Kahe Hot Adheer #8
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho! You said that dispassion born of calculation or knowledge is false; only dispassion born of love is true dispassion. But love brings attachment; how can dispassion blossom from it?
Osho! You said that dispassion born of calculation or knowledge is false; only dispassion born of love is true dispassion. But love brings attachment; how can dispassion blossom from it?
Anand Maitreya! Love is a ladder; you can climb down it, and you can climb up it. Love is a doorway; you can enter through it, and you can go out through it. Love in itself produces neither attachment nor dispassion. Love is neutral. Everything is in your hands. How you use love determines the result.
If love falls, it turns into attachment. If love flowers, it becomes dispassion. It is like manure: pile it up in the house and it will spread a stench; scatter the same manure in the garden and fragrance will arise. That very manure will nourish the trees; it will become the color, the juice, and the scent of flowers. The very manure which, if heaped inside the house, would make living unbearable—not only for you but for the neighbors too.
So it is with love. Love is manure. If it remains locked in lust, it breeds rot; if it is released into prayer, it becomes supreme fragrance.
I understand your question; it is not new. It has been asked for centuries. Anyone who has sought the divine has faced it. Of course it will arise—because love is your nature. What to do with this love? Whoever goes in search of God will have to take some decisions about love—decisions that will prove decisive. Either he will decide, “I must suppress love, because love leads to attachment.” And whoever suppresses love fills his house with manure; then stench will arise.
That is why your so‑called religious man is religious only on the surface; scratch him a little and irreligion oozes out from within. It is your religious man who burns temples and mosques, who kills Hindus and Muslims, who stabs with knives, who sets fires, who rapes. History is filled with the misdeeds of your religious men. The irreligious have never committed so much atrocity. The bloodstains left on this earth by the religious far exceed those left by the irreligious.
And there is another twist: when an irreligious person sins, he does it personally—someone steals, someone commits murder. But when a religious person sins, he does it collectively. And when sins are committed collectively, they multiply infinitely. When crowds of Hindus, crowds of Muslims, crowds of Christians descend into sin, accounts cannot be kept.
Remember also: when an individual sins, anxiety arises within; thought arises within. His soul says, “What are you doing? Wait, don’t do it—it is bad. You are already in darkness, and you will go deeper into darkness.” A thief who has stolen a thousand times, when he goes to steal again, something within pulls him back and stops him. Some inner voice—no matter how faint—still says, “Stop; don’t do evil.”
But a crowd has no soul. Therefore a crowd has no voice of conscience. When a Hindu mob burns a mosque, when a Muslim mob breaks a temple, psychologists say that in a crowd the individual’s sense of responsibility is erased. The question never even arises in him, “I am committing a crime.” “I am just a companion; the crowd is doing it. And the crowd is composed of good people—scholars, priests, maulvis, pastors are its leaders. I am merely a follower. I am engaged in a holy war, I am performing jihad.”
And your so‑called religious leaders have taught you that if you die in a holy war, heaven is assured; if you die in jihad, you will attain paradise. What great temptation—for sin! Naked sin, and a reward of heaven! For terrible crimes, no punishment—praise and adoration instead. So the sense of responsibility vanishes when a person sins as part of a crowd. Therefore the way a crowd sins, an individual never does; he cannot.
If you sin as part of a crowd and later, when you are alone, you are asked, “Could you have done the same alone?” you will be astonished: something within will say, “No, alone I could not have done it.” In a crowd there is convenience: “So many people are doing it—surely they must be right. So many cannot be wrong. I may be wrong; but these thousands of Hindus—surely they can’t be wrong; they must be right. And the priests are at the front; the blessings of saints and holy men are with us. How could it be a mistake? And when so many are doing it, the responsibility is divided; it is not on my head alone. The burden is very light. Alone, the ocean of sin would have crashed upon me; in a crowd one or two drops may fall on me. Who worries about a drop!”
And in a crowd you can always shift responsibility to another—“The holy man said so; the maulvi said so; the priest said so. What can I do? I only obeyed.” Just yesterday I was reading that scientists in America and Russia have succeeded in creating computers just like humans. I thought: let me read on. If they have created computers like humans, that is a great achievement. But it was satire. It went on to say, they have managed to make computers like humans because now they have made computers that make mistakes themselves but put the blame on others.
Machines were not so cunning until now—“What can I do? The responsibility is someone else’s!”
And this entire stinking past of mankind stands on one foundation: we suppressed love. We did not allow the flowers of love to bloom. We piled up the manure of love. And from that which could have produced fragrance, we produced only stench.
Therefore my fundamental message is: take love to be a ladder. One end of it rests on the earth and the other in the sky. Climb upward on the ladder of love. Refine love, purify it. Refine it of desire, lust, anger, enmity, jealousy, competition.
One morning, while drinking tea, Mulla Nasruddin said to his wife, “I shouldn’t really say this, but I don’t want to hide anything from you. It will hurt you, but remember, it’s only a dream—don’t make much of it. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. For the last few days, every night in my dreams I keep seeing your friend.”
The wife flared up. Even though it was only a dream, jealousy was aroused. She threw the teapot to the floor.
Mulla said, “I told you beforehand—it’s only a dream.”
The wife said, “Then you listen too. I also didn’t want to say it. Your friend can’t be appearing all alone in your dreams.”
Mulla said, “That’s true—but how did you know?”
She said, “Because her husband comes in my dream.”
Mulla picked up a stick.
The wife said, “It’s only a dream; why are you getting so worked up!”
Such are our jealousies. Jealousies surround your love; enmity surrounds it; hatred surrounds it. And if because of all this your love turns into hell, it is not love’s fault. You have mixed poison into love. And instead of extracting the poison, you say, “We’ll throw love away—that will produce dispassion.”
There’s an English proverb: when you bathe the baby in the tub, don’t throw the baby out with the dirty water. Save the baby; throw away the dirty water. But this is exactly what has kept happening. For centuries you have thrown away the baby with the bathwater. Then you cry and writhe, because the ladder breaks—and that very ladder is the one that can connect you to the divine.
So, Anand Maitreya, I have said again and again: dispassion born of calculation or bookish knowledge is false.
And your so‑called saints live by calculation. What kind of dispassion is it that has calculation in it? Calculation means greed. Calculation means accounting. Calculation says: leave it here and you’ll get it in heaven. But what will you get in heaven?
Just look at the pictures of heaven painted by the religions of the world. Even a person of simple intelligence can see the fraud. What you leave here, you will get there a thousand‑fold, a million‑fold, ten‑million‑fold. Is that renunciation? Here you leave one wife, and there you will get celestial nymphs! And your wife was an ordinary woman, a body of bone and flesh. The apsaras have golden bodies! Their bodies do not sweat; perfume flows from them. And they never grow old. Their age is fixed at sixteen and remains fixed. Centuries have passed—the apsaras are still sixteen. Urvashi is still only sixteen; not a day older.
And there are wish‑fulfilling trees, beneath which whatever you desire will be fulfilled instantly. Instantly! In this world, if you desire something, you have to labor and wait for years. Even then there is no certainty you will get it—others are competing, many are after the same thing. But under the wish‑fulfilling tree, instantly—no time passes. You think it, and it happens.
I have heard of a man who, by mistake, wandered into heaven. Mistakes happen everywhere.
I have heard that when Morarji Desai was prime minister, Mulla Nasruddin went to see him. Seeing Mulla in ochre robes, Morarji flared up. Many of my sannyasins have told me it’s great fun to go to him wearing ochre—he goes into a rage at once, loses his senses, and starts saying any old thing, blabbering. Like a bull seeing a red flag, Morarji gets inflamed at the sight of ochre.
So the moment he saw Mulla he said, “Mulla, what has come over you in your old age? You too have fallen into Rajneesh’s trap! I did not expect this from you. What has happened to you?”
Mulla said, “What can I do? Since I saw this man, I have been convinced that God exists.”
Morarji said, “Indeed! And when you see me, what thought comes to you?”
Nasruddin said, “When I see you, I think—even God can make mistakes.”
Mistakes happen everywhere. Think for yourself: if God never made a mistake, how would you be as you are? The fact that you exist is proof enough that even God makes errors.
So this man, by mistake, reached heaven. He was exhausted, lay down under a tree. He had no idea it was a wish‑fulfilling tree. As he lay down, there were pebbles and rough ground; he thought, “I’m so tired. If only a beautiful bed would appear so I could rest properly!” No sooner had he thought it than, as if out of nowhere, the most exquisite bed appeared—one that would make an emperor drool! He was so weary he didn’t even wonder how it came. He fell and slept. Two or three hours later, rested, he woke very hungry and thought, “If only I could get delicious food now. If there were some hotel or restaurant nearby... There’s no one in sight. I have never felt such hunger!” As he thought so, apsaras appeared with trays upon trays. He felt a little doubt, but the hunger was so great he quickly set to eating. After he had eaten and rested, the thought came: “What is this? Where did the bed come from? Where did this food come from? Where did these beautiful women come from? They descended from the sky! Perhaps there are ghosts here?” And immediately ghosts appeared. Seeing them, he said, “I’m done for! Now I’m done for!” They pounced, gripped his neck, and killed him.
Under the wish‑fulfilling tree, whatever you think happens instantly. If ever by mistake you reach one, be a little mindful—don’t think such upside‑down thoughts as “Maybe there are ghosts here? Now I’m finished!”
Who invented these wish‑fulfilling trees? The very people who suppressed a little here and there, who renounced a little. And who created these apsaras? The very ones who called women the gates of hell. In the same scriptures where women are called the gates of hell, there is a description of apsaras—who will be awarded to the virtuous.
A great saint died. By coincidence, his chief disciple died half an hour later—perhaps from grief. The disciple walked toward heaven thinking, “My guru must have nothing less than Urvashi herself. He was such a great saint. Urvashi must be pressing his feet. Ah! Today the fruits of all his austerities and renunciations must be showering upon him.” And when he reached heaven, what he saw confirmed his thoughts. A very beautiful woman was clinging to the guru’s neck. The disciple fell at his feet and said, “Revered master, today it is proven that you were a true, accomplished saint, that you performed virtue and austerity. Trees are known by their fruit, and the final verdict on saints is given in heaven. She must be Urvashi! How she clings to your neck!”
The guru said, “You blockhead! You remained a blockhead! O fool...!”
The disciple said, “What foolishness is there in this? You are receiving the fruit of your virtue.”
The guru said, “Look carefully. The fruit of my virtue is not this woman; I am the fruit of her sins. She is being punished. Where will she find a more bony creature than me, withered by austerity? Where a more foul‑smelling one than me, who hasn’t bathed for years—bathing is decorating the body, it is ornamentation. Where a more repulsive one than me, smeared with ash through life? I am her punishment, not her reward.”
But who imagines such rewards? The people who smuggle their lust back in through the rear door.
Whoever suppresses love will never be free of lust. His life will become nothing but stench. Yes, on the surface he will cover it up; inside there will be pus, and on top he will arrange flowers. I do not say suppress love. And I do not say think in terms of calculation. Calculation is greed; the language of calculation is the language of greed, and it can see nothing else.
A ship was sinking. Everyone was panicking, but one Marwari trader sat unconcerned. Finally someone said, “Sethji, the ship is sinking!”
The trader said, “So what? Is my father’s ship sinking? It’s a government ship—let it sink!”
Calculation thinks in the language of greed: “What is it to me? What is due tomorrow may as well fall today.” But someone said, “What you say is right, it isn’t your ship; but we will also drown in it.”
The trader said, “I’m traveling insured. I’m not a fool like you.”
