Mare He Jogi Maro #16
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, what is being received from you—what great good fortune! The energy is rising; beyond that, you know everything. Please guide me.
Osho, what is being received from you—what great good fortune! The energy is rising; beyond that, you know everything. Please guide me.
Rampal, to keep this state of “aho”—wonder and gratitude—steady: there is no greater prayer than that. There is no greater bridge to the Divine than ahobhava. The one who is grateful is blessed. And the more grateful you become, the more densely will the nectar rain. Keep this arithmetic safeguarded in your heart.
As much as you can give thanks, in that measure you will receive. Forget about complaining—do not do it. And it is not that occasions to complain will not arise. The mind’s expectations are immense; at every moment, at every step, complaints spring up: “This should have happened, it didn’t.” Whenever it seems, “This should have happened but didn’t,” remember at that very instant that a mistake is occurring—because complaint becomes an obstruction. To complain means you want to impose your own desire upon the Divine.
And do not think complaint cannot arise in you—complaint arose even in a supreme being like Jesus. In the last hour, hanging on the cross, for a moment a cry escaped. Lifting his head toward the sky Jesus said, “My Lord, what are You showing me?” He must not have thought the cross would come. He must not have thought the Divine would leave him so helpless. But instantly he recognized his error; he lowered his eyes, asked forgiveness, and said: “Thy will be done! If You are doing it, it must be right.”
This much only is the distance between ignorance and knowing. This much is the gap between darkness and light, between the lost and the arrived. In that small span the whole event happens; the slight shortfall that remained was completed: “Thy will be done!”
Keep the ahobhava alive. If even a little light comes from His side, dance—be enraptured. When energy rises, flow into gratitude. And the energy will rise more. Flowers will bloom. The more your feeling of thankfulness grows, the more flowers upon flowers will blossom.
Auspiciousness is happening. Just do not let ahobhava slip. What is happening within you is in my sight, in my thought. Let no stiffness—pride—creep in. That is where the slip occurs—the gravest slip. When energy begins to rise, when the inner lamp is lit, when the inner sound is heard, the ego sneaks in by the back door and seizes you. The ego will say: “Look, Rampal, you have become special. You are no ordinary man now—you are accomplished!”
Guard against the ego’s trickery. The ego follows to the very end. It doesn’t strut only with wealth or position; it struts with prayer, with meditation too. And wherever ego enters, the doors close; there you are cut off, your roots with the Divine are broken.
By what attainments,
from these eloquent silences,
do the nectar-drunk strings grow tangled—
the veena, too, like a madwoman?
Bliss and pain, light and dark,
making conscious and unconscious forget,
there plays, in forbidden notes,
a raga, love-lorn.
Why have star-flowers shed?
Why are flowers filled with compassion?
Why, in the wilderness,
has the dark new-moon turned moon-faced?
The new-moon will turn into fullness; thorns will become flowers. Within, wondrous, unprecedented miracles will happen. But be alert: let not even a trace of pride arise. The more miracles begin to happen inside, the more fluid you become, the more humble, the more you bow. And the more you bow, the more you will receive. Bowing and bowing, one has to disappear.
Die, O yogi, die; this death is sweet.
Die the very death by which, dying, Gorakh was seen.
And it is not that what is happening is not special. It is special—that is why I am warning you. It is rare—that is why I am warning you.
Who looks like such an adept?
Wrapped in the unmanifest’s veils,
from the feet of that dancing, unclad danseuse,
in his heart rises the unwavering honeyed sound he heard.
Who has managed to touch that line,
who has seen that point-faced One?
Under the luminous ramparts of sound,
with his very life he has plucked out the mind’s brick.
Who looks like such an adept?
The happening is rare. You have become a dhuni—steadfast at your sacred fire—you have kept at it, kept digging. Now the stream is drawing near. The first glimpses have begun to descend. And now there is danger. Those who have no inner experience have nothing to lose; they can be carefree. They can sleep oblivious, sleep as if having sold their horses—no harm. But when treasure begins to come to you, then be careful—alert, watchful—because now there is something that can be lost.
One who walks the heights must become very aware, for if he falls from there his bones and ribs will break—he will be shattered. One who walks on flat ground need not fear; he can even walk drunk and still manage. But now let not even the slightest intoxication of I-ness arise in you.
You have noticed we have a word: yoga-bhrashta—fallen-from-yoga. But have you heard of bhoga-bhrashta—fallen-from-indulgence? The indulger has no way to “fall”; hence there is no such word. The indulger walks on level ground; from there he cannot fall. One can be yoga-bhrashta, but what would bhoga-bhrashta be? Yoga takes you to heights; from there a fall is possible. If you fly in the sky you can fall; therefore the greater the height, the greater the alertness.
You are blessed. Express this gratitude in many, many ways; but even by mistake, even unawares, even in unconsciousness, do not let the I-sense rise.
Today my eyes are honey-bees—
an unknown ray
has tickled the heart;
from the life-breath there burst a humming,
early, early in the morning—
today my eyes are honey-bees!
A far honey-fragrance, maddened,
has awakened thirst in the life-breath;
through the world’s honey-forest
I keep making myriad rounds—
today my eyes are honey-bees!
These eyelid-wings, in a swoon,
close and open;
the pupils are intoxicated—who will count the thorns?
Today my eyes are honey-bees!
O bud of distant bowers!
Do not snatch my eyes from me!
You do not surround them—yet your form has them ringed—
today my eyes are honey-bees!
Your eyes have begun to fill with distant light; the first ray has arrived. And your ears have begun to fill with the far sweet-sound—the first note has made its connection. Fragrance is arising.
Much is yet to be. This is nothing compared to what is to come. Therefore, whatever happens, know only this: more is still to happen. Do not drop your readiness; do not stop digging. Let the excavation continue, let the meditation continue. It is going rightly; the right direction has been taken. Now keep moving in this very direction—straight ahead, in line with the nose.
As much as you can give thanks, in that measure you will receive. Forget about complaining—do not do it. And it is not that occasions to complain will not arise. The mind’s expectations are immense; at every moment, at every step, complaints spring up: “This should have happened, it didn’t.” Whenever it seems, “This should have happened but didn’t,” remember at that very instant that a mistake is occurring—because complaint becomes an obstruction. To complain means you want to impose your own desire upon the Divine.
And do not think complaint cannot arise in you—complaint arose even in a supreme being like Jesus. In the last hour, hanging on the cross, for a moment a cry escaped. Lifting his head toward the sky Jesus said, “My Lord, what are You showing me?” He must not have thought the cross would come. He must not have thought the Divine would leave him so helpless. But instantly he recognized his error; he lowered his eyes, asked forgiveness, and said: “Thy will be done! If You are doing it, it must be right.”
This much only is the distance between ignorance and knowing. This much is the gap between darkness and light, between the lost and the arrived. In that small span the whole event happens; the slight shortfall that remained was completed: “Thy will be done!”
Keep the ahobhava alive. If even a little light comes from His side, dance—be enraptured. When energy rises, flow into gratitude. And the energy will rise more. Flowers will bloom. The more your feeling of thankfulness grows, the more flowers upon flowers will blossom.
Auspiciousness is happening. Just do not let ahobhava slip. What is happening within you is in my sight, in my thought. Let no stiffness—pride—creep in. That is where the slip occurs—the gravest slip. When energy begins to rise, when the inner lamp is lit, when the inner sound is heard, the ego sneaks in by the back door and seizes you. The ego will say: “Look, Rampal, you have become special. You are no ordinary man now—you are accomplished!”
Guard against the ego’s trickery. The ego follows to the very end. It doesn’t strut only with wealth or position; it struts with prayer, with meditation too. And wherever ego enters, the doors close; there you are cut off, your roots with the Divine are broken.
By what attainments,
from these eloquent silences,
do the nectar-drunk strings grow tangled—
the veena, too, like a madwoman?
Bliss and pain, light and dark,
making conscious and unconscious forget,
there plays, in forbidden notes,
a raga, love-lorn.
Why have star-flowers shed?
Why are flowers filled with compassion?
Why, in the wilderness,
has the dark new-moon turned moon-faced?
The new-moon will turn into fullness; thorns will become flowers. Within, wondrous, unprecedented miracles will happen. But be alert: let not even a trace of pride arise. The more miracles begin to happen inside, the more fluid you become, the more humble, the more you bow. And the more you bow, the more you will receive. Bowing and bowing, one has to disappear.
Die, O yogi, die; this death is sweet.
Die the very death by which, dying, Gorakh was seen.
And it is not that what is happening is not special. It is special—that is why I am warning you. It is rare—that is why I am warning you.
Who looks like such an adept?
Wrapped in the unmanifest’s veils,
from the feet of that dancing, unclad danseuse,
in his heart rises the unwavering honeyed sound he heard.
Who has managed to touch that line,
who has seen that point-faced One?
Under the luminous ramparts of sound,
with his very life he has plucked out the mind’s brick.
Who looks like such an adept?
The happening is rare. You have become a dhuni—steadfast at your sacred fire—you have kept at it, kept digging. Now the stream is drawing near. The first glimpses have begun to descend. And now there is danger. Those who have no inner experience have nothing to lose; they can be carefree. They can sleep oblivious, sleep as if having sold their horses—no harm. But when treasure begins to come to you, then be careful—alert, watchful—because now there is something that can be lost.
One who walks the heights must become very aware, for if he falls from there his bones and ribs will break—he will be shattered. One who walks on flat ground need not fear; he can even walk drunk and still manage. But now let not even the slightest intoxication of I-ness arise in you.
You have noticed we have a word: yoga-bhrashta—fallen-from-yoga. But have you heard of bhoga-bhrashta—fallen-from-indulgence? The indulger has no way to “fall”; hence there is no such word. The indulger walks on level ground; from there he cannot fall. One can be yoga-bhrashta, but what would bhoga-bhrashta be? Yoga takes you to heights; from there a fall is possible. If you fly in the sky you can fall; therefore the greater the height, the greater the alertness.
You are blessed. Express this gratitude in many, many ways; but even by mistake, even unawares, even in unconsciousness, do not let the I-sense rise.
Today my eyes are honey-bees—
an unknown ray
has tickled the heart;
from the life-breath there burst a humming,
early, early in the morning—
today my eyes are honey-bees!
A far honey-fragrance, maddened,
has awakened thirst in the life-breath;
through the world’s honey-forest
I keep making myriad rounds—
today my eyes are honey-bees!
These eyelid-wings, in a swoon,
close and open;
the pupils are intoxicated—who will count the thorns?
Today my eyes are honey-bees!
O bud of distant bowers!
Do not snatch my eyes from me!
You do not surround them—yet your form has them ringed—
today my eyes are honey-bees!
Your eyes have begun to fill with distant light; the first ray has arrived. And your ears have begun to fill with the far sweet-sound—the first note has made its connection. Fragrance is arising.
Much is yet to be. This is nothing compared to what is to come. Therefore, whatever happens, know only this: more is still to happen. Do not drop your readiness; do not stop digging. Let the excavation continue, let the meditation continue. It is going rightly; the right direction has been taken. Now keep moving in this very direction—straight ahead, in line with the nose.
