fifty years. This is false, sheer falsehood. He was in love with a Muslim woman. An illegitimate child was born of that affair. That child is alive even now. But he had both—the woman and the child—sent forcibly to Pakistan: no bamboo, no flute! They are in Pakistan. That begum is still alive, the one he loved.
Yes, he might have been brahmachari with his wife. Who does not want to be brahmachari with his wife! That would be true. But with that begum there was a romance. A child was born of it. The child is alive; the begum too is alive. She was sent to Pakistan. Arrangements were made to send her to Pakistan. For when Morarji Desai again became India’s Prime Minister, came into power, that begum came to India on a visit.
Pakistanis are generally not given an open visa. They are given a visa for just one place. If Bombay, then Bombay. They cannot go anywhere else. But this begum was given an open visa. She could travel all over India. She stayed in government guest houses. Not only that—arrangements were made for her to stay at Western Court in Delhi. She went to Delhi, Bhopal, Hyderabad, Bombay. There was no obstacle anywhere. How could there be!
Yet he goes about spreading the hollow hypocrisy of brahmacharya. The mind is deeply hypocritical. What tricks it invents!
Morarji Desai had a hand in Gandhi’s murder too—because when he knew, he could have created obstacles. And Vallabhbhai Patel’s hand too.
There was no question of going to ask Mahatma Gandhi. The Home Minister should have arranged it on his own. Do you go asking each person, “Someone is coming to kill you—shall the government make arrangements, or may we take a holiday?” If someone is coming to kill a person—however ordinary a citizen, known or unknown—it is the government’s duty to block the murderer’s path. To go ask that person—and that too to go ask Gandhi—“Shall we make arrangements for security or not!” This is the limit!
If the police learns a burglary is about to happen at someone’s house, do they go ask: a burglary is about to happen; shall we make arrangements or not? If a Hindu-Muslim riot is about to happen, does the police go ask: shall we make arrangements or not?
What does it mean to go ask Mahatma Gandhi? Somewhere there must have been an inner wish to be rid of him—to be rid of this old man!
Just seven days before Gandhi’s assassination, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel addressed a massive RSS rally in Lucknow and praised them greatly—saying, these are the kind of nation-servers we need!
It is no accident that the Janata Party in India, which put Morarji Desai in power, stood fundamentally on the strength of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh. It was the organization of these bigoted Hindus, on whose strength they reached power. And the secret of seating them in power was that underneath they were fundamentally supporters of Hindu-ism-as-ideology.
So they must have wanted Gandhi removed. They could not say it outright. Nathuram Godse delivered the deliverance, and India’s so-called leaders breathed a sigh of relief—nuisance gone! Now we can do what we want in peace! Now there is no obstacle, no thorn!
Man is very cunning. Then they will weep and give speeches and raise a great hue and cry that a vast grief has befallen their chest; they are breaking, dying! And every year they will offer tributes! And sit at Rajghat and spin charkhas!
To awaken from all these deceits of the mind, from the mind’s hypocrisy, is meditation. But one is afraid to awaken—because then you will have to see all your dishonesty, all the nets you yourself have spread, all your filth!
And Manju, you say, “Old, ugly, dirty—he doesn’t let go!”
He is certainly old—he is very ancient. He has been trailing you forever, for lifetimes. He is ugly too, dirty too. But the reason he does not let go is that you are not gathering the capacity to see his filth, to see his ugliness. If you look at him with steady eyes, full-eyed, he will depart forever.
And you must look at him with your eyes riveted. The very name of looking with unwavering gaze is meditation.
Do not paste labels—“dirty, ugly, old.” Recognize—see. And do not be in a hurry to decide. Just see. Seeing is enough. Vision is enough. Just light the lamp—that is enough.
The moment the lamp is lit, a revolution happens; that revolution is to be understood. What is, reveals itself the moment the light is lit. In darkness it did not reveal itself. What is remains suppressed in darkness. What is not appears.
When you enter a dark room, you see only darkness. The beautiful pictures hanging on the walls are not seen. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling is not seen. The furniture, tastefully arranged, is not seen. What is, is not seen. And what is not, is seen—darkness!
Then light the lamp, and the furniture will not depart. The furniture will not leap up and run away. Nor will the pictures detach from the walls and vanish. Only darkness will dissolve. The pictures will appear.
What is, appears in meditation; and what is not, departs.
The ego is not; the mind is not. The soul is. God is. Meditation brings about this unprecedented event within you.
Manju, drown in meditation. And the fragrance of meditation is love. When the flower of meditation blooms, the fragrance of love spreads of its own accord.
Do not think this ego is creating a barrier to your love. Poor ego—how can it be a barrier! You are not helpless, not impotent; the ego is helpless and impotent. But our identification with it has become so total that we think—we are helpless, we are impotent!
You are yourself the Divine. The day meditation is complete, that proclamation will burst forth: “Aham Brahmasmi. Ana’l-Haqq. Tat Tvam Asi.”
It’s all concoction. All dreams. Still, many are affected—because people stuffed with dreams are affected by dreams. They know only the language of dreams; no other language comes to them.
If you want to enjoy novels, read Tolstoy, read Dostoevsky, read Chekhov, read Gorky. If it’s literature you want, there have been great artists—why read the rotten Lobsang Rampa! There’s nothing there—trash. But if you take it as spirituality, then that’s your choice—you will be impressed.
Under the name of spirituality more rubbish circulates in the world than under any other name. Why does it circulate? Because people understand only that language. People are foolish, and whatever influences their foolishness surely contains some hidden foolishness in itself; only then does the tuning happen.
The language of the awakened shocks, it jolts. The awakened come like a sword—like something that severs the head. The awakened are like fire—fiery. They will reduce to ashes—certainly that which is not. What is, will be refined and shine forth. The awakened come like a gust of wind. They blow away the ash. But you clutch the ash; you think it is your treasure!
It groomed my heart,
It brightened my life—
What shall I call it?
It showered happiness!
I was no longer my own,
All dreams were shattered.
Some wind
Swept clean the mirror of this mind!
Life grew luminous,
Darkness vanished,
In the temple of love’s fire
It lit a little lamp!
Into his hands I let go,
I did not swim, did not struggle.
Look—the river itself
Ferried my boat across!
“Into his hands I let go!” The meaning of sannyas is: surrender. Manju! Let go! Now there is no need to fight. This river is already moving toward the ocean. This ochre stream is already flowing toward the ocean. Now there is no need even to swim. No need to run or to rush.
Into his hands I let go,
I did not swim, did not struggle.
Look—the river itself
Ferried my boat across!
Life grew luminous,
Darkness vanished,
In the temple of love’s fire
It lit a little lamp!
I was no longer my own,
All dreams were shattered.
Some wind
Swept clean the mirror of this mind!
It groomed my heart,
It brightened my life—
What shall I call it?
It showered happiness!
You only have to wake up and look. Nothing has to be done. The idiot from Ahmedabad takes his leave. And you remain awake—then he cannot return. If you sleep, he returns. Sleep—and it’s dreams again.
The supreme state of sannyas is: “Awake, then awake. Even asleep, awake.”
Krishna’s definition of a yogi is my definition of a sannyasin. Krishna has said: the one who remains awake even in sleep—“ya nisha sarvabhutanam tasyaṁ jagarti saṁyami.” What is night for all beings—“ya nisha sarvabhutanam”—for the disciplined one, for the yogi, even that is not sleep; even then he is awake—“tasyaṁ jagarti saṁyami.” The body falls asleep, the mind falls asleep—and within, consciousness remains awake; the witness remains awake. In the day he is awake of course; at night too he is awake. Awake in waking—awake in sleep.
Right now the situation is reversed! Right now asleep in sleep—and asleep in waking. Just straighten this a little. Right now you are doing a headstand. I say: stand on your feet. Stop this headstand.
Do not fight, or else it will feel as if I am helpless, incapable. Do not renounce—otherwise it will feel, “Even in your presence you don’t let me meet you. You don’t let me drown in your ocean of love.”
This is like saying, Manju: there is darkness; it won’t let the lamp be lit. Can that be?
However ancient, however old the darkness—centuries upon centuries, thousands of years—can it prevent a lamp from being lit? The lamp lights now—fresh, new, just bathed—the flame has just arrived. Newly born, like a newborn child. Yet even the oldest darkness cannot stop it.
No. Do not think the ego doesn’t let you drown in love. Drown in love—and the ego departs. Light the lamp—and darkness departs. But we find arguments. And it is the same mind that manufactures the ego that looks for arguments. So our logic keeps strengthening our ego.
We go on hiding ourselves! From this, hypocrisy is born. At most a person can become humble. But the “humble” person is only a hypocrite. Inside he is still egoistic. The very stiffness that no one is more humble than me. And the human mind is very clever; it finds arguments, props for everything!
Yunus has written a book: Persons, Passions and Politics. Mohammed Yunus has revealed some very significant things in it. He writes that in 1921 Morarji Desai was removed from his job by the British government for communalism, for Hindu bigotry—although Morarji has kept proclaiming that he kicked the British job!
Such is the trickiness of the mind! He was fired, yet he says he kicked it. And the reason he was fired makes sense, because even now the Hindu bigotry has not left him. He poses as Gandhi’s follower, but he is more a follower of Godse than of Gandhi.
Morarji Desai and Vallabhbhai Patel both knew a plan to assassinate Mahatma Gandhi was underway. Morarji Desai was then the Chief Minister of Maharashtra, and he had the information. Yet no arrangements were made on that information.
Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel also had the information; he was India’s Home Minister. All arrangements were in his hands. And he went and asked Mahatma Gandhi! Now watch the cleverness. He asked Mahatma Gandhi whether they should arrange his security. Surely he knew what Gandhi would say.
Mahatma Gandhi said that when God wants to take me, no arrangement can stop it. And until he doesn’t want to take me, no one can take me. Therefore there is no need for arrangements.
You may feel Gandhi spoke something very precious. I do not think there is anything of value in it. Not a bit. Because if God wants to kill you by Nathuram Godse, then by Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel he wants to have your security arranged too! Who are you to come in between?
If one is truly religious, he would say: as you will. I cannot stop the one who kills. Who am I to stop the one who saves?
But see the dishonesty! There is no spirituality in it; no sense of meditation. Yet it impresses you. It impresses many: Ah! a religious man! He says, if God wants to take me, none can stop me; and if God wants to stop, why are you stopping? After all, God too will act through someone. He had God take him through Nathuram Godse. Then he would save him through someone too!