He had no worry about death. Perhaps he was already calculating: “Ah, an opportunity! The insurance company will go broke!” No concern for dying—only accounts. And when this same trader becomes a holy man, his accounting continues. Then he thinks, “So many vows taken, so many fasts observed—how much profit will I reap?” Still accounting.
Where there is greed, how can there be dispassion? Dispassion does not arise from greed. And whatever “dispassion” arises from greed is false. True dispassion arises from the supreme purification of love. As gold is put into fire and comes out as pure gold, so when we pass love through the fire of meditation, the love that emerges—pure as gold—has no lust, no desire, no motive, no hankering to get, no fear of losing; only a celebration remains! A song—without words. A music—without sound. The unstruck inner sound. A flowering of joy. Your heart becomes a spring flowing with bliss. You are in love with existence. Not that you love someone—you are love. Then dispassion appears in a new, creative sense. Then dispassion has great glory. Otherwise everything sneaks back in through the rear door. No one was ever freed by suppression, and no one ever can be.
The postman had just delivered a letter to Mulla Nasruddin. He opened the envelope and Dabbuji peered over his shoulder to see whose it was. Nasruddin placed the envelope in his hands and said, “Here, read it yourself. Guljaan has sent it from her mother’s place.”
Dabbuji opened it and exclaimed, “But this is a blank sheet!”
“Yes,” Nasruddin replied gloomily, “nowadays she and I aren’t on speaking terms—ever since she left after a fight, she sends letters like this.”
But the letters continue—through the back door. The sending of letters has not stopped.
So it is with your so‑called renunciates. On the surface there is dispassion; inside, all the lusts and desires are suppressed—the psyche is repressed. In the eyes of psychology, your renunciate is sick. The dispassion I am speaking of is healthy dispassion. And that can arise only out of love—because love is the expression of what is highest in you. Love is the ray of the divine within you. Love is the seed of prayer in you. Sow this seed! Water it!
“Ansu‑an jal sinchi‑sinchi prem‑bel boi”—“With the water of tears, again and again, I watered the vine of love.” Remember Meera. And this vine of love will not be watered by ordinary water. “With the water of tears, again and again, I watered the vine of love.” The love Meera speaks of is the love I am speaking of. Water it with tears. Pour your very life into it. Die into love. And within you the flower of dispassion will bloom—the thousand‑petaled lotus will open. Then you will live in the world and yet be beyond it—like a lotus floating on water. There will be no need to run away, no flight. The capacity will arise to live life in its ultimate depth. For the divine is hidden in the depths of life; it is not found by fugitives. Whoever runs, misses. The divine is found by awakening, not by escaping. And nothing awakens you the way love does.
Remember the words of Palatu! Again and again he says: since love has arisen, sleep has been lost. When love wakes, how can one sleep? Who knows at what moment the Master will arrive, at what instant he will knock on the door!
Have you ever waited in love for someone? Then where is sleep? Even in sleep you startle and wake. If a beloved guest is due to arrive, you keep vigil the whole night. The wind blows strong, windows and doors rattle—you run to the door: perhaps the guest has come! Anyone passing on the road—you hear in it his footfall. The postman comes—you think it is his letter. When remembrance is dense within, how can you sleep?
Palatu is right: in whom love wakes, his sleep is gone.
There are people who force themselves to stay awake. I went to a village. People said, “There is a great saint here—his name is Khadeshri Baba. He has been standing for ten years.”
I said, “He must be mad. God has not commanded anyone to stand for ten years. From within, God gives news: ‘You are tired now—sit; now lie down; now rest.’ And what other qualities does he have?”
They said, “None, really. But this is no small thing—he has been standing for ten years!”
I asked, “And what is the arrangement for standing?”
The arrangement is ropes tied down from above. His hands are tied to the ropes. His legs are bound with poles so they won’t bend. Otherwise, who can stand for ten years! His whole body has withered, and his legs are like an elephant’s—swollen. All the blood has pooled in his legs.
And you are worshiping this deranged man as a great saint! Day and night the worship goes on!
I said, have you ever asked them why they stand?
They said, so that sleep doesn’t come. Because Krishna says in the Gita—ya nisha sarvabhutayam tasyaam jagarti samyami. When all are asleep, the disciplined one remains awake.
But, I said, have you ever seen Krishna anywhere—in any story, any Purana—standing tied up with ropes, hands on crutches, sticks strapped to his feet? He slept, he rested. In fact, Krishna died that way. He was resting under a tree when a hunter, by mistake, shot an arrow into his foot. That’s how he died. He wasn’t some “Stand-ji Baba”; he was “Sleep-ji Baba.”
Krishna’s meaning is something else: let the inner consciousness stay awake. The body needs rest. The body is of clay. Clay tires; it has limits. But consciousness can remain tirelessly awake. And these methods to keep consciousness awake—these are fit for a madhouse. They are not methods for awakening consciousness. The right way to awaken consciousness is love—priti! Let love for the Divine arise. This very love you have invested in petty things—one in money, one in position, one in prestige—pour it all toward the Divine, gather it into one. What has been split into a thousand streams—as Paltu says, it has become “five-and-twenty”—collect it, make it one current, so it can reach the ocean.
But people think in their own twisted ways. Someone takes “remaining awake” to mean: just stand up and don’t sleep, and supreme knowledge will be attained. There have been such crazies who even ripped out their eyelids—“no reeds, no flute!” But you know, even if you rip out your eyelids, you will still fall asleep!
I know a woman whose one eyelid got damaged; its natural opening and closing stopped. If you shut it with your hand it would shut; if you opened it, it would open. Even in sleep, if you opened that eye, it would stay open. And the eye looked stony—fast asleep. She would often sleep with one eye open. She was a guest at my house. Some children from the neighborhood used to visit me. I said to them, want to see a miracle? Have you ever seen someone sleep with one eye closed and one eye open?
They said, never.
Then go peep into the room.
It was afternoon, hot, and the woman was sleeping. The children peeked in—and came running out, scared. They said, it’s true! One eye open, one eye closed. Where did you bring this woman from? It’s frightening to look at her!
At night too, if you saw someone sleeping with one eye open and the other closed, for a moment a shiver would pass through you—who knows what she might do next! And if she’s a woman, and one eye open, one closed! Who knows what comes next! Run!
People twist the highest principles to suit their own derangement.
Dhabbuji saw in the newspaper a piece about the evils of alcohol. He flung the paper away and said, “Stop! From today, absolutely stop!”
Chandulal, sitting nearby, asked, “Dhabbuji, what are you stopping—drinking?”
“No,” said Dhabbuji, “taking the newspaper.”
Mulla Nasruddin too once swore off drinking. One big problem: whether he went to the market, to the office, anywhere—the tavern fell right in the middle of the way. There was no way around it. The village had only one road. That’s why your sadhus and renunciates run to the jungles. They’re scared; here circumstances expose your reality—challenge you. Now what should Mulla do! He had to go to the office, to the market to buy vegetables, a thousand chores—and only one road, with the tavern in the middle. One day he just didn’t go at all.
His wife said, “That won’t work. This will cost us even more. Better you carry on drinking. If you don’t even go to the office, we’ll starve. Who will bring vegetables? Who will buy provisions? And where will the money come from? When you drank, at least you blew only half the salary; the other half remained!”
Mulla said, “I’ve sworn; I’ll keep it. I’ll go to the market.” He set out, reciting Quranic verses under his breath to bolster his courage: don’t panic. He told himself, So many people pass the tavern without drinking; you’re a man—be resolute! The tavern came; his legs wobbled, his mind teetered. Mulla said, No—absolutely not! He wouldn’t even glance at the tavern; eyes fixed down.
Buddhist monks walk looking only four feet ahead—out of fear a woman might appear! If you look only four feet, at most you’ll see a woman’s feet—what else? And if you do glimpse her feet, then look only three feet. And if panic rises, just shut your eyes. A Buddhist monk doesn’t look here or there—something might appear, temptation might arise, attraction be born. Is that renunciation?
Mulla walked on, eyes to the ground. And he knows—he’s come to the tavern all his life—exactly when it comes! Though his eyes are down, inwardly he can see it appearing: it’s here; now it’s right beside me; now I’m directly in front of it. Now he began to run, because if he walked slowly he feared he might turn toward the tavern. A hundred steps past it, he stopped, thumped his own back, and said, “Bravo, Nasruddin! Come, let’s drink to this victory!” Back he went to the tavern. That day he drank double. After all, one must celebrate. Such a triumph of resolve—he went a whole hundred steps beyond without even looking at the tavern!
These same back-thumping mahatmas are dreaming of enjoying apsaras in heaven.
No, I don’t believe in these arithmetics. My trust is in love, in the heart; not in the head. I don’t tell you, “Give this up and you’ll get that.” What kind of renunciation is it when the bargain is fixed beforehand? People come to me and ask, If we take a vow, what will we get? If we fast, what will we get? What will we get—first that must be settled. People even ask me: If we meditate, what will we get? If the obtaining is guaranteed, then they’re ready to do anything.
This business mind—this Marwari mind—how can it be religious? Impossible! A religious mind is a different journey altogether, a different dimension. The religious mind doesn’t ask, What will I get? What will be the fruit? It asks, I am in sorrow—why? I am in hell—why? How have I manufactured this hell? Why am I so unconscious that I keep weaving nets of suffering for myself? How do I become aware? It does not ask, What will I get from awareness. It asks only this much: Let awareness happen to me, so that these webs of suffering I keep spinning, I stop spinning.
And where there is no suffering, bliss showers on its own. Unconsciousness is suffering; awakening is bliss. Bliss is not the fruit of awakening—awakening itself is bliss. Suffering is not the fruit of unconsciousness—unconsciousness itself is suffering. And there is no alchemy that awakens more than love.
Therefore I, Anand Maitreya, say: that vairagya which is born of love—love for the Divine—is the only true vairagya. The “renunciation” in which a desire to gain is hidden, a calculation is hidden—do this much, get that much—that is shopkeeping, not renunciation. And such shopkeeping-renunciation, such arithmetic, such bookkeeping—will always be gloomy. Because the payoff is after death—what guarantee? What certainty? No guarantee at all. There’s no guarantee you’ll even survive after death. And even if you do, what certainty is there that the cheats who enjoy all the pleasures here won’t cheat there too? Those ruffians who snatch your joys here—won’t they snatch them there as well? You think bullying doesn’t happen in heaven? Where will the bullies go? Will you even get into heaven? Will the bullies let you in? Those who have the habit of sitting on your chest here will have the habit there too. And you—unless someone sits on your chest—you’ll feel empty, lonely. As it is here, so it will be there. What certainty that some different law will operate there? After all, this world is also God’s. If his law isn’t working here, heaven is his too—how will his law work there? Hence doubt arises, suspicion arises.
Where there is reasoning, there is doubt. Where there is belief-for-bargain, there is doubt. So you give up a little, but full of doubt—who knows! Yet in the hope: maybe… If you earn a thousand, give ten in charity, so the next world is taken care of; a little bank balance there too. There you can at least say, I gave something in charity, did some merit; I want the return.
A man died. At heaven’s gate the doorkeeper asked, “Did you donate anything? Do any meritorious deed?”
He said, “Yes, I gave three paise to an old woman.”
The gatekeeper was in a fix—what to do! He opened the books; it was true—he had given three paise. The gatekeeper whispered to his colleague, “Now what? He did merit; he should get heaven. But to get heaven for three paise—that makes it too cheap. We can’t send him straight to hell either, because a meritorious man in hell? Even three paise is merit—but if a virtuous man goes to hell, people will lose faith in virtue.”
The colleague said, “Do this: give him back his three paise with interest—and send him to hell. What else can we do? Let him take the maximum interest—what more will he do with it!”