Second question:
Osho, when I sit to pray, nothing occurs to me except to weep. What should I do?
Osho, when I sit to pray, nothing occurs to me except to weep. What should I do?
That is prayer. Prayer is happening. Weeping is prayer. The prayer of words is paltry; the prayer of tears is deep. What is said by the tongue does not go very far; what is cried through the eyes grows wings to reach the sky. So do not stop the crying. You asked for prayer, and prayer is being given—now recognize it. Prayer is feeling. And what do you have that is more full of feeling than tears? If you speak with the mouth, the mind speaks; if you weep with the eyes, the heart speaks. And prayer rises from the heart, not from the head. Learned, second-hand prayers have no value—count them as worth a brass farthing.
Prayer must be one’s own, intimate. Tears are utterly personal. As every thumbprint is unique, so is every tear from every eye. Words become stale. You speak the same words others speak. Words are collective, public. Tears are yours alone, no one else’s. They rise from your inner ache, from your longing. Tears are flowers blossoming within you—neither borrowed, nor stale, nor bought in the market. If you recite the Hindus’ prayers or the Muslims’ prayers, they are purchased prayers. Such prayer will not go far; it has no value. You are merely parroting. Prayer must be your own.
If tears come, let them come. Flow with them. Pour your whole heart into them. Then something more will come—songs hidden behind the tears will also arrive. But then they will be yours. Tears will clear the way. They will purify you, they will bathe you. From that bath, your own song will arise, your dance will arise; buoyancy and enthusiasm will well up. Much will happen—but it will be yours.
That it begins with the eyes is an auspicious sign. But we tend to think prayer is a ritual. “Now these tears have come in the way—who will do the ritual? So much water had to be poured, so many flowers offered, so much rice placed, so many mantras chanted, so many beads turned—now that tears have come, who will do all that?” All that is futile. You could spend a lifetime offering flowers and waving lamps, and nothing would happen. A spring is breaking open in the heart—the spring of love.
Do not take these tears to be only of sorrow. Tears are not necessarily of pain. Tears can be of joy, of love. Tears have many modes and many hues. One thing is certain about tears—whether they are of sorrow, joy, or love: a feeling becomes so abundant that the heart cannot contain it. That uncontained feeling overflows as tears. If it is sorrow so great the heart cannot hold it, the eyes will grow wet. If it is joy so great the heart cannot hold it, still the eyes will grow wet.
And a devotee’s tears are deeply paradoxical; they carry the tone of sorrow and of joy together. Sorrow—because union with the Beloved has not yet happened. The pain of separation is there. Joy—because the call of the Beloved has begun. Is that not enough? Countless are those in whom no call ever arises. Many live and die without even a shadow of the divine crossing their path. Wealth comes, status comes, prestige comes—many things come; but God is not a link in their chain of life. So the devotee rejoices too. If longing has arisen, the possibility of union has ripened. Longing will ripen, and one day it becomes union. Longing is the unripe fruit; union is that fruit fully ripened.
So the devotee also suffers; there is pain in the eyes. Pain—“When will You meet me?” Pain—“How long must I wait?” Pain—“How long will You keep me on the path?” And joy too—“Your call has begun within me. Surely You have chosen me; surely You have remembered me. For had You not remembered, what power had I, poor wretch, to remember You? You must have accepted me—therefore I am able to choose You. Now sooner or later, come when You will—I will keep vigil, the doors of my eyes open.”
A bit of the flush of restless vigils,
A bit of kohl’s dark line,
In the rose-lit windows of the dawn
As if the black night had taken up abode—
A monsoon dwells in these two eyes.
Disheveled, dry, scattered tresses,
Moist and heavy eyelids,
Some ache has lodged in the life-breath,
Some unspoken thing in the mind—
A monsoon dwells in these two eyes.
O tender vine of modesty, sway a little;
O honey-voiced one, speak a little!
In this drenched hem of awareness,
Whose cruel token is concealed?
A monsoon dwells in these two eyes.
Let the eyes pour, let it rain. Let the eyes become a rainstorm. Weep in such a way that nothing remains inside. Pour yourself out completely in the weeping. Do not be stingy. Do not be miserly. Do not cry shyly, timidly. Weep intoxicated. Weep with a full heart. Only then, in your sobbing, will the murmur of worship be heard. Only then will your tears carry the flavor of adoration.
Without the shade of your tresses, perhaps even the full moon would go dark;
If you stay with me, then every night will turn to Diwali.
This body, fashioned of earth, hungers for unending love—
How can the lamp burn if the wick of life is dry?
In the black tresses of night each tangled star declares:
Love is not a treasure that empties by being spent.
If you stay with me, then every night will turn to Diwali.
In life’s empty temple let the sacred conch of hope be blown;
If you come, golden blossoms of rays will bloom in the dark.
Breaths will rise with sandalwood fragrance; tears will scatter like unbroken rice in worship;
The ashes of dreams, on touching You, will turn vermilion red.
If you stay with me, then every night will turn to Diwali.
But weep. These very tears will one day become garlands of lamps. These very tears will become little flames. These very tears will bring Diwali. How can the lamp burn if the wick of life is dry? These tears will moisten, will soak the wick of your life-breath. Love is not a treasury that empties by being spent.
Do not be miserly, because this is not the kind of wealth that runs out by flowing. This wealth grows by flowing. The more you weep, the more spacious the heart becomes. The more you weep, the deeper your feeling grows. The more you give, the more filled you find yourself. The outer world has one kind of economics: if you give away, your treasury empties; there you must loot others to keep your coffers full. There is another economics within—the economics of love; its logic is exactly the reverse. There, if you hoard, it rots. There, if you spend, it grows. The one who held back love, fearing, “If I give, I will be emptied—then what? I will be poor, destitute,”—his love dies.
Love is like a flower; it is not meant to be locked in a safe. It is meant to be offered—to the sun, to the moon and stars, to the winds. Its fragrance is meant to be scattered. More and more flowers will keep coming. From the same unknown from which this flower came, more will come. From the same unconscious wombs from which these colors arose, more colors will arise. From the same source from which this fragrance arrived, more fragrances will come. The more you give, the more you receive. The more you share and spend, the more your inner wealth increases. The inner riches of life grow by giving and decline by hoarding. Love is not a treasury that empties by being spent.
If tears are coming, let them come; do not make false efforts to bring them. Tears that are contrived have no value. Let me remind you of that—otherwise, hearing me praise tears, you may think you should produce them. Tears can be produced. An actor can bring them in a play. But such tears have no meaning; they do not come from the heart. They have no intimate relation with you. They are artificial. Just as you can paste on a false smile that sticks only to the lips, so too you can practice tears. But such tears have no value—therefore I remind you. Otherwise misunderstandings arise; rituals begin: “There must be tears in prayer.” I am not saying there must be tears. I am saying: if they come, let them come, let them flow; do not obstruct them. Do not even try to bring them; brought tears will be false. Stopping is harmful; forcing is harmful. If they come, welcome them—welcome them with joy.
And if you look a little into the savor of life, its beauty, its dignity, tears will come on their own. Unfortunate is the person in whose eyes no wetness rises when a rose blooms. Flowers blossom among stones, such great miracles occur—earth turns into a flower before your eyes. Where there was only stench—where you spread manure—there is the flower’s fragrance. Transformation has taken place before you; the stench of manure has become the perfume of a rose. A revolution has happened. Does not your eye grow wet with joy at this unparalleled event? You planted a seed yesterday; today it has sprouted—two green leaves have burst forth.
Miracles are happening every moment. Open your eyes; awaken a little sensitivity. Sometimes embrace a tree. Sometimes lie upon the earth as if in a mother’s lap—forgetting everything. From that very earth a unique thrill, a unique energy will begin to spread within you. We are, after all, of the earth. In man, half is sky, half is earth. Lie down on the ground with arms outstretched—naked, in an embrace—and the earth within you will begin to commune with the earth without. At times sit and look at the sky, only look—let your gaze travel far; let your eyes become birds. You will need no temple; the Divine is enthroned all around. And suddenly one day you will find tears begin to flow—without cause, without reason. Do not try to find excuses. Yes, go where they can flow with ease: sit among a few mad ones who are drunk with the Beloved—singing, praising, dancing, their tears flowing. Their color will stain you too.
But do not, by effort, drag tears out. That is a violation. It is a kind of adultery. It is a rape of oneself. And when even a person’s tears become false, everything about them becomes false. So at least do not falsify your tears. Your smile has already become false. Only your weeping remains true—do not make it false; otherwise nothing true will remain with you. This much truth is still yours: your tears are true. From this truth you can build a bridge to the Truth of God—only truth can be bridged to truth.
Prayer must be one’s own, intimate. Tears are utterly personal. As every thumbprint is unique, so is every tear from every eye. Words become stale. You speak the same words others speak. Words are collective, public. Tears are yours alone, no one else’s. They rise from your inner ache, from your longing. Tears are flowers blossoming within you—neither borrowed, nor stale, nor bought in the market. If you recite the Hindus’ prayers or the Muslims’ prayers, they are purchased prayers. Such prayer will not go far; it has no value. You are merely parroting. Prayer must be your own.
If tears come, let them come. Flow with them. Pour your whole heart into them. Then something more will come—songs hidden behind the tears will also arrive. But then they will be yours. Tears will clear the way. They will purify you, they will bathe you. From that bath, your own song will arise, your dance will arise; buoyancy and enthusiasm will well up. Much will happen—but it will be yours.
That it begins with the eyes is an auspicious sign. But we tend to think prayer is a ritual. “Now these tears have come in the way—who will do the ritual? So much water had to be poured, so many flowers offered, so much rice placed, so many mantras chanted, so many beads turned—now that tears have come, who will do all that?” All that is futile. You could spend a lifetime offering flowers and waving lamps, and nothing would happen. A spring is breaking open in the heart—the spring of love.
Do not take these tears to be only of sorrow. Tears are not necessarily of pain. Tears can be of joy, of love. Tears have many modes and many hues. One thing is certain about tears—whether they are of sorrow, joy, or love: a feeling becomes so abundant that the heart cannot contain it. That uncontained feeling overflows as tears. If it is sorrow so great the heart cannot hold it, the eyes will grow wet. If it is joy so great the heart cannot hold it, still the eyes will grow wet.
And a devotee’s tears are deeply paradoxical; they carry the tone of sorrow and of joy together. Sorrow—because union with the Beloved has not yet happened. The pain of separation is there. Joy—because the call of the Beloved has begun. Is that not enough? Countless are those in whom no call ever arises. Many live and die without even a shadow of the divine crossing their path. Wealth comes, status comes, prestige comes—many things come; but God is not a link in their chain of life. So the devotee rejoices too. If longing has arisen, the possibility of union has ripened. Longing will ripen, and one day it becomes union. Longing is the unripe fruit; union is that fruit fully ripened.