People ask me, “Why don’t you have the security arrangements stopped?” Who am I to have them stopped! If I cannot stop the one who throws the knife, how can I stop the saintly gentleman who restrains it? Let whoever wishes do as he wishes. Let the one who throws the knife throw it; let the one who stops, stop. I am watching the play. That is all my concern.
Should I stop the protector—and cannot stop the one who throws the knife—then that becomes my siding with the knife-thrower. That is, in some way, a suicidal tendency! Yet even the tendency to suicide man can wrap in very handsome covers.
Mahatma Gandhi had begun to feel he had become a “counterfeit coin.” Because as soon as power came into the hands of his disciples, they stopped listening to him. He said: “Until the country had not gained independence, they listened to me. Now no one listens to me. I have become a counterfeit coin!”
And just days before his death he said: “Earlier I wanted to live one hundred and twenty-five years. Not now. Now there is no need for me. No one listens to me. No one obeys me. I am utterly useless.”
These are signals of self-destruction. He himself did not know what he was saying. “I want to live one hundred and twenty-five years”—that too was desire. If God wants to take you earlier—what will you do? Insist that you will live one hundred and twenty-five years anyway?
“I want to live one hundred and twenty-five years”—that too was desire. And now the desire is: “Take me soon, because now I am of no use. Now no one listens to me.”
The longing to be obeyed was so intense that even life lost all value. If people obey what I say—fine; then I want to live one hundred and twenty-five years. And if no one obeys me, what is the point of living! Meaning, the only meaning of living was that followers remain obedient. The thrill was in followers’ obedience. Such a web is spun!
Just yesterday I saw a statement by Morarji Desai in which he too thrust everything onto God—“I live by God’s will.” He went so far as to say, “The application I submitted to become a deputy collector—I did not write it. My professor wrote it. I merely signed it.”
I can guess why he didn’t write it—perhaps he couldn’t manage to write it! Otherwise who goes to a professor to have an application written? Why did you go to the professor to get your application written? And if you were not to submit the application, then why sign it? You could have torn it up and thrown it away. Was there some compulsion that the professor wrote the application and you had to sign? If you did not want the job, you could have torn up the application. Just as you signed it, you could have torn it up, said “Jai Ram ji ki,” and gone home!
First, why did you go at all? Then how did he write the application without your telling him? Who told him which job to apply for? And you signed it! Then you should have let him sign it too—if God had to get you the job, whoever signed, he would have got it for you. Can anything be done in this world against God’s will? Not a leaf stirs—then can such a high post as deputy collector happen without God’s permission? You could have said: if it is to be done, let God sign—or you sign. Who am I to sign!
But the truth would be that he couldn’t bring himself to write the application. To cover that, see what arrangements we make!
Mohammed Yunus also mentions in his book that Morarji Desai goes about proclaiming that he has been a brahmachari for fifty years. This is false, sheer falsehood. He was in love with a Muslim woman. An illegitimate child was born of that affair. That child is alive even now. But he had both—the woman and the child—sent forcibly to Pakistan: no bamboo, no flute! They are in Pakistan. That begum is still alive, the one he loved.
Yes, he might have been brahmachari with his wife. Who does not want to be brahmachari with his wife! That would be true. But with that begum there was a romance. A child was born of it. The child is alive; the begum too is alive. She was sent to Pakistan. Arrangements were made to send her to Pakistan. For when Morarji Desai again became India’s Prime Minister, came into power, that begum came to India on a visit.
Pakistanis are generally not given an open visa. They are given a visa for just one place. If Bombay, then Bombay. They cannot go anywhere else. But this begum was given an open visa. She could travel all over India. She stayed in government guest houses. Not only that—arrangements were made for her to stay at Western Court in Delhi. She went to Delhi, Bhopal, Hyderabad, Bombay. There was no obstacle anywhere. How could there be!
Yet he goes about spreading the hollow hypocrisy of brahmacharya. The mind is deeply hypocritical. What tricks it invents!
Morarji Desai had a hand in Gandhi’s murder too—because when he knew, he could have created obstacles. And Vallabhbhai Patel’s hand too.
There was no question of going to ask Mahatma Gandhi. The Home Minister should have arranged it on his own. Do you go asking each person, “Someone is coming to kill you—shall the government make arrangements, or may we take a holiday?” If someone is coming to kill a person—however ordinary a citizen, known or unknown—it is the government’s duty to block the murderer’s path. To go ask that person—and that too to go ask Gandhi—“Shall we make arrangements for security or not!” This is the limit!
If the police learns a burglary is about to happen at someone’s house, do they go ask: a burglary is about to happen; shall we make arrangements or not? If a Hindu-Muslim riot is about to happen, does the police go ask: shall we make arrangements or not?
What does it mean to go ask Mahatma Gandhi? Somewhere there must have been an inner wish to be rid of him—to be rid of this old man!
Just seven days before Gandhi’s assassination, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel addressed a massive RSS rally in Lucknow and praised them greatly—saying, these are the kind of nation-servers we need!
It is no accident that the Janata Party in India, which put Morarji Desai in power, stood fundamentally on the strength of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh. It was the organization of these bigoted Hindus, on whose strength they reached power. And the secret of seating them in power was that underneath they were fundamentally supporters of Hindu-ism-as-ideology.
So they must have wanted Gandhi removed. They could not say it outright. Nathuram Godse delivered the deliverance, and India’s so-called leaders breathed a sigh of relief—nuisance gone! Now we can do what we want in peace! Now there is no obstacle, no thorn!
Man is very cunning. Then they will weep and give speeches and raise a great hue and cry that a vast grief has befallen their chest; they are breaking, dying! And every year they will offer tributes! And sit at Rajghat and spin charkhas!
To awaken from all these deceits of the mind, from the mind’s hypocrisy, is meditation. But one is afraid to awaken—because then you will have to see all your dishonesty, all the nets you yourself have spread, all your filth!
And Manju, you say, “Old, ugly, dirty—he doesn’t let go!”
He is certainly old—he is very ancient. He has been trailing you forever, for lifetimes. He is ugly too, dirty too. But the reason he does not let go is that you are not gathering the capacity to see his filth, to see his ugliness. If you look at him with steady eyes, full-eyed, he will depart forever.
And you must look at him with your eyes riveted. The very name of looking with unwavering gaze is meditation.
Do not paste labels—“dirty, ugly, old.” Recognize—see. And do not be in a hurry to decide. Just see. Seeing is enough. Vision is enough. Just light the lamp—that is enough.
The moment the lamp is lit, a revolution happens; that revolution is to be understood. What is, reveals itself the moment the light is lit. In darkness it did not reveal itself. What is remains suppressed in darkness. What is not appears.
When you enter a dark room, you see only darkness. The beautiful pictures hanging on the walls are not seen. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling is not seen. The furniture, tastefully arranged, is not seen. What is, is not seen. And what is not, is seen—darkness!
Then light the lamp, and the furniture will not depart. The furniture will not leap up and run away. Nor will the pictures detach from the walls and vanish. Only darkness will dissolve. The pictures will appear.
What is, appears in meditation; and what is not, departs.
The ego is not; the mind is not. The soul is. God is. Meditation brings about this unprecedented event within you.
Manju, drown in meditation. And the fragrance of meditation is love. When the flower of meditation blooms, the fragrance of love spreads of its own accord.
Do not think this ego is creating a barrier to your love. Poor ego—how can it be a barrier! You are not helpless, not impotent; the ego is helpless and impotent. But our identification with it has become so total that we think—we are helpless, we are impotent!
You are yourself the Divine. The day meditation is complete, that proclamation will burst forth: “Aham Brahmasmi. Ana’l-Haqq. Tat Tvam Asi.”
Second question: Osho,
Beloved, I stand at your door in silence—when did I ever think of coming here, of attaining your darshan? Who pulled me, helpless, from such a distance? I stand in silence, knocking at the door—oh! I have come empty-handed! I brought no gift to offer! Ah! With what shall I worship and honor the Beloved? Forgive me—I'll sit somewhere here, hidden; when you come I will behold you for just a moment, then I will return, engraving that moment upon the canvas of my heart!
Beloved, I stand at your door in silence—when did I ever think of coming here, of attaining your darshan? Who pulled me, helpless, from such a distance? I stand in silence, knocking at the door—oh! I have come empty-handed! I brought no gift to offer! Ah! With what shall I worship and honor the Beloved? Forgive me—I'll sit somewhere here, hidden; when you come I will behold you for just a moment, then I will return, engraving that moment upon the canvas of my heart!
Veena Bharti! Only in silence does the door open. It opens only through silence. Let silence arrive—and the door is open. You don’t even need to knock.
You say: “Beloved, I stand at your door in silence!”
That is the key—to stand quietly at the Beloved’s door. There is no need even to call out. No need even to give the adhan.
Kabir, passing by a mosque, saw the mullah atop the minaret giving the call to prayer. Kabir shouted: “Come down, madman! Has your God gone deaf? Has your God become so deaf that you have to climb a high minaret and make such a racket? Be silent. Be still.”
The language of silence is the only language God knows. Silence is the only bridge. Speak, and you are far. Call, and you are separate. Be silent, and you are non-separate. Be silent, and you are one.
You say: “Beloved, I stand at your door in silence!”
The key has fallen into your hand.
“When did I ever think of coming here…”
Does anyone ever come here by thinking and deliberation? And whoever comes through thinking goes away empty-handed. Does anyone really arrive here by thinking? Has anyone ever? Even if they come, they cannot truly arrive.
We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern.
We kept on yearning; alas, only for the goblet.
The wine is here, the goblet is here, the flagon is here—but the cupbearer is not.
A fire rises in the heart: why not burn down the tavern!
We were fated for the cage—what complaint against the fowler?
We only kept longing for water and grain.
The garden gives us no joy, the desert makes the heart tremble—
Where shall we seat such a mad one?
Tell us, O Nazir, what fault was ours,
So that we may count such a dying as a wedding with death?
We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern.
We kept on yearning; alas, only for the goblet.
Whoever comes through thinking will return just as he came. He came empty, he will return empty. His cup will not be filled. He will not meet the cupbearer. Everything will be there, yet he will miss.
The wine is here, the goblet is here, the flagon is here—but the cupbearer is not.
A fire rises in the heart: why not burn down the tavern!
Everything will be there—but the meeting with the cupbearer will not happen.
Among the Sufis, the cupbearer is a symbol for God. And then, of course, anger arises: we came from so far; we came with so much hearing, so much hope, so much longing—and now we must go back empty-handed. “Why not set fire to the tavern!”
He who came through thinking never really comes; he cannot arrive. Everything may be present: the wine, the tavern—but not the cupbearer. He will see everything.