So I say to you: if you move by arithmetic, at most you’ll get interest. You’ll miss life.
Life belongs to those who are free of arithmetic; who rise above accounting; who live by love. Those who live from the heart—life is theirs. And those who have life—the Divine is theirs. And those who have life—their heaven is not tomorrow, not in the future, not after death. Their heaven is now and here. They are already in heaven.
Refine your love! Light the lamp of love! Celebrate the Diwali of love! Play the spring festival of love! Throw the colors and gulal of love! Yes, love is still mired in much mud—but lotuses are born from mud. Free the lotus from the mud—but don’t destroy it. If you destroy it, the very steps are broken. If you destroy it, the boat is broken. Then how will you cross?
Build the boat of love. This is the boat—the only boat—that can take you across.
It needs courage—the courage of the moth—to hurl itself into the flame of love and die. That much daring is needed—to drop all concern for reputation and the world. Then, surely, love can open heaven’s doors for you, here and now.
If love falls, it turns into attachment. If love flowers, it becomes dispassion. It is like manure: pile it up in the house and it will spread a stench; scatter the same manure in the garden and fragrance will arise. That very manure will nourish the trees; it will become the color, the juice, and the scent of flowers. The very manure which, if heaped inside the house, would make living unbearable—not only for you but for the neighbors too.
So it is with love. Love is manure. If it remains locked in lust, it breeds rot; if it is released into prayer, it becomes supreme fragrance.
I understand your question; it is not new. It has been asked for centuries. Anyone who has sought the divine has faced it. Of course it will arise—because love is your nature. What to do with this love? Whoever goes in search of God will have to take some decisions about love—decisions that will prove decisive. Either he will decide, “I must suppress love, because love leads to attachment.” And whoever suppresses love fills his house with manure; then stench will arise.
That is why your so‑called religious man is religious only on the surface; scratch him a little and irreligion oozes out from within. It is your religious man who burns temples and mosques, who kills Hindus and Muslims, who stabs with knives, who sets fires, who rapes. History is filled with the misdeeds of your religious men. The irreligious have never committed so much atrocity. The bloodstains left on this earth by the religious far exceed those left by the irreligious.
And there is another twist: when an irreligious person sins, he does it personally—someone steals, someone commits murder. But when a religious person sins, he does it collectively. And when sins are committed collectively, they multiply infinitely. When crowds of Hindus, crowds of Muslims, crowds of Christians descend into sin, accounts cannot be kept.
Remember also: when an individual sins, anxiety arises within; thought arises within. His soul says, “What are you doing? Wait, don’t do it—it is bad. You are already in darkness, and you will go deeper into darkness.” A thief who has stolen a thousand times, when he goes to steal again, something within pulls him back and stops him. Some inner voice—no matter how faint—still says, “Stop; don’t do evil.”
But a crowd has no soul. Therefore a crowd has no voice of conscience. When a Hindu mob burns a mosque, when a Muslim mob breaks a temple, psychologists say that in a crowd the individual’s sense of responsibility is erased. The question never even arises in him, “I am committing a crime.” “I am just a companion; the crowd is doing it. And the crowd is composed of good people—scholars, priests, maulvis, pastors are its leaders. I am merely a follower. I am engaged in a holy war, I am performing jihad.”
And your so‑called religious leaders have taught you that if you die in a holy war, heaven is assured; if you die in jihad, you will attain paradise. What great temptation—for sin! Naked sin, and a reward of heaven! For terrible crimes, no punishment—praise and adoration instead. So the sense of responsibility vanishes when a person sins as part of a crowd. Therefore the way a crowd sins, an individual never does; he cannot.
If you sin as part of a crowd and later, when you are alone, you are asked, “Could you have done the same alone?” you will be astonished: something within will say, “No, alone I could not have done it.” In a crowd there is convenience: “So many people are doing it—surely they must be right. So many cannot be wrong. I may be wrong; but these thousands of Hindus—surely they can’t be wrong; they must be right. And the priests are at the front; the blessings of saints and holy men are with us. How could it be a mistake? And when so many are doing it, the responsibility is divided; it is not on my head alone. The burden is very light. Alone, the ocean of sin would have crashed upon me; in a crowd one or two drops may fall on me. Who worries about a drop!”
And in a crowd you can always shift responsibility to another—“The holy man said so; the maulvi said so; the priest said so. What can I do? I only obeyed.” Just yesterday I was reading that scientists in America and Russia have succeeded in creating computers just like humans. I thought: let me read on. If they have created computers like humans, that is a great achievement. But it was satire. It went on to say, they have managed to make computers like humans because now they have made computers that make mistakes themselves but put the blame on others.
Machines were not so cunning until now—“What can I do? The responsibility is someone else’s!”
And this entire stinking past of mankind stands on one foundation: we suppressed love. We did not allow the flowers of love to bloom. We piled up the manure of love. And from that which could have produced fragrance, we produced only stench.
Therefore my fundamental message is: take love to be a ladder. One end of it rests on the earth and the other in the sky. Climb upward on the ladder of love. Refine love, purify it. Refine it of desire, lust, anger, enmity, jealousy, competition.
One morning, while drinking tea, Mulla Nasruddin said to his wife, “I shouldn’t really say this, but I don’t want to hide anything from you. It will hurt you, but remember, it’s only a dream—don’t make much of it. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. For the last few days, every night in my dreams I keep seeing your friend.”
The wife flared up. Even though it was only a dream, jealousy was aroused. She threw the teapot to the floor.
Mulla said, “I told you beforehand—it’s only a dream.”
The wife said, “Then you listen too. I also didn’t want to say it. Your friend can’t be appearing all alone in your dreams.”
Mulla said, “That’s true—but how did you know?”
She said, “Because her husband comes in my dream.”
Mulla picked up a stick.
The wife said, “It’s only a dream; why are you getting so worked up!”
Such are our jealousies. Jealousies surround your love; enmity surrounds it; hatred surrounds it. And if because of all this your love turns into hell, it is not love’s fault. You have mixed poison into love. And instead of extracting the poison, you say, “We’ll throw love away—that will produce dispassion.”
There’s an English proverb: when you bathe the baby in the tub, don’t throw the baby out with the dirty water. Save the baby; throw away the dirty water. But this is exactly what has kept happening. For centuries you have thrown away the baby with the bathwater. Then you cry and writhe, because the ladder breaks—and that very ladder is the one that can connect you to the divine.
So, Anand Maitreya, I have said again and again: dispassion born of calculation or bookish knowledge is false.
And your so‑called saints live by calculation. What kind of dispassion is it that has calculation in it? Calculation means greed. Calculation means accounting. Calculation says: leave it here and you’ll get it in heaven. But what will you get in heaven?
Just look at the pictures of heaven painted by the religions of the world. Even a person of simple intelligence can see the fraud. What you leave here, you will get there a thousand‑fold, a million‑fold, ten‑million‑fold. Is that renunciation? Here you leave one wife, and there you will get celestial nymphs! And your wife was an ordinary woman, a body of bone and flesh. The apsaras have golden bodies! Their bodies do not sweat; perfume flows from them. And they never grow old. Their age is fixed at sixteen and remains fixed. Centuries have passed—the apsaras are still sixteen. Urvashi is still only sixteen; not a day older.
And there are wish‑fulfilling trees, beneath which whatever you desire will be fulfilled instantly. Instantly! In this world, if you desire something, you have to labor and wait for years. Even then there is no certainty you will get it—others are competing, many are after the same thing. But under the wish‑fulfilling tree, instantly—no time passes. You think it, and it happens.
I have heard of a man who, by mistake, wandered into heaven. Mistakes happen everywhere.
I have heard that when Morarji Desai was prime minister, Mulla Nasruddin went to see him. Seeing Mulla in ochre robes, Morarji flared up. Many of my sannyasins have told me it’s great fun to go to him wearing ochre—he goes into a rage at once, loses his senses, and starts saying any old thing, blabbering. Like a bull seeing a red flag, Morarji gets inflamed at the sight of ochre.
So the moment he saw Mulla he said, “Mulla, what has come over you in your old age? You too have fallen into Rajneesh’s trap! I did not expect this from you. What has happened to you?”
Mulla said, “What can I do? Since I saw this man, I have been convinced that God exists.”
Morarji said, “Indeed! And when you see me, what thought comes to you?”
Nasruddin said, “When I see you, I think—even God can make mistakes.”
Mistakes happen everywhere. Think for yourself: if God never made a mistake, how would you be as you are? The fact that you exist is proof enough that even God makes errors.
So this man, by mistake, reached heaven. He was exhausted, lay down under a tree. He had no idea it was a wish‑fulfilling tree. As he lay down, there were pebbles and rough ground; he thought, “I’m so tired. If only a beautiful bed would appear so I could rest properly!” No sooner had he thought it than, as if out of nowhere, the most exquisite bed appeared—one that would make an emperor drool! He was so weary he didn’t even wonder how it came. He fell and slept. Two or three hours later, rested, he woke very hungry and thought, “If only I could get delicious food now. If there were some hotel or restaurant nearby... There’s no one in sight. I have never felt such hunger!” As he thought so, apsaras appeared with trays upon trays. He felt a little doubt, but the hunger was so great he quickly set to eating. After he had eaten and rested, the thought came: “What is this? Where did the bed come from? Where did this food come from? Where did these beautiful women come from? They descended from the sky! Perhaps there are ghosts here?” And immediately ghosts appeared. Seeing them, he said, “I’m done for! Now I’m done for!” They pounced, gripped his neck, and killed him.
Under the wish‑fulfilling tree, whatever you think happens instantly. If ever by mistake you reach one, be a little mindful—don’t think such upside‑down thoughts as “Maybe there are ghosts here? Now I’m finished!”
Who invented these wish‑fulfilling trees? The very people who suppressed a little here and there, who renounced a little. And who created these apsaras? The very ones who called women the gates of hell. In the same scriptures where women are called the gates of hell, there is a description of apsaras—who will be awarded to the virtuous.
A great saint died. By coincidence, his chief disciple died half an hour later—perhaps from grief. The disciple walked toward heaven thinking, “My guru must have nothing less than Urvashi herself. He was such a great saint. Urvashi must be pressing his feet. Ah! Today the fruits of all his austerities and renunciations must be showering upon him.” And when he reached heaven, what he saw confirmed his thoughts. A very beautiful woman was clinging to the guru’s neck. The disciple fell at his feet and said, “Revered master, today it is proven that you were a true, accomplished saint, that you performed virtue and austerity. Trees are known by their fruit, and the final verdict on saints is given in heaven. She must be Urvashi! How she clings to your neck!”
The guru said, “You blockhead! You remained a blockhead! O fool...!”
The disciple said, “What foolishness is there in this? You are receiving the fruit of your virtue.”
The guru said, “Look carefully. The fruit of my virtue is not this woman; I am the fruit of her sins. She is being punished. Where will she find a more bony creature than me, withered by austerity? Where a more foul‑smelling one than me, who hasn’t bathed for years—bathing is decorating the body, it is ornamentation. Where a more repulsive one than me, smeared with ash through life? I am her punishment, not her reward.”
But who imagines such rewards? The people who smuggle their lust back in through the rear door.
Whoever suppresses love will never be free of lust. His life will become nothing but stench. Yes, on the surface he will cover it up; inside there will be pus, and on top he will arrange flowers. I do not say suppress love. And I do not say think in terms of calculation. Calculation is greed; the language of calculation is the language of greed, and it can see nothing else.
A ship was sinking. Everyone was panicking, but one Marwari trader sat unconcerned. Finally someone said, “Sethji, the ship is sinking!”
The trader said, “So what? Is my father’s ship sinking? It’s a government ship—let it sink!”