So the devotee also suffers; there is pain in the eyes. Pain—“When will You meet me?” Pain—“How long must I wait?” Pain—“How long will You keep me on the path?” And joy too—“Your call has begun within me. Surely You have chosen me; surely You have remembered me. For had You not remembered, what power had I, poor wretch, to remember You? You must have accepted me—therefore I am able to choose You. Now sooner or later, come when You will—I will keep vigil, the doors of my eyes open.”
A bit of the flush of restless vigils,
A bit of kohl’s dark line,
In the rose-lit windows of the dawn
As if the black night had taken up abode—
A monsoon dwells in these two eyes.
Disheveled, dry, scattered tresses,
Moist and heavy eyelids,
Some ache has lodged in the life-breath,
Some unspoken thing in the mind—
A monsoon dwells in these two eyes.
O tender vine of modesty, sway a little;
O honey-voiced one, speak a little!
In this drenched hem of awareness,
Whose cruel token is concealed?
A monsoon dwells in these two eyes.
Let the eyes pour, let it rain. Let the eyes become a rainstorm. Weep in such a way that nothing remains inside. Pour yourself out completely in the weeping. Do not be stingy. Do not be miserly. Do not cry shyly, timidly. Weep intoxicated. Weep with a full heart. Only then, in your sobbing, will the murmur of worship be heard. Only then will your tears carry the flavor of adoration.
Without the shade of your tresses, perhaps even the full moon would go dark;
If you stay with me, then every night will turn to Diwali.
This body, fashioned of earth, hungers for unending love—
How can the lamp burn if the wick of life is dry?
In the black tresses of night each tangled star declares:
Love is not a treasure that empties by being spent.
If you stay with me, then every night will turn to Diwali.
In life’s empty temple let the sacred conch of hope be blown;
If you come, golden blossoms of rays will bloom in the dark.
Breaths will rise with sandalwood fragrance; tears will scatter like unbroken rice in worship;
The ashes of dreams, on touching You, will turn vermilion red.
If you stay with me, then every night will turn to Diwali.
But weep. These very tears will one day become garlands of lamps. These very tears will become little flames. These very tears will bring Diwali. How can the lamp burn if the wick of life is dry? These tears will moisten, will soak the wick of your life-breath. Love is not a treasury that empties by being spent.
Do not be miserly, because this is not the kind of wealth that runs out by flowing. This wealth grows by flowing. The more you weep, the more spacious the heart becomes. The more you weep, the deeper your feeling grows. The more you give, the more filled you find yourself. The outer world has one kind of economics: if you give away, your treasury empties; there you must loot others to keep your coffers full. There is another economics within—the economics of love; its logic is exactly the reverse. There, if you hoard, it rots. There, if you spend, it grows. The one who held back love, fearing, “If I give, I will be emptied—then what? I will be poor, destitute,”—his love dies.
Love is like a flower; it is not meant to be locked in a safe. It is meant to be offered—to the sun, to the moon and stars, to the winds. Its fragrance is meant to be scattered. More and more flowers will keep coming. From the same unknown from which this flower came, more will come. From the same unconscious wombs from which these colors arose, more colors will arise. From the same source from which this fragrance arrived, more fragrances will come. The more you give, the more you receive. The more you share and spend, the more your inner wealth increases. The inner riches of life grow by giving and decline by hoarding. Love is not a treasury that empties by being spent.
If tears are coming, let them come; do not make false efforts to bring them. Tears that are contrived have no value. Let me remind you of that—otherwise, hearing me praise tears, you may think you should produce them. Tears can be produced. An actor can bring them in a play. But such tears have no meaning; they do not come from the heart. They have no intimate relation with you. They are artificial. Just as you can paste on a false smile that sticks only to the lips, so too you can practice tears. But such tears have no value—therefore I remind you. Otherwise misunderstandings arise; rituals begin: “There must be tears in prayer.” I am not saying there must be tears. I am saying: if they come, let them come, let them flow; do not obstruct them. Do not even try to bring them; brought tears will be false. Stopping is harmful; forcing is harmful. If they come, welcome them—welcome them with joy.
And if you look a little into the savor of life, its beauty, its dignity, tears will come on their own. Unfortunate is the person in whose eyes no wetness rises when a rose blooms. Flowers blossom among stones, such great miracles occur—earth turns into a flower before your eyes. Where there was only stench—where you spread manure—there is the flower’s fragrance. Transformation has taken place before you; the stench of manure has become the perfume of a rose. A revolution has happened. Does not your eye grow wet with joy at this unparalleled event? You planted a seed yesterday; today it has sprouted—two green leaves have burst forth.
Miracles are happening every moment. Open your eyes; awaken a little sensitivity. Sometimes embrace a tree. Sometimes lie upon the earth as if in a mother’s lap—forgetting everything. From that very earth a unique thrill, a unique energy will begin to spread within you. We are, after all, of the earth. In man, half is sky, half is earth. Lie down on the ground with arms outstretched—naked, in an embrace—and the earth within you will begin to commune with the earth without. At times sit and look at the sky, only look—let your gaze travel far; let your eyes become birds. You will need no temple; the Divine is enthroned all around. And suddenly one day you will find tears begin to flow—without cause, without reason. Do not try to find excuses. Yes, go where they can flow with ease: sit among a few mad ones who are drunk with the Beloved—singing, praising, dancing, their tears flowing. Their color will stain you too.
But do not, by effort, drag tears out. That is a violation. It is a kind of adultery. It is a rape of oneself. And when even a person’s tears become false, everything about them becomes false. So at least do not falsify your tears. Your smile has already become false. Only your weeping remains true—do not make it false; otherwise nothing true will remain with you. This much truth is still yours: your tears are true. From this truth you can build a bridge to the Truth of God—only truth can be bridged to truth.
Third question:
Osho, why have the enlightened ones created so many religions?
Osho, why have the enlightened ones created so many religions?
Ratnesh, the Buddhas have said only one thing, not many. They have pointed to one religion, not many. But the fools have manufactured many religions—and the crowd of fools is vast.
These many religions are not because of the Buddhas. Christianity is not the doing of Jesus, nor is Buddhism the doing of Buddha. Yes, the lamp that was lit in Buddha set a chain in motion, but he is not responsible for what followed; the responsibility lies with the scholars and pundits who came after him. Buddha spoke; people listened and grabbed at what they could. Scriptures were compiled, commentaries written, sects formed. After Buddha’s passing, thirty-six sects arose in his name, because there were many different teachers. All had listened to the same Buddha, sat at the feet of the same person, yet each heard in his own way. One caught this, another caught that. One drew one meaning, another a different one. Very few listen in the state of emptiness; thoughts are always ready inside.
Take, for example: someone asked Buddha, “Is there God?” Buddha remained silent; he said nothing. People saw that he was asked about God and he kept quiet. The event is one and the same: Buddha fell silent, he gave no answer. But after his death someone said, “Buddha kept silent because there is God, but it cannot be said in words.” That is one interpretation. Another said, “He kept silent because there is no God—so what is there to say?” Yet another said, “He kept silent to show that if you want to know God, become silent—only then you will know; there is no other way.” Now it becomes a big tangle.
What did Buddha mean by his silence? Meanings upon meanings began to be spun; words spawned more words; debates began. And the meanings diverged wildly. One said God does not exist, therefore Buddha was silent; another said God does exist, therefore he was silent—He is so vast, how could one say it? From Buddha’s silence, theistic and atheistic conclusions—opposites—were derived! Religions are born of such interpreters. Religions are born of those who make meanings.
The Buddhas have said only one thing. Their tone is the same, even though their languages differ. Jesus spoke in Aramaic; that was his tongue and that of his listeners. Buddha spoke in Pali; that was his language and that of his listeners. Krishna spoke in Sanskrit. Lao Tzu spoke in Chinese. Naturally, there is the difference of language.
Then symbols, too, will differ, because someone lived five thousand years ago. In five thousand years the symbols of language change and keep changing. Today we use words that simply could not have been used five thousand years ago; there was no occasion to use them. For instance, today if something goes very fast we say “jet-speed.” Buddha could not have used the word jet-speed; there were no jets, so what would jet-speed mean?
Every age changes language; symbols change. Then person to person the symbols also differ. Buddha was a prince; his education was aristocratic, so the words he used are also aristocratic. Kabir was a weaver; the language he used is a weaver’s. Can you imagine Buddha writing, “Finely, finely I have woven the cloth”? Did his forefathers ever weave? How could it even occur to Buddha to say, “Finely, finely I have woven the cloth”? Only Kabir could think that way; only Kabir the weaver could. Only in Kabir could the feeling arise: “This hymn I am composing is like weaving a delicate cloth.” Could Buddha say, “I returned the cloth just as I received it”? That image of the cloth is meaningful to Kabir—he had been weaving from morning to night; so when he died he said, “I returned the cloth just as I received it. I wore it with great care; I did not let even a speck of stain fall upon it—I returned it as it was.” That is a weaver’s symbol; it cannot arise in Buddha, or Mahavira, or Krishna.
Jesus spoke as the son of a carpenter would speak—natural. So languages differ, symbols differ. Then persons themselves differ. A sculptor, upon knowing truth, will carve it in marble, because that is his nearest possibility of expression. A poet, upon knowing truth, will compose a song. A painter, upon knowing truth, will paint a picture. Carving a statue, painting a picture, composing a song—these are very different processes; their mediums are different.
The one who composes a song needs no colors, no brush, no chisel and hammer. The sculptor has a chisel and hammer, a stone—he will hew into stone. The painter will fill the canvas with colors. It may be that all three wish to express the same thing, yet their mediums are so different that only the discerning eye will recognize it, only the understanding heart will understand.
Morning breaks; the sun rises; your heart brims with delight. Someone lifts his vina and plucks the strings. He wants to say, “The morning is very beautiful.” He is trying to pour the morning sun into the strings of the vina, to draw out of those strings the very sweetness that is in the morning sun. Only a very transparent eye will catch that, in the playing of the sitar at dawn, in the song of dawn, in its rhythm and meter, the sun is arriving. Otherwise you will only hear sound; it may never occur to you that the musician has been moved by the morning and is giving expression to the morning sun.
A painter will paint the sun; a singer will compose a song. Not everyone is a singer, not everyone a painter, not everyone a sculptor; and each person has his own way.
From infinite paths the Buddhas have come—by infinite paths, with infinite expressions and infinite possibilities. But when they knew the truth, what they knew was one; as soon as they said it, it became many. Saying makes it many. Then when you heard it, it became many times many—because the listeners add their own meanings. Then centuries pass and layer upon layer of commentary gets superimposed. Thus, Hindu, Christian, Jain, Buddhist… there are some three hundred religions in the world. Truth is one. If you remember this, hostility disappears. If you remember this, goodwill toward the other arises. If you remember this, there will be respect for the Gita without disrespect for the Quran. If the Gita appeals to you, seek through the Gita; but do not belittle the one who seeks through the Quran, for he too is moving toward the same. We are all moving toward the same. If such goodwill does not arise, understand that you are not a religious person at all.
And remember, when I say goodwill, I do not mean what people ordinarily mean by tolerance. There is nothing special about tolerance. Tolerance means: we put up with you. “All right, we are Hindus and we know we are right; you are Christians and we know you are not quite so right; but fine, if that’s your wish, live as you like—we will bear with it.” Tolerance means: we bear with you.
