Maha Geeta #12
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, I earnestly pray that you do answer this question. How should I come for the Master’s darshan? When a disciple goes to the Master, how should he go? With the Master, how should the disciple be—what should he do and what should he not do?
Asked by “Vishnu Chaitanya.”
Osho, I earnestly pray that you do answer this question. How should I come for the Master’s darshan? When a disciple goes to the Master, how should he go? With the Master, how should the disciple be—what should he do and what should he not do?
Asked by “Vishnu Chaitanya.”
A disciple is one in whom the unquenchable longing to learn has arisen; in whom the thirst to learn has been kindled. The thirst to learn is not ordinary; the urge to teach is very ordinary. The thirst to learn is extraordinary.
Everyone wants to be a guru; to be a disciple is rare. You claim to know even what you do not know, because the claim of knowing satisfies the ego. You answer even about things you know nothing of—how could you admit that there is an answer and you don’t know it! You give such advice that, if someone followed it, he would fall into a ditch, because you are not advising from experience—you are enjoying the taste of advising.
Have you seen how people relish giving advice! Just get caught in their clutches and everyone is eager to advise. It is good that people do not take advice. The most given thing in the world is advice; the least taken thing is also advice. Who listens? Who takes it? It is good people don’t—otherwise they would go mad. There are so many advisers, so many guides!
The desire to learn is exceedingly rare, because it means accepting: I do not know; accepting: I am ignorant; accepting: I am ready to surrender, ready to extend the beggar’s bowl. Only one who has the shameless courage to hold out the beggar’s bowl becomes a disciple. Dropping all pretense, inhibition, and shame—thus one becomes a disciple.
To become a disciple means: I accept that my entire past was futile, was wrong.
Yesterday an Italian young woman took sannyas. She had drifted in here for a couple of days, by chance. She had been wandering all over the country—many ashrams, many satsangs; lost and looking, someone told her and she came here. She has to return today. Yesterday she began to weep from the heart. She said, “You have put me in great difficulty.” I asked, “What difficulty?” She said, “The difficulty is that these three days have become a crisis; it would have been better had I not come. Because in these three days I have come to see that all I knew till now was wrong; what I thought was right is not right at all—something entirely different is right. Now you have put me in a mess. I will have to come back. Now I am going—only in order to come.”
Discipleship has been born!
The moment you see that my whole past was useless, rubbish... It is very difficult to accept, because the past is your ego. Your ego stands upon all you have done, thought, understood up to now. If that was right, the ego can stand. If all that was wrong...
The moment it becomes clear to you that my entire past was a dark night, in that moment you become a disciple.
Keep this in mind: do not think, “I can become a disciple because I admit some things in the past were wrong and some were right.” It does not happen that way. Either you were wrong, or you were right. Some things right and some wrong—such a mixture does not happen.
In this search for truth there are no compromises. Truth is not a compromise. If you were right, you were right; if wrong, wrong. It is another strategy of the ego to say, “Yes, some things in our life were wrong—we will correct them; otherwise, the rest is fine.”
Then there will never be a revolution in your life—only reforms. And the longing for reform is not the disciple’s longing. The disciple longs for a great, total revolution. The disciple says: I want to cut myself off from my entire past; I want to begin afresh, I want to start again from A-B-C; I want to be born again. This is the disciple’s aspiration. One birth happened—from mother and father; now I want birth from the true master. One birth was of the body; now I want the birth of my soul.
It takes great courage! Even up to this point people agree... They come to me and say, “Yes, there are some wrong things in our life, but not everything is wrong.”
Think this over again. If you are wrong, there cannot be some parts right and some wrong—everything will be wrong. Because whatever comes from you, from your unconsciousness, may appear accidentally right, but cannot truly be right. You may have given charity, but even in your charity there will be greed, if you are greedy. You will say, greed is bad; but I built a temple, a mosque, a gurdwara—how can that be bad! I tell you: build temples, build mosques, build gurdwaras—if you are greedy, then in your temple too there will be greed—greed for the other world, greed for attaining heaven—but greed all the same. From a greedy person, true giving is impossible. Even when a greedy person gives, he gives in the hope of gaining a thousandfold on the other shore. Is that any charity? It is a bargain. Charity means: we give unconditionally. Charity means: we give because there is joy in giving. There is joy in giving here and now, therefore we give. Charity means: beyond this, there is no further connection; we seek no reciprocation, no reward. We gave because there was joy in giving. The moment you want some other fruit from giving, greed has entered.
Greed means: desire for the fruit. Charity means: giving with zero desire for the fruit; the delight of giving, the joy of giving.
If you give to someone and you even expect a thank-you, the charity is corrupted. If you look back to see whether the person said thanks or not, and later you think, “What an unworthy person I gave to—he didn’t even thank me”...
A man came to a Zen monk with thousands of gold coins. He banged the bag down with a great thud; the clinking echoed through the whole temple. People give like this—the clinking sound! The monk said loudly, “Couldn’t you set the bag down gently?” The man was a bit shocked—he was the richest man in the village. And this fakir! And he had come to give; far from gratitude, this one says, “Can’t you put the bag down quietly?” Still he said, “Listen, Master! I have brought a fortune to offer you.” The monk said, “Fine!”
But he did not even say thank you. The rich man grew restless. He said, “Master, say something at least.”
The monk said, “What is there to say now? You thank me and go.”
The rich man said, “This is beyond the limit. I should thank you and go—what do you mean?”
The monk said, “I have accepted your offering; will you not give the dakshina for that? I have accepted your gift—will you not thank me for that? Your offering could have been refused—what would you have done then? So either thank me, or pick up your bag and go home; and don’t come this way again.”
That is what charity means.
That is why you must have seen: Hindus give dana and then give dakshina. Dakshina means gratitude that the gift has been accepted. Dana is incomplete without dakshina. Charity given out of greed is not charity—it is only greed extended.
If you are wrong, then whatever you do will be wrong. Your going to the temple is wrong, your worship is wrong, your prayer is wrong—how can anything coming from you be right? And if you are right, then whatever you do is right. That is why Krishna could say to Arjuna: fight—just become right within; be joined within to the divine; realize within that I am not, only That is; then strike, strike without worry; then even in violence there is no sin.
Understand this. Krishna is saying: even if you commit violence in surrender to God, there is no sin. And I say to you: even if you give charity out of the desire of greed, it is sin. If there is asking in your prayer, it becomes sin. If your prayer is only the expression of pure wonder and gratitude, it becomes virtue.
Everyone wants to be a guru; to be a disciple is rare. You claim to know even what you do not know, because the claim of knowing satisfies the ego. You answer even about things you know nothing of—how could you admit that there is an answer and you don’t know it! You give such advice that, if someone followed it, he would fall into a ditch, because you are not advising from experience—you are enjoying the taste of advising.
Have you seen how people relish giving advice! Just get caught in their clutches and everyone is eager to advise. It is good that people do not take advice. The most given thing in the world is advice; the least taken thing is also advice. Who listens? Who takes it? It is good people don’t—otherwise they would go mad. There are so many advisers, so many guides!
The desire to learn is exceedingly rare, because it means accepting: I do not know; accepting: I am ignorant; accepting: I am ready to surrender, ready to extend the beggar’s bowl. Only one who has the shameless courage to hold out the beggar’s bowl becomes a disciple. Dropping all pretense, inhibition, and shame—thus one becomes a disciple.
To become a disciple means: I accept that my entire past was futile, was wrong.
Yesterday an Italian young woman took sannyas. She had drifted in here for a couple of days, by chance. She had been wandering all over the country—many ashrams, many satsangs; lost and looking, someone told her and she came here. She has to return today. Yesterday she began to weep from the heart. She said, “You have put me in great difficulty.” I asked, “What difficulty?” She said, “The difficulty is that these three days have become a crisis; it would have been better had I not come. Because in these three days I have come to see that all I knew till now was wrong; what I thought was right is not right at all—something entirely different is right. Now you have put me in a mess. I will have to come back. Now I am going—only in order to come.”
Discipleship has been born!
The moment you see that my whole past was useless, rubbish... It is very difficult to accept, because the past is your ego. Your ego stands upon all you have done, thought, understood up to now. If that was right, the ego can stand. If all that was wrong...
The moment it becomes clear to you that my entire past was a dark night, in that moment you become a disciple.
Keep this in mind: do not think, “I can become a disciple because I admit some things in the past were wrong and some were right.” It does not happen that way. Either you were wrong, or you were right. Some things right and some wrong—such a mixture does not happen.
In this search for truth there are no compromises. Truth is not a compromise. If you were right, you were right; if wrong, wrong. It is another strategy of the ego to say, “Yes, some things in our life were wrong—we will correct them; otherwise, the rest is fine.”
Then there will never be a revolution in your life—only reforms. And the longing for reform is not the disciple’s longing. The disciple longs for a great, total revolution. The disciple says: I want to cut myself off from my entire past; I want to begin afresh, I want to start again from A-B-C; I want to be born again. This is the disciple’s aspiration. One birth happened—from mother and father; now I want birth from the true master. One birth was of the body; now I want the birth of my soul.
It takes great courage! Even up to this point people agree... They come to me and say, “Yes, there are some wrong things in our life, but not everything is wrong.”
Think this over again. If you are wrong, there cannot be some parts right and some wrong—everything will be wrong. Because whatever comes from you, from your unconsciousness, may appear accidentally right, but cannot truly be right. You may have given charity, but even in your charity there will be greed, if you are greedy. You will say, greed is bad; but I built a temple, a mosque, a gurdwara—how can that be bad! I tell you: build temples, build mosques, build gurdwaras—if you are greedy, then in your temple too there will be greed—greed for the other world, greed for attaining heaven—but greed all the same. From a greedy person, true giving is impossible. Even when a greedy person gives, he gives in the hope of gaining a thousandfold on the other shore. Is that any charity? It is a bargain. Charity means: we give unconditionally. Charity means: we give because there is joy in giving. There is joy in giving here and now, therefore we give. Charity means: beyond this, there is no further connection; we seek no reciprocation, no reward. We gave because there was joy in giving. The moment you want some other fruit from giving, greed has entered.
Greed means: desire for the fruit. Charity means: giving with zero desire for the fruit; the delight of giving, the joy of giving.