Calculation thinks in the language of greed: “What is it to me? What is due tomorrow may as well fall today.” But someone said, “What you say is right, it isn’t your ship; but we will also drown in it.”
The trader said, “I’m traveling insured. I’m not a fool like you.”
He had no worry about death. Perhaps he was already calculating: “Ah, an opportunity! The insurance company will go broke!” No concern for dying—only accounts. And when this same trader becomes a holy man, his accounting continues. Then he thinks, “So many vows taken, so many fasts observed—how much profit will I reap?” Still accounting.
Where there is greed, how can there be dispassion? Dispassion does not arise from greed. And whatever “dispassion” arises from greed is false. True dispassion arises from the supreme purification of love. As gold is put into fire and comes out as pure gold, so when we pass love through the fire of meditation, the love that emerges—pure as gold—has no lust, no desire, no motive, no hankering to get, no fear of losing; only a celebration remains! A song—without words. A music—without sound. The unstruck inner sound. A flowering of joy. Your heart becomes a spring flowing with bliss. You are in love with existence. Not that you love someone—you are love. Then dispassion appears in a new, creative sense. Then dispassion has great glory. Otherwise everything sneaks back in through the rear door. No one was ever freed by suppression, and no one ever can be.
The postman had just delivered a letter to Mulla Nasruddin. He opened the envelope and Dabbuji peered over his shoulder to see whose it was. Nasruddin placed the envelope in his hands and said, “Here, read it yourself. Guljaan has sent it from her mother’s place.”
Dabbuji opened it and exclaimed, “But this is a blank sheet!”
“Yes,” Nasruddin replied gloomily, “nowadays she and I aren’t on speaking terms—ever since she left after a fight, she sends letters like this.”
But the letters continue—through the back door. The sending of letters has not stopped.
So it is with your so‑called renunciates. On the surface there is dispassion; inside, all the lusts and desires are suppressed—the psyche is repressed. In the eyes of psychology, your renunciate is sick. The dispassion I am speaking of is healthy dispassion. And that can arise only out of love—because love is the expression of what is highest in you. Love is the ray of the divine within you. Love is the seed of prayer in you. Sow this seed! Water it!
“Ansu‑an jal sinchi‑sinchi prem‑bel boi”—“With the water of tears, again and again, I watered the vine of love.” Remember Meera. And this vine of love will not be watered by ordinary water. “With the water of tears, again and again, I watered the vine of love.” The love Meera speaks of is the love I am speaking of. Water it with tears. Pour your very life into it. Die into love. And within you the flower of dispassion will bloom—the thousand‑petaled lotus will open. Then you will live in the world and yet be beyond it—like a lotus floating on water. There will be no need to run away, no flight. The capacity will arise to live life in its ultimate depth. For the divine is hidden in the depths of life; it is not found by fugitives. Whoever runs, misses. The divine is found by awakening, not by escaping. And nothing awakens you the way love does.
Remember the words of Palatu! Again and again he says: since love has arisen, sleep has been lost. When love wakes, how can one sleep? Who knows at what moment the Master will arrive, at what instant he will knock on the door!
Have you ever waited in love for someone? Then where is sleep? Even in sleep you startle and wake. If a beloved guest is due to arrive, you keep vigil the whole night. The wind blows strong, windows and doors rattle—you run to the door: perhaps the guest has come! Anyone passing on the road—you hear in it his footfall. The postman comes—you think it is his letter. When remembrance is dense within, how can you sleep?
Palatu is right: in whom love wakes, his sleep is gone.
There are people who force themselves to stay awake. I went to a village. People said, “There is a great saint here—his name is Khadeshri Baba. He has been standing for ten years.”
I said, “He must be mad. God has not commanded anyone to stand for ten years. From within, God gives news: ‘You are tired now—sit; now lie down; now rest.’ And what other qualities does he have?”
They said, “None, really. But this is no small thing—he has been standing for ten years!”
I asked, “And what is the arrangement for standing?”
The arrangement is ropes tied down from above. His hands are tied to the ropes. His legs are bound with poles so they won’t bend. Otherwise, who can stand for ten years! His whole body has withered, and his legs are like an elephant’s—swollen. All the blood has pooled in his legs.
And you are worshiping this deranged man as a great saint! Day and night the worship goes on!
I said, have you ever asked them why they stand?
They said, so that sleep doesn’t come. Because Krishna says in the Gita—ya nisha sarvabhutayam tasyaam jagarti samyami. When all are asleep, the disciplined one remains awake.
But, I said, have you ever seen Krishna anywhere—in any story, any Purana—standing tied up with ropes, hands on crutches, sticks strapped to his feet? He slept, he rested. In fact, Krishna died that way. He was resting under a tree when a hunter, by mistake, shot an arrow into his foot. That’s how he died. He wasn’t some “Stand-ji Baba”; he was “Sleep-ji Baba.”
Krishna’s meaning is something else: let the inner consciousness stay awake. The body needs rest. The body is of clay. Clay tires; it has limits. But consciousness can remain tirelessly awake. And these methods to keep consciousness awake—these are fit for a madhouse. They are not methods for awakening consciousness. The right way to awaken consciousness is love—priti! Let love for the Divine arise. This very love you have invested in petty things—one in money, one in position, one in prestige—pour it all toward the Divine, gather it into one. What has been split into a thousand streams—as Paltu says, it has become “five-and-twenty”—collect it, make it one current, so it can reach the ocean.
But people think in their own twisted ways. Someone takes “remaining awake” to mean: just stand up and don’t sleep, and supreme knowledge will be attained. There have been such crazies who even ripped out their eyelids—“no reeds, no flute!” But you know, even if you rip out your eyelids, you will still fall asleep!
I know a woman whose one eyelid got damaged; its natural opening and closing stopped. If you shut it with your hand it would shut; if you opened it, it would open. Even in sleep, if you opened that eye, it would stay open. And the eye looked stony—fast asleep. She would often sleep with one eye open. She was a guest at my house. Some children from the neighborhood used to visit me. I said to them, want to see a miracle? Have you ever seen someone sleep with one eye closed and one eye open?
They said, never.
Then go peep into the room.
It was afternoon, hot, and the woman was sleeping. The children peeked in—and came running out, scared. They said, it’s true! One eye open, one eye closed. Where did you bring this woman from? It’s frightening to look at her!
At night too, if you saw someone sleeping with one eye open and the other closed, for a moment a shiver would pass through you—who knows what she might do next! And if she’s a woman, and one eye open, one closed! Who knows what comes next! Run!
People twist the highest principles to suit their own derangement.
Dhabbuji saw in the newspaper a piece about the evils of alcohol. He flung the paper away and said, “Stop! From today, absolutely stop!”
Chandulal, sitting nearby, asked, “Dhabbuji, what are you stopping—drinking?”
“No,” said Dhabbuji, “taking the newspaper.”
Mulla Nasruddin too once swore off drinking. One big problem: whether he went to the market, to the office, anywhere—the tavern fell right in the middle of the way. There was no way around it. The village had only one road. That’s why your sadhus and renunciates run to the jungles. They’re scared; here circumstances expose your reality—challenge you. Now what should Mulla do! He had to go to the office, to the market to buy vegetables, a thousand chores—and only one road, with the tavern in the middle. One day he just didn’t go at all.
His wife said, “That won’t work. This will cost us even more. Better you carry on drinking. If you don’t even go to the office, we’ll starve. Who will bring vegetables? Who will buy provisions? And where will the money come from? When you drank, at least you blew only half the salary; the other half remained!”
Mulla said, “I’ve sworn; I’ll keep it. I’ll go to the market.” He set out, reciting Quranic verses under his breath to bolster his courage: don’t panic. He told himself, So many people pass the tavern without drinking; you’re a man—be resolute! The tavern came; his legs wobbled, his mind teetered. Mulla said, No—absolutely not! He wouldn’t even glance at the tavern; eyes fixed down.
Buddhist monks walk looking only four feet ahead—out of fear a woman might appear! If you look only four feet, at most you’ll see a woman’s feet—what else? And if you do glimpse her feet, then look only three feet. And if panic rises, just shut your eyes. A Buddhist monk doesn’t look here or there—something might appear, temptation might arise, attraction be born. Is that renunciation?
Mulla walked on, eyes to the ground. And he knows—he’s come to the tavern all his life—exactly when it comes! Though his eyes are down, inwardly he can see it appearing: it’s here; now it’s right beside me; now I’m directly in front of it. Now he began to run, because if he walked slowly he feared he might turn toward the tavern. A hundred steps past it, he stopped, thumped his own back, and said, “Bravo, Nasruddin! Come, let’s drink to this victory!” Back he went to the tavern. That day he drank double. After all, one must celebrate. Such a triumph of resolve—he went a whole hundred steps beyond without even looking at the tavern!
These same back-thumping mahatmas are dreaming of enjoying apsaras in heaven.
No, I don’t believe in these arithmetics. My trust is in love, in the heart; not in the head. I don’t tell you, “Give this up and you’ll get that.” What kind of renunciation is it when the bargain is fixed beforehand? People come to me and ask, If we take a vow, what will we get? If we fast, what will we get? What will we get—first that must be settled. People even ask me: If we meditate, what will we get? If the obtaining is guaranteed, then they’re ready to do anything.
This business mind—this Marwari mind—how can it be religious? Impossible! A religious mind is a different journey altogether, a different dimension. The religious mind doesn’t ask, What will I get? What will be the fruit? It asks, I am in sorrow—why? I am in hell—why? How have I manufactured this hell? Why am I so unconscious that I keep weaving nets of suffering for myself? How do I become aware? It does not ask, What will I get from awareness. It asks only this much: Let awareness happen to me, so that these webs of suffering I keep spinning, I stop spinning.
And where there is no suffering, bliss showers on its own. Unconsciousness is suffering; awakening is bliss. Bliss is not the fruit of awakening—awakening itself is bliss. Suffering is not the fruit of unconsciousness—unconsciousness itself is suffering. And there is no alchemy that awakens more than love.
Therefore I, Anand Maitreya, say: that vairagya which is born of love—love for the Divine—is the only true vairagya. The “renunciation” in which a desire to gain is hidden, a calculation is hidden—do this much, get that much—that is shopkeeping, not renunciation. And such shopkeeping-renunciation, such arithmetic, such bookkeeping—will always be gloomy. Because the payoff is after death—what guarantee? What certainty? No guarantee at all. There’s no guarantee you’ll even survive after death. And even if you do, what certainty is there that the cheats who enjoy all the pleasures here won’t cheat there too? Those ruffians who snatch your joys here—won’t they snatch them there as well? You think bullying doesn’t happen in heaven? Where will the bullies go? Will you even get into heaven? Will the bullies let you in? Those who have the habit of sitting on your chest here will have the habit there too. And you—unless someone sits on your chest—you’ll feel empty, lonely. As it is here, so it will be there. What certainty that some different law will operate there? After all, this world is also God’s. If his law isn’t working here, heaven is his too—how will his law work there? Hence doubt arises, suspicion arises.
Where there is reasoning, there is doubt. Where there is belief-for-bargain, there is doubt. So you give up a little, but full of doubt—who knows! Yet in the hope: maybe… If you earn a thousand, give ten in charity, so the next world is taken care of; a little bank balance there too. There you can at least say, I gave something in charity, did some merit; I want the return.
A man died. At heaven’s gate the doorkeeper asked, “Did you donate anything? Do any meritorious deed?”
He said, “Yes, I gave three paise to an old woman.”