But bearing with you? Then the opposition has already begun. There is already a prick inside. Otherwise the very talk of bearing would not arise. There would be a welcome. One would say, “We welcome you, because if there were only the Gita in the world and no Quran, the world would be poorer. The Quran has given a certain richness, certain tones that are its own and that the Gita cannot give. And the Gita has given what is its own and what the Quran cannot give.”
Do you think a vina player merely tolerates the flute? Is he tolerant toward it? No, he welcomes the flute. He says, “The vina has given something to the world, but what the flute can give, only the flute can give. Let the vina bang its head as it will—what the flute can give, the vina cannot. And what the vina can give, the flute cannot.” There are innumerable instruments. The musician does not tolerate them; he welcomes them. He says, “So many instruments—how wonderful! Because of them the world is so full of music.”
If there are so many flowers in the garden, you do not merely tolerate them: “Well, never mind, we’ll put up with the marigold too, and with the jasmine too—though the lotus alone is the real flower!” No. If the garden had only lotuses, it would be impoverished, poor, drab, boring. In all these small and big flowers there is such richness of color. They are all beautiful.
So when I speak of goodwill, I am not merely saying tolerance; I am saying welcome. And when I say welcome, I do not mean what the so-called cultured people mean these days. A Christian says, “Yes, there is truth in Hinduism too, though not the whole truth; the whole is in Christianity. Hinduism has truth, but partial, fragmentary, broken—there are some glimmers of truth.” And such a person thinks himself very cultured.
A Jain believes, “I alone am the truth, though here and there others have glimpses. Other religions are partial viewpoints, perspectives; they have a little truth too. They are also right.” Watch that little word “also.” “They are also right—but I am the criterion of the right.” This is not goodwill; this is a very cunning ego. Better the outright rustic who says, “I’m right, you’re wrong.” At least he is plain. At least he is honest. He says, “I am right; you are wrong!” The matter is clear: “I am one hundred percent right; you are one hundred percent wrong.” Such a man is at least straightforward. The one who says, “No, you are also right; I know there is something right in you—while I am wholly right. And to the extent you resemble me, to that extent you too are right.” That is not goodwill.
Mahatma Gandhi selected from the Quran only those verses that match the Gita and declared them right, and he avoided the verses that do not match the Gita or even go contrary to it. Now think: if a Muslim—say, Maulana Azad—were to do the same, he would pick from the Gita only those verses that match the Quran and discard the rest. “The Quran is right; whatever matches the Quran is also right, and what does not match is wrong.” We call this great refinement. But beneath it is calculation; it is bookkeeping.
All his life Gandhi hummed, “Allah and Ishwar are your names,” but when he died, the name of Allah did not arise; “Hey Ram!” did. When the bullet struck, he said, “Hey Ram!” Ram is at the center. He had also accepted Allah—he maintained tolerance. It is political skill, not the feeling of religion.
Political skills operate in very hidden ways. On the surface it does not show; start probing deep and it becomes visible. You “tolerate” the mosque and you “tolerate” the church—but you tolerate! If you are very cultured, you put up with them.
Goodwill is a much higher thing. Goodwill says: I am right, and you are right. I am one hundred percent right, and you are one hundred percent right. You saw truth in your way, I saw it in mine. That is my inclination, that is yours. You loved juhi, I loved bela; but in bela the same One has bloomed with the same fragrance, and in juhi too the same One has bloomed with the same fragrance. These are differences of our likes and dislikes—juhi and rose, bela and lotus. These are our preferences, but the blossoming is of the One, the fragrance is of the one Master. Then you will not need to keep saying, “Allah and Ishwar are your names.” Then, if you keep repeating “Ram,” it is fine—because deep within you know that Allah is also His name; there is no need to keep saying it. And if you keep repeating “Allah,” it is also fine—because you know that Ram is His other name; you need not keep repeating it. It is simply my preference that I loved Allah; it is your preference that you loved Ram. But we are not enemies; we are fellow travelers—we are moving in the same direction.
These many religions are not because of the Buddhas. Christianity is not the doing of Jesus, nor is Buddhism the doing of Buddha. Yes, the lamp that was lit in Buddha set a chain in motion, but he is not responsible for what followed; the responsibility lies with the scholars and pundits who came after him. Buddha spoke; people listened and grabbed at what they could. Scriptures were compiled, commentaries written, sects formed. After Buddha’s passing, thirty-six sects arose in his name, because there were many different teachers. All had listened to the same Buddha, sat at the feet of the same person, yet each heard in his own way. One caught this, another caught that. One drew one meaning, another a different one. Very few listen in the state of emptiness; thoughts are always ready inside.
Take, for example: someone asked Buddha, “Is there God?” Buddha remained silent; he said nothing. People saw that he was asked about God and he kept quiet. The event is one and the same: Buddha fell silent, he gave no answer. But after his death someone said, “Buddha kept silent because there is God, but it cannot be said in words.” That is one interpretation. Another said, “He kept silent because there is no God—so what is there to say?” Yet another said, “He kept silent to show that if you want to know God, become silent—only then you will know; there is no other way.” Now it becomes a big tangle.
What did Buddha mean by his silence? Meanings upon meanings began to be spun; words spawned more words; debates began. And the meanings diverged wildly. One said God does not exist, therefore Buddha was silent; another said God does exist, therefore he was silent—He is so vast, how could one say it? From Buddha’s silence, theistic and atheistic conclusions—opposites—were derived! Religions are born of such interpreters. Religions are born of those who make meanings.
The Buddhas have said only one thing. Their tone is the same, even though their languages differ. Jesus spoke in Aramaic; that was his tongue and that of his listeners. Buddha spoke in Pali; that was his language and that of his listeners. Krishna spoke in Sanskrit. Lao Tzu spoke in Chinese. Naturally, there is the difference of language.
Then symbols, too, will differ, because someone lived five thousand years ago. In five thousand years the symbols of language change and keep changing. Today we use words that simply could not have been used five thousand years ago; there was no occasion to use them. For instance, today if something goes very fast we say “jet-speed.” Buddha could not have used the word jet-speed; there were no jets, so what would jet-speed mean?
Every age changes language; symbols change. Then person to person the symbols also differ. Buddha was a prince; his education was aristocratic, so the words he used are also aristocratic. Kabir was a weaver; the language he used is a weaver’s. Can you imagine Buddha writing, “Finely, finely I have woven the cloth”? Did his forefathers ever weave? How could it even occur to Buddha to say, “Finely, finely I have woven the cloth”? Only Kabir could think that way; only Kabir the weaver could. Only in Kabir could the feeling arise: “This hymn I am composing is like weaving a delicate cloth.” Could Buddha say, “I returned the cloth just as I received it”? That image of the cloth is meaningful to Kabir—he had been weaving from morning to night; so when he died he said, “I returned the cloth just as I received it. I wore it with great care; I did not let even a speck of stain fall upon it—I returned it as it was.” That is a weaver’s symbol; it cannot arise in Buddha, or Mahavira, or Krishna.
Jesus spoke as the son of a carpenter would speak—natural. So languages differ, symbols differ. Then persons themselves differ. A sculptor, upon knowing truth, will carve it in marble, because that is his nearest possibility of expression. A poet, upon knowing truth, will compose a song. A painter, upon knowing truth, will paint a picture. Carving a statue, painting a picture, composing a song—these are very different processes; their mediums are different.
The one who composes a song needs no colors, no brush, no chisel and hammer. The sculptor has a chisel and hammer, a stone—he will hew into stone. The painter will fill the canvas with colors. It may be that all three wish to express the same thing, yet their mediums are so different that only the discerning eye will recognize it, only the understanding heart will understand.
Morning breaks; the sun rises; your heart brims with delight. Someone lifts his vina and plucks the strings. He wants to say, “The morning is very beautiful.” He is trying to pour the morning sun into the strings of the vina, to draw out of those strings the very sweetness that is in the morning sun. Only a very transparent eye will catch that, in the playing of the sitar at dawn, in the song of dawn, in its rhythm and meter, the sun is arriving. Otherwise you will only hear sound; it may never occur to you that the musician has been moved by the morning and is giving expression to the morning sun.
A painter will paint the sun; a singer will compose a song. Not everyone is a singer, not everyone a painter, not everyone a sculptor; and each person has his own way.
From infinite paths the Buddhas have come—by infinite paths, with infinite expressions and infinite possibilities. But when they knew the truth, what they knew was one; as soon as they said it, it became many. Saying makes it many. Then when you heard it, it became many times many—because the listeners add their own meanings. Then centuries pass and layer upon layer of commentary gets superimposed. Thus, Hindu, Christian, Jain, Buddhist… there are some three hundred religions in the world. Truth is one. If you remember this, hostility disappears. If you remember this, goodwill toward the other arises. If you remember this, there will be respect for the Gita without disrespect for the Quran. If the Gita appeals to you, seek through the Gita; but do not belittle the one who seeks through the Quran, for he too is moving toward the same. We are all moving toward the same. If such goodwill does not arise, understand that you are not a religious person at all.
And remember, when I say goodwill, I do not mean what people ordinarily mean by tolerance. There is nothing special about tolerance. Tolerance means: we put up with you. “All right, we are Hindus and we know we are right; you are Christians and we know you are not quite so right; but fine, if that’s your wish, live as you like—we will bear with it.” Tolerance means: we bear with you.
But bearing with you? Then the opposition has already begun. There is already a prick inside. Otherwise the very talk of bearing would not arise. There would be a welcome. One would say, “We welcome you, because if there were only the Gita in the world and no Quran, the world would be poorer. The Quran has given a certain richness, certain tones that are its own and that the Gita cannot give. And the Gita has given what is its own and what the Quran cannot give.”
Do you think a vina player merely tolerates the flute? Is he tolerant toward it? No, he welcomes the flute. He says, “The vina has given something to the world, but what the flute can give, only the flute can give. Let the vina bang its head as it will—what the flute can give, the vina cannot. And what the vina can give, the flute cannot.” There are innumerable instruments. The musician does not tolerate them; he welcomes them. He says, “So many instruments—how wonderful! Because of them the world is so full of music.”
If there are so many flowers in the garden, you do not merely tolerate them: “Well, never mind, we’ll put up with the marigold too, and with the jasmine too—though the lotus alone is the real flower!” No. If the garden had only lotuses, it would be impoverished, poor, drab, boring. In all these small and big flowers there is such richness of color. They are all beautiful.
So when I speak of goodwill, I am not merely saying tolerance; I am saying welcome. And when I say welcome, I do not mean what the so-called cultured people mean these days. A Christian says, “Yes, there is truth in Hinduism too, though not the whole truth; the whole is in Christianity. Hinduism has truth, but partial, fragmentary, broken—there are some glimmers of truth.” And such a person thinks himself very cultured.