If you give to someone and you even expect a thank-you, the charity is corrupted. If you look back to see whether the person said thanks or not, and later you think, “What an unworthy person I gave to—he didn’t even thank me”...
A man came to a Zen monk with thousands of gold coins. He banged the bag down with a great thud; the clinking echoed through the whole temple. People give like this—the clinking sound! The monk said loudly, “Couldn’t you set the bag down gently?” The man was a bit shocked—he was the richest man in the village. And this fakir! And he had come to give; far from gratitude, this one says, “Can’t you put the bag down quietly?” Still he said, “Listen, Master! I have brought a fortune to offer you.” The monk said, “Fine!”
But he did not even say thank you. The rich man grew restless. He said, “Master, say something at least.”
The monk said, “What is there to say now? You thank me and go.”
The rich man said, “This is beyond the limit. I should thank you and go—what do you mean?”
The monk said, “I have accepted your offering; will you not give the dakshina for that? I have accepted your gift—will you not thank me for that? Your offering could have been refused—what would you have done then? So either thank me, or pick up your bag and go home; and don’t come this way again.”
That is what charity means.
That is why you must have seen: Hindus give dana and then give dakshina. Dakshina means gratitude that the gift has been accepted. Dana is incomplete without dakshina. Charity given out of greed is not charity—it is only greed extended.
If you are wrong, then whatever you do will be wrong. Your going to the temple is wrong, your worship is wrong, your prayer is wrong—how can anything coming from you be right? And if you are right, then whatever you do is right. That is why Krishna could say to Arjuna: fight—just become right within; be joined within to the divine; realize within that I am not, only That is; then strike, strike without worry; then even in violence there is no sin.
Understand this. Krishna is saying: even if you commit violence in surrender to God, there is no sin. And I say to you: even if you give charity out of the desire of greed, it is sin. If there is asking in your prayer, it becomes sin. If your prayer is only the expression of pure wonder and gratitude, it becomes virtue.
You ask, “How should I come for the Master’s darshan? When a disciple goes to the Master, how should he go? How should a disciple live with the Master—what should he do, and what should he not do?”
First, give birth to inner discipleship. Merely hearing what I say, learning it by rote, turning it into information to fortify your memory—that is not discipleship. That makes you a student, not a disciple. So understand the difference between student and disciple. A student acquires learning; he organizes what is said, stores it in a chest, commits it to memory, accumulates information. His intellect gets richer, his memory fuller; he gathers answers to every question. He is a collector—someone collects money; he collects knowledge. This is the student.
A disciple is not a student. A disciple seeks the Self; a disciple seeks the Truth. He has no ambition to strengthen his memory or heap up information. That does not serve his purpose. He longs for his very being to be revealed. Whether information remains or not—let me be empty, it doesn’t matter—let my soul unfold.
In English there are two words: being and knowledge. The student’s aspiration is for knowledge. The disciple’s aspiration is for being—that I deepen, widen, become vast; my boundaries break; I fly into the open sky; I enter the Infinite and the Divine. To know about God—that is the student. How to become God, how to dissolve in Him, to be absorbed and lost—how this little tinkling stream of mine vanishes into His ocean—that is the disciple.
The student comes to get something; the disciple comes to lose something. The student ties up his bundle of collected rubbish and departs. The disciple finds, on leaving, that nothing is left—no question of tying a bundle; even what he had has gone. The disciple returns empty; the student returns full. The student will take something saleable to the market and profit. The disciple returns utterly void. The preparation for this voidness is discipleship—and it is hard.
Rahim has said:
“Now Rahim is in real trouble—both tasks are hard.
Stand in truth and the world is lost; follow the false and God is not found.”
Yes, Rahim is in trouble! The disciple falls into just such a difficulty.
If you lose yourself, God is found; but in losing yourself, all that you call “the world” is lost. Lose yourself and Truth is attained; but in losing yourself, all the reasons you began searching for Truth are undercut.
When you first set out to seek Truth, it is so that Truth too might rest in your fist. When you seek God it is because you have gained everything else—now let God be gained also; leave no challenge unmet.
I have heard: Mahavira was passing through a town. Its overlord, a king named Prasenjit, came for his darshan. He said, “Master, I have everything—but you have created a problem—meditation, meditation, meditation! It leaves a restlessness in my mind. I have everything; this single lack of meditation galls me. It makes me feel something is missing. I want this meditation. I am ready to pay whatever price you ask.”
He must have heard the talk of meditation as Mahavira arrived; he got unsettled. He has everything—wealth, office, prestige—all locked in his treasury. He must have looked at his ledgers and thought, “Meditation is missing; what is this?” In the village people began to speak of meditation, some even became meditators, some moved with a certain ecstasy, a certain intoxication of meditation shone in some eyes. “What is this?” He grew uneasy. He said to Mahavira, “I am ready to do anything! Whatever the price, I will pay.”
Mahavira was a little at a loss: what to say to this mad Prasenjit? This is not a thing bought by a price. He hesitated a little—what answer to give? The king might be hurt needlessly. The question itself was foolish—but he was a king. Seeing Mahavira hesitate, Prasenjit pressed on: “Do not be shy—one hundred thousand gold coins, two hundred thousand, a million—I will give you whatever you ask. It stings that people here speak of meditation and I do not have it.”
Mahavira felt a joke arise. He said, “Do one thing—there is a poor man in your village who has attained meditation. Buy it from him.”
The king said, “You said it well. I will go at once.”
He climbed into his chariot and went to the poor man’s hut. The poor man was alarmed, rushed out and fell at his feet. The king said, “Don’t worry. Ask whatever you want; I will pay any price. What is this thing, meditation? Give it to me. Mahavira says it has come to you.”
The poor man said, “It has come, and I am ready to give—but you are not ready to receive.” The king said, “Madman! Speak sense. I am ready to pay any price—and you say I am not ready to receive?”
The poor man said, “That is why I say you are not ready. You take meditation for a possession! Is it a commodity that I can hand over, transfer? For it you must be transformed. It will not come by price; it needs total self-dissolution. You cannot remain as you are; only when a new consciousness, a new energy is born within you will it be received. Ask for my life; I will give my life—but don’t ask for meditation, how can I give that? Ask for my life, I am ready—plunge a knife here and I will die; I will offer everything to you. You are the lord of this village, I am a poor man, always in your service. Take my life—I am ready. But meditation—how can I give it?
“A knife can pierce life and life will go; but in meditation there is no way to stab.” That is why Krishna says: weapons do not cleave it; fire does not burn it. When you set out in search of that state, at first you don’t really know what you are seeking. You seek it as you seek everything else—another ambition. Only slowly, in the Master’s satsang, do you experience that it comes by dropping ambition. Meditation cannot be part of ambition. You may arrive for one reason, but gradually you discover your very reason for coming was wrong.
“Now Rahim is in real trouble—both tasks are hard.
Stand in truth and the world is lost; follow the false and God is not found.”
The disciple lands in this dilemma. Here the Master calls—distant peaks beckon, the Infinite draws; little glimpses begin, drops of nectar fall, a light rain comes—and there the world, the force of desires gathered over many births, lust calling, ego shouting, all crying, “Where are you going?”
And the disciple hangs between.
You ask me, “How should I come for the Master’s darshan?”
There is only one meaning to coming for darshan: readiness to erase yourself. Seeing the Master is not with the fleshly eyes. When a disciple comes to me, he brings such eyes that I become visible. When a student comes, he brings a different eye; he does not see me. He sees me too, but according to his eyes. A friend comes, with sympathy and love to understand—he sees something else. An opponent comes—with argument and debate in his mind—he sees something else. It depends on your eyes.
If you wish to come as a disciple, learn to come as emptiness. When you come to me, leave yourself outside. If you bring yourself along, you will only keep seeing yourself—you will not see me; I will be hidden behind your own shadow.
Come having left yourself, like a zero, like a blank page—you will then be able to see me. Only then the event happens that is called the Master–disciple relationship; a bridge is built.
“When the beloved’s image settles in the eyes,
what room remains for any other?
Seeing the inn already full,
the traveler turns back.”
And when you begin to fill with me…
The Master–disciple bond is a relationship of fathomless love—not of knowledge but of love; not of intellect but of heart.
If your ideas match mine, that does not make you my disciple. You stand with me because my ideas match yours—tomorrow if they don’t? You will separate.
Many have come to me and many have gone. They came feeling our ideas matched. In truth they were not with me; they felt I was with them—my thoughts confirmed theirs; they were the center; they felt gratified. But when they discovered not all my thoughts match theirs, trouble began. They could not stay; they withdrew, frightened.
If you are here because my ideas match yours, at most you are a follower—not a disciple. A disciple says: leave aside ideas—heart meets heart. Thoughts are superficial; the heart is inner; soul meets soul.
And a disciple does not think, “The Master must match my thought.” He thinks, “I must match the Master.” If someday there is a mismatch, the disciple looks within for the cause and removes it so harmony returns.
Those who expect me to match them—on the first snag, if I do not match them—they abandon me. For them, there is no question of changing—they are already right. They came seeking a certificate, perhaps to test me, or to have me endorse their truth. If what they held looked truer with my witness, they stayed. But the truth, they believe, they already had. The day I no longer match them, their paths diverge.
The disciple’s joining is of such a kind that his path does not diverge.
“When the beloved’s image settles in the eyes,
what room remains for any other?”
The Master permeates within; the disciple is dyed in the Master’s color. The disciple no longer remains. The Master speaks through him, dances in him, hums within him. Slowly the disciple disappears; an after-image of the Master is formed—another figure of the Master stands.
“Seeing the inn already full,
the traveler turns back.”
When the inn is full, travelers turn away. When your heart is filled with the Master, many “travelers” turn back—those whom you tried a thousand times to drive away and could not, because the inn was empty. You wondered how to be free of anger, lust, greed—and could not. When within you are filled with the Master, suddenly what would not drop simply falls—effortlessly, without struggle.
To be with the Master is to be near death. You must be prepared to die.
Even if the Master seems angry, a disciple knows the Master cannot truly be angry; that too is a device.
Gurdjieff did this. He would flare up at his disciples—wildly, without visible cause. Many left him. But those who stayed he revolutionized. Slowly they understood the secret: why he became angry. By being angry, he gave you a chance: “Look, now I am harsh—can you stay with a harsh Master? To stay with the sweet is easy—anyone can. When I am bitter, can you still stay? Only then stay.” And the one who stays with the Master in bitterness receives the Master’s nectar.