The gatekeeper was in a fix—what to do! He opened the books; it was true—he had given three paise. The gatekeeper whispered to his colleague, “Now what? He did merit; he should get heaven. But to get heaven for three paise—that makes it too cheap. We can’t send him straight to hell either, because a meritorious man in hell? Even three paise is merit—but if a virtuous man goes to hell, people will lose faith in virtue.”
The colleague said, “Do this: give him back his three paise with interest—and send him to hell. What else can we do? Let him take the maximum interest—what more will he do with it!”
So I say to you: if you move by arithmetic, at most you’ll get interest. You’ll miss life.
Life belongs to those who are free of arithmetic; who rise above accounting; who live by love. Those who live from the heart—life is theirs. And those who have life—the Divine is theirs. And those who have life—their heaven is not tomorrow, not in the future, not after death. Their heaven is now and here. They are already in heaven.
Refine your love! Light the lamp of love! Celebrate the Diwali of love! Play the spring festival of love! Throw the colors and gulal of love! Yes, love is still mired in much mud—but lotuses are born from mud. Free the lotus from the mud—but don’t destroy it. If you destroy it, the very steps are broken. If you destroy it, the boat is broken. Then how will you cross?
Build the boat of love. This is the boat—the only boat—that can take you across.
It needs courage—the courage of the moth—to hurl itself into the flame of love and die. That much daring is needed—to drop all concern for reputation and the world. Then, surely, love can open heaven’s doors for you, here and now.
Second question:
Osho! You say that only a living Buddha can ferry us across. Then what is this irony, that Buddhas are abused while alive and worshiped after death? What kind of law is this?
Osho! You say that only a living Buddha can ferry us across. Then what is this irony, that Buddhas are abused while alive and worshiped after death? What kind of law is this?
Swaroop! There is neither irony here nor anything to be surprised about. This is the simple, natural order of life. Only a living Buddha can ferry you across, because how can one who himself is not alive give you life? If someone’s own lamp is extinguished, how will he light yours? Bring your unlit lamp to a burning flame—only there does the dead wick catch fire. From flame to flame the flame is born!
Only a living Buddha saves. If you are drowning, only someone alive can rescue you. You could pile thousands of corpses on the riverbank—no corpse will jump in to save you. And even among the living, only the one who knows how to swim can help.
Once I was sitting by a river when a man began to drown. I ran. But before I reached the bank, a fellow who was even closer had already jumped in. I stopped—but the man who had jumped in himself began to sink! Now I had to save him first. Instead of one, I had to pull out two. I asked the second man, Brother, what happened to you?
He said, I forgot I can’t swim. Seeing the man drowning, I just leapt!
Corpses don’t leap. The living do—but they are useful only if they can swim. So the dead cannot save you. The living, too, cannot—unless they are Buddhas. A living Buddha means: one who knows how to swim; who has crossed the whole ocean of becoming; who has seen the other shore and returned—only he can take you there, only he can be a guide.
But Swaroop, your question is apt: living Buddhas ferry people across—yet they get nothing but abuse. Why?
Precisely because they would ferry you across—and you don’t want to go. Their position is something like this: In a school a missionary told the children, Every week you must do at least one good deed.
The children asked, What kind of good deed? For example?
The missionary said, For example, if you find an old woman wanting to cross the road, take her by the hand and help her across.
Seven days later he returned and asked, Remember the lesson? Who did a good deed this week?
Three boys waved their hands. He asked the first, What did you do?
He said, I helped an old woman cross… she must have been ninety; so old! I had never seen anyone that old. Who looks at old women anyway! But since I was on the lookout to find one so I could do a good deed, I found her—and I took her across.
The teacher patted his back, Well done! Keep it up.
He asked the second, And you?
He said, I too helped an old woman across. She was about ninety.
The missionary had a slight doubt—two ninety-year-old grannies in the same week? But in a big village it’s possible. He patted him—though not as heartily, a little doubt remained that maybe he was just repeating the first boy.
He asked the third, And you?
He said, I too helped a ninety-year-old across…
Now the missionary couldn’t hold it. Where did you three find three ninety-year-old old women?
All three said together, Not three, sir—just one. The three of us took the same one across.
The missionary asked, For one old woman you needed three boys?
They said, Oh sir, even three of us barely managed. She didn’t want to go! We pulled one way, she pulled the other. But we used all our strength. She screamed, made a racket, flailed her hands and feet, even thrashed us, but we didn’t listen. A good deed had to be done—so we dragged her across. To tell you the truth, as soon as we let go, she came right back. Then we thought, other students also have to do good deeds; leave her for them—we can’t keep doing the same one! We don’t know whether the others took her across or not; we had other work to do. A good deed isn’t the only thing in life. And how many times can we take the same old woman across? If we try again, she’ll beat us, shout at us—and in any case she’ll just come back!
That’s why the Buddhas’ task is difficult. You abuse them because you don’t want to cross. You say, We’re fine here, we’re enjoying ourselves—where are you dragging us? We don’t want to go. We’ve built a home here, set up a household, spread so much out, woven so many nets. All our vested interests are on this shore. And you say—come to the other shore. You go! We’ll come sometime too, but not now.
But the Buddhas are also in a fix. They can see clearly that all you’ve built is false—illusion, dream. They want to wake you. Their compassion wants to wake you. Because the wealth you’re gathering isn’t wealth—it’s rubbish. The stones you take to be diamonds are pebbles. Buddhas see clearly that you’re piling up pebbles and wasting time. They want to shake you and say, Brother, open your eyes—these are pebbles! And I know a mine of diamonds; come, I’ll take you there. And there are diamonds without end!
But you too have your snag. For lifetimes you’ve believed these pebbles are diamonds. Your great devotion is to the pebbles. A deputy collector wants to become a collector. He says, Wait—no nirvana yet, no samadhi yet, what liberation now! First let me become collector. And then? Commissioner. And then? Governor! And this race of becoming has no end.
A gentleman used to come to me, he was a deputy minister. He came for a blessing: This time don’t let it slip—please make me a minister.
I said, If you ask me for a blessing you won’t even remain deputy minister. Ask some simpleton for blessings. I can only bless you to wake up.
Later he did become a minister. Two or three years later I met him by chance on a train. I asked, So, what happened?
He said, By your blessings…
I said, Lie! I didn’t bless you.
In our country these phrases have become mere courtesies. He said, By your blessings, I became a minister.
I said, Don’t put that sin on me. Why implicate me? On Judgment Day I’ll be roped in with you: Why did you bless him? I didn’t! I had told you then—ask for that blessing from someone else.
I asked, Did you find contentment?
He said, Contentment? Where! Now only one tune plays in my head—how to become chief minister!
I said, And do you think contentment will come then?
He said, I can’t say it with the confidence I had when I was a deputy minister and thought I’d be content on becoming a minister; that proved false—nothing was resolved. Still, the craving is there—once let me become chief minister. This time please bless me!
And in this country all sorts of donkeys and horses become ministers and chief ministers. In the end he too became one. When I passed through his capital I sent word: Though I didn’t bless you, at least come and say thank you. If I had blessed you, you’d never have made it—give me some credit for that at least!
He came. I asked, Now, any contentment?
He said, Why hide it from you! I can’t hide it anyway—you’d see. Now there’s only one obsession: Enough of Bhopal, now Delhi!
I said, When will this race end? How will it end?
People go on running, and Buddhas try to stop them. When you are running headlong and a Buddha stops you, won’t you be annoyed? Of course. Because a Buddha speaks from another realm—his language, his experience, his world are other than yours. There is no alignment between the two. If the Buddha wins, your world collapses like a house of cards. And you’ve arranged those cards with great difficulty.
Little children build houses of cards. You blow lightly and the house falls—they flare up in anger. Look at their hard work! It took so much effort to set it up. Each time it kept falling, a tiny nudge from one’s own hand and the whole palace would go. Somehow the child managed—and you came and blew.
I was a guest at a home, chatting with my host in the garden. His little boy came and said, Please come too; I’ve built a beautiful palace. I went, his father too. He had built a big palace—several decks of cards! All colorful. I blew.
He couldn’t believe it. He said, What kind of man are you! I built it with such difficulty, worked three hours! It kept collapsing, I guarded it so carefully. I shut all the doors and windows so no draft would come. I brought you to see it; I had to show it to my friends and the neighbors—and you blew it down!
His anger is understandable. Even his father said, Why did you blow it down? I can’t understand that.
I said, That’s exactly what I’m doing to you—and to your son. The son is angry, and you too. The house you’ve built is also of cards.
So when you abuse Buddhas, they aren’t surprised; they accept your abuse naturally. They know it has to be so. The languages are different, the worlds are different.
A city woman
showed some courage—
she came to the village
to educate the adults.
One day,
sitting at ease,
she began to sing:
“O monsoon clouds,
my beloved hasn’t come—
this time do not rain.”
The pain in her song
reached the people’s ears;
they ran to the headman.
The headman
hurried to the teacher
and, hands folded, said—
“Is that all?
Why didn’t you tell us?
We’ll drag your beloved here by the ears.”
The teacher was flustered at first,
then scolded the headman—
“What nonsense is this!
Whether my beloved comes or not
is my private matter.”
The headman said—
“To hell with your beloved!
What do we care about him?
But the monsoon isn’t your private property—
why are you telling it
not to rain this year?
There will be drought,
our children will starve—
what does it matter to your beloved’s father!
And besides,
we don’t like
your beloved’s signs at all.
You’ve been here six months,
and he hasn’t even checked once
whether you’re alive or dead.
Why worry about him?
He hasn’t come till now—
who knows when he will,
and even if he comes,
what use will he be!
Our fate is bad:
last year insects ate the crop;
this year your beloved will kill us!
No! We can’t take that risk.
Give us his address—
or use your sense:
what does your beloved
have to do with the monsoon?
He’ll come in his own time—
let this one
rain in its own time.”
Buddhas speak one language—to wake you. Your world is another—you want to sleep. Sleep is your world; awakening is theirs. There is no meeting point. So if you get angry, hurl abuse, throw stones, even nail Buddhas to crosses—it’s all acceptable. There is no surprise on the Buddhas’ side.
The husband came home from the office
and, smiling, said to his wife,
“All this finery, this adornment—
what’s the plan, Sarkar?”
Hearing the address “Sarkar” (Government),
the wife, with a catch in her voice, said,
“Call me anything you like,
but don’t call me ‘Government.’
I read the papers too—
I know what governments are like.
In future,
if you address me as ‘Government,’
remember—you will regret it.
Nothing will happen to me,
but your condition
will become like Hindustan’s.”
These are compulsions of language and feeling—different worlds.
Swaroop, you ask: “You say only living Buddhas ferry us across. Then what irony is this, that Buddhas are abused while alive and worshiped after death?”
After death, worship is easy, because the moment a Buddha dies he falls into your hands. Wherever you seat him, he sits. However you raise him, he rises. Don’t you see? You can put Ramchandraji to sleep whenever you feel like it. You can put Krishna on a swing whenever you like and rock him—even if he’s getting dizzy, he can’t say, Not now, don’t pester me! Open the curtain when you want; close it when you want. Offer food when you want. Make him brush his teeth—or not. Everything is in your hands. The moment a Buddha departs, the work becomes easy. Then you make idols. You worship idols. The idols are of your making—what have they to do with the Buddha? No idol is of the Buddha. There is only a likeness; the idol is your creation. And I suspect even the likeness you take is not of the Buddha—you choose your own. The face is yours—you have supplied it.
It is certain that Gautam Buddha’s face was not like what you see in the statues. For several reasons this is clear. Buddha was born in the Terai between India and Nepal. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t call him Indian, but Nepali. Now Nepalis don’t have features like those of Buddha’s statues. Nepalis are closer to Tibetans and Chinese in features. Do you see Nepali traits in the Buddha images? There aren’t any Gurkha traits. The Buddha image is Greek—it isn’t even Indian.
