My beloved Atman! 'Who am I?'—on this matter I spoke a few things with you yesterday and the day before. The day before yesterday I said: not knowledge, but the state of not-knowing—the very sense of not-knowing—opens the path toward truth. To realize 'I do not know' carries the mind into an incomparable peace and into silence. To remember that all the knowledge, all the words and doctrines that have spread over my memory are not knowledge; rather, when memory is silent and still, when memory does not speak, when memory does not throb—then, in that interval, in that emptiness, that which is known there, just that—just that—is truth, is knowledge. On this I said a few things the day before yesterday. And yesterday—and yesterday I told you that not those who have become hard in their ego, not those seated upon the throne of their ego, not those who have shut all the windows of sensitivity and whose hearts have become stone—but those who are fluid in love, whose heart’s doors are all open, whom the Unknown touches, who sense the mystery spread all around in life—such hearts, hearts filled with poetry and love and mystery alone become capable of knowing the truth. And this morning, with a small story, let me begin today’s talk. At the gate of a royal palace there was a great crowd. The whole village, the entire capital, had gathered at the gate. From early morning the crowd had begun to arrive, and now evening was approaching; yet whoever had come and stood, stood there—no one left. All day long, hungry and thirsty, people stood in the blazing sun before that gate. Something inconceivable had occurred there. Something had happened which did not seem believable at all. Early in the morning a monk had come, knocked at that gate, and held out his begging bowl. The king had just risen; he must have told his servants: go and fill the bowl. But the monk said: Wait! Before I accept alms, hear my condition. I accept nothing without a condition. It had been heard that givers give with conditions; this was the very first thing—that the taker should set a condition, a beggar! The king said: A condition! What condition? The beggar said: My condition is one: I will accept alms, but only if you give your word that you will fill my bowl completely; you will not leave it incomplete. Give your word that you will fill the bowl completely, then I will accept; otherwise I shall go to another door. The king said: Do you know—this is the king’s door; will I not be able to fill your small bowl? But he said: Even so, it is proper to take the condition, proper to take the promise. The king gave his word. And he told his ministers that since it has come to the matter of filling the bowl, fill the bowl with gold coins. He had many gold coins, many diamonds and pearls, many rubies—much, an inexhaustible treasury.
Osho's Commentary
'Who am I?'—on this matter I spoke a few things with you yesterday and the day before.
The day before yesterday I said: not knowledge, but the state of not-knowing—the very sense of not-knowing—opens the path toward truth. To realize 'I do not know' carries the mind into an incomparable peace and into silence. To remember that all the knowledge, all the words and doctrines that have spread over my memory are not knowledge; rather, when memory is silent and still, when memory does not speak, when memory does not throb—then, in that interval, in that emptiness, that which is known there, just that—just that—is truth, is knowledge. On this I said a few things the day before yesterday.
And yesterday—and yesterday I told you that not those who have become hard in their ego, not those seated upon the throne of their ego, not those who have shut all the windows of sensitivity and whose hearts have become stone—but those who are fluid in love, whose heart’s doors are all open, whom the Unknown touches, who sense the mystery spread all around in life—such hearts, hearts filled with poetry and love and mystery alone become capable of knowing the truth.
And this morning, with a small story, let me begin today’s talk.
At the gate of a royal palace there was a great crowd. The whole village, the entire capital, had gathered at the gate. From early morning the crowd had begun to arrive, and now evening was approaching; yet whoever had come and stood, stood there—no one left. All day long, hungry and thirsty, people stood in the blazing sun before that gate. Something inconceivable had occurred there. Something had happened which did not seem believable at all.
Early in the morning a monk had come, knocked at that gate, and held out his begging bowl. The king had just risen; he must have told his servants: go and fill the bowl. But the monk said: Wait! Before I accept alms, hear my condition. I accept nothing without a condition.
It had been heard that givers give with conditions; this was the very first thing—that the taker should set a condition, a beggar!
The king said: A condition! What condition?
The beggar said: My condition is one: I will accept alms, but only if you give your word that you will fill my bowl completely; you will not leave it incomplete. Give your word that you will fill the bowl completely, then I will accept; otherwise I shall go to another door.
The king said: Do you know—this is the king’s door; will I not be able to fill your small bowl?
But he said: Even so, it is proper to take the condition, proper to take the promise.
The king gave his word. And he told his ministers that since it has come to the matter of filling the bowl, fill the bowl with gold coins. He had many gold coins, many diamonds and pearls, many rubies—much, an inexhaustible treasury.