To be with the Master is a continuous sadhana. There are many forms of practice in this world; but none greater than to be with the Master. Hence the great praise of satsang. Its majesty is beyond reckoning.
Scripture is dead; read it a thousand times, you will impose your own meanings. Scripture cannot change you; you will certainly change scripture, for what can it do? You will extract the meaning you want; your interpretation will ride atop the text. But upon the living Master you cannot impose your interpretation. The living Master is like quicksilver—close your fist and he slips away. He never lets your fist close around him; he never comes into your grip. His constant effort is that your grip loosen, the habit of grasping fall away; that your fist not remain closed but open; that all your tensions—of clutching, attachment, craving—dissolve. So he does not become a prop for your grasp. He will not be your security; whenever you try to make him your refuge, he suddenly steps aside and you fall flat. He is telling you, “I want you to stand on your own feet. I want to give you strength to stand.”
So even if the Master appears harsh, the disciple does not see harshness there.
“His cruelty is no cruelty—do not take it as such.
Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
The Master’s pitilessness, his severity, is not harshness.
“His cruelty is no cruelty—do not take it as such.
Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
If there is love, then even this is a mode of the Master’s beauty.
It happened—You must have heard the name Nandalal Bose, a great Indian painter. He was a disciple of Abanindranath Tagore, Rabindranath’s uncle, himself a master painter. One day Rabindranath was sitting with Abanindranath when young Nandalal came with a painting of Krishna. Rabindranath writes in his memoirs: “I had never seen such a beautiful Krishna.” Rabindranath himself was a great poet and a painter; his judgment is beyond doubt. He says, “I was spellbound.” But I was shocked—Abanindranath glanced once and threw the painting outside the door. He said to Nandalal, “You consider this fit to show? The pat-painters of Bengal who sell two-paise pictures of Krishna on Janmashtami make better than this. Go, learn from the pats.”
It was severe—merciless. Rabindranath too felt he should stop his uncle: “This is going too far. I have not seen a better Krishna.” He was ready to say, “Even you have painted Krishna, but this is unmatched.” But it was not proper to intervene between Master and disciple. They know their way. He kept quiet.
Nandalal touched his feet and left. For three years there was no trace of him. Abanindranath waited anxiously, sent inquiries, asked people: “Where did he go, what happened?” Many times Rabindranath told him, “This was excessive. You wounded him badly.” Abanindranath wept for Nandalal. After three years Nandalal returned—looking like a poor pat-painter, the way village artists look in Bengal. He wore the same old clothes, torn, unrecognizable; his face had changed, grown dark. But he brought new paintings, touched Abanindranath’s feet and said, “You were right. In these three years I learned so much from the pats. Celebrated painters paint out of ego; those unknown have an innocence, an effortlessness—that I learned. You were gracious to send me. Your great compassion!”
Rabindranath asked Abanindranath, “May I now ask—what was the matter? The picture seemed very beautiful to me.”
Abanindranath said, “It seemed very beautiful to me too. And today I confess to you: I too have painted Krishna, but none matches that. Yet I had to throw it—compulsion. Because I had greater hope from Nandalal. If that day I had said, ‘Good, beautiful,’ there Nandalal would have stopped. Once the Master says ‘Good,’ the growth is arrested. If Nandalal had no greater possibilities, I would have rewarded him. But I knew there was more hidden, he could be drawn out further; a greater peak could emerge.”
“His cruelty is no cruelty—do not take it as such.
Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
This lesson, learned slowly with the Master, you then apply to God. Then even if God gives pain…
“Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
If God gives suffering, see it as a device for refinement. If God gives death, see it as the beginning of new life.
To accept, smiling, whatever happens near the Master—this art is discipleship. If you accept grudgingly, sullenly, under compulsion, the whole joy is lost. Acceptance should be joyous.
“If victory is not in fate—defeat will do.
If there is no day—then night will do.
As far as we can manage,
let us accept even this defeat with a smile.
Now and then in the dark a lightning flashes—
now and then let us laugh, let us sing.”
However dark the night near the Master, that lightning that flashes sometimes—take it as enough. In the dark night, when lightning flashes, take it as good fortune. Perhaps lightning needs night to be seen; in day its flash has no flavor. Perhaps thorns are needed for flowers on the rosebush.
So with the Master there will be many dark nights—do not count them; if now and then lightning flashes, treasure it in your heart. Many thorns will prick—do not keep accounts; if the fragrance of a flower arrives once in a while, dance, hum a song of gratitude.
Now and then in the dark the lightning flashes—
now and then let us laugh, let us sing.
A disciple is one who has begun to see God in someone. This is almost impossible; hence others find it hard to understand.
When you fall in love with a woman, at once that woman becomes the most beautiful in the world. Cleopatra pales, Marilyn Monroe pales; the most beautiful women of the world are nothing beside her. The past fades, the future fades; one woman becomes the center. Your seeing brings forth divinity in her beauty.
This is not mere fantasy; every person is that beautiful—only a lover sees it, all cannot. When the feeling of Guru arises for someone in your heart, a new vision opens—you see that person as God. You cannot prove it to others; do not try. It is not a matter for proof.
You do not ask a lover to prove that his beloved is the most beautiful in the world. “Why do you make such statements? Prove it—scientifically, logically.” You do not say that. You say, “He is mad—in love.”
A disciple too is mad in love. But the beauty of a man or woman is momentary. The disciple is mad with a love that is not momentary; he is stirred by an experience that is eternal, untouched by time. Time comes and goes. A faith is born in the disciple that does not change; it is steady. If faith truly is, it never falls; if it falls, know it never was—you only thought it was; it was a seeming, an appearance.
To have the sense of God arise in a person is an extraordinary event, because our ego obstructs it. Our ego is unwilling to admit anyone superior to us. As soon as you begin to know and admit that someone is higher, greater, more vast and luminous than you, your ego begins to dissolve. And the day your ego dissolves completely, the God you saw in the Master you begin to see in yourself. What began with the Master culminates in the disciple.
This is the greatest revolution. For it, a very sensitive heart is needed.
“How to come to the Master? How to sit and move?”
Be sensitive. How does one go to a beloved? How do you arrange flowers of feeling within? How do you go with a pure heart? Even the sinner, when he falls in love, in those moments becomes a man of virtue. A murderer does not murder his beloved! A thief does not steal from his own child’s pocket.
See the revolutionary power of love? Even the worst man is transformed under love’s shadow.
So when you come to the Master, come with utmost love, sensitivity, exhilaration, joy, steeped in rasa. Not gloomy, not weeping. And even if you come weeping, let there be joy in your tears, not complaint.
“These tears that brim in my eyes
seek no repayment for any favor of yours.
He who both worships and complains—
that is a pretense of love, not love.”
Where there is worship, how can there be complaint?
Come to the Master filled with worship. Come as a Muslim goes into the mosque; as a Hindu into a temple; as a Sikh into the gurdwara. Come to the Master as if you are going directly to God—filled with flowers that pure. Then revolution will happen, because the happening depends on your feeling. It can happen with a stone idol if the feeling is deep; and it will not happen with the living Divine if feeling is absent.
I know—being with the Master is not only pleasant. Much in you must be broken; there is pain in breaking. You must be erased; there is pain in erasing. You must be refined; you must be put through fire—these are not pleasant states. But the disciple is filled with a supreme hope—that this demolition is in the service of creation; this erasing is preparation for making.
When we demolish an old house, we are still delighted, because we are preparing space for a new one. You do not weep while tearing down the old! You are glad the moment has come; now the new can be built. If someone else comes and breaks your house, you will not rejoice, for then you see only destruction. In both cases the event is the same—the house is being broken. The building is in the future—may happen, may not. Who knows if tomorrow will come, if the sun will rise? Today there is a prospect; tomorrow it may vanish. The breaking is the same in both; but in one you are happy, in the other you are miserable. It depends on whether the destruction is for creation or merely destruction.
Near the Master much will break—in fact, everything will break. You will be scattered and remade; you will be taken apart so your music can be tuned again. Your veena is out of tune; the strings are wrongly tightened. Where music should arise, only sorrow emerges; where bliss should be born, only hell is created. Your condition is badly distorted. In your gold much dirt is mixed. For births your gold lay in filth; it must pass through fire. In the fire, only what you are not will burn away; what you are will remain—pure, refined gold you will emerge. But to pass through fire is pain.
“The wound of the heart that has not closed in grief—let it not close.
Take the utmost of pain as the beginning of love.”
A wound does not heal in an instant—nor should it.
Ordinarily, we all crave pleasure and fear pain; we are restless for happiness. But what we get is pain; thirst stays thirst; where is fulfillment? Happiness comes only to those who consent to pass through suffering. This passing through is tapas.
To be with the Master, I said, is to be near death—it is tapas. You will be refined, uncovered, erased, wiped clean. Your hidden possibilities will be awakened, challenged. There will be labor, austerity—only then will you attain that without which there is never peace in life; only then that upon attaining which all seeking ends.
A Master does not merely show the path. If it were only a matter of showing, it would be simple. To just say, “Do this,” is not the Master’s work—that is talking. The Master makes you do it. He does not point at the path; he pushes you onto it. You cannot walk by yourself; you have grown inert. Paralysis has entered your limbs. You have been told a thousand times, “This is the path—walk.” You heard, you understood—you never walked.
Saint Augustine said, “What I ought to do, I know; I do not do it. What I ought not to do, I know; that is what I do.”
You too know what is right—what need to show the path? Can you find anyone who does not know? Everyone knows right from wrong. But what follows from that? What use is pointing out the road? Someone is needed who will make you walk.
“Of love’s road and its destination he knows nothing at all.
He who only points the way—do not take him for a guide.”
The one who stands afar and points—do not mistake him for a guide. The guide walks with you—ahead of you, behind you, to your east and west. He drags you, shoves you, makes you run. He comes to where you are and takes you to where you must be. He is like a father holding his child’s hand.
“Of love’s road and its destination he knows nothing at all.
He who only points the way—do not take him for a guide.”
If it were only about showing the way, milestones with arrows would suffice—why need people? If it were only about pointing, scripture would suffice—why the Master? What difference would remain between shastra and shasta, scripture and the Master? Between the Gita and Krishna if it were only guidance?
