Krishna Smriti #22
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, what does it mean to wear saffron clothes?
Clothes do not make one a sannyasin—but a sannyasin too has his own kind of clothes. Clothes do not make one a sannyasin, yet a sannyasin may have his own robes. Clothes are a very ordinary thing, but not utterly meaningless.
What you wear has many meanings. Why you wear it also has many meanings. One man wears loose clothes. Wearing loose clothes in itself makes no difference, but why does a person choose loose clothes? And why does another choose tight clothes? These are indicators of the person. If a man is very calm, he will not like tight clothes. A taste for tight clothes hints that the person may be quarrelsome, restless, aggressive, sensual. Loose clothes are not suitable for fighting. That is why you cannot dress a soldier in loose clothes; you can dress only a monk in them. A soldier should wear tight clothes—the work is of tight clothes. Where he goes, his clothes should be so snug that all the time he feels he can leap out of his body; at any moment he can spring out. Clothes should be that tight. Such clothes become an ally in fighting.
Saffron robes also have their use. It is not that without saffron one cannot be a sannyasin. But saffron has its utility—and those who discovered this had many reasons behind it.
First, a small, simple experiment that we rarely think about or try, hence we miss its significance. Take seven bottles of colored glass—seven colors—and fill them with the same river water. Hang all seven in the sunlight. You will be astonished! The seven colors of the glass will produce seven different kinds of water in those bottles. The water in the yellow bottle will spoil quickly; it cannot remain clean for long. The water in the red bottle will stay fresh for a month; it won’t spoil. You will ask, “What did the bottle do?” The color of the glass is altering the passage of rays. Different kinds of rays enter the yellow bottle, different in the red, different in the blue. The water inside is drinking those rays; they become its nourishment.
After thousands of years of experimentation, those who explored sannyas in many directions chose saffron from among many possibilities. There are many experiences behind it. One very remarkable fact—those who know a little physics will understand—is that the color a cloth appears is actually the color it throws back to us. Generally, we understand the opposite. We think, “This cloth is red, so it is red.” The reality is the reverse.
Sunlight contains seven colors. When sunlight falls on something, if a cloth appears red to you, it means that cloth has absorbed six colors and reflected the red back. You see the color that things return to you. A blue object means the blue ray has been reflected; the object did not absorb it, did not drink it—it let it go. That ray comes back and strikes your eyes, hence the object appears blue. And the amusing point is: that object does not drink the blue. It releases it. The color of the garment you wear is the color whose rays will not enter your body.
Saffron robes were chosen with much thought. The red ray stirs many kinds of sensual energies in a person’s psyche; it is very vital. Entering the body, the red ray arouses sexuality. That is why people of hot countries tend to be more sensual. The hotter the land, the more sensual the people. You will be surprised to know that no book to rival the Kama Sutra arose in cold countries; nothing like the Arabian Nights came from cold lands. Hot countries are more sensual—the fierce, burning sun; its rays enter the body.
Those who experimented widely with sannyas also considered this: if the red ray can be reflected away from the body, sexuality is calmed. Hence saffron was chosen. Pure bright red could have been chosen—but a slight shift was made to orange, to ochre, not a stark red. There is something significant in this. Pure red could have been selected; it would have reflected the red ray completely. But if the red ray is totally reflected, the body’s health begins to suffer; a little should still enter.
There is another reason: if the red ray is fully reflected by my clothes, whoever’s eyes it strikes can be harmed by it. And it is a lovely concern that the sannyasin even considered that his clothes should not harm others.
Try holding a red cloth before a bull—have you ever tried?—you will see that the bull reacts to certain colors. He bristles at the sight of red. The blow of red upon the eye is strong.
Those who work on color psychology have found astonishing things. In the West today there is much research on color because its uses have become evident. A very big shopkeeper, the owner of a supermarket in America, commissioned research: on the boxes in which we package goods, what colors should we use to influence sales? The findings were surprising. They tracked the women who come to shop: throughout the day they recorded which colors their eyes picked up most. They found that if the same box was painted yellow, sales were twenty percent; paint that same box red and sales rose to eighty percent. The box is the same, the product the same, the name the same—only the color changed. Red strongly catches women’s eyes. That is why, the world over, women have worn red more than any other color.
There are reasons for not keeping to red. We moved a shade away from red—saffron. This ochre, this saffron color, carries all the benefits of red and none of its harms. First, it greatly attenuates inner sexuality. Second—there are many points; I cannot say everything, it is a long subject. To understand color fully would take long. But a few things can be noted. Saffron is the color of sunrise. When dawn breaks and the sun is just rising, that is its hue. In meditation too, when entry begins, the first light within is saffron; and the final experience of light is blue. The color of light begins as saffron within and culminates in indigo-blue.
The first stage of meditation is signaled by that color. And when a sannyasin enters meditation, those colors begin to appear to him. If, throughout the day, with open eyes, he keeps seeing that color again and again, a remembering returns; an association is made between the two, an inner linkage. Whenever he sees his saffron robe, at once meditation is remembered. Twenty-five times a day, for no apparent reason, remembrance of meditation arises and he slips back in.
You go to the market to buy something, you tie a knot in your cloth. What has a knot to do with what you need to buy? No relation at all. But in the market, the moment you notice the knot, you remember what to bring. An association has formed—a conditioning.
Pavlov did an experiment. He set bread before a dog and rang a bell alongside. Seeing the bread, saliva flowed in the dog’s mouth. After fifteen days he stopped giving bread and only rang the bell. But just on hearing the bell, saliva began to flow. What happened to the dog? A link, an association formed between the bell and the bread—a conditioned reflex arose. Now the ringing of the bell instantly evokes the memory of bread.
We live our whole lives this way. We keep doing this all our lives—but we have produced all kinds of wrong conditioned reflexes.
If the first color-experience of meditation returns to the sannyasin twenty-five, fifty, a hundred times a day—whenever he gets up, sits down, sleeps, bathes, takes off his clothes, puts them on—again and again remembrance of meditation returns. He has a knot with him that serves him. But this does not mean that without saffron robes one cannot be a sannyasin. Sannyas is too great a thing to be bound by garments. Yet clothes are not utterly useless; they have their own meaningfulness. Therefore I would prefer to see millions across the earth in saffron robes.
What you wear has many meanings. Why you wear it also has many meanings. One man wears loose clothes. Wearing loose clothes in itself makes no difference, but why does a person choose loose clothes? And why does another choose tight clothes? These are indicators of the person. If a man is very calm, he will not like tight clothes. A taste for tight clothes hints that the person may be quarrelsome, restless, aggressive, sensual. Loose clothes are not suitable for fighting. That is why you cannot dress a soldier in loose clothes; you can dress only a monk in them. A soldier should wear tight clothes—the work is of tight clothes. Where he goes, his clothes should be so snug that all the time he feels he can leap out of his body; at any moment he can spring out. Clothes should be that tight. Such clothes become an ally in fighting.
Saffron robes also have their use. It is not that without saffron one cannot be a sannyasin. But saffron has its utility—and those who discovered this had many reasons behind it.
First, a small, simple experiment that we rarely think about or try, hence we miss its significance. Take seven bottles of colored glass—seven colors—and fill them with the same river water. Hang all seven in the sunlight. You will be astonished! The seven colors of the glass will produce seven different kinds of water in those bottles. The water in the yellow bottle will spoil quickly; it cannot remain clean for long. The water in the red bottle will stay fresh for a month; it won’t spoil. You will ask, “What did the bottle do?” The color of the glass is altering the passage of rays. Different kinds of rays enter the yellow bottle, different in the red, different in the blue. The water inside is drinking those rays; they become its nourishment.
After thousands of years of experimentation, those who explored sannyas in many directions chose saffron from among many possibilities. There are many experiences behind it. One very remarkable fact—those who know a little physics will understand—is that the color a cloth appears is actually the color it throws back to us. Generally, we understand the opposite. We think, “This cloth is red, so it is red.” The reality is the reverse.