A Jain believes, “I alone am the truth, though here and there others have glimpses. Other religions are partial viewpoints, perspectives; they have a little truth too. They are also right.” Watch that little word “also.” “They are also right—but I am the criterion of the right.” This is not goodwill; this is a very cunning ego. Better the outright rustic who says, “I’m right, you’re wrong.” At least he is plain. At least he is honest. He says, “I am right; you are wrong!” The matter is clear: “I am one hundred percent right; you are one hundred percent wrong.” Such a man is at least straightforward. The one who says, “No, you are also right; I know there is something right in you—while I am wholly right. And to the extent you resemble me, to that extent you too are right.” That is not goodwill.
Mahatma Gandhi selected from the Quran only those verses that match the Gita and declared them right, and he avoided the verses that do not match the Gita or even go contrary to it. Now think: if a Muslim—say, Maulana Azad—were to do the same, he would pick from the Gita only those verses that match the Quran and discard the rest. “The Quran is right; whatever matches the Quran is also right, and what does not match is wrong.” We call this great refinement. But beneath it is calculation; it is bookkeeping.
All his life Gandhi hummed, “Allah and Ishwar are your names,” but when he died, the name of Allah did not arise; “Hey Ram!” did. When the bullet struck, he said, “Hey Ram!” Ram is at the center. He had also accepted Allah—he maintained tolerance. It is political skill, not the feeling of religion.
Political skills operate in very hidden ways. On the surface it does not show; start probing deep and it becomes visible. You “tolerate” the mosque and you “tolerate” the church—but you tolerate! If you are very cultured, you put up with them.
Goodwill is a much higher thing. Goodwill says: I am right, and you are right. I am one hundred percent right, and you are one hundred percent right. You saw truth in your way, I saw it in mine. That is my inclination, that is yours. You loved juhi, I loved bela; but in bela the same One has bloomed with the same fragrance, and in juhi too the same One has bloomed with the same fragrance. These are differences of our likes and dislikes—juhi and rose, bela and lotus. These are our preferences, but the blossoming is of the One, the fragrance is of the one Master. Then you will not need to keep saying, “Allah and Ishwar are your names.” Then, if you keep repeating “Ram,” it is fine—because deep within you know that Allah is also His name; there is no need to keep saying it. And if you keep repeating “Allah,” it is also fine—because you know that Ram is His other name; you need not keep repeating it. It is simply my preference that I loved Allah; it is your preference that you loved Ram. But we are not enemies; we are fellow travelers—we are moving in the same direction.
Fourth question:
Osho, your satsang is nothing less than heaven for me. It hurts deeply to be away from you. After this life I have not the slightest desire to be born again. But I make hundreds of mistakes. Please shower your compassion and guide me!
Osho, your satsang is nothing less than heaven for me. It hurts deeply to be away from you. After this life I have not the slightest desire to be born again. But I make hundreds of mistakes. Please shower your compassion and guide me!
Shrichand! Accept your mistakes too. Accept your incompleteness as well. It is also our ego to think, “No mistake should happen through me—how could I possibly err!” That too is ego—sattvic ego, the ego of the virtuous, the ego of the saint; but ego is ego, whether of a saint or of a sinner. Why carry it? Leave it to him. If mistakes are happening, he is the master there too. His will.
I am not saying, “Go on making mistakes.” Please be alert to what I am saying. It is very easy to take a wrong meaning from my words. I am not saying, “Go on making mistakes,” or, “Insist on them—if they are his will, then they must be done.” No. I am not asking you to make mistakes. I am saying: whatever mistakes are happening, accept them with simplicity. And you will be surprised—just by accepting them simply, many mistakes will start dropping, will stop on their own.
Accept yourself as you are. You must have made an ideal in your mind about how you should be—what Shrichand should be like—like Mahavira, like Buddha. Mahavira too would have been in trouble if he had wanted to be like Shrichand. It’s good that such a thought never arose in him. If he had gotten obsessed with becoming like Shrichand, he would have been in a mess—he’d have hung himself; he would never have become Mahavira. He never bothered to be like anyone else; as he was, what he was, he lived that to its totality.
When you strive to fit yourself to someone else’s ideal, everything looks like a mistake. Mahavira stands naked; you still cannot give up clothes—sin is happening. You still haven’t become a saint. Saint Francis embraces lepers, kisses them; you hesitate to touch a leper—on seeing one you slip away by another road. If Saint Francis is your ideal, you are in trouble; you are sinning; you are not yet virtuous.
Mahavira never went around kissing lepers. If Mahavira had gotten the idea of Saint Francis, he too would have been in difficulty. Let Saint Francis do whatever arises in him spontaneously. Let Mahavira live in his own suchness. And give Shrichand permission to live in his suchness too. Don’t interfere.
The greatest revolution can happen in the world if a person simply accepts himself. But we haven’t been taught acceptance. From childhood we are told: become like this, become like that. The so-called lofty goals standing in front of you—all borrowed—because there is no single ideal that all human beings must become or should become. No such ideal exists. And the world would be very absurd if all humans were alike. Variety would disappear, the many colors would be gone. The rainbow would be lost; everything would become monochrome, one-toned. Boredom would set in.
Bertrand Russell wrote something very to the point. He said, “I’m afraid of going to heaven.” Not that he is very afraid, because he doesn’t believe in the soul or anything surviving after the body; he says, “Mostly I am not afraid. But who knows—one cannot be absolutely certain that nothing survives. Logic says nothing survives, but if it does, then I am afraid of going to heaven—because there all the same kind of saints will be sitting on their little pedestals… What boredom there will be! What gloom! All the accomplished, sitting there, bored—and nothing will ever happen there. Not even a rumor will fly, let alone an event. For eternity there will be only silence.”
Russell says, “My mind is frightened. Better hell than that—if I must survive, better hell. There at least there will be some color, some festivity, some events to stir curiosity!”
And it is true: if hell exists anywhere, it will be more colorful—because all the colorful people will be there. All sorts of events will happen. There will be many stories. The colorless ones will have gathered in heaven. And if all the colorless gather in heaven, then heaven has turned into hell.
There is no ideal according to which everyone must be molded. So don’t carry someone else’s ideal on your chest; otherwise you will be crushed under useless weight.
Then what am I telling you? I am saying: accept yourself. Own your little mistakes. Drop the obsession with ideals. Live your fact, your reality. Stay with that. And you will be astonished: the very moment the ideal drops, many “mistakes” bid farewell—because there is no longer any reason to call them mistakes. The ideal itself was the cause of calling them mistakes.
The person who has fixed an ideal has also fixed his mistakes. For example, Christians say Jesus never laughed. If Christians are right, then Jesus no longer interests me—he doesn’t appeal to me. What kind of man is that! So the Christians must be wrong. But their ideal became: a saint should not laugh.
Now if you adopt that ideal—“not laughing is a mark of sainthood”—then if you laugh, it becomes a mistake. There was no mistake in laughter; but once you made “not laughing” an ideal, laughter became a mistake. Now you are in trouble. You hold yourself back all the time lest laughter escape. Even if it rises inside, you suppress it. You become divided, and you become false.
There is no sin in laughter. Accept it. Then laughter can be refined. Laughter has many levels. When you laugh at others there is a touch of violence in it. When you laugh at yourself, there is great nonviolence in it. Some people can laugh only at crude, vulgar things; they have no sense of the subtler shades of laughter. They only laugh when someone slips on a banana peel and breaks a rib—that delights them; a delicate nuance doesn’t. They need the gross, the uncouth.
No need to make an ideal that one should not laugh. But your laughter can be refined in many ways. Laughter can be very artistic. It has its own poetry, its own music. Flowers can rain in laughter. So refine your laughter, polish it, add colors here and there—deepen it.
You have seen: people laugh differently. Watch their laughter. Someone laughs and it seems hollow from the top—doesn’t feel as if it comes from the heart; it looks manufactured in the throat, forced. He laughs because “one should laugh.” Someone else’s laughter comes from great depth.
So test all the shades and ways of laughter. Explore all its possibilities within you. You are not only what you have become today; much lies within you to be refined. But not through ideals—through your reality. Not according to someone else’s ideal.
You have to become what you were born to become. Don’t put someone else before you as an idol, or else you will begin to see mistakes you cannot resolve; and if you try to fix them, you’ll fall into dilemmas, into conflict, and become hypocritical. That is how the so-called religious became hypocrites. Awakening is possible only through acceptance of oneself. When there is no future—no “be this, be that”—then the present is all; this very moment is all. Now, awaken into this moment and live.
I don’t tell you, “If you smoke, stop.” I don’t—because that has been said to you so much and you still haven’t stopped. The sadhus and saints kept saying it till they died, and you did not stop. What is the point of my repeating it? Those who keep repeating it—I take them to be unintelligent. So many kept repeating and people didn’t listen; then there is a flaw in the very approach. Perhaps the root cause of smoking has never been understood; people just go on repeating empty words. Someone says, “Don’t smoke—you’ll get tuberculosis.” But he takes it for granted that you are afraid of TB. Who is afraid! People say, “When it happens, we’ll see. There is medicine, treatment.” And if you look into a book, you will read that if a man smokes twelve cigarettes a day for twenty years, then he may get TB. Who worries about twenty years! Twelve a day for twenty years—and then we’ll see. And even then it is not certain; many smoke not twelve but twenty-four a day, all their lives, and didn’t get TB. And there are others who don’t even drink unfiltered water and still got TB.
So a man thinks: What is the point of this fuss? Those gentlemen who filtered their water got TB; and those who drink alcohol didn’t. Someone lived in every possible sattvic way and got cancer; another, who never knew sattva, who had sworn never to live “purely,” who never slept or woke on time, never ate on time, ate anything, drank anything, slept anywhere, sat anywhere, kept no accounts—and still hasn’t got cancer! So one sees these warnings are just to scare. Who is scared!
Someone said to Mulla Nasruddin, “If you don’t stop smoking, three years will be cut off your life.” Mulla said, “Better to live three years less and live with joy. If you add thirty years but forbid cigarettes, tea, and wine—then what will I do with life? Just keep living?”
A man died and reached heaven. A great “saint”! At the gate he was asked—first they always ask this—“What sins did you commit?” Because virtue is rare; the main item is sin. The man said, “Sins? I never committed any.”
So the gatekeeper asked in detail: “Did you drink?”
He said, “No.”
“Any other intoxicant?”
“No.”
“Smoke?”
“No.”
“Chew betel?”
“No.”
“Chew tobacco?”
“No.”
“Snuff?”
“No.”
“Chased women?”
He said, “I never got into that mess. I lived a very sattvic life.”
Then even the angel smacked his head and said, “Then what did you do for ninety years? Why did you take so long to come? Not even a pinch of snuff—how did you pass the time?”
You cannot make anyone quit by frightening them—and your religions have only frightened. They say, “You’ll fall into hell.” It sounds absurd that a man inhales and exhales smoke and for that he should be thrown into hell.
It doesn’t make sense. No court would say that: “A man was inhaling and exhaling smoke—he wasn’t harming anyone, wasn’t killing, wasn’t sucking anyone’s blood—just moving smoke in and out; therefore he is consigned to hell.” It doesn’t feel just. Then the one who sends him to hell is himself unjust. So that argument collapses.