Krishna did not merely show Arjuna the path. He wrestled with him, dragged him out of his darkness, awakened him from stupor, shook him. Arjuna tried to flee down many bylanes—Krishna shut every door, gave him no escape. Arjuna raised many questions, many doubts—Krishna satisfied them all, and finally brought him to a state where there was no alternative but to trust Krishna and move with him.
There will be moments of despair, of sorrow and pain. And “Vishnu Chaitanya” is passing through just such moments—wobbling, full of doubt. But there is nothing to fear—everyone must pass this way. It is natural. All wobble at first, full of anxieties and skepticism. Slowly the polishing comes.
“This pain will become a vast life—
though you are despondent, you will find strength.
Bow your head before those fingers
whose mere touch turns flowers into stars.
These sores of the mind—
O you who weep with your forehead on table-edges—
let every pain travel to a new meaning.
Let every pain travel to a new meaning!”
Pain is not merely pain—it is the beginning of new meaning. When a woman gives birth there is great labor pain. If she panics…
A few years ago in England there was a famous case. A pharmaceutical company invented a sedative to remove labor pain; if a woman took it, childbirth was painless. But the consequences were dire: children were born maimed, blind, crippled. Hundreds tried it; now hundreds of lawsuits run against that company for ruining their children. The mother felt no pain—but the poison that stole her pain deformed the child.
What we call labor pain is natural, necessary—it must be. To stop it is dangerous.
Japan is the only nation that has made a law that no drug may be invented to stop labor pain. Wise indeed—the only nation. Because labor pain is the beginning of the child’s life. It is not only the mother who suffers; the child also. But out of that pain something is formed.
I have heard: a farmer grew very upset with God. Sometimes too much rain, sometimes hail, sometimes frost, sometimes drought; crops failed—floods or dryness. He said, “Listen, you don’t know farming—ask me!” Perhaps God was in a playful mood. He said, “All right—what do you suggest?” The farmer said, “Give me one year to arrange the weather as I wish. See how I fill the world with prosperity.”
God said, “Very well—for one year your will shall prevail; I will keep away.” Naturally the farmer had knowledge—if only knowledge were everything! When he wanted sun, there was sun; when he wanted rain, there was rain—not a drop more or less. Sometimes sun, sometimes shade, sometimes water—he kept requesting and rejoiced, for the wheat-ears rose above a man’s head—never had such a crop grown. He said, “Now God will see! For ages you have tormented people needlessly. Had you asked any farmer, the matter would be solved. Now you will see.”
The ears grew like trees, heavy with grain. The farmer was delighted. But when he harvested and opened the ears—he clutched his chest and sat down. There was no grain—only husk. He cried, “O God, what happened?” God said, “Now you think. You gave no chance for struggle—no hail, no storm, no wind. Without thunder and lightning, no life gathered in them. They grew large but remained empty.”
Struggle gives man a center; otherwise he remains hollow. That is why the sons of the wealthy often seem insubstantial. Whenever they wanted sun they had sun, water when they wanted; no winds, no storms. You seldom see great genius born in palaces—hollow! Only husk, no grain. Some struggle is needed, some challenge.
When storms shake and the plant stands in its own strength—defying the winds, falling and rising again—strength is born. Energy is forged in struggle. Without it, energy remains latent.
Labor pain is not only for the mother; it is for the child. But life begins in that pain—and it is auspicious. Without it the child remains flimsy; there is no strength. And if a child were born without pain, the mother’s love would not arise in the same way. When we gain something through much pain, a special bond forms.
Think: the joy Hillary felt on reaching Everest—the same will not come if you are dropped there by helicopter. What is the substance of that? A helicopter can set you down; what is the difficulty? But then the essence is lost. Without effort, without pain, how will you receive the reward?
This arithmetic has spoiled many lives: the path is more valuable than the destination. If you are suddenly placed at the destination, the joy does not happen. The struggle of the way, its pains, the days of waiting, the nights of longing, the tears—all that added up—then finally joy happens.
Let every pain travel to a new meaning!
So, Vishnu Chaitanya—there is pain, I know. Even coming to me you are afraid—I know that too. Do not be frightened. Come! Leave yourself outside. Sit by me as a zero, a blank book, so I can write on you. Do not come already written upon, engraved—what then can I write? Give me a little space to write. Come empty so I can pour myself into you and fill you. Do not come stuffed with scriptures. I am ready to create scripture within you; you need not bring it. Do not get caught in nets of doctrine and argument.
Come silent. Come with heart, brimming with feeling. Give me a chance to refine you, to sculpt your image.
A disciple is not a student. A disciple seeks the Self; a disciple seeks the Truth. He has no ambition to strengthen his memory or heap up information. That does not serve his purpose. He longs for his very being to be revealed. Whether information remains or not—let me be empty, it doesn’t matter—let my soul unfold.
In English there are two words: being and knowledge. The student’s aspiration is for knowledge. The disciple’s aspiration is for being—that I deepen, widen, become vast; my boundaries break; I fly into the open sky; I enter the Infinite and the Divine. To know about God—that is the student. How to become God, how to dissolve in Him, to be absorbed and lost—how this little tinkling stream of mine vanishes into His ocean—that is the disciple.
The student comes to get something; the disciple comes to lose something. The student ties up his bundle of collected rubbish and departs. The disciple finds, on leaving, that nothing is left—no question of tying a bundle; even what he had has gone. The disciple returns empty; the student returns full. The student will take something saleable to the market and profit. The disciple returns utterly void. The preparation for this voidness is discipleship—and it is hard.
Rahim has said:
“Now Rahim is in real trouble—both tasks are hard.
Stand in truth and the world is lost; follow the false and God is not found.”
Yes, Rahim is in trouble! The disciple falls into just such a difficulty.
If you lose yourself, God is found; but in losing yourself, all that you call “the world” is lost. Lose yourself and Truth is attained; but in losing yourself, all the reasons you began searching for Truth are undercut.
When you first set out to seek Truth, it is so that Truth too might rest in your fist. When you seek God it is because you have gained everything else—now let God be gained also; leave no challenge unmet.
I have heard: Mahavira was passing through a town. Its overlord, a king named Prasenjit, came for his darshan. He said, “Master, I have everything—but you have created a problem—meditation, meditation, meditation! It leaves a restlessness in my mind. I have everything; this single lack of meditation galls me. It makes me feel something is missing. I want this meditation. I am ready to pay whatever price you ask.”
He must have heard the talk of meditation as Mahavira arrived; he got unsettled. He has everything—wealth, office, prestige—all locked in his treasury. He must have looked at his ledgers and thought, “Meditation is missing; what is this?” In the village people began to speak of meditation, some even became meditators, some moved with a certain ecstasy, a certain intoxication of meditation shone in some eyes. “What is this?” He grew uneasy. He said to Mahavira, “I am ready to do anything! Whatever the price, I will pay.”
Mahavira was a little at a loss: what to say to this mad Prasenjit? This is not a thing bought by a price. He hesitated a little—what answer to give? The king might be hurt needlessly. The question itself was foolish—but he was a king. Seeing Mahavira hesitate, Prasenjit pressed on: “Do not be shy—one hundred thousand gold coins, two hundred thousand, a million—I will give you whatever you ask. It stings that people here speak of meditation and I do not have it.”
Mahavira felt a joke arise. He said, “Do one thing—there is a poor man in your village who has attained meditation. Buy it from him.”
The king said, “You said it well. I will go at once.”
He climbed into his chariot and went to the poor man’s hut. The poor man was alarmed, rushed out and fell at his feet. The king said, “Don’t worry. Ask whatever you want; I will pay any price. What is this thing, meditation? Give it to me. Mahavira says it has come to you.”
The poor man said, “It has come, and I am ready to give—but you are not ready to receive.” The king said, “Madman! Speak sense. I am ready to pay any price—and you say I am not ready to receive?”
The poor man said, “That is why I say you are not ready. You take meditation for a possession! Is it a commodity that I can hand over, transfer? For it you must be transformed. It will not come by price; it needs total self-dissolution. You cannot remain as you are; only when a new consciousness, a new energy is born within you will it be received. Ask for my life; I will give my life—but don’t ask for meditation, how can I give that? Ask for my life, I am ready—plunge a knife here and I will die; I will offer everything to you. You are the lord of this village, I am a poor man, always in your service. Take my life—I am ready. But meditation—how can I give it?
“A knife can pierce life and life will go; but in meditation there is no way to stab.” That is why Krishna says: weapons do not cleave it; fire does not burn it. When you set out in search of that state, at first you don’t really know what you are seeking. You seek it as you seek everything else—another ambition. Only slowly, in the Master’s satsang, do you experience that it comes by dropping ambition. Meditation cannot be part of ambition. You may arrive for one reason, but gradually you discover your very reason for coming was wrong.
“Now Rahim is in real trouble—both tasks are hard.
Stand in truth and the world is lost; follow the false and God is not found.”
The disciple lands in this dilemma. Here the Master calls—distant peaks beckon, the Infinite draws; little glimpses begin, drops of nectar fall, a light rain comes—and there the world, the force of desires gathered over many births, lust calling, ego shouting, all crying, “Where are you going?”
And the disciple hangs between.
You ask me, “How should I come for the Master’s darshan?”
There is only one meaning to coming for darshan: readiness to erase yourself. Seeing the Master is not with the fleshly eyes. When a disciple comes to me, he brings such eyes that I become visible. When a student comes, he brings a different eye; he does not see me. He sees me too, but according to his eyes. A friend comes, with sympathy and love to understand—he sees something else. An opponent comes—with argument and debate in his mind—he sees something else. It depends on your eyes.
If you wish to come as a disciple, learn to come as emptiness. When you come to me, leave yourself outside. If you bring yourself along, you will only keep seeing yourself—you will not see me; I will be hidden behind your own shadow.
Come having left yourself, like a zero, like a blank page—you will then be able to see me. Only then the event happens that is called the Master–disciple relationship; a bridge is built.
“When the beloved’s image settles in the eyes,
what room remains for any other?
Seeing the inn already full,
the traveler turns back.”
And when you begin to fill with me…
The Master–disciple bond is a relationship of fathomless love—not of knowledge but of love; not of intellect but of heart.