Sunlight contains seven colors. When sunlight falls on something, if a cloth appears red to you, it means that cloth has absorbed six colors and reflected the red back. You see the color that things return to you. A blue object means the blue ray has been reflected; the object did not absorb it, did not drink it—it let it go. That ray comes back and strikes your eyes, hence the object appears blue. And the amusing point is: that object does not drink the blue. It releases it. The color of the garment you wear is the color whose rays will not enter your body.
Saffron robes were chosen with much thought. The red ray stirs many kinds of sensual energies in a person’s psyche; it is very vital. Entering the body, the red ray arouses sexuality. That is why people of hot countries tend to be more sensual. The hotter the land, the more sensual the people. You will be surprised to know that no book to rival the Kama Sutra arose in cold countries; nothing like the Arabian Nights came from cold lands. Hot countries are more sensual—the fierce, burning sun; its rays enter the body.
Those who experimented widely with sannyas also considered this: if the red ray can be reflected away from the body, sexuality is calmed. Hence saffron was chosen. Pure bright red could have been chosen—but a slight shift was made to orange, to ochre, not a stark red. There is something significant in this. Pure red could have been selected; it would have reflected the red ray completely. But if the red ray is totally reflected, the body’s health begins to suffer; a little should still enter.
There is another reason: if the red ray is fully reflected by my clothes, whoever’s eyes it strikes can be harmed by it. And it is a lovely concern that the sannyasin even considered that his clothes should not harm others.
Try holding a red cloth before a bull—have you ever tried?—you will see that the bull reacts to certain colors. He bristles at the sight of red. The blow of red upon the eye is strong.
Those who work on color psychology have found astonishing things. In the West today there is much research on color because its uses have become evident. A very big shopkeeper, the owner of a supermarket in America, commissioned research: on the boxes in which we package goods, what colors should we use to influence sales? The findings were surprising. They tracked the women who come to shop: throughout the day they recorded which colors their eyes picked up most. They found that if the same box was painted yellow, sales were twenty percent; paint that same box red and sales rose to eighty percent. The box is the same, the product the same, the name the same—only the color changed. Red strongly catches women’s eyes. That is why, the world over, women have worn red more than any other color.
There are reasons for not keeping to red. We moved a shade away from red—saffron. This ochre, this saffron color, carries all the benefits of red and none of its harms. First, it greatly attenuates inner sexuality. Second—there are many points; I cannot say everything, it is a long subject. To understand color fully would take long. But a few things can be noted. Saffron is the color of sunrise. When dawn breaks and the sun is just rising, that is its hue. In meditation too, when entry begins, the first light within is saffron; and the final experience of light is blue. The color of light begins as saffron within and culminates in indigo-blue.
The first stage of meditation is signaled by that color. And when a sannyasin enters meditation, those colors begin to appear to him. If, throughout the day, with open eyes, he keeps seeing that color again and again, a remembering returns; an association is made between the two, an inner linkage. Whenever he sees his saffron robe, at once meditation is remembered. Twenty-five times a day, for no apparent reason, remembrance of meditation arises and he slips back in.
You go to the market to buy something, you tie a knot in your cloth. What has a knot to do with what you need to buy? No relation at all. But in the market, the moment you notice the knot, you remember what to bring. An association has formed—a conditioning.
Pavlov did an experiment. He set bread before a dog and rang a bell alongside. Seeing the bread, saliva flowed in the dog’s mouth. After fifteen days he stopped giving bread and only rang the bell. But just on hearing the bell, saliva began to flow. What happened to the dog? A link, an association formed between the bell and the bread—a conditioned reflex arose. Now the ringing of the bell instantly evokes the memory of bread.
We live our whole lives this way. We keep doing this all our lives—but we have produced all kinds of wrong conditioned reflexes.
If the first color-experience of meditation returns to the sannyasin twenty-five, fifty, a hundred times a day—whenever he gets up, sits down, sleeps, bathes, takes off his clothes, puts them on—again and again remembrance of meditation returns. He has a knot with him that serves him. But this does not mean that without saffron robes one cannot be a sannyasin. Sannyas is too great a thing to be bound by garments. Yet clothes are not utterly useless; they have their own meaningfulness. Therefore I would prefer to see millions across the earth in saffron robes.
Osho, what is the difference between a seeker (sadhak) and a sannyasin? And can someone be a seeker without becoming a sannyasin?
Without becoming a sannyasin, no one can be a seeker. “Seeker” means the beginning of sannyas. In fact, being a seeker means to practice sannyas. Sannyas is sadhana—what else will a seeker do? One has to:
- go, in the world, gradually beyond all pleasures and pains and attain bliss;
- go beyond the doer (karta) and realize the witness (sakshi);
- go beyond the ego and realize the void (shunya);
- go beyond matter and realize the Supreme (Paramatman).
The collective name for all this is sannyas. “Seeker” means sannyas has begun; “siddha” means sannyas is complete. Between the two lies the journey—the journey of sannyas. It is for sannyas that there is sadhana.
So the very meaning of “seeker” is that he has set out in search of sannyas. But keep in mind what I mean by sannyas: my sannyas is of attainment, of gaining—each day the Vast, each day to go on attaining the Vast.
- go, in the world, gradually beyond all pleasures and pains and attain bliss;
- go beyond the doer (karta) and realize the witness (sakshi);
- go beyond the ego and realize the void (shunya);
- go beyond matter and realize the Supreme (Paramatman).
The collective name for all this is sannyas. “Seeker” means sannyas has begun; “siddha” means sannyas is complete. Between the two lies the journey—the journey of sannyas. It is for sannyas that there is sadhana.
So the very meaning of “seeker” is that he has set out in search of sannyas. But keep in mind what I mean by sannyas: my sannyas is of attainment, of gaining—each day the Vast, each day to go on attaining the Vast.
Osho, what would be the daily routine of your sannyasin?
What will be the routine of “a sannyasin”! Not “my sannyasin,” because how can there be “my sannyasin”? Let’s talk about a sannyasin’s routine. In fact, the moment we make a routine, we have already done the damage.
Someone asked a Zen fakir, “What is your routine?” He said: “When sleep comes, I go to sleep; when sleep is over, I get up. When I’m hungry, I eat; when I’m not hungry, I don’t eat at all.”
He spoke rightly. A sannyasin means someone who doesn’t impose anything, who lives in naturalness. We are very strange people. When sleep comes, we resist it; when it doesn’t, we toss and turn and chant sleep-mantras. When we’re not hungry, we eat; when we are hungry, we hold back because “the time hasn’t come yet.” We throw life into chaos and destroy the body’s own internal order.
A sannyasin means he will live by the wisdom of the body, the body’s own inner intelligence. He will sleep when sleep comes; he will wake when sleep is over. He won’t get up at Brahmamuhurta; he will call the moment he awakens his Brahmamuhurta. He will say, “When God wakes me, that is Brahmamuhurta.” He will be that natural. Therefore I cannot prescribe a routine. And whenever a routine is fixed, difficulties begin—because I’ll fix it according to my system. My system cannot be yours. If I say, “Get up at three in the morning,” maybe for me it’s blissful to rise at three, while for you it may become the cause of illness. Every person’s body has its own order.
We don’t usually take this into account. People often tell me, “Women these days have become so lazy; the husband has to get up and make tea while the wife keeps sleeping.” You don’t know—this is quite appropriate. In women, the internal rhythm of waking lags about two hours behind men. If a man can get up at five, a woman can get up at seven.
There has been much work on this. Sleep research around the world has produced surprising findings: in every twenty-four hours, for two hours a person’s body temperature drops. Everyone’s. You may have noticed that around four in the morning you start feeling cold. It’s not that the weather suddenly cooled; your body temperature has fallen. For two hours in every twenty-four, everyone’s body temperature drops. Which two hours? They differ for each person. For some it’s from two to four at night, for some from three to five, for some from five to seven. Those two hours are the hours of deepest sleep. If someone doesn’t get those two hours, he will be disturbed the whole day. But those hours are different for each one. Experiments on about ten thousand people in America over the last five years have found that each person’s timing is unique.