For five hundred years after Buddha’s passing, no Buddha image was made. There was no photography in those days to preserve a likeness. When the Buddha image was first made five hundred years later—you’ll be surprised—it was based on Alexander. In the meantime, Alexander had come to India, and the sculptors were charmed by Greek features. The Buddha image is neither Nepali nor Indian—it is Greek, its features borrowed from Greece.
Go to a Jain temple: the twenty-four Tirthankaras’ images are exactly identical—no difference at all. In this world even two people aren’t exactly the same—even twins are not. A mother distinguishes between them; she knows who is who. Others may not, because they don’t look so closely.
Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman who had a twin sister. They looked identical. I asked him one day, Nasruddin, I can’t tell them apart at all. You love one of them—how do you tell the difference?
Nasruddin said, Difference? Why should I differentiate? I love one, and enjoy both—whichever one shows up! I will never notice anything that reveals a difference. I behave in such a way that, whoever it is—she’s the one I love.
But a mother or father begins to see distinctions. Twins too aren’t exactly alike. Two people aren’t identical—so how did twenty-four men become identical? The Jains have to put symbols at the base of their idols so one can tell who is Mahavira, who is Neminath, who is Parshvanath. Without the symbols there is no way to distinguish.
These idols are imagined. They are not true. They are shaped by human minds—by human notions of what a Tirthankara should look like.
You’ll notice in Jain temples that every Tirthankara’s ear lobes are so long they touch the shoulders. In Christ’s images the ears don’t touch the shoulders—nor in those of Ram or Krishna. But in the twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras the ears touch the shoulders. Such long ears!
The Jains’ notion is: a Tirthankara’s ears must touch the shoulders—only then is he a Tirthankara. So all twenty-four have their ears touching. It’s doubtful. One or two might have had such lobes—that’s possible. Perhaps the first one had them, and the idea formed that every Tirthankara must have them. Then even those who didn’t were given them. They had to be forced to touch, otherwise the status of Tirthankara would be incomplete. The “marks” had to be fulfilled.
Your idols are imagined; you made them. And you worship them—by all means. What harm can an idol do you? Idols decorate your dreams; they act like soothing drugs for your sleep. You sleep even more comfortably.
An idol is dead. How will it wake you? Try telling an idol for a couple of nights, Lord Ganesh, I have to catch a train tomorrow morning—please wake me at four. You’ll never catch a train in your life. Ganesh himself doesn’t know when it’s four. There, it’s always twelve—when will it be four? There the clock’s hand is fixed. Clay Ganesh—make him when you want, immerse him when you want. When you carry Ganesh for immersion, the poor fellow doesn’t even cry out, Save me! Where are you drowning me! It’s all at your whim—your hand, your toy.
When a Buddha is alive he tries to save you, to wake you, to shake you, to break your vested interests. That’s why resentment arises. And when a Buddha departs, guilt arises in you. Understand this psychology well. Because you treat living Buddhas so badly that when they die a great sense of guilt arises within—What have we done! To compensate for that guilt, you start worshiping. Worship is compensation for your guilt.
See—how many followers does Mahavira have? Not many—hardly thirty to thirty-five lakhs. How strange! A genius like Mahavira could gather only thirty-five lakhs of followers in twenty-five centuries! If Mahavira had influenced just thirty-five couples, in twenty-five centuries there would have been thirty-five lakhs of children. Why so few for Mahavira, while Jesus turned half the world Christian—one billion followers! Why?
Because Jesus was crucified. Those who crucified Jesus were so filled with guilt that after his death worship became urgent—absolutely necessary. Such a guileless, defenseless, simple-hearted man—and we nailed him. In the heat of the moment they did it, but afterward they must have repented: What have we done! They looked at their hands—stained with blood. They washed them. But that blood does not wash—such blood is not easy to wash away.
You’ll be surprised to know that Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor in Judea whose order sent Jesus to the cross, was plagued all his life by an obsession—handwashing! After killing Jesus he washed his hands again and again, without cause.
Ask Sigmund Freud for the meaning: he kept washing because he felt, My hands are stained with blood—an innocent man’s blood!
But wash as you will, this blood will not wash. Because this is no visible blood; it is invisible, subtle. It has spread over your life-breath. It will prick you, sting you. There is only one way to escape—do the opposite of what you did. Where you reviled, now praise. Where you threw stones, now offer flowers. Where you gave a cross, now weave the story that Christ resurrected.
These are ways to escape guilt.
You mistreat living Buddhas. Your misbehavior is understandable—the reason is clear. You want to sleep; they want to wake you. You don’t want to cross; they invite you into the boat. They invite you, even take hold of your hand. You jerk away and run. You are afraid of living Buddhas—afraid your well-set world will be uprooted.
I receive countless letters. People write, We will come—certainly we will! But the time hasn’t come yet.
Who will decide when the time will come? How will you decide? Will you consult an astrologer for an auspicious moment?
All that “auspicious timing” is false. For one who wants to awaken, every moment is right. And one who wants to go on sleeping will postpone to tomorrow, invent new excuses, and postpone again.
A young man took sannyas. His father came, very angry—about eighty years old. He said, What have you done! What kind of sannyas is this? You gave my young son sannyas! The scriptures clearly say: brahmacharya until twenty-five, then the householder’s life until fifty. My son is only thirty-five; he should remain a householder until fifty. Then forest-dweller until seventy-five. After seventy-five, sannyas. You are acting against scripture. You are destroying our culture.
I listened and said, Fine. I’m ready to make a deal.
He said, What do you mean?
I said, I mean I’ll release your son from sannyas; you take sannyas. You’re past seventy-five. And I won’t let you go now—otherwise it would insult the scripture.
He panicked. How can I take it now? A thousand tasks are pending; I have to settle everything.
I said, When death comes, it won’t ask how many tasks are pending. Everything will remain undone—and it will take you.
And I said, You were invoking scripture to save your son from sannyas; now you won’t invoke scripture to drown yourself in it? So scripture too is only for when it suits your stupidity; then you quote it!
People even use scripture to prove their own ends!
Mulla Nasruddin reads the Quran every day—and drinks wine every day. I said, Nasruddin, at least one who reads the Quran shouldn’t drink. It clearly says, Whoever drinks wine will rot in hell.
Mulla said, I know—I read it every day.
Then why drink?
He said, I’m doing as much as I can. The full sentence is: Whoever drinks wine will rot in hell. For now I’m completing the first half—whoever drinks wine. I don’t have the capacity yet to complete the second half. One must proceed within one’s limits. For now I’m following the Quran’s command—whoever drinks wine. The rest we’ll see later. And the Quran also says that God is infinitely compassionate, Rahim, Rahman; his forgiveness knows no bounds. So compared to that boundless compassion, what is a little wine? I’ll throw myself at his feet and say, Forgive me—you are compassionate! Your compassion has no limit! However much I drank, I didn’t commit a sin greater than your compassion. Your compassion is far greater than my sin.
People extract whatever suits them.
That elderly gentleman said, I’ll think about it and come.
I said, No one comes by thinking. Sannyas is not taken by thinking. Now the moment has come—don’t miss it. You’re already trapped! You came of your own accord; I didn’t even call you. Where will you go now? And I’m making a deal—I’ll free your son.
Three years have passed—he never returned. He never will, because two months ago he died. He never came back to say, By giving my son sannyas you violated scripture—because now, with what face could he come?
People are crafty, dishonest, deceitful—not only deceiving others, but themselves. Your worship is all deception. You don’t want to change. You don’t want a revolution in your life. You worship stone idols and you run from living Buddhas. Because with living Buddhas, revolution is inevitable; if you come, you change. But what will temple idols do? What can they do? You go as you are and return as you were.
So there is no irony here, no strange ordinance—this is life’s straight arithmetic.
But if you want to come, then come only to living Buddhas—only then can some treasure shower on you, some blessings rain upon you, some sips of nectar slip down your throat. Don’t repeat the mistake others have made.
And we keep repeating the same mistakes. The fun is, when others err we see it; when we err, we do not.
Those who crucified Jesus—we can see they did wrong. Those who killed Mansoor—we feel they did wrong. Those who threw stones at the Buddha—we think they did wrong. But the same thing is happening even today. Times change; man doesn’t. Man’s inertia remains the same.
Let this mistake not be yours—if you can do even that much, it is enough.
Only a living Buddha saves. If you are drowning, only someone alive can rescue you. You could pile thousands of corpses on the riverbank—no corpse will jump in to save you. And even among the living, only the one who knows how to swim can help.
Once I was sitting by a river when a man began to drown. I ran. But before I reached the bank, a fellow who was even closer had already jumped in. I stopped—but the man who had jumped in himself began to sink! Now I had to save him first. Instead of one, I had to pull out two. I asked the second man, Brother, what happened to you?
He said, I forgot I can’t swim. Seeing the man drowning, I just leapt!
Corpses don’t leap. The living do—but they are useful only if they can swim. So the dead cannot save you. The living, too, cannot—unless they are Buddhas. A living Buddha means: one who knows how to swim; who has crossed the whole ocean of becoming; who has seen the other shore and returned—only he can take you there, only he can be a guide.
But Swaroop, your question is apt: living Buddhas ferry people across—yet they get nothing but abuse. Why?
Precisely because they would ferry you across—and you don’t want to go. Their position is something like this: In a school a missionary told the children, Every week you must do at least one good deed.
The children asked, What kind of good deed? For example?
The missionary said, For example, if you find an old woman wanting to cross the road, take her by the hand and help her across.
Seven days later he returned and asked, Remember the lesson? Who did a good deed this week?
Three boys waved their hands. He asked the first, What did you do?
He said, I helped an old woman cross… she must have been ninety; so old! I had never seen anyone that old. Who looks at old women anyway! But since I was on the lookout to find one so I could do a good deed, I found her—and I took her across.
The teacher patted his back, Well done! Keep it up.
He asked the second, And you?
He said, I too helped an old woman across. She was about ninety.
The missionary had a slight doubt—two ninety-year-old grannies in the same week? But in a big village it’s possible. He patted him—though not as heartily, a little doubt remained that maybe he was just repeating the first boy.
He asked the third, And you?
He said, I too helped a ninety-year-old across…
Now the missionary couldn’t hold it. Where did you three find three ninety-year-old old women?
All three said together, Not three, sir—just one. The three of us took the same one across.
The missionary asked, For one old woman you needed three boys?
They said, Oh sir, even three of us barely managed. She didn’t want to go! We pulled one way, she pulled the other. But we used all our strength. She screamed, made a racket, flailed her hands and feet, even thrashed us, but we didn’t listen. A good deed had to be done—so we dragged her across. To tell you the truth, as soon as we let go, she came right back. Then we thought, other students also have to do good deeds; leave her for them—we can’t keep doing the same one! We don’t know whether the others took her across or not; we had other work to do. A good deed isn’t the only thing in life. And how many times can we take the same old woman across? If we try again, she’ll beat us, shout at us—and in any case she’ll just come back!
That’s why the Buddhas’ task is difficult. You abuse them because you don’t want to cross. You say, We’re fine here, we’re enjoying ourselves—where are you dragging us? We don’t want to go. We’ve built a home here, set up a household, spread so much out, woven so many nets. All our vested interests are on this shore. And you say—come to the other shore. You go! We’ll come sometime too, but not now.
But the Buddhas are also in a fix. They can see clearly that all you’ve built is false—illusion, dream. They want to wake you. Their compassion wants to wake you. Because the wealth you’re gathering isn’t wealth—it’s rubbish. The stones you take to be diamonds are pebbles. Buddhas see clearly that you’re piling up pebbles and wasting time. They want to shake you and say, Brother, open your eyes—these are pebbles! And I know a mine of diamonds; come, I’ll take you there. And there are diamonds without end!