If your ideas match mine, that does not make you my disciple. You stand with me because my ideas match yours—tomorrow if they don’t? You will separate.
Many have come to me and many have gone. They came feeling our ideas matched. In truth they were not with me; they felt I was with them—my thoughts confirmed theirs; they were the center; they felt gratified. But when they discovered not all my thoughts match theirs, trouble began. They could not stay; they withdrew, frightened.
If you are here because my ideas match yours, at most you are a follower—not a disciple. A disciple says: leave aside ideas—heart meets heart. Thoughts are superficial; the heart is inner; soul meets soul.
And a disciple does not think, “The Master must match my thought.” He thinks, “I must match the Master.” If someday there is a mismatch, the disciple looks within for the cause and removes it so harmony returns.
Those who expect me to match them—on the first snag, if I do not match them—they abandon me. For them, there is no question of changing—they are already right. They came seeking a certificate, perhaps to test me, or to have me endorse their truth. If what they held looked truer with my witness, they stayed. But the truth, they believe, they already had. The day I no longer match them, their paths diverge.
The disciple’s joining is of such a kind that his path does not diverge.
“When the beloved’s image settles in the eyes,
what room remains for any other?”
The Master permeates within; the disciple is dyed in the Master’s color. The disciple no longer remains. The Master speaks through him, dances in him, hums within him. Slowly the disciple disappears; an after-image of the Master is formed—another figure of the Master stands.
“Seeing the inn already full,
the traveler turns back.”
When the inn is full, travelers turn away. When your heart is filled with the Master, many “travelers” turn back—those whom you tried a thousand times to drive away and could not, because the inn was empty. You wondered how to be free of anger, lust, greed—and could not. When within you are filled with the Master, suddenly what would not drop simply falls—effortlessly, without struggle.
To be with the Master is to be near death. You must be prepared to die.
Even if the Master seems angry, a disciple knows the Master cannot truly be angry; that too is a device.
Gurdjieff did this. He would flare up at his disciples—wildly, without visible cause. Many left him. But those who stayed he revolutionized. Slowly they understood the secret: why he became angry. By being angry, he gave you a chance: “Look, now I am harsh—can you stay with a harsh Master? To stay with the sweet is easy—anyone can. When I am bitter, can you still stay? Only then stay.” And the one who stays with the Master in bitterness receives the Master’s nectar.
To be with the Master is a continuous sadhana. There are many forms of practice in this world; but none greater than to be with the Master. Hence the great praise of satsang. Its majesty is beyond reckoning.
Scripture is dead; read it a thousand times, you will impose your own meanings. Scripture cannot change you; you will certainly change scripture, for what can it do? You will extract the meaning you want; your interpretation will ride atop the text. But upon the living Master you cannot impose your interpretation. The living Master is like quicksilver—close your fist and he slips away. He never lets your fist close around him; he never comes into your grip. His constant effort is that your grip loosen, the habit of grasping fall away; that your fist not remain closed but open; that all your tensions—of clutching, attachment, craving—dissolve. So he does not become a prop for your grasp. He will not be your security; whenever you try to make him your refuge, he suddenly steps aside and you fall flat. He is telling you, “I want you to stand on your own feet. I want to give you strength to stand.”
So even if the Master appears harsh, the disciple does not see harshness there.
“His cruelty is no cruelty—do not take it as such.
Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
The Master’s pitilessness, his severity, is not harshness.
“His cruelty is no cruelty—do not take it as such.
Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
If there is love, then even this is a mode of the Master’s beauty.
It happened—You must have heard the name Nandalal Bose, a great Indian painter. He was a disciple of Abanindranath Tagore, Rabindranath’s uncle, himself a master painter. One day Rabindranath was sitting with Abanindranath when young Nandalal came with a painting of Krishna. Rabindranath writes in his memoirs: “I had never seen such a beautiful Krishna.” Rabindranath himself was a great poet and a painter; his judgment is beyond doubt. He says, “I was spellbound.” But I was shocked—Abanindranath glanced once and threw the painting outside the door. He said to Nandalal, “You consider this fit to show? The pat-painters of Bengal who sell two-paise pictures of Krishna on Janmashtami make better than this. Go, learn from the pats.”
It was severe—merciless. Rabindranath too felt he should stop his uncle: “This is going too far. I have not seen a better Krishna.” He was ready to say, “Even you have painted Krishna, but this is unmatched.” But it was not proper to intervene between Master and disciple. They know their way. He kept quiet.
Nandalal touched his feet and left. For three years there was no trace of him. Abanindranath waited anxiously, sent inquiries, asked people: “Where did he go, what happened?” Many times Rabindranath told him, “This was excessive. You wounded him badly.” Abanindranath wept for Nandalal. After three years Nandalal returned—looking like a poor pat-painter, the way village artists look in Bengal. He wore the same old clothes, torn, unrecognizable; his face had changed, grown dark. But he brought new paintings, touched Abanindranath’s feet and said, “You were right. In these three years I learned so much from the pats. Celebrated painters paint out of ego; those unknown have an innocence, an effortlessness—that I learned. You were gracious to send me. Your great compassion!”
Rabindranath asked Abanindranath, “May I now ask—what was the matter? The picture seemed very beautiful to me.”
Abanindranath said, “It seemed very beautiful to me too. And today I confess to you: I too have painted Krishna, but none matches that. Yet I had to throw it—compulsion. Because I had greater hope from Nandalal. If that day I had said, ‘Good, beautiful,’ there Nandalal would have stopped. Once the Master says ‘Good,’ the growth is arrested. If Nandalal had no greater possibilities, I would have rewarded him. But I knew there was more hidden, he could be drawn out further; a greater peak could emerge.”
“His cruelty is no cruelty—do not take it as such.
Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
This lesson, learned slowly with the Master, you then apply to God. Then even if God gives pain…
“Worldly beauty is deceptive—take even this as an art of grace.”
If God gives suffering, see it as a device for refinement. If God gives death, see it as the beginning of new life.
To accept, smiling, whatever happens near the Master—this art is discipleship. If you accept grudgingly, sullenly, under compulsion, the whole joy is lost. Acceptance should be joyous.
“If victory is not in fate—defeat will do.
If there is no day—then night will do.
As far as we can manage,
let us accept even this defeat with a smile.
Now and then in the dark a lightning flashes—
now and then let us laugh, let us sing.”
However dark the night near the Master, that lightning that flashes sometimes—take it as enough. In the dark night, when lightning flashes, take it as good fortune. Perhaps lightning needs night to be seen; in day its flash has no flavor. Perhaps thorns are needed for flowers on the rosebush.
So with the Master there will be many dark nights—do not count them; if now and then lightning flashes, treasure it in your heart. Many thorns will prick—do not keep accounts; if the fragrance of a flower arrives once in a while, dance, hum a song of gratitude.
Now and then in the dark the lightning flashes—
now and then let us laugh, let us sing.
A disciple is one who has begun to see God in someone. This is almost impossible; hence others find it hard to understand.
When you fall in love with a woman, at once that woman becomes the most beautiful in the world. Cleopatra pales, Marilyn Monroe pales; the most beautiful women of the world are nothing beside her. The past fades, the future fades; one woman becomes the center. Your seeing brings forth divinity in her beauty.
This is not mere fantasy; every person is that beautiful—only a lover sees it, all cannot. When the feeling of Guru arises for someone in your heart, a new vision opens—you see that person as God. You cannot prove it to others; do not try. It is not a matter for proof.
You do not ask a lover to prove that his beloved is the most beautiful in the world. “Why do you make such statements? Prove it—scientifically, logically.” You do not say that. You say, “He is mad—in love.”
A disciple too is mad in love. But the beauty of a man or woman is momentary. The disciple is mad with a love that is not momentary; he is stirred by an experience that is eternal, untouched by time. Time comes and goes. A faith is born in the disciple that does not change; it is steady. If faith truly is, it never falls; if it falls, know it never was—you only thought it was; it was a seeming, an appearance.
To have the sense of God arise in a person is an extraordinary event, because our ego obstructs it. Our ego is unwilling to admit anyone superior to us. As soon as you begin to know and admit that someone is higher, greater, more vast and luminous than you, your ego begins to dissolve. And the day your ego dissolves completely, the God you saw in the Master you begin to see in yourself. What began with the Master culminates in the disciple.
This is the greatest revolution. For it, a very sensitive heart is needed.
“How to come to the Master? How to sit and move?”
Be sensitive. How does one go to a beloved? How do you arrange flowers of feeling within? How do you go with a pure heart? Even the sinner, when he falls in love, in those moments becomes a man of virtue. A murderer does not murder his beloved! A thief does not steal from his own child’s pocket.
See the revolutionary power of love? Even the worst man is transformed under love’s shadow.
So when you come to the Master, come with utmost love, sensitivity, exhilaration, joy, steeped in rasa. Not gloomy, not weeping. And even if you come weeping, let there be joy in your tears, not complaint.
“These tears that brim in my eyes
seek no repayment for any favor of yours.
He who both worships and complains—
that is a pretense of love, not love.”
Where there is worship, how can there be complaint?
Come to the Master filled with worship. Come as a Muslim goes into the mosque; as a Hindu into a temple; as a Sikh into the gurdwara. Come to the Master as if you are going directly to God—filled with flowers that pure. Then revolution will happen, because the happening depends on your feeling. It can happen with a stone idol if the feeling is deep; and it will not happen with the living Divine if feeling is absent.
I know—being with the Master is not only pleasant. Much in you must be broken; there is pain in breaking. You must be erased; there is pain in erasing. You must be refined; you must be put through fire—these are not pleasant states. But the disciple is filled with a supreme hope—that this demolition is in the service of creation; this erasing is preparation for making.
When we demolish an old house, we are still delighted, because we are preparing space for a new one. You do not weep while tearing down the old! You are glad the moment has come; now the new can be built. If someone else comes and breaks your house, you will not rejoice, for then you see only destruction. In both cases the event is the same—the house is being broken. The building is in the future—may happen, may not. Who knows if tomorrow will come, if the sun will rise? Today there is a prospect; tomorrow it may vanish. The breaking is the same in both; but in one you are happy, in the other you are miserable. It depends on whether the destruction is for creation or merely destruction.