Those who come here through thinking and deliberation will see everything: who is sitting holding whose hand; who is bound in whose embrace. They will see all that—but they will not see me. And those who come without thought will see only me—nothing else. Even if an embracing pair stands before them, they will see only me—nothing else. In the greenery of the trees, in the colors of the flowers, in the sannyasins—they will see only me, and nothing else.
You have come in the right way. You say:
“When did I ever think of coming here,
of attaining your darshan!”
Who comes without thinking—his vision is assured. He has already had the darshan. Only in thoughtlessness is there vision.
“Who pulled me, helpless, from such a distance!”
That is exactly how one comes—one doesn’t even know why one has come; for what one has come; who has pulled one here! Some irresistible attraction, some inner thread—unseen. Some ray has touched you, and you started walking. Some music rose, and you set out. Only the intoxicated reach here, only the mad arrive here.
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized.
By God, how intricate are the paths of love—
Those who went to attain, lost themselves upon the way.
In the gathering, lowered eyes betrayed the secret of love:
We were becoming infamous—yet you too were recognized.
In truth, our knowing is by your grace:
When we recognized ourselves, we recognized you as well.
What greater proof of shortsightedness than this—
A lifetime together, yet you were never recognized.
Love is the work of the brave, known only to the stout-hearted.
Alas, you went into that lane only to stumble in vain.
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized.
You say: “I will sit somewhere here, hidden!”
Hide as much as you like…
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized.
By God, how intricate are the paths of love—
Those who went to attain, lost themselves upon the way.
There is only one way to attain—lose yourself. Lose yourself, and then attainment is not delayed. That much courage! And Veena, I see that courage in you.
You say:
“I will sit somewhere here, hidden;
when you come, I will behold you for a moment;
then I will return, engraving that moment upon the canvas of my heart!”
In the gathering, lowered eyes betrayed the secret of love:
We were becoming infamous—yet you too were recognized.
In truth, our knowing is by your grace:
When we recognized ourselves, we recognized you as well.
Who sits here in silence will recognize me; and will recognize himself too. The happening occurs simultaneously. They are two sides of the same coin. The secret does not open in parts; it opens all at once.
You say:
“Oh, I have come empty-handed!
I brought no gift to offer!”
Empty hands, silence, emptiness—this is the gift. There is no greater offering. Come to me empty, come as a void, come in silence—and then there is meeting; there is vision; then what I am saying will be understood in a single instant. Here, I have barely said it, and there, you have understood. Or say it this way: here, I have not yet fully said it, and there, you have already understood. I am just about to speak—and you have already heard.
Therefore those who sit here quietly, silently—it makes no difference to them what I say. They understand what I intend to say. For what I intend to say cannot be said. No one has ever been able to say it. There is no way to say it.
Yesterday I received a letter from a couple in America. The husband is a well-known doctor. In three years, whatever was possible in America regarding me, he did it all. He read all the books, listened to all the tapes, watched the videos and films, visited every ashram in America, met hundreds of sannyasins. He began to meditate. But he is a busy doctor—he could not find time to come.
Then, fifteen days ago, he had a heart attack. He was shocked. He thought, “Life can end any day.” Immediately he wrote to me: “I cannot delay now. I am coming. I am not even concerned whether you will speak in Hindi, or Swahili, or English—or whether you will speak at all. I am just coming. I simply want to sit silently near you. If you speak, fine. If you don’t, fine. If it is in some language and I understand, fine. If I don’t understand, fine. I only want to sit quietly by you. Death has knocked at the door; I cannot delay any longer. I am leaving all work behind, just as it is, and I am coming.”
His wife also wrote: “I was held back because of my husband. He kept saying, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming—wait a little. Next month. Just four more weeks.’ In this way three years passed. But count it a blessing that he had a heart attack. Now he is coming at once—so I can come too. We just want to sit silently near you. Let this opportunity not be missed.”
Silence is the only language in which truth flows. I use words only to ready you, step by step, for silence.
Those who are ready hear, within these very words, the music of emptiness. Those not yet ready see arguments in these words, scriptures, ideas—and who knows what all. They keep projecting themselves onto the words.
Coming empty-handed—you have come well. Whoever comes with full hands will not recognize me.
What greater proof of shortsightedness than this—
A lifetime by my side, and yet you did not recognize.
Even if he stays a lifetime, he is shortsighted, blind; he will not be able to see. And to be silent requires courage. To come empty-handed requires courage.
Love is the work of the brave, known only to the stout-hearted.
Alas, you went into that lane only to stumble in vain.
He who is ready to come empty-handed, with tears in his eyes, and to confess, “I have nothing to bring—no wealth, outer or inner”—such acceptance is the work of the brave. Those who come without this courage—“Alas, you went into that lane only to stumble in vain!”
They have come into my world only to stumble needlessly. They will be a bit bruised and battered, and then go back home—and go back empty-handed. No matter how many resolutions they made, it won’t make any difference.
We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern.
We kept on yearning; alas, only for the goblet.
The wine is here, the goblet is here, the flagon is here—but the cupbearer is not.
A fire rises in the heart: why not burn down the tavern!
Anger will come to them. Rage will arise. Many people are angry with me. They would like to set fire to my commune. Many have that desire! What is the reason for their anger?
They come in the wrong way, so they cannot recognize; then the anger that the coming and going were wasted. Those who come in the right way—empty, silent—who come simply to come; who don’t even know for what, why; causelessly, without reason; they come for no reason at all. A touch of madness is needed. And you are mad, Veena! You are a lover gone mad.
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized!
You say: “Beloved, I stand at your door in silence!”
That is the key—to stand quietly at the Beloved’s door. There is no need even to call out. No need even to give the adhan.
Kabir, passing by a mosque, saw the mullah atop the minaret giving the call to prayer. Kabir shouted: “Come down, madman! Has your God gone deaf? Has your God become so deaf that you have to climb a high minaret and make such a racket? Be silent. Be still.”
The language of silence is the only language God knows. Silence is the only bridge. Speak, and you are far. Call, and you are separate. Be silent, and you are non-separate. Be silent, and you are one.
You say: “Beloved, I stand at your door in silence!”
The key has fallen into your hand.
“When did I ever think of coming here…”
Does anyone ever come here by thinking and deliberation? And whoever comes through thinking goes away empty-handed. Does anyone really arrive here by thinking? Has anyone ever? Even if they come, they cannot truly arrive.
We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern.
We kept on yearning; alas, only for the goblet.
The wine is here, the goblet is here, the flagon is here—but the cupbearer is not.
A fire rises in the heart: why not burn down the tavern!
We were fated for the cage—what complaint against the fowler?
We only kept longing for water and grain.
The garden gives us no joy, the desert makes the heart tremble—
Where shall we seat such a mad one?
Tell us, O Nazir, what fault was ours,
So that we may count such a dying as a wedding with death?
We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern.
We kept on yearning; alas, only for the goblet.
Whoever comes through thinking will return just as he came. He came empty, he will return empty. His cup will not be filled. He will not meet the cupbearer. Everything will be there, yet he will miss.
The wine is here, the goblet is here, the flagon is here—but the cupbearer is not.
A fire rises in the heart: why not burn down the tavern!
Everything will be there—but the meeting with the cupbearer will not happen.
Among the Sufis, the cupbearer is a symbol for God. And then, of course, anger arises: we came from so far; we came with so much hearing, so much hope, so much longing—and now we must go back empty-handed. “Why not set fire to the tavern!”
He who came through thinking never really comes; he cannot arrive. Everything may be present: the wine, the tavern—but not the cupbearer. He will see everything.
Those who come here through thinking and deliberation will see everything: who is sitting holding whose hand; who is bound in whose embrace. They will see all that—but they will not see me. And those who come without thought will see only me—nothing else. Even if an embracing pair stands before them, they will see only me—nothing else. In the greenery of the trees, in the colors of the flowers, in the sannyasins—they will see only me, and nothing else.
You have come in the right way. You say:
“When did I ever think of coming here,
of attaining your darshan!”
Who comes without thinking—his vision is assured. He has already had the darshan. Only in thoughtlessness is there vision.
“Who pulled me, helpless, from such a distance!”
That is exactly how one comes—one doesn’t even know why one has come; for what one has come; who has pulled one here! Some irresistible attraction, some inner thread—unseen. Some ray has touched you, and you started walking. Some music rose, and you set out. Only the intoxicated reach here, only the mad arrive here.
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized.
By God, how intricate are the paths of love—
Those who went to attain, lost themselves upon the way.
In the gathering, lowered eyes betrayed the secret of love:
We were becoming infamous—yet you too were recognized.
In truth, our knowing is by your grace:
When we recognized ourselves, we recognized you as well.
What greater proof of shortsightedness than this—
A lifetime together, yet you were never recognized.
Love is the work of the brave, known only to the stout-hearted.
Alas, you went into that lane only to stumble in vain.
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized.
You say: “I will sit somewhere here, hidden!”
Hide as much as you like…
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized.
By God, how intricate are the paths of love—
Those who went to attain, lost themselves upon the way.
There is only one way to attain—lose yourself. Lose yourself, and then attainment is not delayed. That much courage! And Veena, I see that courage in you.
You say:
“I will sit somewhere here, hidden;
when you come, I will behold you for a moment;
then I will return, engraving that moment upon the canvas of my heart!”
In the gathering, lowered eyes betrayed the secret of love:
We were becoming infamous—yet you too were recognized.
In truth, our knowing is by your grace:
When we recognized ourselves, we recognized you as well.
Who sits here in silence will recognize me; and will recognize himself too. The happening occurs simultaneously. They are two sides of the same coin. The secret does not open in parts; it opens all at once.
You say:
“Oh, I have come empty-handed!
I brought no gift to offer!”
Empty hands, silence, emptiness—this is the gift. There is no greater offering. Come to me empty, come as a void, come in silence—and then there is meeting; there is vision; then what I am saying will be understood in a single instant. Here, I have barely said it, and there, you have understood. Or say it this way: here, I have not yet fully said it, and there, you have already understood. I am just about to speak—and you have already heard.
Therefore those who sit here quietly, silently—it makes no difference to them what I say. They understand what I intend to say. For what I intend to say cannot be said. No one has ever been able to say it. There is no way to say it.
Yesterday I received a letter from a couple in America. The husband is a well-known doctor. In three years, whatever was possible in America regarding me, he did it all. He read all the books, listened to all the tapes, watched the videos and films, visited every ashram in America, met hundreds of sannyasins. He began to meditate. But he is a busy doctor—he could not find time to come.