So now the preachers don’t say, “You’ll go to hell”; they say, “You’ll get TB.” But the logic is the same: fear. Earlier they used the fear of hell—no one buys that now—so they brandish another fear: TB.
In a village a drunk staggered to the priest and asked, “Tell me something: how does a man get gout?” The priest found his chance; people like this only wait for such openings. He said, “I’ve told you a thousand times—stop drinking or you’ll get gout.” A perfect occasion to preach! “Didn’t I tell you many times—if you don’t stop, you’ll get gout!”
The drunk said, “I’m not asking about myself. I read in the paper that the Pope has gout. So I want to know—how did he get it? If I get it, fine; I drink, obviously. But how did the Pope get gout?”
Then the priest was startled—too late.
By fear you haven’t been able to change people. The whole fear-process has failed. And when you scare people again and again and they don’t fear and keep drinking, even their sensitivity to fear gets blunted. Harm is done. They stop fearing altogether: “Whatever happens, we’ll see.”
I say to you: if you smoke, smoke mindfully. This is a different statement. When you take the cigarette from your pocket, don’t do it in a hurry as you usually do. What’s the rush? Take it out slowly. Vipassana will begin. Absolutely slowly. As if there is no hurry at all—as if eternity is available. Take it out as slowly as you can. If you are going to smoke, at least do it properly—with a little grace. What is this furtiveness—snatching it out, pumping smoke in and out anyhow, throwing the butt, and simultaneously repenting: “I shouldn’t smoke; this is so bad; Shrichand, this is a mistake.” Bring some culture to it! A little grace, a little prasad. Hold the packet in your hand; then take out the cigarette; then tap it neatly on the pack. Then place it in your mouth—gently. Then take out the matches. Then strike the match. Slowly—as one lights a lamp in worship—light the cigarette. What are you afraid of? Why so scared? Why the guilt? You like it, it is your life, you are your own master. You are not harming anyone. And even if you want to harm yourself, you have that right too.
But give it an artistry. And you will be amazed: for the first time you won’t feel “sin,” you’ll see stupidity. And there lies the difference. Sin never freed anyone; centuries have passed saying “sin,” and to what sin have you delivered man? I don’t say smoking is a sin; I do say it is foolishness. What is sin? But foolishness—certainly. Let the foolishness become visible—and the slower you make the process, the more clearly the foolishness will show. There is a scientific reason for this.
Whatever we have become habituated to doing becomes mechanical; we do it like a machine. If you slacken the process, suddenly you will find you are doing the same act consciously, not mechanically. You walk with a particular gait. In Buddhist meditation halls they change your walk; they say, “Halve your speed. Walk consciously. Take small steps.”
You will be surprised: whenever your awareness drops, you will again place your foot hard, as per your habit. If you want to remain aware, you will have to keep the step soft; to keep it soft, you will have to remain aware. If you want to walk unconsciously, the old habit suffices. Any process, if you slow it down, awareness gets attached to it. Even eating—if you eat slowly, very slowly, chew each morsel forty-eight times—you will be amazed how consciously you are eating, because you have to keep count; you cannot just wolf it down.
I don’t tell you, “Don’t overeat.” I say, “Chew forty-eight times and eat slowly, consciously.” The quantity will automatically come down by one-third. It will settle at what is needed—and it will satisfy you more deeply, more completely, because its juice will spread, it will digest rightly. Slow down any process this way. If it is a meaningful process, it won’t break; if it is useless, it will fall apart on its own—because its stupidity will become clear. Sin has to be “renounced”; stupidity doesn’t—only seen, and it drops.
In the same way, Shrichand, whatever mistakes you feel you make—not because of ideals, but those your life-experience itself shows you are mistakes—
Remove the ideals; ninety percent of the mistakes will depart the very moment the ideal is gone. Then ten percent remain. Become alert toward these ten percent. Free them from mechanicalness. And you will be astonished: those that are foolish will drop. And those that are not foolish—there is no need to drop them at all; they are not mistakes.
I am not saying, “Go on making mistakes.” Please be alert to what I am saying. It is very easy to take a wrong meaning from my words. I am not saying, “Go on making mistakes,” or, “Insist on them—if they are his will, then they must be done.” No. I am not asking you to make mistakes. I am saying: whatever mistakes are happening, accept them with simplicity. And you will be surprised—just by accepting them simply, many mistakes will start dropping, will stop on their own.
Accept yourself as you are. You must have made an ideal in your mind about how you should be—what Shrichand should be like—like Mahavira, like Buddha. Mahavira too would have been in trouble if he had wanted to be like Shrichand. It’s good that such a thought never arose in him. If he had gotten obsessed with becoming like Shrichand, he would have been in a mess—he’d have hung himself; he would never have become Mahavira. He never bothered to be like anyone else; as he was, what he was, he lived that to its totality.
When you strive to fit yourself to someone else’s ideal, everything looks like a mistake. Mahavira stands naked; you still cannot give up clothes—sin is happening. You still haven’t become a saint. Saint Francis embraces lepers, kisses them; you hesitate to touch a leper—on seeing one you slip away by another road. If Saint Francis is your ideal, you are in trouble; you are sinning; you are not yet virtuous.
Mahavira never went around kissing lepers. If Mahavira had gotten the idea of Saint Francis, he too would have been in difficulty. Let Saint Francis do whatever arises in him spontaneously. Let Mahavira live in his own suchness. And give Shrichand permission to live in his suchness too. Don’t interfere.
The greatest revolution can happen in the world if a person simply accepts himself. But we haven’t been taught acceptance. From childhood we are told: become like this, become like that. The so-called lofty goals standing in front of you—all borrowed—because there is no single ideal that all human beings must become or should become. No such ideal exists. And the world would be very absurd if all humans were alike. Variety would disappear, the many colors would be gone. The rainbow would be lost; everything would become monochrome, one-toned. Boredom would set in.
Bertrand Russell wrote something very to the point. He said, “I’m afraid of going to heaven.” Not that he is very afraid, because he doesn’t believe in the soul or anything surviving after the body; he says, “Mostly I am not afraid. But who knows—one cannot be absolutely certain that nothing survives. Logic says nothing survives, but if it does, then I am afraid of going to heaven—because there all the same kind of saints will be sitting on their little pedestals… What boredom there will be! What gloom! All the accomplished, sitting there, bored—and nothing will ever happen there. Not even a rumor will fly, let alone an event. For eternity there will be only silence.”
Russell says, “My mind is frightened. Better hell than that—if I must survive, better hell. There at least there will be some color, some festivity, some events to stir curiosity!”
And it is true: if hell exists anywhere, it will be more colorful—because all the colorful people will be there. All sorts of events will happen. There will be many stories. The colorless ones will have gathered in heaven. And if all the colorless gather in heaven, then heaven has turned into hell.
There is no ideal according to which everyone must be molded. So don’t carry someone else’s ideal on your chest; otherwise you will be crushed under useless weight.
Then what am I telling you? I am saying: accept yourself. Own your little mistakes. Drop the obsession with ideals. Live your fact, your reality. Stay with that. And you will be astonished: the very moment the ideal drops, many “mistakes” bid farewell—because there is no longer any reason to call them mistakes. The ideal itself was the cause of calling them mistakes.
The person who has fixed an ideal has also fixed his mistakes. For example, Christians say Jesus never laughed. If Christians are right, then Jesus no longer interests me—he doesn’t appeal to me. What kind of man is that! So the Christians must be wrong. But their ideal became: a saint should not laugh.
Now if you adopt that ideal—“not laughing is a mark of sainthood”—then if you laugh, it becomes a mistake. There was no mistake in laughter; but once you made “not laughing” an ideal, laughter became a mistake. Now you are in trouble. You hold yourself back all the time lest laughter escape. Even if it rises inside, you suppress it. You become divided, and you become false.
There is no sin in laughter. Accept it. Then laughter can be refined. Laughter has many levels. When you laugh at others there is a touch of violence in it. When you laugh at yourself, there is great nonviolence in it. Some people can laugh only at crude, vulgar things; they have no sense of the subtler shades of laughter. They only laugh when someone slips on a banana peel and breaks a rib—that delights them; a delicate nuance doesn’t. They need the gross, the uncouth.
No need to make an ideal that one should not laugh. But your laughter can be refined in many ways. Laughter can be very artistic. It has its own poetry, its own music. Flowers can rain in laughter. So refine your laughter, polish it, add colors here and there—deepen it.
You have seen: people laugh differently. Watch their laughter. Someone laughs and it seems hollow from the top—doesn’t feel as if it comes from the heart; it looks manufactured in the throat, forced. He laughs because “one should laugh.” Someone else’s laughter comes from great depth.
So test all the shades and ways of laughter. Explore all its possibilities within you. You are not only what you have become today; much lies within you to be refined. But not through ideals—through your reality. Not according to someone else’s ideal.
You have to become what you were born to become. Don’t put someone else before you as an idol, or else you will begin to see mistakes you cannot resolve; and if you try to fix them, you’ll fall into dilemmas, into conflict, and become hypocritical. That is how the so-called religious became hypocrites. Awakening is possible only through acceptance of oneself. When there is no future—no “be this, be that”—then the present is all; this very moment is all. Now, awaken into this moment and live.
I don’t tell you, “If you smoke, stop.” I don’t—because that has been said to you so much and you still haven’t stopped. The sadhus and saints kept saying it till they died, and you did not stop. What is the point of my repeating it? Those who keep repeating it—I take them to be unintelligent. So many kept repeating and people didn’t listen; then there is a flaw in the very approach. Perhaps the root cause of smoking has never been understood; people just go on repeating empty words. Someone says, “Don’t smoke—you’ll get tuberculosis.” But he takes it for granted that you are afraid of TB. Who is afraid! People say, “When it happens, we’ll see. There is medicine, treatment.” And if you look into a book, you will read that if a man smokes twelve cigarettes a day for twenty years, then he may get TB. Who worries about twenty years! Twelve a day for twenty years—and then we’ll see. And even then it is not certain; many smoke not twelve but twenty-four a day, all their lives, and didn’t get TB. And there are others who don’t even drink unfiltered water and still got TB.
So a man thinks: What is the point of this fuss? Those gentlemen who filtered their water got TB; and those who drink alcohol didn’t. Someone lived in every possible sattvic way and got cancer; another, who never knew sattva, who had sworn never to live “purely,” who never slept or woke on time, never ate on time, ate anything, drank anything, slept anywhere, sat anywhere, kept no accounts—and still hasn’t got cancer! So one sees these warnings are just to scare. Who is scared!
Someone said to Mulla Nasruddin, “If you don’t stop smoking, three years will be cut off your life.” Mulla said, “Better to live three years less and live with joy. If you add thirty years but forbid cigarettes, tea, and wine—then what will I do with life? Just keep living?”
A man died and reached heaven. A great “saint”! At the gate he was asked—first they always ask this—“What sins did you commit?” Because virtue is rare; the main item is sin. The man said, “Sins? I never committed any.”
So the gatekeeper asked in detail: “Did you drink?”