Near the Master much will break—in fact, everything will break. You will be scattered and remade; you will be taken apart so your music can be tuned again. Your veena is out of tune; the strings are wrongly tightened. Where music should arise, only sorrow emerges; where bliss should be born, only hell is created. Your condition is badly distorted. In your gold much dirt is mixed. For births your gold lay in filth; it must pass through fire. In the fire, only what you are not will burn away; what you are will remain—pure, refined gold you will emerge. But to pass through fire is pain.
“The wound of the heart that has not closed in grief—let it not close.
Take the utmost of pain as the beginning of love.”
A wound does not heal in an instant—nor should it.
Ordinarily, we all crave pleasure and fear pain; we are restless for happiness. But what we get is pain; thirst stays thirst; where is fulfillment? Happiness comes only to those who consent to pass through suffering. This passing through is tapas.
To be with the Master, I said, is to be near death—it is tapas. You will be refined, uncovered, erased, wiped clean. Your hidden possibilities will be awakened, challenged. There will be labor, austerity—only then will you attain that without which there is never peace in life; only then that upon attaining which all seeking ends.
A Master does not merely show the path. If it were only a matter of showing, it would be simple. To just say, “Do this,” is not the Master’s work—that is talking. The Master makes you do it. He does not point at the path; he pushes you onto it. You cannot walk by yourself; you have grown inert. Paralysis has entered your limbs. You have been told a thousand times, “This is the path—walk.” You heard, you understood—you never walked.
Saint Augustine said, “What I ought to do, I know; I do not do it. What I ought not to do, I know; that is what I do.”
You too know what is right—what need to show the path? Can you find anyone who does not know? Everyone knows right from wrong. But what follows from that? What use is pointing out the road? Someone is needed who will make you walk.
“Of love’s road and its destination he knows nothing at all.
He who only points the way—do not take him for a guide.”
The one who stands afar and points—do not mistake him for a guide. The guide walks with you—ahead of you, behind you, to your east and west. He drags you, shoves you, makes you run. He comes to where you are and takes you to where you must be. He is like a father holding his child’s hand.
“Of love’s road and its destination he knows nothing at all.
He who only points the way—do not take him for a guide.”
If it were only about showing the way, milestones with arrows would suffice—why need people? If it were only about pointing, scripture would suffice—why the Master? What difference would remain between shastra and shasta, scripture and the Master? Between the Gita and Krishna if it were only guidance?
Krishna did not merely show Arjuna the path. He wrestled with him, dragged him out of his darkness, awakened him from stupor, shook him. Arjuna tried to flee down many bylanes—Krishna shut every door, gave him no escape. Arjuna raised many questions, many doubts—Krishna satisfied them all, and finally brought him to a state where there was no alternative but to trust Krishna and move with him.
There will be moments of despair, of sorrow and pain. And “Vishnu Chaitanya” is passing through just such moments—wobbling, full of doubt. But there is nothing to fear—everyone must pass this way. It is natural. All wobble at first, full of anxieties and skepticism. Slowly the polishing comes.
“This pain will become a vast life—
though you are despondent, you will find strength.
Bow your head before those fingers
whose mere touch turns flowers into stars.
These sores of the mind—
O you who weep with your forehead on table-edges—
let every pain travel to a new meaning.
Let every pain travel to a new meaning!”
Pain is not merely pain—it is the beginning of new meaning. When a woman gives birth there is great labor pain. If she panics…
A few years ago in England there was a famous case. A pharmaceutical company invented a sedative to remove labor pain; if a woman took it, childbirth was painless. But the consequences were dire: children were born maimed, blind, crippled. Hundreds tried it; now hundreds of lawsuits run against that company for ruining their children. The mother felt no pain—but the poison that stole her pain deformed the child.
What we call labor pain is natural, necessary—it must be. To stop it is dangerous.
Japan is the only nation that has made a law that no drug may be invented to stop labor pain. Wise indeed—the only nation. Because labor pain is the beginning of the child’s life. It is not only the mother who suffers; the child also. But out of that pain something is formed.
I have heard: a farmer grew very upset with God. Sometimes too much rain, sometimes hail, sometimes frost, sometimes drought; crops failed—floods or dryness. He said, “Listen, you don’t know farming—ask me!” Perhaps God was in a playful mood. He said, “All right—what do you suggest?” The farmer said, “Give me one year to arrange the weather as I wish. See how I fill the world with prosperity.”
God said, “Very well—for one year your will shall prevail; I will keep away.” Naturally the farmer had knowledge—if only knowledge were everything! When he wanted sun, there was sun; when he wanted rain, there was rain—not a drop more or less. Sometimes sun, sometimes shade, sometimes water—he kept requesting and rejoiced, for the wheat-ears rose above a man’s head—never had such a crop grown. He said, “Now God will see! For ages you have tormented people needlessly. Had you asked any farmer, the matter would be solved. Now you will see.”
The ears grew like trees, heavy with grain. The farmer was delighted. But when he harvested and opened the ears—he clutched his chest and sat down. There was no grain—only husk. He cried, “O God, what happened?” God said, “Now you think. You gave no chance for struggle—no hail, no storm, no wind. Without thunder and lightning, no life gathered in them. They grew large but remained empty.”
Struggle gives man a center; otherwise he remains hollow. That is why the sons of the wealthy often seem insubstantial. Whenever they wanted sun they had sun, water when they wanted; no winds, no storms. You seldom see great genius born in palaces—hollow! Only husk, no grain. Some struggle is needed, some challenge.
When storms shake and the plant stands in its own strength—defying the winds, falling and rising again—strength is born. Energy is forged in struggle. Without it, energy remains latent.
Labor pain is not only for the mother; it is for the child. But life begins in that pain—and it is auspicious. Without it the child remains flimsy; there is no strength. And if a child were born without pain, the mother’s love would not arise in the same way. When we gain something through much pain, a special bond forms.
Think: the joy Hillary felt on reaching Everest—the same will not come if you are dropped there by helicopter. What is the substance of that? A helicopter can set you down; what is the difficulty? But then the essence is lost. Without effort, without pain, how will you receive the reward?
This arithmetic has spoiled many lives: the path is more valuable than the destination. If you are suddenly placed at the destination, the joy does not happen. The struggle of the way, its pains, the days of waiting, the nights of longing, the tears—all that added up—then finally joy happens.
Let every pain travel to a new meaning!
So, Vishnu Chaitanya—there is pain, I know. Even coming to me you are afraid—I know that too. Do not be frightened. Come! Leave yourself outside. Sit by me as a zero, a blank book, so I can write on you. Do not come already written upon, engraved—what then can I write? Give me a little space to write. Come empty so I can pour myself into you and fill you. Do not come stuffed with scriptures. I am ready to create scripture within you; you need not bring it. Do not get caught in nets of doctrine and argument.
Come silent. Come with heart, brimming with feeling. Give me a chance to refine you, to sculpt your image.
Second question:
Osho, I tried a hundred thousand times and was defeated—ah yes, I have found the jewel-treasure of Ram.
Ajit Saraswati has asked:
Osho, I tried a hundred thousand times and was defeated—ah yes, I have found the jewel-treasure of Ram.
Ajit Saraswati has asked:
“It seems so: man’s effort is of no use; in the end only the Lord’s grace works. But the Lord’s grace comes to those who strive. Now there’s a bit of a tangle, a contradiction.”
Try to understand. The Lord is found only by those who become available to the Lord’s grace. But only those become available to grace who strive tirelessly. By effort the Lord is not attained, but by effort grace is attained. And through grace, the Lord is attained.
There are two kinds of people in the world. First, those who say, “We will obtain it by our own effort; we will not beg for your gift.” These are very egoistic people. They say, “We’ll get it ourselves; we don’t ask. We are not beggars. We will snatch it.” They are the ones who launch an assault on God—band and drums, torches in hand, knives and spears raised. Aggressors. Such people never find the Lord. And when they don’t, they say: “There is no God; if there were, we should have found him.” That is precisely the scientific attitude.
Science is aggressive, violating; it wants to force life’s mystery open. As if one were to pry open a flower bud by force—everything is lost in that forcing; the flower’s beauty is destroyed.
This mystery of life opens of itself—when you wait in silence, pray, sit quietly, and give the Divine a chance to open. You don’t hurry, you don’t insist. You don’t say, “It’s been so long, I’ve labored so much—now open!” You set no conditions, strike no bargains. You say, “When it is your pleasure to open—I consent, I am ready. You will find me present. In this life, then in this life; in the next, then in the next. I am not in a hurry.”
So those who attack never attain. At the opposite extreme are people who say: “If effort does not bring it, why bother? It will happen when it will.” They do nothing. They don’t even wait. “Without his command even a leaf does not stir,” they say.
Both are unwise. One extreme breeds hyperactivity—sickness, fever, derangement. The other breeds utter inaction—sloth, lethargy, torpor. The way lies between. You must strive, and you must ask for grace.
“I strove a hundred thousand times—and accepted defeat.”
But do not give up early; be defeated after a hundred thousand efforts. Some don’t even strive; they just sit—so they’ve never truly been defeated. Make every effort you can. Do all you are able to do. But if through your doing you do not attain, do not panic and declare that there is no God. Right there the moment was ripening—do not miss it. When you have tried everything and are defeated… defeated, take the Name! In that supreme defeat, the supreme victory blossoms.
“I strove a hundred thousand times—and accepted defeat—
ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
The moment you accept defeat, the treasure of Ram is found. Here you are defeated; there it is attained. For in your defeat, you dissolve. As you dissolve, the Divine pours down. Only your disappearing was awaited. But without effort you cannot disappear.
It seems contradictory. That is why my statements sound paradoxical. Consider: someone comes to me and says, “I can’t sleep at night, I’m tormented by insomnia. Medicines don’t help. What should I do?” I tell him, “In the evening walk five or six miles.” He says, “What are you saying? I already can’t sleep—if I walk five miles I’ll be up all night!” I say, “Don’t worry; walk five miles. The most essential thing for sleep is to be defeated, to be tired.”
Many people today suffer from insomnia—less in the East, far more in the West. But soon it will be the same in the East, because science will spread, comfort will increase, poverty will lessen, work will decrease. In the West there was a six-day week, then five, now it’s heading toward four. Machines do the work; everything is slipping from man’s hands. When no work is left, the need for rest does not arise. Rest becomes a need only after tireless labor. Then rest is needed.