So now nothing can be decided for all about when to get up. It has to be left to you: get up and, after a few days of experimenting, see when you remain fresh the whole day—that is your time to rise. And the time when you sleep most deeply—that is your time to go to sleep.
Nor can we fix the length of time. One person completes his sleep in five hours, another in seven, someone else may need eight. Someone might even manage in three. But the person who manages in three becomes dangerous—he starts telling others, “You’re lazy, tamasic. Are you crazy?” Having slept three hours, he is filled with ego. He thinks he’s doing some great sattvic feat. Others who sleep six hours are tamasic—he starts looking at them with contempt. And if he knows how to write books, then it becomes very dangerous—he lays down rules: “Rise at three every day, or you’ll go to hell.” But if you rise at three, you’ll be in hell even before you get there.
How much to eat, what to eat, what to wear, how to wear it, how to sleep—these can be discussed in very general terms, but a routine cannot be made. You have to set your own routine—individual to individual. Each person must decide for himself. At least keep that much freedom. The worldly may not be able to; a sannyasin can. In fact, a sannyasin must—strictly—that whatever is comfortable, peaceful, blissful for him, he will live that way. Only keep one thing in mind: that it should not cause hurt, pain, or trouble to anyone—anyone at all. Live like that; such a guideline is enough. I would have to go into detail with you, because generalities can be said—what to eat or not—but nothing can be made rigid.
Now, we see a man smoking. The whole world is against him, yet he keeps smoking. Doctors explain he will get sick. He says, “I agree; it seems absolutely true—but I can’t quit.” What’s going on? Could it be that the cigarette is fulfilling some crucial need for him?
It is. In a line of inquiry in Mexico, it was found that people who become crazy about smoking often have a deficiency of nicotine in the body. They have to make up nicotine somehow—whether from cigarettes, tea, coffee, cocoa, or chewing tobacco; all of these contain nicotine. They will make it up from somewhere. But the poor fellow gets trapped—and labeled immoral.
Now a man draws smoke in and lets it out—he isn’t committing any moral crime. At most he’s being unwise, not immoral. What’s immoral about taking smoke in and out? Just don’t blow it into someone else’s nose—that much is enough. Ask the other, “Do I have your permission to draw some smoke in and out?” If he does that, he harms no one. It’s an innocent nonsense—one should say, an innocent stupidity. He takes smoke in, lets it out. But it may be a need. Better that he goes and understands it.
Even about the body our knowledge is very limited. Medical science has developed so much, yet our understanding is still small. We have not yet grasped all the body’s secrets—what it demands, needs, suffers, finds difficult. But the body, by unknown pathways, catches hold of us and gets its needs met. It says, “Smoke a cigarette,” it says, “Chew tobacco.” Once it catches hold and begins to be gratified, it doesn’t let go. It’s not that everyone who smokes has a deficiency. Nine out of ten smoke because they see others smoking. And once they start by imitation, then a kind of habit, a mechanical habit, takes hold. Then they keep smoking; if they don’t, it becomes a problem.
But nothing can be decided from above. And certainly no single plan can be made for everyone—how to rise, sit, sleep, eat, and drink. Yes, some broad points can be stated:
- Whatever you do, do it wakefully, consciously.
- Whatever you do, do it keeping in view your well-being and the well-being of others.
- Whatever increases health, peace, and joy, do that; whatever diminishes them, don’t.
- Whatever you eat or drink should not become a burden; it should lighten, strengthen, and refresh you.
- Whatever you eat or drink should not cause unnecessary, pointless violence or hurt to anyone.
- In food, give importance to health. Learn the art of taste. Let taste depend less on objects and more on the art of eating.
On the basis of such broad points, look at your own personality and make decisions.
There is no one else’s discipline; no imposed code. Each person is self-governing. And sannyas precisely means we declare the right to our own decisions—that now we will shape ourselves in our own way.
You’ll say, “What if one makes a mistake?”
If he does, he will suffer the pain of it. You need not be troubled. If he errs, as with any error, he will receive its pain. If he does rightly, he will find joy. Others should not be overly eager that no one else errs—such eagerness is unethical. Who are you to prevent another even from making a mistake? Let him make it. Only at the point where his mistake becomes painful to others can he be restrained; otherwise, no. Let him err. If his mistake brings suffering, it will bring it to him. And a sannyasin means he lives with discernment; he keeps inquiring all the time: what brings suffering, what brings joy? He will accept what brings joy; what brings suffering he will, gradually, drop. He has set out on a journey in search of his bliss. Do not worry on his behalf.
Yet I am amazed: the sannyasin himself is not as anxious as the people gathered around him are—“Is he making some mistake?”
These self-appointed judges—who wrote them a deed authorizing them to worry whether someone is erring? “Does the sannyasin sleep on time? Does he get up at Brahmamuhurta? Does he sleep in the day?” Who are you? Why are you after someone?
There is a reason behind it: we relish it. These are techniques of torture, ways to harass another. And then we say, “We give you respect only because you don’t err.” We strike a bargain. We trap the person. Does he want your respect? Then fine—he must follow your rules. Or, if he is clever, he will outwardly show he follows the rules and inwardly keep breaking them.
I cannot allow a sannyasin to become a hypocrite. There is only one way to keep him from hypocrisy: stop worrying about him; let him worry about himself. Otherwise he will become a hypocrite inevitably. We have turned all sannyasins into hypocrites because we have put them in a bind. There is a class of monks who may not bathe. People around them keep watch—“Did he bathe?” They push him into filth, and he gets covered in filth. But in exchange they give him respect, touch his feet; he thinks, “In return for not bathing I get my feet touched—let the bargain stand.” In private, when he finds a chance, he wets a cloth and gives himself a sponge wash, does a little cleaning. But we are pushing him into theft and guilt; we are shoving him into guilt over bathing.
Just the other day a gentleman came to me. He said, “That nun who comes to you—we’ve heard she uses toothpaste?” I said, “Have you gone mad? Whether a sannyasini uses toothpaste or not—do you work in the toothpaste trade? What’s it to you?” He said, “In our community, brushing with a twig is forbidden.” Then don’t do it—I told him. If it’s forbidden in your community, who is asking you to? They are happily using toothpaste; their sannyasin cannot—because there’s a reason: they give respect and demand a return.
So to my sannyasin—the one I consider a sannyasin—I say: don’t ask for respect; otherwise bondage will begin. Don’t ask. Otherwise all kinds of cheats and thieves are everywhere; they will trap you at once. They will say, “We will give respect, touch your feet—but we have conditions: do this, this, and this.” A sannyasin means one who says, “I don’t care for your society or your conditions. I have begun to care for myself. Now, please, don’t worry about me.”
One’s own discernment is his lamp on the path.
Someone asked a Zen fakir, “What is your routine?” He said: “When sleep comes, I go to sleep; when sleep is over, I get up. When I’m hungry, I eat; when I’m not hungry, I don’t eat at all.”
He spoke rightly. A sannyasin means someone who doesn’t impose anything, who lives in naturalness. We are very strange people. When sleep comes, we resist it; when it doesn’t, we toss and turn and chant sleep-mantras. When we’re not hungry, we eat; when we are hungry, we hold back because “the time hasn’t come yet.” We throw life into chaos and destroy the body’s own internal order.
A sannyasin means he will live by the wisdom of the body, the body’s own inner intelligence. He will sleep when sleep comes; he will wake when sleep is over. He won’t get up at Brahmamuhurta; he will call the moment he awakens his Brahmamuhurta. He will say, “When God wakes me, that is Brahmamuhurta.” He will be that natural. Therefore I cannot prescribe a routine. And whenever a routine is fixed, difficulties begin—because I’ll fix it according to my system. My system cannot be yours. If I say, “Get up at three in the morning,” maybe for me it’s blissful to rise at three, while for you it may become the cause of illness. Every person’s body has its own order.