He said, “No.”
“Any other intoxicant?”
“No.”
“Smoke?”
“No.”
“Chew betel?”
“No.”
“Chew tobacco?”
“No.”
“Snuff?”
“No.”
“Chased women?”
He said, “I never got into that mess. I lived a very sattvic life.”
Then even the angel smacked his head and said, “Then what did you do for ninety years? Why did you take so long to come? Not even a pinch of snuff—how did you pass the time?”
You cannot make anyone quit by frightening them—and your religions have only frightened. They say, “You’ll fall into hell.” It sounds absurd that a man inhales and exhales smoke and for that he should be thrown into hell.
It doesn’t make sense. No court would say that: “A man was inhaling and exhaling smoke—he wasn’t harming anyone, wasn’t killing, wasn’t sucking anyone’s blood—just moving smoke in and out; therefore he is consigned to hell.” It doesn’t feel just. Then the one who sends him to hell is himself unjust. So that argument collapses.
So now the preachers don’t say, “You’ll go to hell”; they say, “You’ll get TB.” But the logic is the same: fear. Earlier they used the fear of hell—no one buys that now—so they brandish another fear: TB.
In a village a drunk staggered to the priest and asked, “Tell me something: how does a man get gout?” The priest found his chance; people like this only wait for such openings. He said, “I’ve told you a thousand times—stop drinking or you’ll get gout.” A perfect occasion to preach! “Didn’t I tell you many times—if you don’t stop, you’ll get gout!”
The drunk said, “I’m not asking about myself. I read in the paper that the Pope has gout. So I want to know—how did he get it? If I get it, fine; I drink, obviously. But how did the Pope get gout?”
Then the priest was startled—too late.
By fear you haven’t been able to change people. The whole fear-process has failed. And when you scare people again and again and they don’t fear and keep drinking, even their sensitivity to fear gets blunted. Harm is done. They stop fearing altogether: “Whatever happens, we’ll see.”
I say to you: if you smoke, smoke mindfully. This is a different statement. When you take the cigarette from your pocket, don’t do it in a hurry as you usually do. What’s the rush? Take it out slowly. Vipassana will begin. Absolutely slowly. As if there is no hurry at all—as if eternity is available. Take it out as slowly as you can. If you are going to smoke, at least do it properly—with a little grace. What is this furtiveness—snatching it out, pumping smoke in and out anyhow, throwing the butt, and simultaneously repenting: “I shouldn’t smoke; this is so bad; Shrichand, this is a mistake.” Bring some culture to it! A little grace, a little prasad. Hold the packet in your hand; then take out the cigarette; then tap it neatly on the pack. Then place it in your mouth—gently. Then take out the matches. Then strike the match. Slowly—as one lights a lamp in worship—light the cigarette. What are you afraid of? Why so scared? Why the guilt? You like it, it is your life, you are your own master. You are not harming anyone. And even if you want to harm yourself, you have that right too.
But give it an artistry. And you will be amazed: for the first time you won’t feel “sin,” you’ll see stupidity. And there lies the difference. Sin never freed anyone; centuries have passed saying “sin,” and to what sin have you delivered man? I don’t say smoking is a sin; I do say it is foolishness. What is sin? But foolishness—certainly. Let the foolishness become visible—and the slower you make the process, the more clearly the foolishness will show. There is a scientific reason for this.
Whatever we have become habituated to doing becomes mechanical; we do it like a machine. If you slacken the process, suddenly you will find you are doing the same act consciously, not mechanically. You walk with a particular gait. In Buddhist meditation halls they change your walk; they say, “Halve your speed. Walk consciously. Take small steps.”
You will be surprised: whenever your awareness drops, you will again place your foot hard, as per your habit. If you want to remain aware, you will have to keep the step soft; to keep it soft, you will have to remain aware. If you want to walk unconsciously, the old habit suffices. Any process, if you slow it down, awareness gets attached to it. Even eating—if you eat slowly, very slowly, chew each morsel forty-eight times—you will be amazed how consciously you are eating, because you have to keep count; you cannot just wolf it down.
I don’t tell you, “Don’t overeat.” I say, “Chew forty-eight times and eat slowly, consciously.” The quantity will automatically come down by one-third. It will settle at what is needed—and it will satisfy you more deeply, more completely, because its juice will spread, it will digest rightly. Slow down any process this way. If it is a meaningful process, it won’t break; if it is useless, it will fall apart on its own—because its stupidity will become clear. Sin has to be “renounced”; stupidity doesn’t—only seen, and it drops.
In the same way, Shrichand, whatever mistakes you feel you make—not because of ideals, but those your life-experience itself shows you are mistakes—
Remove the ideals; ninety percent of the mistakes will depart the very moment the ideal is gone. Then ten percent remain. Become alert toward these ten percent. Free them from mechanicalness. And you will be astonished: those that are foolish will drop. And those that are not foolish—there is no need to drop them at all; they are not mistakes.
Fifth question:
Osho, in meditation I experience light; I also experience peace and bliss. Is this the state of samadhi?
Osho, in meditation I experience light; I also experience peace and bliss. Is this the state of samadhi?
Not so fast. Call it the first glimpse of samadhi. The first waft of fragrance has arrived. Say, the first flower of spring has bloomed. But the blooming of spring’s first flower is not spring’s arrival. Spring is on the way; it will come. The first guest has arrived. Don’t take this to be the whole, otherwise you will get stuck, you will stop. Much is yet to happen.
And the final understanding dawns only when no experience remains—not the experience of light, not the experience of peace, not the experience of bliss. You will be a little startled.
Up to now you have known suffering; opposite to it comes the experience of happiness. As the meditative state in the mind deepens a little, happiness takes the place of sorrow. Then both happiness and sorrow depart. The duality is gone. Then a tremor of bliss arises. But that tremor feels like bliss only because you had not known it before; it is new, therefore it is noticeable. When you become mature in it, even bliss will no longer be noticed.
Think of it this way: you were ill; then you became healthy. For a few days after an illness, you notice your health—because of the illness. You were sick, you knew its opposite; then you became well, so the sense of health is clear—like a white line drawn on a black slate, health is experienced against the backdrop of illness. When you remain healthy, gradually you forget the illness—and you also forget health.
This is the definition of health: that which is not noticed. What is noticed is illness; if you have a headache, you notice it. When there is no headache, do you notice it? Do you go around telling people, “Listen, today I have no headache! Today I can tell I have no headache!” Do you ever notice the absence of a headache? Pain is noticed; only pain is known. That is why it is called vedana. Vedana has two meanings: pain and knowing. The word comes from the same root as Veda, vid—to know. It is pain that is recognized. If a thorn pricks your foot, you know it; if no thorn pricks, you don’t even notice the foot—and how will you ever “know” that no thorn has pricked? Absence is not noticeable.
So first sorrow goes, and there is the sense of happiness. Then the duality of happiness and sorrow goes, and a glimpse of bliss arises. For lifetimes you have not known it. When it is felt deeply, it is like a dense, torrential downpour. But then you ripen in it; it becomes your very nature. Then even that is not noticed. When even bliss is not noticed, know that you have come home. If you have lived in darkness, then at first contact with light you will notice it. But when, living in light, you become one with it, who is there to notice light? Then even light is not noticed.
In the final experience, all experiences dissolve; none remains. There is only bare awareness. Only the lamp of knowing burns.
But what is happening is good, auspicious. If light is seen in meditation—good signs. If peace is felt, bliss… then understand that spring is near!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
Tossing its fragrant tresses—spring has come!
In the cloudless sky a sapphire smile,
Rivers and lakes are limpid, the breeze is mild!
Again and again the mustard fields sway,
Softly smiling—spring has come!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
Every bough is burdened with tender green leaves,
The buds’ cheeks redden with bashful blush!
The bees’ hum, the cuckoo’s call,
Spring arrives, flinging colors and abir!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
Imagination has donned a robe of spring,
A body delicate as petals of paatal flowers!
Young dawn-tinted eyes lined with kohl,
Mehndi designs on soft palms!
In her hair the heady scent of champa,
Anklets chime, a gentle, elephantine gait—
Across the towns the veena-strings ring—
In the poet’s voice, springtime sings!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
The beginning has happened. The first glimpse has come. For the first time the lattice opened; a ray descended. But do not mistake the ray for the sun. Much of the journey remains. Do not stop by taking this to be the goal. I say this because many do stop. Someone has a slight awakening of kundalini energy and stops, thinking he has become a siddha. Someone has a little inner experience of light and stops, believing samadhi has come. These are milestones. Do not sit hugging these milestones to your chest. The destination is still far. And milestones aren’t bad; they are auspicious, because they tell you that some journey has happened, you have walked a few miles. Milestones are good omens—signs that the goal is drawing nearer.
But the mind is very cunning, and the ego entangles you everywhere. A small thing happens and it makes a big show of it. We make a mountain out of a molehill.
Do not take every glance to be love!
Do not take every ripple to be the tide!
Life’s longings are countless,
The pouch of breaths is limited;
Whatever you meet along the road—
Do not take it as the gift itself!
Do not take every glance to be love!
Learn worship from the bumblebee,
Learn melody from the cuckoo;
If two flowers bloom in the garden—
Do not think spring has arrived!
Do not take every glance to be love!
The thirst that misleads for a lifetime—
It is not the one in the eyes!
Whatever pours into the goblet,
Do not take it as an endless stream of nectar!
Do not take every glance to be love!
The shadow of tresses is bewitching,
The magic of eyes intoxicating;
Do not take a sweet acquaintance of two days
As the foundation of your dreams!
Do not take every glance to be love!
All your life you’ll wander like a deer,
Beat your head upon the sand;
Do not take the flickering waves of a mirage
For the boundless ocean of beauty!
Do not take every glance to be love!
May it not turn into Raga Deepak—
Lest a blaze ignite your life!
Whatever plays upon the veena—
Do not take it for Megh-Malhar!
Do not take every glance to be love!
Many other things are played on the veena; not everything that sounds is Megh-Malhar. As there are many experiences outside in life, so too there are many experiences within. Just as vast as the outer existence is spread, so vast is the inner. The sky within is as immense as the sky without.
There will be many experiences—and very intoxicating ones! So captivating that you will feel: what more could there possibly be? The first time light cascades, your very life-breath feels so satisfied that the question doesn’t even arise that anything beyond this could exist. For lifetimes your eyes have been filled only with darkness; even a small glimpse of light brings an unprecedented fulfillment. But here the Master keeps warning, keeps urging: go further, go further.
There is a Sufi story. A fakir meditates beneath a tree. Every day he sees a woodcutter carrying bundles of wood. One day he says to him, “Listen, brother, you chop wood all day and still can’t manage two full meals. Why don’t you go a little farther? Ahead there is a forest of sandalwood. One day’s cutting will feed you for seven days.”
The poor woodcutter didn’t quite believe it. He thought he knew the forest better than anyone—he’d spent his life in it, cutting wood. This fakir just sits under a tree; what could he know? He didn’t feel like believing, but then thought, what’s the harm? Who knows, he might be right. Why should he lie? He looks a calm, blissful man. He’s never spoken before. It’s worth a try.