Then, fifteen days ago, he had a heart attack. He was shocked. He thought, “Life can end any day.” Immediately he wrote to me: “I cannot delay now. I am coming. I am not even concerned whether you will speak in Hindi, or Swahili, or English—or whether you will speak at all. I am just coming. I simply want to sit silently near you. If you speak, fine. If you don’t, fine. If it is in some language and I understand, fine. If I don’t understand, fine. I only want to sit quietly by you. Death has knocked at the door; I cannot delay any longer. I am leaving all work behind, just as it is, and I am coming.”
His wife also wrote: “I was held back because of my husband. He kept saying, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming—wait a little. Next month. Just four more weeks.’ In this way three years passed. But count it a blessing that he had a heart attack. Now he is coming at once—so I can come too. We just want to sit silently near you. Let this opportunity not be missed.”
Silence is the only language in which truth flows. I use words only to ready you, step by step, for silence.
Those who are ready hear, within these very words, the music of emptiness. Those not yet ready see arguments in these words, scriptures, ideas—and who knows what all. They keep projecting themselves onto the words.
Coming empty-handed—you have come well. Whoever comes with full hands will not recognize me.
What greater proof of shortsightedness than this—
A lifetime by my side, and yet you did not recognize.
Even if he stays a lifetime, he is shortsighted, blind; he will not be able to see. And to be silent requires courage. To come empty-handed requires courage.
Love is the work of the brave, known only to the stout-hearted.
Alas, you went into that lane only to stumble in vain.
He who is ready to come empty-handed, with tears in his eyes, and to confess, “I have nothing to bring—no wealth, outer or inner”—such acceptance is the work of the brave. Those who come without this courage—“Alas, you went into that lane only to stumble in vain!”
They have come into my world only to stumble needlessly. They will be a bit bruised and battered, and then go back home—and go back empty-handed. No matter how many resolutions they made, it won’t make any difference.
We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern.
We kept on yearning; alas, only for the goblet.
The wine is here, the goblet is here, the flagon is here—but the cupbearer is not.
A fire rises in the heart: why not burn down the tavern!
Anger will come to them. Rage will arise. Many people are angry with me. They would like to set fire to my commune. Many have that desire! What is the reason for their anger?
They come in the wrong way, so they cannot recognize; then the anger that the coming and going were wasted. Those who come in the right way—empty, silent—who come simply to come; who don’t even know for what, why; causelessly, without reason; they come for no reason at all. A touch of madness is needed. And you are mad, Veena! You are a lover gone mad.
Wherever the mad ones looked, in your madness they went.
They hid themselves a thousand times, yet were recognized!
The third question:
Osho, please accept my salutations. My request is that I want to get lost among your sannyasins. For that, please give me strength. I am Sant’s sister—Pinky!
Osho, please accept my salutations. My request is that I want to get lost among your sannyasins. For that, please give me strength. I am Sant’s sister—Pinky!
Pinky! Well, you’re already dyed! A little of Sant’s wish is fulfilled. Pinky has grown wings. You see, Sant Maharaj! And once I catch hold of a finger, I don’t take long to reach far. And once I’ve got hold, then...!
So it begins with Pinky. I told you just yesterday that I have my own ways—don’t be afraid. Pinky has come into my hand; now your parents will also come into my hand. If she’s Sant’s sister, how long can she be spared!
You say, “I want to get lost among your sannyasins. For that, please give me strength.”
You will certainly get lost. To get lost, no strength is needed. To get lost, only the ego has to be set aside. And the ego is not a great rock; it’s just a misunderstanding, an illusion. Like someone adding two and two and making five—and then someone points out, “Look, two and two aren’t five, two and two are four.” Nothing has to be done; two and two simply become four. Just so—an error in arithmetic.
We have taken ourselves to be separate from the divine—but we are not separate. Think as much as you like that you are separate—you are not. A wave may think, “I am apart from the ocean”; it is not. And if the wave says, “I want to get lost in the ocean,” what will the ocean say? The ocean will laugh. The ocean will say, “Crazy one! You were never separate. Just drop the illusion of separateness. You are already lost. You are in the ocean. Even while you think you are separate, you are in the ocean.”
There is no way to be far from the divine. No one ever has been, no one ever can be. The divine is precisely that from which we cannot be separate; it is our very nature. But we nurse an illusion.
If the wave had intelligence, it too would fall into illusion. It would start thinking, “I am isolated.” And it would find arguments, because there are so many other waves—some big, some small. How can we all be one? Some beautiful, some not; some female, some male. One roaring, rising to the sky, and another a tiny ripple. And one wave is falling while another is rising—how can the two be one? One falling, one rising; one dying, one being born—how can they be one? Different—obviously. For logic, perfectly clear.
But does the ocean accept logic? One wave rises, another falls—they are connected. In truth, the falling of one is the rising of the other. In the other’s rising, the falling wave has a hand. Because that one is subsiding, this one rises. They are linked. And they are in the one ocean. On the breast of the one ocean an endless dance of waves is going on.
If, sitting near me, even this much is understood, then getting lost is no difficult matter at all. We are already lost.
But Pinky came first into my net.
Yesterday I said, the elderly take a little time; they think, they deliberate. Naturally so. A lifetime’s experience stands in between like a wall.
And Sant Maharaj hadn’t even prayed for Pinky. He hadn’t even counted Pinky. He only mentioned the parents. He forgot to count Pinky—must have thought, “What’s the point of counting her! She’s only seventeen or eighteen—leave her out!” Sant must have thought, she’s a child. But children have more vision—clearer, purer vision.
Children understand me quickly. They see exactly. The eyes of the old are covered with many films; life has piled much dust on their mirror. Hence they take a little time.
But the beginning has happened, Sant Maharaj! Pinky will dive.
And don’t worry about strength. It isn’t a question of strength—it’s a question of understanding. Strength is hidden in everyone; it is within all. There is no need to give it, no need to ask for it. The divine sends everyone with equal strength.
For the inner journey, the strength is the same in all. The point is only to begin the inner journey.
The feeling has arisen in your heart—the matter has begun. Obstacles will come; hindrances will come. But if the longing is intense, it becomes even more intense through obstacles. Every obstacle turns into a challenge.
Your parents will stop you: “Crazy girl, first the son went mad—now the daughter is starting to go mad too!”
They have written to me, “Please order Sant that at least four times a year he must come home to meet us!”
They don’t know that I don’t order anyone. Sant is absolutely free. He can go whenever he wishes. The truth is, if I have to go out, I have to ask Sant, “Brother, will you let me go out the door or not?” In six years he has let me out only three times. If he says, “No, I won’t even open the door,” that’s the end of it! I am absolutely lazy; I won’t get down to open the door. That’s a big door—forget that, I don’t even open the car door! I neither latch nor open it—doors and such are not my business. If Sant opens it, fine; if not, finished! In six years he’s opened it only three times!
And I don’t give orders to anyone. I cannot say, “Go.” And if someone wants to go, I cannot say, “Don’t go.” Here every sannyasin is free. As long as he feels like it—he stays; when the mood comes, he goes; when the mood comes, he returns. There is no one to stop and no one to send.
Now, Pinky, your parents think in the language of command—they are Punjabis! In Punjab the language of command prevails. If you get dyed in my color, there will be hassles, because your parents understand the language of command. They want to marry you off; and once you are dyed in my color, then the marriage hassles are finished! That will worry them greatly. First this Sant turned out to be a “fine” son...!
Only yesterday I told you that Kabir, seeing his son, said, “In Kabir’s old lineage a son of wonder has been born!” Such wondrous sons are born—they lay waste to the lineage! They don’t marry; then the line doesn’t continue. Now Sant is a worthy son—he has laid waste the lineage! And if you too, Pinky, are dyed in this dye, they will be anxious.
They are busy with the worry of marriage. They are looking for a boy. They are in a hurry: before she “goes astray,” marry her off. So be a little alert. Be alert about marriage! Make every other mistake if you must—but don’t make the mistake of marriage. Because that is a long entanglement. It’s easy to get caught—very hard to get out. That’s why they make you take seven rounds; in those rounds a person becomes giddy—dizzy! He gets confused: what to do, what not to do! Then there is no way out. It’s a maze—you can go in, but you can’t get out.
Have you seen—sometimes a bird flies into a room. It has come in just now through the door, and it can go out through that same door. But watch what the bird does! It pecks at the closed windows. It bangs against the wall. It smashes its head against the roof. It gets bloody. And then it begins to panic. The more it bleeds, the harder it becomes to find the door. Darkness gathers before its eyes. The skull bangs against the ceiling; the beak is bloody—from the window. It panics! And it had just come in.
A friend of mine says, “How to get out of marriage? The seven rounds are done!” I said, “Then take seven rounds in reverse. Finish it. Go out the same door you came in!”
“The knot is tied!”
“Then untie it. If it doesn’t open, pick up scissors and cut it! What’s the big deal in tying a knot! Return to your original state. Drop this whirl!”
He says, “You speak rightly, but it’s very difficult—so many complications I’ve taken on!”
When a person takes on one complication, a chain begins. Complication doesn’t come alone. One complication never comes alone; it brings a crowd with it! After one complication, complications keep coming!
So be a little cautious. Don’t get into the complication of marriage. Your parents will try—poor things, what else can they do! They know only one way of life: the way they themselves lived. Though even by living that way they got nothing.
When I returned home from the university, naturally my parents were eager that I should get married. I asked only this much: Tell me, thinking it through, did you get anything? Did you receive anything—tell me honestly.
Then they said nothing. Because what could they say honestly! The honest truth is: what is there to get from marriage? Who has ever got anything?
My father had a friend, a lawyer; then they stopped speaking to me directly. They thought: he’s a lawyer, he’ll be able to explain. They sent the lawyer to me. And the lawyer said, “I’ve won big cases—what is this case! I’ll set this lad right.”
He came to counsel me. I listened. I said, “I’m ready to discuss, but let’s fix one thing—let’s also choose a judge.” He said, “What do you mean?”
I said, “There are so many magistrates in the town—known to you and to me. Let’s seat one as judge. You will argue in favor of marriage; I will argue against it. If you win, I will marry. If I win, then you will have to give up marriage!”
He said, “You’re a great troublemaker! You’ll ruin our settled home!”
I said, “How can the deal be one-sided—that you persuade me and I marry. See the other side too! I am ready to cut each of your arguments one by one. Because I know your life since childhood. I know your wife. I know you. I know what goes on in your house. I will lay open every single secret.”