Rest is a need. If you sit around after eating and drinking, doing nothing, how will hunger come? You take digestive tonics and appetizers to induce hunger—yet you don’t do the real thing: move a little, walk around, let the food digest. When the body labors, hunger comes; when there is labor, the need for rest arises. The one who works all day sleeps well at night.
Emperors can’t believe it when they see beggars asleep on the roadside; it seems a miracle. They toss and turn all night in the softest beds, climate-controlled comfort all around. And some fellow lies under a bush by the road—no pillow, no bedding—the root of the shrub is his pillow, and he sleeps, snoring! In the bright afternoon, people stream past, and on the roadside you’ll find beggars fast asleep. At the station, a porter is asleep; trains come and go, and he sleeps soundly on the platform.
Some have gathered every comfort—and cannot sleep. It feels strange to them. Nothing strange at all; they haven’t understood life’s arithmetic.
For rest, labor is needed. For victory, defeat is needed. For grace, effort is needed. Only when you have made a hundred thousand efforts does the hour arrive when you can say: “Now nothing of my doing works, Lord! I have done what I could.” You are worthy only when you can truly say, “I have left nothing undone that I could have done. Now, by my doing it does not happen; now you take over.” And instantly you are taken over.
“Ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
Such an event happens—
I now wish to withdraw from ardor,
I want to behold the pull of Beauty.
—Now I wish to step back from the path of love and see how strong the attraction of beauty is.
I now wish to withdraw from ardor,
—I step back from the way of love.
I want to behold the pull of Beauty.
—Now I want to see how powerful the attraction of the Divine is. I will step aside—and you draw me! Until now I was pulling myself toward you; your trace never appeared. Until now I ran and you did not meet me; now I stop.
I now wish to withdraw from ardor,
I want to behold the pull of Beauty.
Now I leave it to you. Now let’s see. Now you seek me. I have searched enough. I tried every device. Now you seek me!
“Ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
And the day you sit down, defeated, suddenly you find him standing before you. He has been standing there forever. You were absorbed in your zeal for seeking. Your very zeal was the obstacle.
Therefore Ashtavakra says: observance is a hindrance. But do not conclude from this that you should not practice. Practice must be done; a hundred thousand endeavors must be made. When you have made a hundred thousand efforts and been defeated, then a single move on his side suffices. But you have earned it; you have become worthy of grace. You do not receive the Divine for free; you have consecrated your life, made it a yajna, a sacred offering.
When, upon the rose of the infant dawn’s cheeks,
the starry droplets of water dry,
and, bathed in the golden stream of rays,
the bud smiles and offers a libation of pearls—
on the day when, like a fledgling bird, dumb,
my life lay in the dream-nest,
when the night of forgetting was unknown,
and the golden morning yet unseen,
you came, quietly, as a ray,
to teach your honeyed songs.
Suddenly those eyelids opened;
into the heart pierced the arrow of longing—
and in an instant you vanished!
This will happen many times. By your efforts you will be defeated. For a moment, defeated, you will sit. Suddenly a ray will descend. Suddenly you will be bathed in that light. Suddenly a song will surround you. Suddenly you will find yourself in another realm. Suddenly you will feel wings have grown, you are flying in the sky—no longer of the earth, but of the heavens. And then, again, you will find yourself back where you were.
You came, quietly, as a ray,
to teach your honeyed songs.
Suddenly those eyelids opened;
into the heart pierced the arrow of longing—
and in an instant you vanished.
Unknown, becoming a dream in sleep,
you tickle the very life-breath;
the secret of laughter is revealed—
then I understand this:
touched first by the shade of the rays,
why do buds smile at dawn?
brushed lightly by the passing breeze,
why do the leaves return laughing?
Once you have a single touch of the Divine, you too will understand:
Unknown, becoming a dream in sleep,
you tickle the very life-breath;
the secret of laughter is revealed—
then I understand this:
touched first by the shade of the rays,
why do buds smile at dawn?
In the morning, touched by the sun’s ray, why do flowers begin to smile? Why does the whole earth suddenly fill with a new light, a new energy, a new current of life? Why does awakening spread everywhere?
Touched first by the shade of the rays,
why do buds smile at dawn?
brushed lightly by the passing breeze,
why do the leaves return laughing?
And when the breeze plays with the leaves, why do they smile, why do they rejoice?
Only when the ray of the Divine touches you will you know what this celebration in nature is—the great festival surrounding you on all sides. The ceaseless sound of Om resounds everywhere; only then will you hear it.
But before that, labor must be done, a hundred thousand efforts must be made. You strive; the Lord waits. The moment the vessel of your effort is full, grace showers.
Do not ask for grace for free. Your own offering must be given. Only by offering yourself will it be granted—nothing else will do.
Man has invented many devices. He plucks flowers from trees and offers them in a temple—whom are you deceiving? The flowers were already offered to the Divine on the trees; you separated them. They were more alive on the branches, frolicking with the Divine; you killed them. You take these dead flowers and lay them before a dead statue—and think you have offered flowers? Think the libation is made, the worship done, the prayer completed? You light a clay lamp and think there is light?
It is not so cheap. The lamp must be lit within—of your very life-breath—and the flower must be the blossoming of your own supreme consciousness! Your own sahasrar, the thousand-petaled lotus—on the day you offer that—on that day! This very head must be offered!
Man is very clever. He has brought in the coconut. The coconut looks like a head—so it’s even called a “head” (khopra, khopdi). It has two “eyes,” a “beard and mustache.” So he offers a coconut, smears it with vermilion. In place of your blood—vermilion? In place of your head—a coconut? In place of your sahasrar—you snatch flowers from trees and offer them? Whom are you deceiving? You will have to offer yourself! And there is only one way to offer yourself:
“I strove a hundred thousand times—and accepted defeat—
ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
Try to understand. The Lord is found only by those who become available to the Lord’s grace. But only those become available to grace who strive tirelessly. By effort the Lord is not attained, but by effort grace is attained. And through grace, the Lord is attained.
There are two kinds of people in the world. First, those who say, “We will obtain it by our own effort; we will not beg for your gift.” These are very egoistic people. They say, “We’ll get it ourselves; we don’t ask. We are not beggars. We will snatch it.” They are the ones who launch an assault on God—band and drums, torches in hand, knives and spears raised. Aggressors. Such people never find the Lord. And when they don’t, they say: “There is no God; if there were, we should have found him.” That is precisely the scientific attitude.
Science is aggressive, violating; it wants to force life’s mystery open. As if one were to pry open a flower bud by force—everything is lost in that forcing; the flower’s beauty is destroyed.
This mystery of life opens of itself—when you wait in silence, pray, sit quietly, and give the Divine a chance to open. You don’t hurry, you don’t insist. You don’t say, “It’s been so long, I’ve labored so much—now open!” You set no conditions, strike no bargains. You say, “When it is your pleasure to open—I consent, I am ready. You will find me present. In this life, then in this life; in the next, then in the next. I am not in a hurry.”
So those who attack never attain. At the opposite extreme are people who say: “If effort does not bring it, why bother? It will happen when it will.” They do nothing. They don’t even wait. “Without his command even a leaf does not stir,” they say.
Both are unwise. One extreme breeds hyperactivity—sickness, fever, derangement. The other breeds utter inaction—sloth, lethargy, torpor. The way lies between. You must strive, and you must ask for grace.
“I strove a hundred thousand times—and accepted defeat.”
But do not give up early; be defeated after a hundred thousand efforts. Some don’t even strive; they just sit—so they’ve never truly been defeated. Make every effort you can. Do all you are able to do. But if through your doing you do not attain, do not panic and declare that there is no God. Right there the moment was ripening—do not miss it. When you have tried everything and are defeated… defeated, take the Name! In that supreme defeat, the supreme victory blossoms.
“I strove a hundred thousand times—and accepted defeat—
ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
The moment you accept defeat, the treasure of Ram is found. Here you are defeated; there it is attained. For in your defeat, you dissolve. As you dissolve, the Divine pours down. Only your disappearing was awaited. But without effort you cannot disappear.
It seems contradictory. That is why my statements sound paradoxical. Consider: someone comes to me and says, “I can’t sleep at night, I’m tormented by insomnia. Medicines don’t help. What should I do?” I tell him, “In the evening walk five or six miles.” He says, “What are you saying? I already can’t sleep—if I walk five miles I’ll be up all night!” I say, “Don’t worry; walk five miles. The most essential thing for sleep is to be defeated, to be tired.”
Many people today suffer from insomnia—less in the East, far more in the West. But soon it will be the same in the East, because science will spread, comfort will increase, poverty will lessen, work will decrease. In the West there was a six-day week, then five, now it’s heading toward four. Machines do the work; everything is slipping from man’s hands. When no work is left, the need for rest does not arise. Rest becomes a need only after tireless labor. Then rest is needed.
Rest is a need. If you sit around after eating and drinking, doing nothing, how will hunger come? You take digestive tonics and appetizers to induce hunger—yet you don’t do the real thing: move a little, walk around, let the food digest. When the body labors, hunger comes; when there is labor, the need for rest arises. The one who works all day sleeps well at night.
Emperors can’t believe it when they see beggars asleep on the roadside; it seems a miracle. They toss and turn all night in the softest beds, climate-controlled comfort all around. And some fellow lies under a bush by the road—no pillow, no bedding—the root of the shrub is his pillow, and he sleeps, snoring! In the bright afternoon, people stream past, and on the roadside you’ll find beggars fast asleep. At the station, a porter is asleep; trains come and go, and he sleeps soundly on the platform.
Some have gathered every comfort—and cannot sleep. It feels strange to them. Nothing strange at all; they haven’t understood life’s arithmetic.
For rest, labor is needed. For victory, defeat is needed. For grace, effort is needed. Only when you have made a hundred thousand efforts does the hour arrive when you can say: “Now nothing of my doing works, Lord! I have done what I could.” You are worthy only when you can truly say, “I have left nothing undone that I could have done. Now, by my doing it does not happen; now you take over.” And instantly you are taken over.
“Ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
Such an event happens—
I now wish to withdraw from ardor,
I want to behold the pull of Beauty.
—Now I wish to step back from the path of love and see how strong the attraction of beauty is.
I now wish to withdraw from ardor,
—I step back from the way of love.
I want to behold the pull of Beauty.