But you too have your snag. For lifetimes you’ve believed these pebbles are diamonds. Your great devotion is to the pebbles. A deputy collector wants to become a collector. He says, Wait—no nirvana yet, no samadhi yet, what liberation now! First let me become collector. And then? Commissioner. And then? Governor! And this race of becoming has no end.
A gentleman used to come to me, he was a deputy minister. He came for a blessing: This time don’t let it slip—please make me a minister.
I said, If you ask me for a blessing you won’t even remain deputy minister. Ask some simpleton for blessings. I can only bless you to wake up.
Later he did become a minister. Two or three years later I met him by chance on a train. I asked, So, what happened?
He said, By your blessings…
I said, Lie! I didn’t bless you.
In our country these phrases have become mere courtesies. He said, By your blessings, I became a minister.
I said, Don’t put that sin on me. Why implicate me? On Judgment Day I’ll be roped in with you: Why did you bless him? I didn’t! I had told you then—ask for that blessing from someone else.
I asked, Did you find contentment?
He said, Contentment? Where! Now only one tune plays in my head—how to become chief minister!
I said, And do you think contentment will come then?
He said, I can’t say it with the confidence I had when I was a deputy minister and thought I’d be content on becoming a minister; that proved false—nothing was resolved. Still, the craving is there—once let me become chief minister. This time please bless me!
And in this country all sorts of donkeys and horses become ministers and chief ministers. In the end he too became one. When I passed through his capital I sent word: Though I didn’t bless you, at least come and say thank you. If I had blessed you, you’d never have made it—give me some credit for that at least!
He came. I asked, Now, any contentment?
He said, Why hide it from you! I can’t hide it anyway—you’d see. Now there’s only one obsession: Enough of Bhopal, now Delhi!
I said, When will this race end? How will it end?
People go on running, and Buddhas try to stop them. When you are running headlong and a Buddha stops you, won’t you be annoyed? Of course. Because a Buddha speaks from another realm—his language, his experience, his world are other than yours. There is no alignment between the two. If the Buddha wins, your world collapses like a house of cards. And you’ve arranged those cards with great difficulty.
Little children build houses of cards. You blow lightly and the house falls—they flare up in anger. Look at their hard work! It took so much effort to set it up. Each time it kept falling, a tiny nudge from one’s own hand and the whole palace would go. Somehow the child managed—and you came and blew.
I was a guest at a home, chatting with my host in the garden. His little boy came and said, Please come too; I’ve built a beautiful palace. I went, his father too. He had built a big palace—several decks of cards! All colorful. I blew.
He couldn’t believe it. He said, What kind of man are you! I built it with such difficulty, worked three hours! It kept collapsing, I guarded it so carefully. I shut all the doors and windows so no draft would come. I brought you to see it; I had to show it to my friends and the neighbors—and you blew it down!
His anger is understandable. Even his father said, Why did you blow it down? I can’t understand that.
I said, That’s exactly what I’m doing to you—and to your son. The son is angry, and you too. The house you’ve built is also of cards.
So when you abuse Buddhas, they aren’t surprised; they accept your abuse naturally. They know it has to be so. The languages are different, the worlds are different.
A city woman
showed some courage—
she came to the village
to educate the adults.
One day,
sitting at ease,
she began to sing:
“O monsoon clouds,
my beloved hasn’t come—
this time do not rain.”
The pain in her song
reached the people’s ears;
they ran to the headman.
The headman
hurried to the teacher
and, hands folded, said—
“Is that all?
Why didn’t you tell us?
We’ll drag your beloved here by the ears.”
The teacher was flustered at first,
then scolded the headman—
“What nonsense is this!
Whether my beloved comes or not
is my private matter.”
The headman said—
“To hell with your beloved!
What do we care about him?
But the monsoon isn’t your private property—
why are you telling it
not to rain this year?
There will be drought,
our children will starve—
what does it matter to your beloved’s father!
And besides,
we don’t like
your beloved’s signs at all.
You’ve been here six months,
and he hasn’t even checked once
whether you’re alive or dead.
Why worry about him?
He hasn’t come till now—
who knows when he will,
and even if he comes,
what use will he be!
Our fate is bad:
last year insects ate the crop;
this year your beloved will kill us!
No! We can’t take that risk.
Give us his address—
or use your sense:
what does your beloved
have to do with the monsoon?
He’ll come in his own time—
let this one
rain in its own time.”
Buddhas speak one language—to wake you. Your world is another—you want to sleep. Sleep is your world; awakening is theirs. There is no meeting point. So if you get angry, hurl abuse, throw stones, even nail Buddhas to crosses—it’s all acceptable. There is no surprise on the Buddhas’ side.
The husband came home from the office
and, smiling, said to his wife,
“All this finery, this adornment—
what’s the plan, Sarkar?”
Hearing the address “Sarkar” (Government),
the wife, with a catch in her voice, said,
“Call me anything you like,
but don’t call me ‘Government.’
I read the papers too—
I know what governments are like.
In future,
if you address me as ‘Government,’
remember—you will regret it.
Nothing will happen to me,
but your condition
will become like Hindustan’s.”
These are compulsions of language and feeling—different worlds.
Swaroop, you ask: “You say only living Buddhas ferry us across. Then what irony is this, that Buddhas are abused while alive and worshiped after death?”
After death, worship is easy, because the moment a Buddha dies he falls into your hands. Wherever you seat him, he sits. However you raise him, he rises. Don’t you see? You can put Ramchandraji to sleep whenever you feel like it. You can put Krishna on a swing whenever you like and rock him—even if he’s getting dizzy, he can’t say, Not now, don’t pester me! Open the curtain when you want; close it when you want. Offer food when you want. Make him brush his teeth—or not. Everything is in your hands. The moment a Buddha departs, the work becomes easy. Then you make idols. You worship idols. The idols are of your making—what have they to do with the Buddha? No idol is of the Buddha. There is only a likeness; the idol is your creation. And I suspect even the likeness you take is not of the Buddha—you choose your own. The face is yours—you have supplied it.
It is certain that Gautam Buddha’s face was not like what you see in the statues. For several reasons this is clear. Buddha was born in the Terai between India and Nepal. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t call him Indian, but Nepali. Now Nepalis don’t have features like those of Buddha’s statues. Nepalis are closer to Tibetans and Chinese in features. Do you see Nepali traits in the Buddha images? There aren’t any Gurkha traits. The Buddha image is Greek—it isn’t even Indian.
For five hundred years after Buddha’s passing, no Buddha image was made. There was no photography in those days to preserve a likeness. When the Buddha image was first made five hundred years later—you’ll be surprised—it was based on Alexander. In the meantime, Alexander had come to India, and the sculptors were charmed by Greek features. The Buddha image is neither Nepali nor Indian—it is Greek, its features borrowed from Greece.
Go to a Jain temple: the twenty-four Tirthankaras’ images are exactly identical—no difference at all. In this world even two people aren’t exactly the same—even twins are not. A mother distinguishes between them; she knows who is who. Others may not, because they don’t look so closely.
Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman who had a twin sister. They looked identical. I asked him one day, Nasruddin, I can’t tell them apart at all. You love one of them—how do you tell the difference?
Nasruddin said, Difference? Why should I differentiate? I love one, and enjoy both—whichever one shows up! I will never notice anything that reveals a difference. I behave in such a way that, whoever it is—she’s the one I love.
But a mother or father begins to see distinctions. Twins too aren’t exactly alike. Two people aren’t identical—so how did twenty-four men become identical? The Jains have to put symbols at the base of their idols so one can tell who is Mahavira, who is Neminath, who is Parshvanath. Without the symbols there is no way to distinguish.
These idols are imagined. They are not true. They are shaped by human minds—by human notions of what a Tirthankara should look like.
You’ll notice in Jain temples that every Tirthankara’s ear lobes are so long they touch the shoulders. In Christ’s images the ears don’t touch the shoulders—nor in those of Ram or Krishna. But in the twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras the ears touch the shoulders. Such long ears!
The Jains’ notion is: a Tirthankara’s ears must touch the shoulders—only then is he a Tirthankara. So all twenty-four have their ears touching. It’s doubtful. One or two might have had such lobes—that’s possible. Perhaps the first one had them, and the idea formed that every Tirthankara must have them. Then even those who didn’t were given them. They had to be forced to touch, otherwise the status of Tirthankara would be incomplete. The “marks” had to be fulfilled.
Your idols are imagined; you made them. And you worship them—by all means. What harm can an idol do you? Idols decorate your dreams; they act like soothing drugs for your sleep. You sleep even more comfortably.
An idol is dead. How will it wake you? Try telling an idol for a couple of nights, Lord Ganesh, I have to catch a train tomorrow morning—please wake me at four. You’ll never catch a train in your life. Ganesh himself doesn’t know when it’s four. There, it’s always twelve—when will it be four? There the clock’s hand is fixed. Clay Ganesh—make him when you want, immerse him when you want. When you carry Ganesh for immersion, the poor fellow doesn’t even cry out, Save me! Where are you drowning me! It’s all at your whim—your hand, your toy.
When a Buddha is alive he tries to save you, to wake you, to shake you, to break your vested interests. That’s why resentment arises. And when a Buddha departs, guilt arises in you. Understand this psychology well. Because you treat living Buddhas so badly that when they die a great sense of guilt arises within—What have we done! To compensate for that guilt, you start worshiping. Worship is compensation for your guilt.
See—how many followers does Mahavira have? Not many—hardly thirty to thirty-five lakhs. How strange! A genius like Mahavira could gather only thirty-five lakhs of followers in twenty-five centuries! If Mahavira had influenced just thirty-five couples, in twenty-five centuries there would have been thirty-five lakhs of children. Why so few for Mahavira, while Jesus turned half the world Christian—one billion followers! Why?
Because Jesus was crucified. Those who crucified Jesus were so filled with guilt that after his death worship became urgent—absolutely necessary. Such a guileless, defenseless, simple-hearted man—and we nailed him. In the heat of the moment they did it, but afterward they must have repented: What have we done! They looked at their hands—stained with blood. They washed them. But that blood does not wash—such blood is not easy to wash away.
You’ll be surprised to know that Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor in Judea whose order sent Jesus to the cross, was plagued all his life by an obsession—handwashing! After killing Jesus he washed his hands again and again, without cause.
Ask Sigmund Freud for the meaning: he kept washing because he felt, My hands are stained with blood—an innocent man’s blood!
But wash as you will, this blood will not wash. Because this is no visible blood; it is invisible, subtle. It has spread over your life-breath. It will prick you, sting you. There is only one way to escape—do the opposite of what you did. Where you reviled, now praise. Where you threw stones, now offer flowers. Where you gave a cross, now weave the story that Christ resurrected.
These are ways to escape guilt.
You mistreat living Buddhas. Your misbehavior is understandable—the reason is clear. You want to sleep; they want to wake you. You don’t want to cross; they invite you into the boat. They invite you, even take hold of your hand. You jerk away and run. You are afraid of living Buddhas—afraid your well-set world will be uprooted.
I receive countless letters. People write, We will come—certainly we will! But the time hasn’t come yet.
Who will decide when the time will come? How will you decide? Will you consult an astrologer for an auspicious moment?
All that “auspicious timing” is false. For one who wants to awaken, every moment is right. And one who wants to go on sleeping will postpone to tomorrow, invent new excuses, and postpone again.