He fled from there and never returned! After two or four days I would go to his house—“Where is the lawyer-sahib?”
He would hide in the bathroom. Sometimes his wife would say, “He’s gone out—to the office—this and that!”
One day his wife said, “Why are you after my husband? Why does he hide when he sees you? What’s the matter? Let me understand too!”
I said, “Here’s the matter: there is to be a debate. It is to be decided who wins. If I win, consider your end; if he wins, consider mine. But now a decision must be had. He tangled with me; I won’t let go so easily. Office, bathroom—I’m sitting here. Today I will sit right here. Sometime he must return from the office!”
He hadn’t gone anywhere; he was in the inner room. He suddenly came out: “If you’re going to sit here all day, I won’t even let you go to the office!” He had a case in court. He said, “Brother, I fold my hands. I apologize. I hold my ears: never again will I start any talk with you on this subject. Now I understand why your father pushed me onto you! You’ll ruin anyone’s settled life! You go home. I’ve nothing to do with it. Please spare me!” I said, “If you say so, that’s different. But remember—never by mistake bring this matter up again. Because I too have found all the arguments against marriage. And the truth is, the experience of the whole world is...”
So it begins with Pinky. I told you just yesterday that I have my own ways—don’t be afraid. Pinky has come into my hand; now your parents will also come into my hand. If she’s Sant’s sister, how long can she be spared!
You say, “I want to get lost among your sannyasins. For that, please give me strength.”
You will certainly get lost. To get lost, no strength is needed. To get lost, only the ego has to be set aside. And the ego is not a great rock; it’s just a misunderstanding, an illusion. Like someone adding two and two and making five—and then someone points out, “Look, two and two aren’t five, two and two are four.” Nothing has to be done; two and two simply become four. Just so—an error in arithmetic.
We have taken ourselves to be separate from the divine—but we are not separate. Think as much as you like that you are separate—you are not. A wave may think, “I am apart from the ocean”; it is not. And if the wave says, “I want to get lost in the ocean,” what will the ocean say? The ocean will laugh. The ocean will say, “Crazy one! You were never separate. Just drop the illusion of separateness. You are already lost. You are in the ocean. Even while you think you are separate, you are in the ocean.”
There is no way to be far from the divine. No one ever has been, no one ever can be. The divine is precisely that from which we cannot be separate; it is our very nature. But we nurse an illusion.
If the wave had intelligence, it too would fall into illusion. It would start thinking, “I am isolated.” And it would find arguments, because there are so many other waves—some big, some small. How can we all be one? Some beautiful, some not; some female, some male. One roaring, rising to the sky, and another a tiny ripple. And one wave is falling while another is rising—how can the two be one? One falling, one rising; one dying, one being born—how can they be one? Different—obviously. For logic, perfectly clear.
But does the ocean accept logic? One wave rises, another falls—they are connected. In truth, the falling of one is the rising of the other. In the other’s rising, the falling wave has a hand. Because that one is subsiding, this one rises. They are linked. And they are in the one ocean. On the breast of the one ocean an endless dance of waves is going on.
If, sitting near me, even this much is understood, then getting lost is no difficult matter at all. We are already lost.
But Pinky came first into my net.
Yesterday I said, the elderly take a little time; they think, they deliberate. Naturally so. A lifetime’s experience stands in between like a wall.
And Sant Maharaj hadn’t even prayed for Pinky. He hadn’t even counted Pinky. He only mentioned the parents. He forgot to count Pinky—must have thought, “What’s the point of counting her! She’s only seventeen or eighteen—leave her out!” Sant must have thought, she’s a child. But children have more vision—clearer, purer vision.
Children understand me quickly. They see exactly. The eyes of the old are covered with many films; life has piled much dust on their mirror. Hence they take a little time.
But the beginning has happened, Sant Maharaj! Pinky will dive.
And don’t worry about strength. It isn’t a question of strength—it’s a question of understanding. Strength is hidden in everyone; it is within all. There is no need to give it, no need to ask for it. The divine sends everyone with equal strength.
For the inner journey, the strength is the same in all. The point is only to begin the inner journey.
The feeling has arisen in your heart—the matter has begun. Obstacles will come; hindrances will come. But if the longing is intense, it becomes even more intense through obstacles. Every obstacle turns into a challenge.
Your parents will stop you: “Crazy girl, first the son went mad—now the daughter is starting to go mad too!”
They have written to me, “Please order Sant that at least four times a year he must come home to meet us!”
They don’t know that I don’t order anyone. Sant is absolutely free. He can go whenever he wishes. The truth is, if I have to go out, I have to ask Sant, “Brother, will you let me go out the door or not?” In six years he has let me out only three times. If he says, “No, I won’t even open the door,” that’s the end of it! I am absolutely lazy; I won’t get down to open the door. That’s a big door—forget that, I don’t even open the car door! I neither latch nor open it—doors and such are not my business. If Sant opens it, fine; if not, finished! In six years he’s opened it only three times!
And I don’t give orders to anyone. I cannot say, “Go.” And if someone wants to go, I cannot say, “Don’t go.” Here every sannyasin is free. As long as he feels like it—he stays; when the mood comes, he goes; when the mood comes, he returns. There is no one to stop and no one to send.
Now, Pinky, your parents think in the language of command—they are Punjabis! In Punjab the language of command prevails. If you get dyed in my color, there will be hassles, because your parents understand the language of command. They want to marry you off; and once you are dyed in my color, then the marriage hassles are finished! That will worry them greatly. First this Sant turned out to be a “fine” son...!
Only yesterday I told you that Kabir, seeing his son, said, “In Kabir’s old lineage a son of wonder has been born!” Such wondrous sons are born—they lay waste to the lineage! They don’t marry; then the line doesn’t continue. Now Sant is a worthy son—he has laid waste the lineage! And if you too, Pinky, are dyed in this dye, they will be anxious.
They are busy with the worry of marriage. They are looking for a boy. They are in a hurry: before she “goes astray,” marry her off. So be a little alert. Be alert about marriage! Make every other mistake if you must—but don’t make the mistake of marriage. Because that is a long entanglement. It’s easy to get caught—very hard to get out. That’s why they make you take seven rounds; in those rounds a person becomes giddy—dizzy! He gets confused: what to do, what not to do! Then there is no way out. It’s a maze—you can go in, but you can’t get out.
Have you seen—sometimes a bird flies into a room. It has come in just now through the door, and it can go out through that same door. But watch what the bird does! It pecks at the closed windows. It bangs against the wall. It smashes its head against the roof. It gets bloody. And then it begins to panic. The more it bleeds, the harder it becomes to find the door. Darkness gathers before its eyes. The skull bangs against the ceiling; the beak is bloody—from the window. It panics! And it had just come in.
A friend of mine says, “How to get out of marriage? The seven rounds are done!” I said, “Then take seven rounds in reverse. Finish it. Go out the same door you came in!”
“The knot is tied!”
“Then untie it. If it doesn’t open, pick up scissors and cut it! What’s the big deal in tying a knot! Return to your original state. Drop this whirl!”
He says, “You speak rightly, but it’s very difficult—so many complications I’ve taken on!”
When a person takes on one complication, a chain begins. Complication doesn’t come alone. One complication never comes alone; it brings a crowd with it! After one complication, complications keep coming!
So be a little cautious. Don’t get into the complication of marriage. Your parents will try—poor things, what else can they do! They know only one way of life: the way they themselves lived. Though even by living that way they got nothing.
When I returned home from the university, naturally my parents were eager that I should get married. I asked only this much: Tell me, thinking it through, did you get anything? Did you receive anything—tell me honestly.
Then they said nothing. Because what could they say honestly! The honest truth is: what is there to get from marriage? Who has ever got anything?
My father had a friend, a lawyer; then they stopped speaking to me directly. They thought: he’s a lawyer, he’ll be able to explain. They sent the lawyer to me. And the lawyer said, “I’ve won big cases—what is this case! I’ll set this lad right.”
He came to counsel me. I listened. I said, “I’m ready to discuss, but let’s fix one thing—let’s also choose a judge.” He said, “What do you mean?”
I said, “There are so many magistrates in the town—known to you and to me. Let’s seat one as judge. You will argue in favor of marriage; I will argue against it. If you win, I will marry. If I win, then you will have to give up marriage!”
He said, “You’re a great troublemaker! You’ll ruin our settled home!”
I said, “How can the deal be one-sided—that you persuade me and I marry. See the other side too! I am ready to cut each of your arguments one by one. Because I know your life since childhood. I know your wife. I know you. I know what goes on in your house. I will lay open every single secret.”
He fled from there and never returned! After two or four days I would go to his house—“Where is the lawyer-sahib?”
He would hide in the bathroom. Sometimes his wife would say, “He’s gone out—to the office—this and that!”
One day his wife said, “Why are you after my husband? Why does he hide when he sees you? What’s the matter? Let me understand too!”
I said, “Here’s the matter: there is to be a debate. It is to be decided who wins. If I win, consider your end; if he wins, consider mine. But now a decision must be had. He tangled with me; I won’t let go so easily. Office, bathroom—I’m sitting here. Today I will sit right here. Sometime he must return from the office!”
He hadn’t gone anywhere; he was in the inner room. He suddenly came out: “If you’re going to sit here all day, I won’t even let you go to the office!” He had a case in court. He said, “Brother, I fold my hands. I apologize. I hold my ears: never again will I start any talk with you on this subject. Now I understand why your father pushed me onto you! You’ll ruin anyone’s settled life! You go home. I’ve nothing to do with it. Please spare me!” I said, “If you say so, that’s different. But remember—never by mistake bring this matter up again. Because I too have found all the arguments against marriage. And the truth is, the experience of the whole world is...”
Chandrapal Bharati has asked: Now should I guide the way! This was bound to happen. It’s absolutely natural. Wives can’t tolerate it. Husbands can’t tolerate it. Because if the husband gets connected with me, the wife feels, “He’s slipped from my hands! Gone out of my control!” If the wife gets connected with me, the husband’s ego gets hurt—deeply hurt! His ego is pricked: “In your eyes there’s someone even higher than me—while I’m right here! And the husband means God. Then where will you go now? Whose satsang will you attend?”
Right here in Poona there’s Dali Didi. Her husband has the same problem. Dali told me her husband says, “Why do you need to ask anyone else? Ask me. When I’m here, why go to satsang? What do you want to know? About God? About heaven? About the soul? I’m here to tell you. When I say I don’t know, then you may go elsewhere.”
And Dali was telling me, “Now what do I ask him! I know him! What on earth does he know?” But who wants to get into that tussle!