We don’t usually take this into account. People often tell me, “Women these days have become so lazy; the husband has to get up and make tea while the wife keeps sleeping.” You don’t know—this is quite appropriate. In women, the internal rhythm of waking lags about two hours behind men. If a man can get up at five, a woman can get up at seven.
There has been much work on this. Sleep research around the world has produced surprising findings: in every twenty-four hours, for two hours a person’s body temperature drops. Everyone’s. You may have noticed that around four in the morning you start feeling cold. It’s not that the weather suddenly cooled; your body temperature has fallen. For two hours in every twenty-four, everyone’s body temperature drops. Which two hours? They differ for each person. For some it’s from two to four at night, for some from three to five, for some from five to seven. Those two hours are the hours of deepest sleep. If someone doesn’t get those two hours, he will be disturbed the whole day. But those hours are different for each one. Experiments on about ten thousand people in America over the last five years have found that each person’s timing is unique.
So now nothing can be decided for all about when to get up. It has to be left to you: get up and, after a few days of experimenting, see when you remain fresh the whole day—that is your time to rise. And the time when you sleep most deeply—that is your time to go to sleep.
Nor can we fix the length of time. One person completes his sleep in five hours, another in seven, someone else may need eight. Someone might even manage in three. But the person who manages in three becomes dangerous—he starts telling others, “You’re lazy, tamasic. Are you crazy?” Having slept three hours, he is filled with ego. He thinks he’s doing some great sattvic feat. Others who sleep six hours are tamasic—he starts looking at them with contempt. And if he knows how to write books, then it becomes very dangerous—he lays down rules: “Rise at three every day, or you’ll go to hell.” But if you rise at three, you’ll be in hell even before you get there.
How much to eat, what to eat, what to wear, how to wear it, how to sleep—these can be discussed in very general terms, but a routine cannot be made. You have to set your own routine—individual to individual. Each person must decide for himself. At least keep that much freedom. The worldly may not be able to; a sannyasin can. In fact, a sannyasin must—strictly—that whatever is comfortable, peaceful, blissful for him, he will live that way. Only keep one thing in mind: that it should not cause hurt, pain, or trouble to anyone—anyone at all. Live like that; such a guideline is enough. I would have to go into detail with you, because generalities can be said—what to eat or not—but nothing can be made rigid.
Now, we see a man smoking. The whole world is against him, yet he keeps smoking. Doctors explain he will get sick. He says, “I agree; it seems absolutely true—but I can’t quit.” What’s going on? Could it be that the cigarette is fulfilling some crucial need for him?
It is. In a line of inquiry in Mexico, it was found that people who become crazy about smoking often have a deficiency of nicotine in the body. They have to make up nicotine somehow—whether from cigarettes, tea, coffee, cocoa, or chewing tobacco; all of these contain nicotine. They will make it up from somewhere. But the poor fellow gets trapped—and labeled immoral.
Now a man draws smoke in and lets it out—he isn’t committing any moral crime. At most he’s being unwise, not immoral. What’s immoral about taking smoke in and out? Just don’t blow it into someone else’s nose—that much is enough. Ask the other, “Do I have your permission to draw some smoke in and out?” If he does that, he harms no one. It’s an innocent nonsense—one should say, an innocent stupidity. He takes smoke in, lets it out. But it may be a need. Better that he goes and understands it.
Even about the body our knowledge is very limited. Medical science has developed so much, yet our understanding is still small. We have not yet grasped all the body’s secrets—what it demands, needs, suffers, finds difficult. But the body, by unknown pathways, catches hold of us and gets its needs met. It says, “Smoke a cigarette,” it says, “Chew tobacco.” Once it catches hold and begins to be gratified, it doesn’t let go. It’s not that everyone who smokes has a deficiency. Nine out of ten smoke because they see others smoking. And once they start by imitation, then a kind of habit, a mechanical habit, takes hold. Then they keep smoking; if they don’t, it becomes a problem.
But nothing can be decided from above. And certainly no single plan can be made for everyone—how to rise, sit, sleep, eat, and drink. Yes, some broad points can be stated:
- Whatever you do, do it wakefully, consciously.
- Whatever you do, do it keeping in view your well-being and the well-being of others.
- Whatever increases health, peace, and joy, do that; whatever diminishes them, don’t.
- Whatever you eat or drink should not become a burden; it should lighten, strengthen, and refresh you.
- Whatever you eat or drink should not cause unnecessary, pointless violence or hurt to anyone.
- In food, give importance to health. Learn the art of taste. Let taste depend less on objects and more on the art of eating.
On the basis of such broad points, look at your own personality and make decisions.
There is no one else’s discipline; no imposed code. Each person is self-governing. And sannyas precisely means we declare the right to our own decisions—that now we will shape ourselves in our own way.
You’ll say, “What if one makes a mistake?”
If he does, he will suffer the pain of it. You need not be troubled. If he errs, as with any error, he will receive its pain. If he does rightly, he will find joy. Others should not be overly eager that no one else errs—such eagerness is unethical. Who are you to prevent another even from making a mistake? Let him make it. Only at the point where his mistake becomes painful to others can he be restrained; otherwise, no. Let him err. If his mistake brings suffering, it will bring it to him. And a sannyasin means he lives with discernment; he keeps inquiring all the time: what brings suffering, what brings joy? He will accept what brings joy; what brings suffering he will, gradually, drop. He has set out on a journey in search of his bliss. Do not worry on his behalf.
Yet I am amazed: the sannyasin himself is not as anxious as the people gathered around him are—“Is he making some mistake?”
These self-appointed judges—who wrote them a deed authorizing them to worry whether someone is erring? “Does the sannyasin sleep on time? Does he get up at Brahmamuhurta? Does he sleep in the day?” Who are you? Why are you after someone?
There is a reason behind it: we relish it. These are techniques of torture, ways to harass another. And then we say, “We give you respect only because you don’t err.” We strike a bargain. We trap the person. Does he want your respect? Then fine—he must follow your rules. Or, if he is clever, he will outwardly show he follows the rules and inwardly keep breaking them.
I cannot allow a sannyasin to become a hypocrite. There is only one way to keep him from hypocrisy: stop worrying about him; let him worry about himself. Otherwise he will become a hypocrite inevitably. We have turned all sannyasins into hypocrites because we have put them in a bind. There is a class of monks who may not bathe. People around them keep watch—“Did he bathe?” They push him into filth, and he gets covered in filth. But in exchange they give him respect, touch his feet; he thinks, “In return for not bathing I get my feet touched—let the bargain stand.” In private, when he finds a chance, he wets a cloth and gives himself a sponge wash, does a little cleaning. But we are pushing him into theft and guilt; we are shoving him into guilt over bathing.
Just the other day a gentleman came to me. He said, “That nun who comes to you—we’ve heard she uses toothpaste?” I said, “Have you gone mad? Whether a sannyasini uses toothpaste or not—do you work in the toothpaste trade? What’s it to you?” He said, “In our community, brushing with a twig is forbidden.” Then don’t do it—I told him. If it’s forbidden in your community, who is asking you to? They are happily using toothpaste; their sannyasin cannot—because there’s a reason: they give respect and demand a return.
So to my sannyasin—the one I consider a sannyasin—I say: don’t ask for respect; otherwise bondage will begin. Don’t ask. Otherwise all kinds of cheats and thieves are everywhere; they will trap you at once. They will say, “We will give respect, touch your feet—but we have conditions: do this, this, and this.” A sannyasin means one who says, “I don’t care for your society or your conditions. I have begun to care for myself. Now, please, don’t worry about me.”
One’s own discernment is his lamp on the path.
Osho, while speaking about your sannyasin you said that sannyas is an event of bliss, not of renunciation. In my view Shankaracharya became a sannyasin out of bliss, and these sannyasins too will value bliss rather than renunciation—so in that sense they are your sannyasins as well. Secondly, you emphasize acting; please clarify. A sannyasin sitting in a shop could even act at black marketing! And then, you ask us to wear ochre robes, but you yourself do not wear them—why?