A young man took sannyas. His father came, very angry—about eighty years old. He said, What have you done! What kind of sannyas is this? You gave my young son sannyas! The scriptures clearly say: brahmacharya until twenty-five, then the householder’s life until fifty. My son is only thirty-five; he should remain a householder until fifty. Then forest-dweller until seventy-five. After seventy-five, sannyas. You are acting against scripture. You are destroying our culture.
I listened and said, Fine. I’m ready to make a deal.
He said, What do you mean?
I said, I mean I’ll release your son from sannyas; you take sannyas. You’re past seventy-five. And I won’t let you go now—otherwise it would insult the scripture.
He panicked. How can I take it now? A thousand tasks are pending; I have to settle everything.
I said, When death comes, it won’t ask how many tasks are pending. Everything will remain undone—and it will take you.
And I said, You were invoking scripture to save your son from sannyas; now you won’t invoke scripture to drown yourself in it? So scripture too is only for when it suits your stupidity; then you quote it!
People even use scripture to prove their own ends!
Mulla Nasruddin reads the Quran every day—and drinks wine every day. I said, Nasruddin, at least one who reads the Quran shouldn’t drink. It clearly says, Whoever drinks wine will rot in hell.
Mulla said, I know—I read it every day.
Then why drink?
He said, I’m doing as much as I can. The full sentence is: Whoever drinks wine will rot in hell. For now I’m completing the first half—whoever drinks wine. I don’t have the capacity yet to complete the second half. One must proceed within one’s limits. For now I’m following the Quran’s command—whoever drinks wine. The rest we’ll see later. And the Quran also says that God is infinitely compassionate, Rahim, Rahman; his forgiveness knows no bounds. So compared to that boundless compassion, what is a little wine? I’ll throw myself at his feet and say, Forgive me—you are compassionate! Your compassion has no limit! However much I drank, I didn’t commit a sin greater than your compassion. Your compassion is far greater than my sin.
People extract whatever suits them.
That elderly gentleman said, I’ll think about it and come.
I said, No one comes by thinking. Sannyas is not taken by thinking. Now the moment has come—don’t miss it. You’re already trapped! You came of your own accord; I didn’t even call you. Where will you go now? And I’m making a deal—I’ll free your son.
Three years have passed—he never returned. He never will, because two months ago he died. He never came back to say, By giving my son sannyas you violated scripture—because now, with what face could he come?
People are crafty, dishonest, deceitful—not only deceiving others, but themselves. Your worship is all deception. You don’t want to change. You don’t want a revolution in your life. You worship stone idols and you run from living Buddhas. Because with living Buddhas, revolution is inevitable; if you come, you change. But what will temple idols do? What can they do? You go as you are and return as you were.
So there is no irony here, no strange ordinance—this is life’s straight arithmetic.
But if you want to come, then come only to living Buddhas—only then can some treasure shower on you, some blessings rain upon you, some sips of nectar slip down your throat. Don’t repeat the mistake others have made.
And we keep repeating the same mistakes. The fun is, when others err we see it; when we err, we do not.
Those who crucified Jesus—we can see they did wrong. Those who killed Mansoor—we feel they did wrong. Those who threw stones at the Buddha—we think they did wrong. But the same thing is happening even today. Times change; man doesn’t. Man’s inertia remains the same.
Let this mistake not be yours—if you can do even that much, it is enough.
Last question: Osho! I am supremely lazy. Can I also attain the Divine?
Yogendra! Attaining the Divine is neither a matter of action, nor of industriousness, nor of laziness. Attainment of the Divine is a matter of witnessing. The industrious person has to be a witness to his action, and the lazy person has to be a witness to his laziness. If there is action, use action as the base for becoming a witness. If there is laziness, use laziness as the base for becoming a witness. Any device will do. Become a witness, and the Divine will be found.
Do not be frightened of laziness. Laziness has been condemned so much that one gets scared. So you must be worrying: “I am supremely lazy—how will I find the Divine?”
First, understand: the Divine is not to be attained; the Divine is already attained. The Divine resides within you. If there is any danger in “attaining” the Divine, it is over-industriousness. The one who is always in a rush—running here and there, racing to the ends of the earth—who cannot sit still even for two moments, for him it may be difficult. Because the Divine is seated within you; if you also sit, the meeting happens.
So Yogendra, do not be afraid, do not worry.
But I don’t believe you are supremely lazy. Otherwise how did you get this far? Supreme laziness is a great accomplished state!
In Japan there was an emperor who was very lazy—and obstinate too. He would get strange ideas, and being an emperor, he could carry them out. One day he thought: “There are arrangements in the world for everyone—widows have homes, the aged have homes—but there is nothing for the lazy. And what is the poor lazy man’s fault? God made him as he is! If He made someone lazy, what is the lazy one to do? A widow, if she wishes, can even marry again; God has not made anyone a widow—that is a social notion. But what is the lazy one to do?”
He told his ministers to have it proclaimed throughout the kingdom that ashrams would be opened by the state for the lazy at many places. The state would provide shelter, food, clothing—and they could practice their laziness.
The ministers were worried. They said, “What you say is fine, and your argument is sound: what is their fault—God made them lazy! He made one a neem tree, another a mango tree. What can the neem do? It isn’t sweet—what fault is that of the neem? And if the mango is sweet, what merit is there in that? Each is as it is made. You speak well. But a big problem will arise. If we offer refuge to the lazy, everyone will claim to be lazy. How will we decide who is lazy and who is not? And if everyone claims laziness, who will cook for them? Who will make their beds? The whole country will be in trouble. First we need a touchstone: who is truly lazy, supremely lazy? Until we have such a test…”
The emperor said, “That makes sense.” So it was announced that all who considered themselves lazy should come to the royal palace, where there would be an examination.
People heard and came. Those who had never even thought in their lives that they were lazy also thought, “Why miss such a chance!” About ten thousand people gathered. The ministers had straw huts built for them, and they stayed in them. At night they set the huts on fire—this was the test. People bolted out at once. But four did not; they pulled their blankets over themselves. When someone shouted, “Brother, the hut is on fire!” they said, “Let it burn—don’t bother us. Whatever will happen will happen.”
Out of ten thousand, only those four were selected, because they could barely be saved. They had to be dragged out, beds and all. They were the supremely lazy ones, Yogendra! How are you supremely lazy? You have come here, and you are asking a question too! There seems no need to be so despondent.
The village headman was showing Netaji around the village. He showed him many things. As they were passing along the path, Netaji saw a man sleeping on a mango tree. Pointing to him, the headman said, “That is the laziest man in our village.”
Netaji asked in surprise, “Lazy? Then how did he climb the tree?”
The headman replied, “When we planted the mango seed here, this man lay down on top of it—and he’s been sleeping there ever since. He never climbed the tree.”
Yogendra, that is called supreme laziness! And such a person—consider that he has already found the Divine.
Don’t be afraid; now that you have come here, there is no way to escape the Divine—not even laziness. Take sannyas as well. Having done this much, do that much more. I accept the lazy too. I accept sinners, I accept drunkards, I accept gamblers. When you are accepted by the Divine, who am I to come in between and create an obstacle? If the Divine goes on keeping you alive, He surely accepts you.
I accept you. We will find the path right through your laziness.
The Master said to the disciple,
while still lying down,
“Get up and find out,
son, whether it’s raining.”
The disciple said—
“This cat
has just come in from outside;
stroke her and see—
if she’s wet,
understand that it’s raining.”
The Master gave a second task:
“It’s time to sleep now;
put out the lamp, boy.”
The boy said—
“Close your eyes,
and understand
the lamp is out.”
At last the Master said in defeat,
“Get up and latch the door.”
The disciple said—
“Gurudev,
be a little fair:
I’ve done two jobs,
you do at least one.”
Come, something like that will happen!
That’s all for today.
Do not be frightened of laziness. Laziness has been condemned so much that one gets scared. So you must be worrying: “I am supremely lazy—how will I find the Divine?”
First, understand: the Divine is not to be attained; the Divine is already attained. The Divine resides within you. If there is any danger in “attaining” the Divine, it is over-industriousness. The one who is always in a rush—running here and there, racing to the ends of the earth—who cannot sit still even for two moments, for him it may be difficult. Because the Divine is seated within you; if you also sit, the meeting happens.
So Yogendra, do not be afraid, do not worry.
But I don’t believe you are supremely lazy. Otherwise how did you get this far? Supreme laziness is a great accomplished state!
In Japan there was an emperor who was very lazy—and obstinate too. He would get strange ideas, and being an emperor, he could carry them out. One day he thought: “There are arrangements in the world for everyone—widows have homes, the aged have homes—but there is nothing for the lazy. And what is the poor lazy man’s fault? God made him as he is! If He made someone lazy, what is the lazy one to do? A widow, if she wishes, can even marry again; God has not made anyone a widow—that is a social notion. But what is the lazy one to do?”
He told his ministers to have it proclaimed throughout the kingdom that ashrams would be opened by the state for the lazy at many places. The state would provide shelter, food, clothing—and they could practice their laziness.
The ministers were worried. They said, “What you say is fine, and your argument is sound: what is their fault—God made them lazy! He made one a neem tree, another a mango tree. What can the neem do? It isn’t sweet—what fault is that of the neem? And if the mango is sweet, what merit is there in that? Each is as it is made. You speak well. But a big problem will arise. If we offer refuge to the lazy, everyone will claim to be lazy. How will we decide who is lazy and who is not? And if everyone claims laziness, who will cook for them? Who will make their beds? The whole country will be in trouble. First we need a touchstone: who is truly lazy, supremely lazy? Until we have such a test…”
The emperor said, “That makes sense.” So it was announced that all who considered themselves lazy should come to the royal palace, where there would be an examination.
People heard and came. Those who had never even thought in their lives that they were lazy also thought, “Why miss such a chance!” About ten thousand people gathered. The ministers had straw huts built for them, and they stayed in them. At night they set the huts on fire—this was the test. People bolted out at once. But four did not; they pulled their blankets over themselves. When someone shouted, “Brother, the hut is on fire!” they said, “Let it burn—don’t bother us. Whatever will happen will happen.”
Out of ten thousand, only those four were selected, because they could barely be saved. They had to be dragged out, beds and all. They were the supremely lazy ones, Yogendra! How are you supremely lazy? You have come here, and you are asking a question too! There seems no need to be so despondent.
The village headman was showing Netaji around the village. He showed him many things. As they were passing along the path, Netaji saw a man sleeping on a mango tree. Pointing to him, the headman said, “That is the laziest man in our village.”
Netaji asked in surprise, “Lazy? Then how did he climb the tree?”
The headman replied, “When we planted the mango seed here, this man lay down on top of it—and he’s been sleeping there ever since. He never climbed the tree.”
Yogendra, that is called supreme laziness! And such a person—consider that he has already found the Divine.
Don’t be afraid; now that you have come here, there is no way to escape the Divine—not even laziness. Take sannyas as well. Having done this much, do that much more. I accept the lazy too. I accept sinners, I accept drunkards, I accept gamblers. When you are accepted by the Divine, who am I to come in between and create an obstacle? If the Divine goes on keeping you alive, He surely accepts you.
I accept you. We will find the path right through your laziness.
The Master said to the disciple,
while still lying down,
“Get up and find out,
son, whether it’s raining.”
The disciple said—
“This cat
has just come in from outside;
stroke her and see—
if she’s wet,
understand that it’s raining.”
The Master gave a second task:
“It’s time to sleep now;
put out the lamp, boy.”
The boy said—
“Close your eyes,
and understand
the lamp is out.”
At last the Master said in defeat,
“Get up and latch the door.”
The disciple said—
“Gurudev,
be a little fair:
I’ve done two jobs,
you do at least one.”
Come, something like that will happen!
That’s all for today.