He throws away my books—just as your wife is doing. Dali has to read my books secretly. And it’s not that he has any personal enmity with me. He has nothing to do with me. The snag is simply this: if his wife gives anyone more respect than him—his ego gets hurt.
And the wife is seized by jealousy. She’s not really against me, Chandrapal Bharati! What has she to do with me! All she’s saying is: “While I’m present—and you’re listening to tapes—this is too much! I’m here—and you’re reading a book! This is intolerable. It means the book is more precious than the wife!” She’ll throw the book! She’ll set it on fire. She’ll switch off the tape. “Pay attention to me!”
A wife tries all twenty-four hours for just one thing: Look at me! How much she dresses up, adorns herself. How often she checks her face in the mirror. And the husband? He doesn’t look at all. He’s reading the newspaper! And the poor fellow is reading it for just that reason! He’s read the same paper six times already—still he keeps reading! He’s reading only to hide his eyes, so that somehow the wife doesn’t come into view! And the wife keeps circling right there. Then she’ll reappear—bringing tea. Then with some other excuse she’ll come again. Then finally she’ll snatch the paper: “Will you ruin your eyes sitting like this! Put it down! And in my presence—aren’t you ashamed? No sense of propriety? No manners!”
Marriage
whose beginning is
in verse
and whose ending
is in prose
Chandulal was praying to God:
O God,
had you given us a tail too,
then when the time came,
we could have tucked our tail
and run!
The dance-virtuoso wife
takes such pity on her husband
that day and night
she makes him dance
on her fingertip!
A woman lost a finger in a car accident. She demanded twenty thousand rupees from the insurance company. The company was shocked: twenty thousand for one finger! The case went to court. The magistrate asked, “What special virtue did this finger have that you want twenty thousand?”
She said, “With this very finger I used to make my husband dance. Do you not value my husband even at twenty thousand? Now where will I make him dance?”
Seeing her daughter caught in the snares of love, the mother tried hard to explain, but the girl wouldn’t listen. Finally, defeated, the mother shared her experience: “Daughter, marrying a hero is no good. Marry a villain. He’s experienced at getting beaten—and he’s used to it!”
This marriage business is a strange affair; it demands much practice! You need a lot of practice in taking your lumps!
Boiling with anger, Guljaan said to Mulla Nasruddin, “You won’t get a place even in hell!”
Mulla Nasruddin replied calmly, “All the better. Otherwise, being everywhere together with you, I’d go mad!”
Now, Chandrapal Bharati, should I guide your way? Either fight with courage—or tuck your tail and run. What else will you do! Either fight with courage, and make it clear to your wife: “If this kind of behavior continues, I will separate.” Then perhaps she’ll understand—she won’t want to take that big a risk either.
And this isn’t love and such. This is exactly un-love. It’s the absence of love. She says, “I’m the one who loves you the most.” I understand you can’t grasp such “great love.” Who could! This isn’t love. Love is that which gives freedom. That which snatches and destroys freedom is not love.
But love doesn’t arise from marriage—it cannot. Marriage is a deception in the name of love. We invented marriage to escape love. Because love is dangerous. There’s no telling with love. Today it is—tomorrow it may vanish! Marriage is made of plastic; it’s almost eternal. It just doesn’t perish! Try to eradicate it—you can’t. Try to destroy plastic—you won’t succeed! It’s a plastic flower.
And for centuries we’ve been taught that stability is of the highest value. Whereas in life everything is momentary. In the morning the flower blooms, by evening it fades. In the morning the petals open, by evening they fall.
So love is like a flower—a real flower. When it will bloom, when it will wither—no one can say. How long it will last—no one can say. But about marriage you can be certain—it will last; it’s durable! And we have great faith in durable things.
You go to the market to buy things and you ask, “Is it durable?” No concern for beauty, no concern for art. Just one concern—is it durable! If it’s durable, it will do.
We want everything to be durable! We’ve become fixated on durability! A life of just four days! Life itself doesn’t last—and you go on filling your house with durable things! When life itself doesn’t endure here, what else will? It’s a flow of water. It doesn’t stop even for a moment.
False things can endure. True things will flow. In true things there will be change.
So love will be changeful; but marriage is fixed. And once you bind yourself to what is fixed, you’re tied to a post. Then you’ll writhe. Then you’ll ache for freedom.
Make it clear to your wife that this is not love. If you can’t make it clear, bring her here. This is not love. It’s love’s deception. It’s placing a rifle on love’s shoulder and firing. It’s enmity—not friendship. Friendship gives ease, gives space.
If Pinky’s parents love her, and she doesn’t want to marry, then her parents must give proof of love: “All right, if she doesn’t wish to marry, no problem.” They shouldn’t put their weight—the burden of their beliefs—on her. But if they understand only the language of command, there is danger.
And in Punjab the language of command prevails; that’s why Punjab gives India its best soldiers. A soldier means he will obey. He won’t think, won’t ponder—he will be obedient. Bole so Nihal! Sat Sri Akal! He’ll jump anywhere. The kirpans will be unsheathed. “Waheguru ji di Fateh! Waheguru ji da Khalsa!”
I was going from Delhi to Manali for a camp. I went in an Impala. The driver was a Sikh. Big car, and the Manali road is narrow. It had rained, so it was slippery. He got nervous. At one place he stopped the car altogether. He said, “I won’t go further.” Ahead there was a lot of mud. “I can’t take this risk. The car is big. The mud is a lot. The road is narrow. If it slips even a little, we’ll go down into this ravine!”
I tried to persuade him, but a Punjabi won’t agree through explanation! The more I explained, the more he balked. He just sat down! Got out of the car and sat on the ground!
By chance, right behind us a jeep arrived—Punjab Police’s I.G. He too was coming to the camp. He too was a Sikh! I told him, “What to do! This man has created a big fuss!” He looked at the driver and said, “Are you bringing disgrace to the Khalsa! A Sikh, afraid of a little mud! Bole so Nihal! Sat Sri Akal!”
And the driver climbed in. And off he drove. I had killed myself persuading him—he was sitting on the ground. But as soon as he heard “Sat Sri Akal” and “Khalsa”—“Will you drown the Sikhs’ name in water, you fool!”—he didn’t even answer; he leapt to his feet.
So a Punjabi understands the language of command! Give the order and the kirpans are out. Here even a saint has to hold them back. Many times they start unsheathing their swords. As if a saint and Vinod stood facing each other—both Punjabis! Then sacrifice is certain! Out come the swords! No delay. It’s just well that those two are friends.
Pinky, your parents will speak the language of command—be careful. If you want to be dyed in my color, avoid marriage.
Now these friends are tangled up—Chandrapal Bharati! And now they ask for guidance! They fell into a pit, broke their bones—and now they ask for the way! You should have asked before! Now you’ve got glasses on your eyes—now you say, “Guide me.” Now you can’t see! Now you grope in the dark and say, “Guide me!”
Even if I give you guidance, what will become of it if your wife doesn’t agree!
The doctor told Chandulal, “I had told you: soak the finger that has developed a boil in hot water with Epsom salt.” The next day Chandulal reported the finger was better. But he hadn’t used Epsom salt; he had tied a flour poultice!
“You didn’t follow my advice,” the doctor scolded.
“It isn’t my fault, doctor,” Chandulal bleated. “What could I do? My wife simply wouldn’t agree! She forced the flour poultice on me!”
“How idiotic,” said the doctor. “And my wife—she always insists on Epsom salt. Not only me—if I want to put a poultice even on my patients, she won’t let me!”
So I can give you guidance, but if your wife ties the flour poultice, what will you do! She won’t let you follow the guidance either. She’ll say, “How did you take guidance from somewhere else while I’m here!”
A group visiting the zoo from another city reached the lion’s cage, and the lion let out a terrifying roar. It was so loud that everyone fainted—except one man. A zoo official looked at him admiringly and said, “You seem very fearless!”
The man said, “No sir. Actually, I’ve become used to this sort of roar every day.”
“Do you also work in a zoo?”
“No, sir. I’m married.”
“Who’s the real master of the house—you or your wife?” friends asked Mulla Nasruddin.
Nasruddin twirled his mustache and said, “I am. Certainly I am. And to say so, Guljaan has given me full permission!”
I can give you guidance, but first go and ask your wife whether you may go to take guidance. “Shall I take it?” If she grants you the authority, I’ll give it. Otherwise, when you come again, come after asking—“Shall I take guidance?” What does she say! Because she won’t let you walk on the guidance! The one who doesn’t let you read a book; who doesn’t let you listen to a tape; who doesn’t let you meditate—how will she let you follow a path!
Brother, better you bring her here. Bring her by any pretext. “We’re going to Mahabaleshwar for a holiday”—perhaps she’ll come! “There’s a great new stock of saris in Poona”—perhaps she’ll come! Bring her here by some excuse—then maybe something can be worked out.
Mulla Nasruddin had this inscription put on his wife’s grave: “Here my wife Guljaan sleeps the sleep of happiness. All her life she tried to keep me happy, and in the end, by dying, she succeeded completely!”
Your wife is trying her best to keep you happy. No one loves you more than she! She’ll keep pressing your neck—because she loves you; will she let anyone else press your neck! Muster a little courage—why are you asking for guidance!
Your wife throws the book and you just sit and watch! Outrageous! Can’t you do anything! At least stand up and do Kundalini! Raise the Hoo-Hoo cry, so the whole neighborhood gathers. Then she won’t throw the book. Then she’ll stand with folded hands: “At least don’t do this Hoo-Hoo! Just read the book.”
Create a little mischief. I’ve given you such meditations—Hoo-Hoo! Do it once and the whole neighborhood will gather by itself! Not only the neighborhood...
A friend sent news from Indore—near the Indore center there’s a Muslim graveyard. And they do the Hoo-Hoo sound. Word spread among the Muslims that those people, by their Hoo-Hoo, are waking the dead!
Great panic spread. It nearly came to the brink of a Hindu–Muslim riot. They said, “We won’t allow this Hoo-Hoo. Do anything else you like!” Our people asked, “What’s the problem? The village is far away. That’s why we took a place outside the village!”
They said, “The village may be far, but our graveyard is close. And the dead have somehow gone to sleep. You will wake them! And waking the dead we cannot tolerate. They will be awakened on the Last Day, on Qiyamat. And you are waking them now! We have somehow gotten rid of them. If ghosts rise—that won’t do!”
We had to shift the center from there, because the case even reached the courts. The Muslims said this Hoo-Hoo mantra is dangerous. If they must do it, let them do it elsewhere. This is part of ‘Allahu’—Hu!