Let us start with the third: that a sannyasin sitting in a shop will play the role of a shopkeeper—that is fine—but he might even act at black marketing!
If he does, it will not do much harm, because had he not become a sannyasin he would still have done black marketing. No one is losing anything by it. But I hold that a person in whom the idea of sannyas has arisen—who has gathered courage to make an experiment in life, and who is acting the shopkeeper—will not be able to act black marketing. Because to do black marketing, acting is not enough; one has to be a doer.
The worse the deed, the more necessary it is to be the doer. To do an evil act—because there is an inner sting, a hurt in it—one has to be involved, committed; one has to be immersed in it. I cannot stab someone as mere acting. It would be difficult, because another person’s life would be at stake; and in acting, stabbing loses all meaning.
If the notion of acting is rightly understood, first I say this: even if he does black marketing, no one is really being harmed, because the one who, as a sannyasin, is doing black marketing would in any case have done it without being a sannyasin. So there is nothing to worry about there. For me there is another, far greater likelihood: one filled with the impulse to become a sannyasin will not go to act black marketing. He cannot. The awareness, the discrimination that belongs to being a sannyasin will itself tell him what to do and what not to do. He will act only where it is absolutely to be done, where it is truly his duty—where to drop it would be escapism, to step aside would be evading responsibility, to run away would become an arrangement for someone’s suffering and pain. Only that much will he act. Acting will always be of what is supremely to be done, of what is utterly necessary. There will be no need to act the unnecessary; those parts will be cut off—on their own they will fall away.
Second, you ask about ochre robes—why am I not wearing ochre?
Deliberately. First, before I could wear ochre robes, sannyas had already happened. Before I could think, “If I wear ochre robes, sannyas will happen,” sannyas had already happened. Afterwards there was no meaning left, no reason to wear them. Second, if I wear ochre robes and then say there is some use in ochre robes, it may look as though I am eager to make others wear what I myself wear. No—I do not wish to drape my face over anyone else. Therefore, whatever I wear, however I sit and move, the way I live—I have not the slightest desire to throw it over someone else, to cover someone else with it.
Had I worn ochre robes and then spoken about them, it might have seemed I was praising my own clothes. But since I am without ochre robes, it is very clear I have no personal attachment to them. Therefore, if I praise ochre robes at all, it is only for scientific reasons; there is no other reason. I myself do not wear them; I have no personal attachment. I am entirely outside.
Thirdly, you said that Shankaracharya too took sannyas out of bliss.
I do not agree. In Shankaracharya there is a deep attitude of negation toward the world. The negation is so profound that he is continuously striving to prove the world as maya: “This world is false, this world is an illusion, this world is maya, it really is not.” His insistence on proving this is so intense that it is also clear that the world is troubling him from all sides. The very existence of the world pricks him so much that without denying it, without making it a dream, he cannot be free. Shankara’s negation is very deep.
Shankara does speak of bliss, but there is a fundamental difference between his bliss and mine. He speaks of the bliss that becomes available through the renunciation of this world—through dropping maya and uniting with Brahman. I speak of the bliss that becomes available by accepting the total, the whole: maya and Brahman, the world and the divine, everything. There is no negation anywhere in my mind; there is no renunciation anywhere in my mind. Even when Shankara speaks of bliss, it is hidden in the renunciation of the world, in leaving the world. For me, bliss is so vast that the world too is contained in it, the divine is contained in it—everything is contained in it. In bliss, for me, there is no negation of anything.
And the last point: when I said “my sannyasins,” it was not a slip of the tongue. My tongue is strange—it slips only with difficulty. The first time a friend asked, “your sannyasins,” I refused—do not say “my.” But my purpose was different: how can a sannyasin be “mine”? Yet when I said it again later, the tongue had not slipped. I said, “my sannyasins.”
A sannyasin cannot be mine—but I can be of the sannyasins. And for that sannyasin, that sannyasin of bliss of whom I speak, I have an attachment. There is no expectation from him toward me—no expectation that he should keep any kind of relationship with me. But I have an attachment. And my attachment is this: I see that only in that kind of sannyasin is there the possibility for sannyas to survive in the future—there is hope; there is a future.
If he does, it will not do much harm, because had he not become a sannyasin he would still have done black marketing. No one is losing anything by it. But I hold that a person in whom the idea of sannyas has arisen—who has gathered courage to make an experiment in life, and who is acting the shopkeeper—will not be able to act black marketing. Because to do black marketing, acting is not enough; one has to be a doer.
The worse the deed, the more necessary it is to be the doer. To do an evil act—because there is an inner sting, a hurt in it—one has to be involved, committed; one has to be immersed in it. I cannot stab someone as mere acting. It would be difficult, because another person’s life would be at stake; and in acting, stabbing loses all meaning.
If the notion of acting is rightly understood, first I say this: even if he does black marketing, no one is really being harmed, because the one who, as a sannyasin, is doing black marketing would in any case have done it without being a sannyasin. So there is nothing to worry about there. For me there is another, far greater likelihood: one filled with the impulse to become a sannyasin will not go to act black marketing. He cannot. The awareness, the discrimination that belongs to being a sannyasin will itself tell him what to do and what not to do. He will act only where it is absolutely to be done, where it is truly his duty—where to drop it would be escapism, to step aside would be evading responsibility, to run away would become an arrangement for someone’s suffering and pain. Only that much will he act. Acting will always be of what is supremely to be done, of what is utterly necessary. There will be no need to act the unnecessary; those parts will be cut off—on their own they will fall away.
Second, you ask about ochre robes—why am I not wearing ochre?
Deliberately. First, before I could wear ochre robes, sannyas had already happened. Before I could think, “If I wear ochre robes, sannyas will happen,” sannyas had already happened. Afterwards there was no meaning left, no reason to wear them. Second, if I wear ochre robes and then say there is some use in ochre robes, it may look as though I am eager to make others wear what I myself wear. No—I do not wish to drape my face over anyone else. Therefore, whatever I wear, however I sit and move, the way I live—I have not the slightest desire to throw it over someone else, to cover someone else with it.
Had I worn ochre robes and then spoken about them, it might have seemed I was praising my own clothes. But since I am without ochre robes, it is very clear I have no personal attachment to them. Therefore, if I praise ochre robes at all, it is only for scientific reasons; there is no other reason. I myself do not wear them; I have no personal attachment. I am entirely outside.
Thirdly, you said that Shankaracharya too took sannyas out of bliss.
I do not agree. In Shankaracharya there is a deep attitude of negation toward the world. The negation is so profound that he is continuously striving to prove the world as maya: “This world is false, this world is an illusion, this world is maya, it really is not.” His insistence on proving this is so intense that it is also clear that the world is troubling him from all sides. The very existence of the world pricks him so much that without denying it, without making it a dream, he cannot be free. Shankara’s negation is very deep.
Shankara does speak of bliss, but there is a fundamental difference between his bliss and mine. He speaks of the bliss that becomes available through the renunciation of this world—through dropping maya and uniting with Brahman. I speak of the bliss that becomes available by accepting the total, the whole: maya and Brahman, the world and the divine, everything. There is no negation anywhere in my mind; there is no renunciation anywhere in my mind. Even when Shankara speaks of bliss, it is hidden in the renunciation of the world, in leaving the world. For me, bliss is so vast that the world too is contained in it, the divine is contained in it—everything is contained in it. In bliss, for me, there is no negation of anything.
And the last point: when I said “my sannyasins,” it was not a slip of the tongue. My tongue is strange—it slips only with difficulty. The first time a friend asked, “your sannyasins,” I refused—do not say “my.” But my purpose was different: how can a sannyasin be “mine”? Yet when I said it again later, the tongue had not slipped. I said, “my sannyasins.”
A sannyasin cannot be mine—but I can be of the sannyasins. And for that sannyasin, that sannyasin of bliss of whom I speak, I have an attachment. There is no expectation from him toward me—no expectation that he should keep any kind of relationship with me. But I have an attachment. And my attachment is this: I see that only in that kind of sannyasin is there the possibility for sannyas to survive in the future—there is hope; there is a future.