—Now I want to see how powerful the attraction of the Divine is. I will step aside—and you draw me! Until now I was pulling myself toward you; your trace never appeared. Until now I ran and you did not meet me; now I stop.
I now wish to withdraw from ardor,
I want to behold the pull of Beauty.
Now I leave it to you. Now let’s see. Now you seek me. I have searched enough. I tried every device. Now you seek me!
“Ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
And the day you sit down, defeated, suddenly you find him standing before you. He has been standing there forever. You were absorbed in your zeal for seeking. Your very zeal was the obstacle.
Therefore Ashtavakra says: observance is a hindrance. But do not conclude from this that you should not practice. Practice must be done; a hundred thousand endeavors must be made. When you have made a hundred thousand efforts and been defeated, then a single move on his side suffices. But you have earned it; you have become worthy of grace. You do not receive the Divine for free; you have consecrated your life, made it a yajna, a sacred offering.
When, upon the rose of the infant dawn’s cheeks,
the starry droplets of water dry,
and, bathed in the golden stream of rays,
the bud smiles and offers a libation of pearls—
on the day when, like a fledgling bird, dumb,
my life lay in the dream-nest,
when the night of forgetting was unknown,
and the golden morning yet unseen,
you came, quietly, as a ray,
to teach your honeyed songs.
Suddenly those eyelids opened;
into the heart pierced the arrow of longing—
and in an instant you vanished!
This will happen many times. By your efforts you will be defeated. For a moment, defeated, you will sit. Suddenly a ray will descend. Suddenly you will be bathed in that light. Suddenly a song will surround you. Suddenly you will find yourself in another realm. Suddenly you will feel wings have grown, you are flying in the sky—no longer of the earth, but of the heavens. And then, again, you will find yourself back where you were.
You came, quietly, as a ray,
to teach your honeyed songs.
Suddenly those eyelids opened;
into the heart pierced the arrow of longing—
and in an instant you vanished.
Unknown, becoming a dream in sleep,
you tickle the very life-breath;
the secret of laughter is revealed—
then I understand this:
touched first by the shade of the rays,
why do buds smile at dawn?
brushed lightly by the passing breeze,
why do the leaves return laughing?
Once you have a single touch of the Divine, you too will understand:
Unknown, becoming a dream in sleep,
you tickle the very life-breath;
the secret of laughter is revealed—
then I understand this:
touched first by the shade of the rays,
why do buds smile at dawn?
In the morning, touched by the sun’s ray, why do flowers begin to smile? Why does the whole earth suddenly fill with a new light, a new energy, a new current of life? Why does awakening spread everywhere?
Touched first by the shade of the rays,
why do buds smile at dawn?
brushed lightly by the passing breeze,
why do the leaves return laughing?
And when the breeze plays with the leaves, why do they smile, why do they rejoice?
Only when the ray of the Divine touches you will you know what this celebration in nature is—the great festival surrounding you on all sides. The ceaseless sound of Om resounds everywhere; only then will you hear it.
But before that, labor must be done, a hundred thousand efforts must be made. You strive; the Lord waits. The moment the vessel of your effort is full, grace showers.
Do not ask for grace for free. Your own offering must be given. Only by offering yourself will it be granted—nothing else will do.
Man has invented many devices. He plucks flowers from trees and offers them in a temple—whom are you deceiving? The flowers were already offered to the Divine on the trees; you separated them. They were more alive on the branches, frolicking with the Divine; you killed them. You take these dead flowers and lay them before a dead statue—and think you have offered flowers? Think the libation is made, the worship done, the prayer completed? You light a clay lamp and think there is light?
It is not so cheap. The lamp must be lit within—of your very life-breath—and the flower must be the blossoming of your own supreme consciousness! Your own sahasrar, the thousand-petaled lotus—on the day you offer that—on that day! This very head must be offered!
Man is very clever. He has brought in the coconut. The coconut looks like a head—so it’s even called a “head” (khopra, khopdi). It has two “eyes,” a “beard and mustache.” So he offers a coconut, smears it with vermilion. In place of your blood—vermilion? In place of your head—a coconut? In place of your sahasrar—you snatch flowers from trees and offer them? Whom are you deceiving? You will have to offer yourself! And there is only one way to offer yourself:
“I strove a hundred thousand times—and accepted defeat—
ah yes, I found the jewel-treasure of Ram.”
The last question:
Osho, there is a unique episode in King Janaka’s life—the Sita born of the earth, and the Ramleela that unfolded around Sita. Please explain Ramleela to us today.
Osho, there is a unique episode in King Janaka’s life—the Sita born of the earth, and the Ramleela that unfolded around Sita. Please explain Ramleela to us today.
In the context of Ashtavakra and all that I have been saying to you, the meaning of that story is very simple and direct. Sita is the earth; Rama is the sky. Their union is Ramleela—the meeting of earth and sky. And Ramleela is taking place within each of us. Your body is Sita; your soul, Rama. Within you the union has already happened—the meeting of earth and sky, of the mortal and the immortal. Within you this union has taken place. Whatever is happening in all of that is Ramleela.
Read the Ram-katha within yourself. And the day you recognize that you are neither Rama nor Sita, that you are the witness, the seer of Ramleela—on that very day the Ramleela ceases. One has to go beyond Rama and Sita.
People go to watch Ramleela; what on earth will you gain there? The Ramleela is going on inside—sit there and watch; become the one who sees. They say that watching Ramleela brings great benefit, merit. That merit, if you understand what I am saying, does happen. This union of Sita and Rama within you, this meeting of earth and sky, this confluence of matter and consciousness—make it your stage, let it unfold. Sit as a spectator, become the seer, become the witness. The moment you become a witness, you are beyond the play.
There is nowhere else to go to watch Ramleela. In everyone Ramleela is born. And as long as the Ramleela continues, the world continues. The day your witnessing awakens and the Ramleela stops, that very day the world disappears.
You have watched Ramleela for many days; but there is a small mistake in the way you have watched. That mistake is that while watching Ramleela you forget that you are the seer. This happens every day. You go to a film; you forget you are the one watching; you become part of the film.
When the first three-dimensional film was made and shown in London, people realized how much we forget. In a three-dimensional film it seems exactly as if a living person is coming. A horseman rides in on a horse with a spear, and right up at the screen he throws the spear. The whole hall ducked—half to this side, half to that—to avoid the spear. For a moment the false became true. This becoming-true of the false is called maya.
In Bengal there was a famous thinker, Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. He was watching a Ramleela—or some other play; all plays are Ramleela. And in the play there is a character attempting to rape a woman. He is behaving so crudely and harshly that Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, who was sitting right there in the front row, forgot it was a play. He took off his shoe, climbed onto the stage, and began beating the actor. The actor showed even greater presence of mind. He began to laugh. He took the shoe like an award and held it to his chest. Standing at the mic he said, “Blessed is my fortune! I never imagined I could be such a skilled actor that Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar would be deceived. Such a wise man was fooled! So I will not return this shoe; it has become my prize; I will keep it now as a memento. I have received many certificates, medals; but none greater than this.”
Ishwar Chandra felt deeply embarrassed as soon as he came to his senses—what have I done? A man as intelligent as Ishwar Chandra got lost in the play! All the intelligent have been lost like this.
When you watch a play, you forget that you are the seer. That play of light and shadow upon the stage, upon the screen, becomes everything. The same is happening within. This Ramleela that has unfolded in your life—through the union of Sita and Rama, of earth and sky—you have become completely lost in it, absorbed; you have forgotten that you are only the seer. Remember—wake up now. The moment you awaken, you will find the screen has become empty. There is neither Rama there nor Sita. The play is over. The ending of this play is what we call liberation, moksha, nirvana!
Hari Om Tatsat!
Read the Ram-katha within yourself. And the day you recognize that you are neither Rama nor Sita, that you are the witness, the seer of Ramleela—on that very day the Ramleela ceases. One has to go beyond Rama and Sita.
People go to watch Ramleela; what on earth will you gain there? The Ramleela is going on inside—sit there and watch; become the one who sees. They say that watching Ramleela brings great benefit, merit. That merit, if you understand what I am saying, does happen. This union of Sita and Rama within you, this meeting of earth and sky, this confluence of matter and consciousness—make it your stage, let it unfold. Sit as a spectator, become the seer, become the witness. The moment you become a witness, you are beyond the play.
There is nowhere else to go to watch Ramleela. In everyone Ramleela is born. And as long as the Ramleela continues, the world continues. The day your witnessing awakens and the Ramleela stops, that very day the world disappears.
You have watched Ramleela for many days; but there is a small mistake in the way you have watched. That mistake is that while watching Ramleela you forget that you are the seer. This happens every day. You go to a film; you forget you are the one watching; you become part of the film.
When the first three-dimensional film was made and shown in London, people realized how much we forget. In a three-dimensional film it seems exactly as if a living person is coming. A horseman rides in on a horse with a spear, and right up at the screen he throws the spear. The whole hall ducked—half to this side, half to that—to avoid the spear. For a moment the false became true. This becoming-true of the false is called maya.
In Bengal there was a famous thinker, Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. He was watching a Ramleela—or some other play; all plays are Ramleela. And in the play there is a character attempting to rape a woman. He is behaving so crudely and harshly that Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, who was sitting right there in the front row, forgot it was a play. He took off his shoe, climbed onto the stage, and began beating the actor. The actor showed even greater presence of mind. He began to laugh. He took the shoe like an award and held it to his chest. Standing at the mic he said, “Blessed is my fortune! I never imagined I could be such a skilled actor that Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar would be deceived. Such a wise man was fooled! So I will not return this shoe; it has become my prize; I will keep it now as a memento. I have received many certificates, medals; but none greater than this.”
Ishwar Chandra felt deeply embarrassed as soon as he came to his senses—what have I done? A man as intelligent as Ishwar Chandra got lost in the play! All the intelligent have been lost like this.
When you watch a play, you forget that you are the seer. That play of light and shadow upon the stage, upon the screen, becomes everything. The same is happening within. This Ramleela that has unfolded in your life—through the union of Sita and Rama, of earth and sky—you have become completely lost in it, absorbed; you have forgotten that you are only the seer. Remember—wake up now. The moment you awaken, you will find the screen has become empty. There is neither Rama there nor Sita. The play is over. The ending of this play is what we call liberation, moksha, nirvana!
Hari Om Tatsat!