And Hu is indeed part of Allahu. It’s the Sufis’ mantra. Chanting “Allahu-Allahu,” in the end only “Hu-Hu” remains. So I said: What need for “Allahu”? That which goes away—let it go. Save the “Hu” that remains. Keep beforehand what is going to remain; let the going go!
And they must have feared that the sound of Allahu and Hoo-Hoo—if the dead hear it—they’ll think the Day of Judgment has come! Because then the call will rise with great force—Allahu! Allahu Akbar!—and the dead will rise from their graves. And these rascals are making them rise already! And if the dead rise—how will you put them back to sleep? And when they rise, whom will they harass if not the townspeople, villagers, their own relatives!
Their point, too, is reasonable.
So at least do this much. If even the dead wake up, however deeply the neighbors sleep—cry Hoo-Hoo once—and your wife will quiet down at once. She’ll say, “Lallu’s papa!...” She’ll fall at your feet, “Now calm down! The whole neighborhood has gathered! Don’t disgrace me. Here—take the book—read! At least you’ll be quiet.”
Whenever she snatches the book—do Hoo-Hoo. If she switches off the tape—do Hoo-Hoo. This is the one mantra worth a hundred! One blow of the blacksmith is worth a hundred of the goldsmith!
And Dali was telling me, “Now what do I ask him! I know him! What on earth does he know?” But who wants to get into that tussle!
He throws away my books—just as your wife is doing. Dali has to read my books secretly. And it’s not that he has any personal enmity with me. He has nothing to do with me. The snag is simply this: if his wife gives anyone more respect than him—his ego gets hurt.
And the wife is seized by jealousy. She’s not really against me, Chandrapal Bharati! What has she to do with me! All she’s saying is: “While I’m present—and you’re listening to tapes—this is too much! I’m here—and you’re reading a book! This is intolerable. It means the book is more precious than the wife!” She’ll throw the book! She’ll set it on fire. She’ll switch off the tape. “Pay attention to me!”
A wife tries all twenty-four hours for just one thing: Look at me! How much she dresses up, adorns herself. How often she checks her face in the mirror. And the husband? He doesn’t look at all. He’s reading the newspaper! And the poor fellow is reading it for just that reason! He’s read the same paper six times already—still he keeps reading! He’s reading only to hide his eyes, so that somehow the wife doesn’t come into view! And the wife keeps circling right there. Then she’ll reappear—bringing tea. Then with some other excuse she’ll come again. Then finally she’ll snatch the paper: “Will you ruin your eyes sitting like this! Put it down! And in my presence—aren’t you ashamed? No sense of propriety? No manners!”
Marriage
whose beginning is
in verse
and whose ending
is in prose
Chandulal was praying to God:
O God,
had you given us a tail too,
then when the time came,
we could have tucked our tail
and run!
The dance-virtuoso wife
takes such pity on her husband
that day and night
she makes him dance
on her fingertip!
A woman lost a finger in a car accident. She demanded twenty thousand rupees from the insurance company. The company was shocked: twenty thousand for one finger! The case went to court. The magistrate asked, “What special virtue did this finger have that you want twenty thousand?”
She said, “With this very finger I used to make my husband dance. Do you not value my husband even at twenty thousand? Now where will I make him dance?”
Seeing her daughter caught in the snares of love, the mother tried hard to explain, but the girl wouldn’t listen. Finally, defeated, the mother shared her experience: “Daughter, marrying a hero is no good. Marry a villain. He’s experienced at getting beaten—and he’s used to it!”
This marriage business is a strange affair; it demands much practice! You need a lot of practice in taking your lumps!
Boiling with anger, Guljaan said to Mulla Nasruddin, “You won’t get a place even in hell!”
Mulla Nasruddin replied calmly, “All the better. Otherwise, being everywhere together with you, I’d go mad!”
Now, Chandrapal Bharati, should I guide your way? Either fight with courage—or tuck your tail and run. What else will you do! Either fight with courage, and make it clear to your wife: “If this kind of behavior continues, I will separate.” Then perhaps she’ll understand—she won’t want to take that big a risk either.
And this isn’t love and such. This is exactly un-love. It’s the absence of love. She says, “I’m the one who loves you the most.” I understand you can’t grasp such “great love.” Who could! This isn’t love. Love is that which gives freedom. That which snatches and destroys freedom is not love.
But love doesn’t arise from marriage—it cannot. Marriage is a deception in the name of love. We invented marriage to escape love. Because love is dangerous. There’s no telling with love. Today it is—tomorrow it may vanish! Marriage is made of plastic; it’s almost eternal. It just doesn’t perish! Try to eradicate it—you can’t. Try to destroy plastic—you won’t succeed! It’s a plastic flower.
And for centuries we’ve been taught that stability is of the highest value. Whereas in life everything is momentary. In the morning the flower blooms, by evening it fades. In the morning the petals open, by evening they fall.
So love is like a flower—a real flower. When it will bloom, when it will wither—no one can say. How long it will last—no one can say. But about marriage you can be certain—it will last; it’s durable! And we have great faith in durable things.
You go to the market to buy things and you ask, “Is it durable?” No concern for beauty, no concern for art. Just one concern—is it durable! If it’s durable, it will do.
We want everything to be durable! We’ve become fixated on durability! A life of just four days! Life itself doesn’t last—and you go on filling your house with durable things! When life itself doesn’t endure here, what else will? It’s a flow of water. It doesn’t stop even for a moment.
False things can endure. True things will flow. In true things there will be change.
So love will be changeful; but marriage is fixed. And once you bind yourself to what is fixed, you’re tied to a post. Then you’ll writhe. Then you’ll ache for freedom.
Make it clear to your wife that this is not love. If you can’t make it clear, bring her here. This is not love. It’s love’s deception. It’s placing a rifle on love’s shoulder and firing. It’s enmity—not friendship. Friendship gives ease, gives space.
If Pinky’s parents love her, and she doesn’t want to marry, then her parents must give proof of love: “All right, if she doesn’t wish to marry, no problem.” They shouldn’t put their weight—the burden of their beliefs—on her. But if they understand only the language of command, there is danger.
And in Punjab the language of command prevails; that’s why Punjab gives India its best soldiers. A soldier means he will obey. He won’t think, won’t ponder—he will be obedient. Bole so Nihal! Sat Sri Akal! He’ll jump anywhere. The kirpans will be unsheathed. “Waheguru ji di Fateh! Waheguru ji da Khalsa!”
I was going from Delhi to Manali for a camp. I went in an Impala. The driver was a Sikh. Big car, and the Manali road is narrow. It had rained, so it was slippery. He got nervous. At one place he stopped the car altogether. He said, “I won’t go further.” Ahead there was a lot of mud. “I can’t take this risk. The car is big. The mud is a lot. The road is narrow. If it slips even a little, we’ll go down into this ravine!”
I tried to persuade him, but a Punjabi won’t agree through explanation! The more I explained, the more he balked. He just sat down! Got out of the car and sat on the ground!
By chance, right behind us a jeep arrived—Punjab Police’s I.G. He too was coming to the camp. He too was a Sikh! I told him, “What to do! This man has created a big fuss!” He looked at the driver and said, “Are you bringing disgrace to the Khalsa! A Sikh, afraid of a little mud! Bole so Nihal! Sat Sri Akal!”
And the driver climbed in. And off he drove. I had killed myself persuading him—he was sitting on the ground. But as soon as he heard “Sat Sri Akal” and “Khalsa”—“Will you drown the Sikhs’ name in water, you fool!”—he didn’t even answer; he leapt to his feet.
So a Punjabi understands the language of command! Give the order and the kirpans are out. Here even a saint has to hold them back. Many times they start unsheathing their swords. As if a saint and Vinod stood facing each other—both Punjabis! Then sacrifice is certain! Out come the swords! No delay. It’s just well that those two are friends.
Pinky, your parents will speak the language of command—be careful. If you want to be dyed in my color, avoid marriage.
Now these friends are tangled up—Chandrapal Bharati! And now they ask for guidance! They fell into a pit, broke their bones—and now they ask for the way! You should have asked before! Now you’ve got glasses on your eyes—now you say, “Guide me.” Now you can’t see! Now you grope in the dark and say, “Guide me!”
Even if I give you guidance, what will become of it if your wife doesn’t agree!
The doctor told Chandulal, “I had told you: soak the finger that has developed a boil in hot water with Epsom salt.” The next day Chandulal reported the finger was better. But he hadn’t used Epsom salt; he had tied a flour poultice!
“You didn’t follow my advice,” the doctor scolded.
“It isn’t my fault, doctor,” Chandulal bleated. “What could I do? My wife simply wouldn’t agree! She forced the flour poultice on me!”
“How idiotic,” said the doctor. “And my wife—she always insists on Epsom salt. Not only me—if I want to put a poultice even on my patients, she won’t let me!”
So I can give you guidance, but if your wife ties the flour poultice, what will you do! She won’t let you follow the guidance either. She’ll say, “How did you take guidance from somewhere else while I’m here!”
A group visiting the zoo from another city reached the lion’s cage, and the lion let out a terrifying roar. It was so loud that everyone fainted—except one man. A zoo official looked at him admiringly and said, “You seem very fearless!”
The man said, “No sir. Actually, I’ve become used to this sort of roar every day.”
“Do you also work in a zoo?”
“No, sir. I’m married.”
“Who’s the real master of the house—you or your wife?” friends asked Mulla Nasruddin.
Nasruddin twirled his mustache and said, “I am. Certainly I am. And to say so, Guljaan has given me full permission!”
I can give you guidance, but first go and ask your wife whether you may go to take guidance. “Shall I take it?” If she grants you the authority, I’ll give it. Otherwise, when you come again, come after asking—“Shall I take guidance?” What does she say! Because she won’t let you walk on the guidance! The one who doesn’t let you read a book; who doesn’t let you listen to a tape; who doesn’t let you meditate—how will she let you follow a path!
Brother, better you bring her here. Bring her by any pretext. “We’re going to Mahabaleshwar for a holiday”—perhaps she’ll come! “There’s a great new stock of saris in Poona”—perhaps she’ll come! Bring her here by some excuse—then maybe something can be worked out.
Mulla Nasruddin had this inscription put on his wife’s grave: “Here my wife Guljaan sleeps the sleep of happiness. All her life she tried to keep me happy, and in the end, by dying, she succeeded completely!”
Your wife is trying her best to keep you happy. No one loves you more than she! She’ll keep pressing your neck—because she loves you; will she let anyone else press your neck! Muster a little courage—why are you asking for guidance!