Osho, you have said that initiation into sannyas is a direct matter between the individual and the divine. But then the question arises: if, in initiation, we place you in between as a witness, wouldn’t that amount to distrust of sannyas?
You are absolutely right that it is a matter between you and the divine; if that much is understood, there is no need at all for me to be a witness.
But you have come here because a direct relationship between you and the divine is not happening. Otherwise, why would you wander around here? Why would you be troubled?
We feel joy here; that is why we come.
Then I will be the witness! In that condition I will be the witness.
Won’t a sect form around you then?
You ask whether a sect will form. No, a sect will not form. It won’t, because certain requirements are indispensable for forming a sect: first, a guru; a scripture; a doctrine; a label. And not only that—there must also be the insistence that whatever is different, other, or contrary is absolutely wrong, and this alone is absolutely right.
Now, I call a sannyasin one who has no label. Without a label, it is difficult to make a sect; without a label, a sect cannot be formed. I call a sannyasin one who has no religion. How will you create a sect without a religion? I call a sannyasin one who has no scripture, no religious teacher, no temple, no mosque, no Shiva temple, no gurdwara.
So it is difficult for a sect to form. We should make every effort that a sect does not arise, because nothing has harmed religion as much as sects have. Irreligion has not harmed religion as much as sects have. In truth, earth and stones do not cause damage; a genuine coin is harmed only by a counterfeit coin, not by mud and stones. Whenever the genuine coin of religion is harmed, it is harmed by the counterfeit coin of sectarianism. For that, great alertness is needed.
It cannot form, because I have no disciples, nor am I anyone’s guru. And for those to whom I say I am a witness, I say it only because you are not yet able to connect directly. If you can connect directly, then don’t trouble me. I am not ready to be troubled unnecessarily. I have nothing to gain or lose in it. I have no stake in it. If you connect directly—nothing could be better; there is no question better than that. Then there is no question of a witness at all.
But you have come here because a direct relationship between you and the divine is not happening. Otherwise, why would you wander around here? Why would you be troubled?
We feel joy here; that is why we come.
Then I will be the witness! In that condition I will be the witness.
Won’t a sect form around you then?
You ask whether a sect will form. No, a sect will not form. It won’t, because certain requirements are indispensable for forming a sect: first, a guru; a scripture; a doctrine; a label. And not only that—there must also be the insistence that whatever is different, other, or contrary is absolutely wrong, and this alone is absolutely right.
Now, I call a sannyasin one who has no label. Without a label, it is difficult to make a sect; without a label, a sect cannot be formed. I call a sannyasin one who has no religion. How will you create a sect without a religion? I call a sannyasin one who has no scripture, no religious teacher, no temple, no mosque, no Shiva temple, no gurdwara.
So it is difficult for a sect to form. We should make every effort that a sect does not arise, because nothing has harmed religion as much as sects have. Irreligion has not harmed religion as much as sects have. In truth, earth and stones do not cause damage; a genuine coin is harmed only by a counterfeit coin, not by mud and stones. Whenever the genuine coin of religion is harmed, it is harmed by the counterfeit coin of sectarianism. For that, great alertness is needed.
It cannot form, because I have no disciples, nor am I anyone’s guru. And for those to whom I say I am a witness, I say it only because you are not yet able to connect directly. If you can connect directly, then don’t trouble me. I am not ready to be troubled unnecessarily. I have nothing to gain or lose in it. I have no stake in it. If you connect directly—nothing could be better; there is no question better than that. Then there is no question of a witness at all.
Osho, do the mala and the renaming have any special significance?
Yes, they do; there is great meaning. Changing a sannyasin’s name has deep significance. It is symbolic. And in our lives, everything is symbolic. You have lived with one name; your identity is tied to it. A name has been your symbol. Your personality has become connected with it. Your name is associated with all that you were till yesterday; it is linked to that. The meaning of changing a sannyasin’s name is that we break him from his old identity. We say: now you are not who you were till yesterday. Now you set out on a new journey, carrying a new identity.
In the old days, when initiation was given, they performed a small experiment. It was like this: just as we bathe a corpse before placing it on the bier, so they would bathe him. Just as we shave a corpse’s hair, shave the head, so they would shave his head. Then, just as a corpse is laid on the bier, they would lay him on a bier. Then they would set fire to the bier. And all those standing around—whom I would call sakshi, witnesses—would say to him: now let that which you were till yesterday be burned away. And now, as we pull you out of the pyre, this is your rebirth, reborn; now you are dvija, twice-born.
This was only a symbolic ritual. In itself, it seems there is no harm if you don’t do it. There is no harm. If understanding is great, then in this world no ritual, nothing at all, is needed. But where is such understanding? This helps in breaking the identity. Suddenly it is clear that you are no longer the same. Again and again, whenever it occurs to you that the name you had till yesterday is no more, that now you have another name—when someone on the road calls you, not by the name you had till yesterday but by the new name—you will be startled. From within, the identity will keep breaking day by day, and you will see that the person you were till yesterday has ended, and a new journey has begun. Changing the name is used to keep this remembrance alive.
You also asked what the mala might mean.
Nothing is ever useless in itself. By long, continued use it becomes useless—that is another matter. All things, as they go on and on, get worn out and dirty.
In a mala you will have seen one hundred and eight beads. But perhaps it never occurred to you what they signify. There are one hundred and eight methods of meditation. One hundred and eight paths of meditation. Through one hundred and eight techniques, meditation is possible. And if our relationship continues, gradually I intend to bring all one hundred and eight methods to your awareness. Those one hundred and eight beads are symbols of the one hundred and eight meditations. And when a sakshi would give someone that mala, he would remind him: I have explained to you only one path; there are another one hundred and seven. So do not be in a hurry to call another wrong. And always remember: there are infinite paths to Him. And below the one hundred and eight beads you will have seen a large bead hanging. That is the message that whichever of the hundred and eight you follow, in the end one arrives at the One. Come from anywhere, you arrive at the One. So that single bead hanging below—all of it is symbolic, poetic; but meaningful.
A man brings a woman home in marriage. Then we change her name in the household. Have you ever asked why we change it? We break the identity. She is a girl of another house. She grew up elsewhere, in another family, born into other conditionings. Her entire old personality is connected with that name. When we bring her into the house, we change her name. A new journey begins. We say to her: now forget the house where you were; forget the relationships in which you were; forget the conditionings in which you were. Now a new family, a new home, a new world begins. Around your new name, a new crystallization will now happen.
So whether it is the mala or the name—or many other things—their meanings are many. But slowly, with going on and on, they have become futile. And when they become futile, I go on speaking against them a thousand times. I keep speaking against their futility. But it is very difficult for you to understand my anguish. My anguish is that I know something is meaningful, and yet it has become useless. I will keep speaking against it, and I will also do something in its favor. Now, this is my difficulty. You too will have to understand this difficulty.
I will continue to speak against certain things, because they have become futile. And yet by some route I will also do something in favor of them, because I know they were originally meaningful. And that original meaningfulness should not be lost. Both will go on together. Therefore I will turn many kinds of friends into enemies and lose many kinds of companions, and this will go on every day. And it will continue; there is no remedy for it. Because one day I will speak against the mala; when someone comes to me and begins to talk about the mala, I will speak against it.
But I have been amazed to find that when I spoke against the mala in front of the greatest sannyasins, they could not utter even a single word in its favor. I had thought someone would say something to me in defense of the mala. Since no one was found, I will have to say it myself; there is no other way.
In the old days, when initiation was given, they performed a small experiment. It was like this: just as we bathe a corpse before placing it on the bier, so they would bathe him. Just as we shave a corpse’s hair, shave the head, so they would shave his head. Then, just as a corpse is laid on the bier, they would lay him on a bier. Then they would set fire to the bier. And all those standing around—whom I would call sakshi, witnesses—would say to him: now let that which you were till yesterday be burned away. And now, as we pull you out of the pyre, this is your rebirth, reborn; now you are dvija, twice-born.
This was only a symbolic ritual. In itself, it seems there is no harm if you don’t do it. There is no harm. If understanding is great, then in this world no ritual, nothing at all, is needed. But where is such understanding? This helps in breaking the identity. Suddenly it is clear that you are no longer the same. Again and again, whenever it occurs to you that the name you had till yesterday is no more, that now you have another name—when someone on the road calls you, not by the name you had till yesterday but by the new name—you will be startled. From within, the identity will keep breaking day by day, and you will see that the person you were till yesterday has ended, and a new journey has begun. Changing the name is used to keep this remembrance alive.
You also asked what the mala might mean.
Nothing is ever useless in itself. By long, continued use it becomes useless—that is another matter. All things, as they go on and on, get worn out and dirty.
In a mala you will have seen one hundred and eight beads. But perhaps it never occurred to you what they signify. There are one hundred and eight methods of meditation. One hundred and eight paths of meditation. Through one hundred and eight techniques, meditation is possible. And if our relationship continues, gradually I intend to bring all one hundred and eight methods to your awareness. Those one hundred and eight beads are symbols of the one hundred and eight meditations. And when a sakshi would give someone that mala, he would remind him: I have explained to you only one path; there are another one hundred and seven. So do not be in a hurry to call another wrong. And always remember: there are infinite paths to Him. And below the one hundred and eight beads you will have seen a large bead hanging. That is the message that whichever of the hundred and eight you follow, in the end one arrives at the One. Come from anywhere, you arrive at the One. So that single bead hanging below—all of it is symbolic, poetic; but meaningful.
A man brings a woman home in marriage. Then we change her name in the household. Have you ever asked why we change it? We break the identity. She is a girl of another house. She grew up elsewhere, in another family, born into other conditionings. Her entire old personality is connected with that name. When we bring her into the house, we change her name. A new journey begins. We say to her: now forget the house where you were; forget the relationships in which you were; forget the conditionings in which you were. Now a new family, a new home, a new world begins. Around your new name, a new crystallization will now happen.
So whether it is the mala or the name—or many other things—their meanings are many. But slowly, with going on and on, they have become futile. And when they become futile, I go on speaking against them a thousand times. I keep speaking against their futility. But it is very difficult for you to understand my anguish. My anguish is that I know something is meaningful, and yet it has become useless. I will keep speaking against it, and I will also do something in its favor. Now, this is my difficulty. You too will have to understand this difficulty.
I will continue to speak against certain things, because they have become futile. And yet by some route I will also do something in favor of them, because I know they were originally meaningful. And that original meaningfulness should not be lost. Both will go on together. Therefore I will turn many kinds of friends into enemies and lose many kinds of companions, and this will go on every day. And it will continue; there is no remedy for it. Because one day I will speak against the mala; when someone comes to me and begins to talk about the mala, I will speak against it.
But I have been amazed to find that when I spoke against the mala in front of the greatest sannyasins, they could not utter even a single word in its favor. I had thought someone would say something to me in defense of the mala. Since no one was found, I will have to say it myself; there is no other way.
Osho's Commentary
For me, sannyas is not renunciation but rejoicing. Sannyas is not a prohibition, it is an attainment. Yet until now the earth has seen sannyas only in a negative sense—about giving up, about leaving, not about receiving. I see sannyas as receiving.
Certainly, when someone finds diamonds and jewels they drop the pebbles. But dropping the pebbles simply means making room for the diamonds. We do not “renounce” pebbles; we renounce only what we value greatly. Pebbles are thrown out the way we throw trash out of the house—we don’t keep accounts of how much trash we have renounced.
Up to now sannyas has kept accounts of what is dropped. I see sannyas in the language, in the accounting, of what is gained. Naturally, this makes a basic difference. If sannyas is joy, if sannyas is attainment, constructive, positive, then it cannot mean dispassion as gloom. It cannot mean sadness. It cannot mean opposition to life. Then its meaning becomes an “ah!” toward life; not melancholy, but cheerfulness; not shrinking, but life’s expansion, vastness, depth.
The person we have called a sannyasin till now shrinks himself, cuts himself off, closes himself from all sides. I call that one a sannyasin who connects himself with all; who does not close himself, but remains open. Then other meanings follow. A sannyas that shrinks will become a bondage, a prison; it cannot be freedom. And sannyas without freedom—how can that be sannyas? The soul of sannyas is ultimate freedom.
Therefore, for me sannyas has no code, no bondage. For me sannyas has no rules, no imposed discipline. It is not a discipline in that sense. For me, sannyas is the arising of ultimate freedom in a person’s ultimate discernment. I call that person a sannyasin who dares to live in total freedom—who does not drape himself in any bondage, system, or discipline.
This does not mean he becomes unruly or licentious. In truth, only the dependent can be licentious; only the bound can be unbridled. The free have no way to be wanton.
So I break from the past to shape the sannyasin of the future. And I see that the past framework of sannyas lies on its deathbed; indeed it has died—we are dragging the corpse. It cannot survive into the future.
Yet sannyas is a flower that must not be lost. It is such a wondrous attainment that it should not bid farewell. It is a rare flower that has bloomed now and then; it is possible we may forget it, lose it. Bound to the old arrangement, it may perish. Therefore sannyas needs new meanings, new conceptions. Sannyas must be saved—it is life’s deepest treasure. How can we save it? To that end, let me share some thoughts.
First: For long we have seen the sannyasin cut off from the world. This has caused a double loss. When the sannyasin breaks from the world, he becomes poor—deeply poor—because the whole wealth of life-experience is in the world: life’s joys and sorrows, its struggle and peace, its depths and flavors and even its insipidness. When we tear a person from the world he becomes a hothouse plant—not a flower that blooms under the open sky, but one that blossoms behind glass, in artificial air and heat. Bring it outside and it wilts and dies.
The sannyasin has become a hothouse plant. But can sannyas bloom in closed rooms? It needs the open sky, the night’s darkness and the day’s light, moon and stars, birds—and dangers too. By severing him from the world we have harmed the sannyasin—his inner richness has withered.
It is telling that the “good people,” as we ordinarily call them, do not have rich lives; they have no great store of experience. Novelists say you cannot write a story about a good man. To write a story you must choose a bad man—the bad man has a story. If from birth to death a man is purely good, that alone is the whole story; there is nothing else to tell.
By cutting the sannyasin off from experience we give him a kind of safety, but also a kind of poverty.
I want to join the sannyasin to the world. I want to see sannyasins who sit in shops, work in offices, toil in fields—who stand in the full density of life; who have not run away, are not escapists; who stand in the crowded, noisy marketplace—and yet are sannyasins. Then what will sannyas mean? If a woman becomes a sannyasin and is a wife, until now it meant she should flee—leave the husband and children. If it is a husband, he should abandon the home. For me such sannyas has no meaning. I say: if a husband becomes a sannyasin, let him remain where he is. Let sannyas blossom in his life there.
What will he do then? In flight, the path was clear: run away and you are safe. Now what? He will still be a husband, a father, a shopkeeper, an employee, an owner—entangled in a thousand relationships. Life is a web of interrelationships. What will he do here? In flight there was convenience: the world that demanded doing was gone. He sat in a corner, a forest, a cave—there he dried up and shrank. What will he do here? If not renunciation, what is the meaning of sannyas?
An actor came to me—new to films. He asked me for a line to write in his diary that would serve him. I wrote: Act as if it were life, and live as if it were acting.
This is precisely the meaning of sannyas for me. Standing in the density of life, if one wants the flower of sannyas to bloom, there is only one meaning: let him cease to be the doer or the enjoyer; let him be an actor. Let him be a witness (sakshi). Let him see, let him do, but remain unbound in his depths. Let him cross the river without the water touching his feet. It is hard to pass a river without wetting your feet; but it is possible to pass through the world without the world touching you. Understand acting a little. The wonder is: the more life becomes acting, the more skillful, easy, and free of anxiety it becomes.