Your wife throws the book and you just sit and watch! Outrageous! Can’t you do anything! At least stand up and do Kundalini! Raise the Hoo-Hoo cry, so the whole neighborhood gathers. Then she won’t throw the book. Then she’ll stand with folded hands: “At least don’t do this Hoo-Hoo! Just read the book.”
Create a little mischief. I’ve given you such meditations—Hoo-Hoo! Do it once and the whole neighborhood will gather by itself! Not only the neighborhood...
A friend sent news from Indore—near the Indore center there’s a Muslim graveyard. And they do the Hoo-Hoo sound. Word spread among the Muslims that those people, by their Hoo-Hoo, are waking the dead!
Great panic spread. It nearly came to the brink of a Hindu–Muslim riot. They said, “We won’t allow this Hoo-Hoo. Do anything else you like!” Our people asked, “What’s the problem? The village is far away. That’s why we took a place outside the village!”
They said, “The village may be far, but our graveyard is close. And the dead have somehow gone to sleep. You will wake them! And waking the dead we cannot tolerate. They will be awakened on the Last Day, on Qiyamat. And you are waking them now! We have somehow gotten rid of them. If ghosts rise—that won’t do!”
We had to shift the center from there, because the case even reached the courts. The Muslims said this Hoo-Hoo mantra is dangerous. If they must do it, let them do it elsewhere. This is part of ‘Allahu’—Hu!
And Hu is indeed part of Allahu. It’s the Sufis’ mantra. Chanting “Allahu-Allahu,” in the end only “Hu-Hu” remains. So I said: What need for “Allahu”? That which goes away—let it go. Save the “Hu” that remains. Keep beforehand what is going to remain; let the going go!
And they must have feared that the sound of Allahu and Hoo-Hoo—if the dead hear it—they’ll think the Day of Judgment has come! Because then the call will rise with great force—Allahu! Allahu Akbar!—and the dead will rise from their graves. And these rascals are making them rise already! And if the dead rise—how will you put them back to sleep? And when they rise, whom will they harass if not the townspeople, villagers, their own relatives!
Their point, too, is reasonable.
So at least do this much. If even the dead wake up, however deeply the neighbors sleep—cry Hoo-Hoo once—and your wife will quiet down at once. She’ll say, “Lallu’s papa!...” She’ll fall at your feet, “Now calm down! The whole neighborhood has gathered! Don’t disgrace me. Here—take the book—read! At least you’ll be quiet.”
Whenever she snatches the book—do Hoo-Hoo. If she switches off the tape—do Hoo-Hoo. This is the one mantra worth a hundred! One blow of the blacksmith is worth a hundred of the goldsmith!
Last question:
Osho, why are you not saying anything about the Marwaris this time? And I’ve come from the heart of Marwar for just this!
Osho, why are you not saying anything about the Marwaris this time? And I’ve come from the heart of Marwar for just this!
Subhash Kothari! Bless you too! To be in Marwar and still be an enemy of the Marwaris—what a thing! Well then, since you’ve come from so far, I must honor your request; otherwise this time I was going to spare the Marwaris. Now and then I let them off and the Marwaris relax. Then they start coming. Then I roast them, and they run away. After I stay quiet for a month or two, they come again. Sometimes it’s the Punjabis’ turn, sometimes the Bengalis’. The point is, I have to do the thrashing—someone or other will get it.
Seth Chandulal, a Marwari, was telling his friend Mulla Nasruddin, “My boy has done wonders! I told him to go up and down two steps at a time so the shoes would wear less. But that good-for-nothing went down six steps in a single leap yesterday!”
Nasruddin said, “Then the shoes will wear even less!”
Chandulal said, in a weepy voice, “The shoes did wear less—but that idiot tore his new trousers!”
The guru remained jaggery; the disciple turned into sugar! The son outdid the father! He thought, “If the whole point is to save shoe-leather...!”
I heard that one night Chandulal went to a wedding in a neighboring village. After walking about three miles, it struck him that he had left the oil lamp burning. Who knows whether that no-good son would put it out or not! He might just fall asleep like that! The oil would burn all night. And by the time I get back, it will be morning! So he returned. He knocked; the boy opened the door. He said, “Did you put out the lamp or not?”
The boy said, “What are you saying! Your son—and I wouldn’t put it out! The moment you stepped out, I blew it out. But how did you come all this way! Weren’t you ashamed—you went three miles and came three miles back; your shoes will wear out!”
Chandulal said, “What do you take me for! Look—I’ve got the shoes tucked under my arm. How can the shoes wear out? The feet may wear out, but the shoes cannot!”
A Marwari has his own world!
“Doctor-saab, how is my son Jumman now?” Chandulal asked in a forlorn voice.
The doctor said, “There’s nothing to worry about. Have patience, Sethji. He’s being given artificial respiration.”
Seth Chandulal roared, “How can I be patient! This is outright cheating. When I’ve paid for real breath, why are you giving artificial breath?”
Some friends came at noon to see Seth Chandulal. At the door, his servant Popatlal welcomed them. The friends asked, “Where is Sethji?” Popatlal replied, “Sethji is eating dinner!”
“Eating dinner! Dinner is a night meal—not a daytime one!” a friend exclaimed.
“That I know very well,” said Popatlal, “but he’s eating last night’s dinner.”
Seth Chandulal, the Marwari, was strolling on the seashore when suddenly a fierce storm arose and swept his younger son Jumman into the sea. In two seconds, tossed on the waves, Jumman was carried so far by the wind that he vanished from sight. Chandulal’s breath stopped. He instantly folded his hands to the sky and said, “O Supreme Father God, save my son. O ocean of compassion, be gracious to me. Everything of mine is being looted!”
No sooner had he said this than a miracle happened. A big wave rose and flung Jumman onto the shore. Chandulal looked his son over from head to toe—carefully, again—and then said to God in an angry voice, “This is why I can’t have faith in you. You never listen to a single one of my prayers. Think for yourself—how could I be anything but an atheist! You don’t care a bit for me. Now take this very example. My son is saved—fine, let that be. But where is his cap? All is ruined!”
But the Marwari lives inside everyone. He doesn’t stay only in Marwar; he lives in every mind. The mind itself is Marwar. The mind is very miserly; it lets go of nothing. It hoards garbage too—not just money and property. Whatever it gets hold of, it keeps piling up. The mind believes in hoarding—it fears sharing. And the soul becomes available to those who know how to share.
Share what you have. A Marwari cannot attain the soul. Share what you have. Make others partners in it. If there is love, share love. If there is joy, share joy. If there is knowledge, share knowledge. If there is light, share light. If there is meditation, share meditation. Whatever there is, share it—unconditionally. And the more you share, the more the divine will shower upon you. As you keep sharing, the inner wealth keeps increasing.
The economics of inner wealth is a different economics. Outer wealth decreases by sharing. Outer wealth belongs to the Marwari’s economics. Inner wealth increases by sharing and decreases by hoarding.
That’s all for today.
Seth Chandulal, a Marwari, was telling his friend Mulla Nasruddin, “My boy has done wonders! I told him to go up and down two steps at a time so the shoes would wear less. But that good-for-nothing went down six steps in a single leap yesterday!”
Nasruddin said, “Then the shoes will wear even less!”
Chandulal said, in a weepy voice, “The shoes did wear less—but that idiot tore his new trousers!”
The guru remained jaggery; the disciple turned into sugar! The son outdid the father! He thought, “If the whole point is to save shoe-leather...!”
I heard that one night Chandulal went to a wedding in a neighboring village. After walking about three miles, it struck him that he had left the oil lamp burning. Who knows whether that no-good son would put it out or not! He might just fall asleep like that! The oil would burn all night. And by the time I get back, it will be morning! So he returned. He knocked; the boy opened the door. He said, “Did you put out the lamp or not?”
The boy said, “What are you saying! Your son—and I wouldn’t put it out! The moment you stepped out, I blew it out. But how did you come all this way! Weren’t you ashamed—you went three miles and came three miles back; your shoes will wear out!”
Chandulal said, “What do you take me for! Look—I’ve got the shoes tucked under my arm. How can the shoes wear out? The feet may wear out, but the shoes cannot!”
A Marwari has his own world!
“Doctor-saab, how is my son Jumman now?” Chandulal asked in a forlorn voice.
The doctor said, “There’s nothing to worry about. Have patience, Sethji. He’s being given artificial respiration.”
Seth Chandulal roared, “How can I be patient! This is outright cheating. When I’ve paid for real breath, why are you giving artificial breath?”
Some friends came at noon to see Seth Chandulal. At the door, his servant Popatlal welcomed them. The friends asked, “Where is Sethji?” Popatlal replied, “Sethji is eating dinner!”
“Eating dinner! Dinner is a night meal—not a daytime one!” a friend exclaimed.
“That I know very well,” said Popatlal, “but he’s eating last night’s dinner.”
Seth Chandulal, the Marwari, was strolling on the seashore when suddenly a fierce storm arose and swept his younger son Jumman into the sea. In two seconds, tossed on the waves, Jumman was carried so far by the wind that he vanished from sight. Chandulal’s breath stopped. He instantly folded his hands to the sky and said, “O Supreme Father God, save my son. O ocean of compassion, be gracious to me. Everything of mine is being looted!”
No sooner had he said this than a miracle happened. A big wave rose and flung Jumman onto the shore. Chandulal looked his son over from head to toe—carefully, again—and then said to God in an angry voice, “This is why I can’t have faith in you. You never listen to a single one of my prayers. Think for yourself—how could I be anything but an atheist! You don’t care a bit for me. Now take this very example. My son is saved—fine, let that be. But where is his cap? All is ruined!”
But the Marwari lives inside everyone. He doesn’t stay only in Marwar; he lives in every mind. The mind itself is Marwar. The mind is very miserly; it lets go of nothing. It hoards garbage too—not just money and property. Whatever it gets hold of, it keeps piling up. The mind believes in hoarding—it fears sharing. And the soul becomes available to those who know how to share.
Share what you have. A Marwari cannot attain the soul. Share what you have. Make others partners in it. If there is love, share love. If there is joy, share joy. If there is knowledge, share knowledge. If there is light, share light. If there is meditation, share meditation. Whatever there is, share it—unconditionally. And the more you share, the more the divine will shower upon you. As you keep sharing, the inner wealth keeps increasing.
The economics of inner wealth is a different economics. Outer wealth decreases by sharing. Outer wealth belongs to the Marwari’s economics. Inner wealth increases by sharing and decreases by hoarding.
That’s all for today.