If a mother can avoid becoming the doer in her mothering, can remain a witness and know this small truth—that the child she nurtures did indeed come through her, but is not hers; he was born from her, but she did not create him; she was only a doorway—then the child belongs to That from which he came, by which he lives, and to which he will return. Then the mother need not be the doer; she can be the witness; she can play the role of mother.
Try a small experiment: decide for twenty‑four hours that you will act. If someone insults you, do not be angry—act anger. If someone praises you, do not be pleased—act pleasure. This one day will open new doors in your life. You will be amazed: I was worrying needlessly. What could be done by acting, I was needlessly suffering as the doer. And when at dusk you sleep after a day of acting, you will fall straight into deep sleep—for one who is not the doer has no anxiety, no tension, no burden. All the burden is the burden of doership.
I want to bring sannyas to every home. Only then will it survive. We need millions of sannyasins. Two or four will not do. And in the way I am suggesting, millions are possible. Cut off from the world, you cannot bring many sannyasins into being—who will work for them, feed them, clothe them? A small showy number can be maintained, but not a great movement. At most a few thousand sannyasins a nation can bear. They too become poor, dependent, subservient—and their impact cannot be vast.
If we want a wide influence of sannyas—which is needed, useful, meaningful, joyful—we must gradually give place to a sannyas that does not require flight; where one can be a sannyasin right where one is; where one acts—and remains a witness; where one witnesses what is happening. Then life becomes acting and play (lila), not work; life becomes a celebration. And when celebration begins, everything changes.
Second, another vision: periodic renunciation—time‑bound sannyas. I do not believe anyone should swear to be a sannyasin for life. Any vow about the future is dangerous, because we are never the masters of the future—that is an illusion. Let the future come; when it comes, we will see. The witness cannot decide for the future—only the doer can. The one who thinks “I am the doer” can say, “I will remain a sannyasin all my life.” But the true witness will say, “I do not know about tomorrow. Whatever comes, I will see; whatever happens will happen. I cannot decide for tomorrow.”
A difficulty in past sannyas was life‑long vows. A man becomes a sannyasin in one mood, and in another mood wishes to return to life—but we have left no door open for return. There is an entrance, no exit. You can go in, but you cannot come out. Even heaven becomes hell if there is no door to return. It becomes dependence, a prison. You may say, “If a sannyasin wishes to return, who will stop him?” But you condemn him; you dishonor him. There is a cloud of condemnation.
We even devised a trick: when someone takes sannyas, we make a great hullabaloo—bands, garlands, grand praise, great honor—as if a tremendous event has occurred. The unspoken second half is: if he returns, the flowers will be replaced by stones and shoes—thrown by the very same people. By garlanding, we have told him, “Beware—do not come back; equal dishonor waits.” This is dangerous. Many who could taste the joy of sannyas never dare—because a lifetime decision is costly and difficult, and we are not competent to decide for a lifetime.
So my view is: sannyas is always time‑bound. You may return whenever you wish. Who can obstruct you? You took sannyas; you drop sannyas. No one but you is decisive in this. It is your decision alone. No one else’s approval is required; no one else is involved. Sannyas is intimate, a private decision: I take it today; I return tomorrow. Neither is there a claim on your respect when I take it, nor a right to your condemnation when I leave. You have nothing to do with it.
Sannyas has been made a grave matter—only the morbid and the solemn could take it. Sannyas must be made un‑solemn, a play, a sport. It is your delight—you take it. Your delight—you drop it tomorrow. Or your delight—you never drop it, you remain all your life. No one else has anything to do with it.
Along with this, if such a view of sannyas can spread, then anyone who can take sannyas for a month or two in a year should take it for a month or two. Why ten or twelve months? Let him be a sannyasin for two months, live the life of sannyas, and then return. This would be wondrous.
A Sufi fakir once had an emperor come to him, begging to be led to God. The fakir said, “Come tomorrow morning.” When he came, the fakir said, “Stay here seven days. Take this begging bowl and each day beg in the marketplace of your own capital, then eat here and rest here. After seven days we will speak of God.” The emperor was in a fix—beg in his own capital! He asked to go to another town. The fakir refused. “If you cannot beg for seven days, then go back—and do not speak to me of God.” The emperor hesitated, but stayed. He begged seven days. Afterward the fakir said, “Now ask.” The emperor said, “I have nothing to ask. I never imagined that by begging with a bowl for seven days I would see God. My ego melted, dissolved, flowed away. What I could not attain as emperor, I attained as a beggar. The moment humility is born within, the doors open.”
So if a person becomes a sannyasin for a month or two each year and then returns to his world, the experiences of those months will become his wealth; they will travel with him. And if, in a life of forty, fifty, sixty years, he becomes a sannyasin ten or twenty times for short periods, he will no longer need to “become” one—gradually he will be a sannyasin right where he is. Everyone should have the chance, sometime, to be a sannyasin.
Two or four more points, and then you can ask your questions.
Until now, sannyasins have always belonged to some religion. This has done great harm. To be “of some religion” and a sannyasin is a contradiction. At least a sannyasin should belong only to religion itself—neither Jain nor Christian nor Hindu, but simply of religion; at least “abandoning all religions,” shedding every sect, becoming purely religious. It would be wonderful if on this earth we could give birth to a sannyas that belongs to religion, not to a particular sect. Such a sannyasin could stay in a mosque, a temple, a gurdwara—none would be “other,” all would be his own.
Also note: until now sannyas has been bound to a guru—someone “gives” initiation. But sannyas is not something anyone can give. It is something one must take; none but the divine can give it. If someone comes to me asking for initiation, I say, “How can I give it? I can only be a witness.” Take initiation from the divine, from the supreme; I can only bear witness that in my presence this event occurred. Nothing more. Guru‑bound sannyas inevitably becomes sectarian; it brings bondage, not freedom. Then what will the sannyasin do?
There can be three kinds of sannyasins. First, those who take time‑bound sannyas—two or three months for practice, perhaps in solitude—and then return to life. Second, those who do not move an inch from where they are, not even for a moment; they become sannyasins there, and begin a life of acting and witnessing right there. Third, those who are so immersed in the bliss of sannyas that the question of returning does not arise; who have no responsibilities that bind them to a household, no one dependent on them, and whose moving here and there causes no hurt or hindrance. This third group should live in meditation and carry news of meditation to people.
It seems to me that nothing is as needed on earth today as meditation. If we cannot immerse a large portion of humanity in meditation, man may not live long; humaneness may not survive. There is such mental illness, such madness, such political sickness that hope diminishes daily. Unless millions drown in meditation, we may not be able to save man—or, if he survives, it may be as a machine, with the best of his humanity lost.
Therefore we also need a band of youths—young men and women not yet burdened with responsibility—and elders whose responsibilities are complete. Let such people devote themselves on a vast scale to immersing the earth in meditation.
The meditations I talk about are so easy and so scientific that if a hundred people do them, seventy percent will have results—provided they simply do them. No prior qualifications are required. There are no prior requirements of any religion, scripture, faith, or belief. You can enter them exactly as you are. They are straightforward scientific experiments. You need not even enter with “faith”—only with a hypothetical, experimental attitude: “Let me see if it works.” That is enough.
I feel we can spread a chain reaction of meditation across the earth. If each person who learns meditation resolves that within seven days he will teach at least one other person, then within ten years we can drown the whole earth in meditation. No greater effort is needed.
What is best in human life can return. There is no reason why Krishnas should not be born again, why Christs should not appear again, why Buddhas should not be among us. Not the same persons, but the same capacities, which are within us, can blossom again. Therefore I have decided to be a witness.
Whichever of these three streams anyone wishes to enter, I will be a witness for them—not a guru. Sannyas will be a matter between the seeker and the divine. There will be no ceremony for giving sannyas—otherwise you must hold a reverse ceremony when someone leaves. It will not be treated as a grave, serious affair. No need to be so worried and tense. It is something very simple. If in the morning it arises in your heart to become a sannyasin, become one. If the next morning it feels right to return, return. No one else has anything to do with it.
I have said a few things. If you have any questions about this, ask.