So he went. He returned, put his head at the fakir’s feet, and said, “Forgive me. I was filled with doubt, because I thought, who knows wood better than I do? But I had no recognition of sandalwood. My father was a woodcutter, his father was a woodcutter. We spent our lives cutting firewood—what would we know of sandalwood? Even if sandalwood had come into our hands, we would have cut and sold it like ordinary wood. You gave me the recognition, the scent, the discernment. There truly is such a forest. How unfortunate I was! If only I had known earlier!”
The fakir said, “Don’t worry. Whenever you know, it is early enough. When you reach home, that is dawn.”
Days passed pleasantly. He would cut one day and not need to go to the forest for seven, eight, ten days. One day the fakir said, “Brother, I thought some intelligence might dawn in you. All your life you cut wood and never went farther; did it never occur to you that beyond sandalwood there might be something else?” He said, “That never occurred to me. Is there more beyond sandalwood?” The fakir said, “Go a little farther: there is a silver mine. Stop this chopping. One day’s haul and you are set for two, four, six months.”
Now he had faith. He ran, without a trace of doubt. He struck silver—and what can one say! It was silver everywhere. He would disappear for four to six months, then show up one day, then vanish again. But the mind of man is so dull that still he didn’t wonder if there might be something farther. One day the fakir said, “Will you ever awaken on your own, or must I keep waking you? Beyond lies a gold mine, fool! Does no question arise in you—no curiosity, no ardent longing—to look a little farther? Now you idle at home for six months, free of work. Does it not occur to you to look deeper into the forest?”
He said, “I am ill-starred; it never occurred to me. I thought silver is the ultimate—what more could there be?” The poor fellow had never seen gold—only heard of it. The fakir said, “Go a little farther; there is gold.” And so the story goes on. Farther still, there is a diamond mine. And so the story goes on. One day the fakir said, “Simpleton, now you have stopped even at diamonds? By now you are puffed up and very rich—you’ve built palaces. And you say, ‘Enough, don’t disturb me. What could there be beyond diamonds?’”
The fakir said, “Beyond diamonds, there is me. Did it never occur to you that this carefree man who knows of diamond mines is not filling his pockets with diamonds? He must have found something beyond. He must possess a wealth even beyond diamonds. Did that question never arise in you?”
The man began to weep. He dashed his head at the fakir’s feet. He said, “How foolish I am! The question never arises in me. Only when you tell me do I remember. In my lifetimes it would never have occurred to me that you have a treasure beyond diamonds.” The fakir said, “That treasure is meditation. Now you have enough wealth; you need no more riches. Now dig the inner mine, which lies beyond everything.”
That is what I say to you: farther, and farther still. Keep moving. Do not stop until all experiences fall silent. As long as even the experience of God remains, know that duality is present—the seer and the seen remain. When even that experience is gone, then nirvikalpa samadhi. Then neither the seen remains, nor the seer—no one remains. There is a vast stillness, a void. And in that emptiness the lamp of awareness burns. Just awareness, pure knowing. That alone is the ultimate. That is the supreme state; that is samadhi.
And the final understanding dawns only when no experience remains—not the experience of light, not the experience of peace, not the experience of bliss. You will be a little startled.
Up to now you have known suffering; opposite to it comes the experience of happiness. As the meditative state in the mind deepens a little, happiness takes the place of sorrow. Then both happiness and sorrow depart. The duality is gone. Then a tremor of bliss arises. But that tremor feels like bliss only because you had not known it before; it is new, therefore it is noticeable. When you become mature in it, even bliss will no longer be noticed.
Think of it this way: you were ill; then you became healthy. For a few days after an illness, you notice your health—because of the illness. You were sick, you knew its opposite; then you became well, so the sense of health is clear—like a white line drawn on a black slate, health is experienced against the backdrop of illness. When you remain healthy, gradually you forget the illness—and you also forget health.
This is the definition of health: that which is not noticed. What is noticed is illness; if you have a headache, you notice it. When there is no headache, do you notice it? Do you go around telling people, “Listen, today I have no headache! Today I can tell I have no headache!” Do you ever notice the absence of a headache? Pain is noticed; only pain is known. That is why it is called vedana. Vedana has two meanings: pain and knowing. The word comes from the same root as Veda, vid—to know. It is pain that is recognized. If a thorn pricks your foot, you know it; if no thorn pricks, you don’t even notice the foot—and how will you ever “know” that no thorn has pricked? Absence is not noticeable.
So first sorrow goes, and there is the sense of happiness. Then the duality of happiness and sorrow goes, and a glimpse of bliss arises. For lifetimes you have not known it. When it is felt deeply, it is like a dense, torrential downpour. But then you ripen in it; it becomes your very nature. Then even that is not noticed. When even bliss is not noticed, know that you have come home. If you have lived in darkness, then at first contact with light you will notice it. But when, living in light, you become one with it, who is there to notice light? Then even light is not noticed.
In the final experience, all experiences dissolve; none remains. There is only bare awareness. Only the lamp of knowing burns.
But what is happening is good, auspicious. If light is seen in meditation—good signs. If peace is felt, bliss… then understand that spring is near!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
Tossing its fragrant tresses—spring has come!
In the cloudless sky a sapphire smile,
Rivers and lakes are limpid, the breeze is mild!
Again and again the mustard fields sway,
Softly smiling—spring has come!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
Every bough is burdened with tender green leaves,
The buds’ cheeks redden with bashful blush!
The bees’ hum, the cuckoo’s call,
Spring arrives, flinging colors and abir!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
Imagination has donned a robe of spring,
A body delicate as petals of paatal flowers!
Young dawn-tinted eyes lined with kohl,
Mehndi designs on soft palms!
In her hair the heady scent of champa,
Anklets chime, a gentle, elephantine gait—
Across the towns the veena-strings ring—
In the poet’s voice, springtime sings!
A yellow robe fluttering—spring has come!
The beginning has happened. The first glimpse has come. For the first time the lattice opened; a ray descended. But do not mistake the ray for the sun. Much of the journey remains. Do not stop by taking this to be the goal. I say this because many do stop. Someone has a slight awakening of kundalini energy and stops, thinking he has become a siddha. Someone has a little inner experience of light and stops, believing samadhi has come. These are milestones. Do not sit hugging these milestones to your chest. The destination is still far. And milestones aren’t bad; they are auspicious, because they tell you that some journey has happened, you have walked a few miles. Milestones are good omens—signs that the goal is drawing nearer.
But the mind is very cunning, and the ego entangles you everywhere. A small thing happens and it makes a big show of it. We make a mountain out of a molehill.
Do not take every glance to be love!
Do not take every ripple to be the tide!
Life’s longings are countless,
The pouch of breaths is limited;
Whatever you meet along the road—
Do not take it as the gift itself!
Do not take every glance to be love!
Learn worship from the bumblebee,
Learn melody from the cuckoo;
If two flowers bloom in the garden—
Do not think spring has arrived!
Do not take every glance to be love!
The thirst that misleads for a lifetime—
It is not the one in the eyes!
Whatever pours into the goblet,
Do not take it as an endless stream of nectar!
Do not take every glance to be love!
The shadow of tresses is bewitching,
The magic of eyes intoxicating;
Do not take a sweet acquaintance of two days
As the foundation of your dreams!
Do not take every glance to be love!
All your life you’ll wander like a deer,
Beat your head upon the sand;
Do not take the flickering waves of a mirage
For the boundless ocean of beauty!
Do not take every glance to be love!
May it not turn into Raga Deepak—
Lest a blaze ignite your life!
Whatever plays upon the veena—
Do not take it for Megh-Malhar!
Do not take every glance to be love!
Many other things are played on the veena; not everything that sounds is Megh-Malhar. As there are many experiences outside in life, so too there are many experiences within. Just as vast as the outer existence is spread, so vast is the inner. The sky within is as immense as the sky without.
There will be many experiences—and very intoxicating ones! So captivating that you will feel: what more could there possibly be? The first time light cascades, your very life-breath feels so satisfied that the question doesn’t even arise that anything beyond this could exist. For lifetimes your eyes have been filled only with darkness; even a small glimpse of light brings an unprecedented fulfillment. But here the Master keeps warning, keeps urging: go further, go further.
There is a Sufi story. A fakir meditates beneath a tree. Every day he sees a woodcutter carrying bundles of wood. One day he says to him, “Listen, brother, you chop wood all day and still can’t manage two full meals. Why don’t you go a little farther? Ahead there is a forest of sandalwood. One day’s cutting will feed you for seven days.”
The poor woodcutter didn’t quite believe it. He thought he knew the forest better than anyone—he’d spent his life in it, cutting wood. This fakir just sits under a tree; what could he know? He didn’t feel like believing, but then thought, what’s the harm? Who knows, he might be right. Why should he lie? He looks a calm, blissful man. He’s never spoken before. It’s worth a try.
So he went. He returned, put his head at the fakir’s feet, and said, “Forgive me. I was filled with doubt, because I thought, who knows wood better than I do? But I had no recognition of sandalwood. My father was a woodcutter, his father was a woodcutter. We spent our lives cutting firewood—what would we know of sandalwood? Even if sandalwood had come into our hands, we would have cut and sold it like ordinary wood. You gave me the recognition, the scent, the discernment. There truly is such a forest. How unfortunate I was! If only I had known earlier!”
The fakir said, “Don’t worry. Whenever you know, it is early enough. When you reach home, that is dawn.”
Days passed pleasantly. He would cut one day and not need to go to the forest for seven, eight, ten days. One day the fakir said, “Brother, I thought some intelligence might dawn in you. All your life you cut wood and never went farther; did it never occur to you that beyond sandalwood there might be something else?” He said, “That never occurred to me. Is there more beyond sandalwood?” The fakir said, “Go a little farther: there is a silver mine. Stop this chopping. One day’s haul and you are set for two, four, six months.”
Now he had faith. He ran, without a trace of doubt. He struck silver—and what can one say! It was silver everywhere. He would disappear for four to six months, then show up one day, then vanish again. But the mind of man is so dull that still he didn’t wonder if there might be something farther. One day the fakir said, “Will you ever awaken on your own, or must I keep waking you? Beyond lies a gold mine, fool! Does no question arise in you—no curiosity, no ardent longing—to look a little farther? Now you idle at home for six months, free of work. Does it not occur to you to look deeper into the forest?”
He said, “I am ill-starred; it never occurred to me. I thought silver is the ultimate—what more could there be?” The poor fellow had never seen gold—only heard of it. The fakir said, “Go a little farther; there is gold.” And so the story goes on. Farther still, there is a diamond mine. And so the story goes on. One day the fakir said, “Simpleton, now you have stopped even at diamonds? By now you are puffed up and very rich—you’ve built palaces. And you say, ‘Enough, don’t disturb me. What could there be beyond diamonds?’”
The fakir said, “Beyond diamonds, there is me. Did it never occur to you that this carefree man who knows of diamond mines is not filling his pockets with diamonds? He must have found something beyond. He must possess a wealth even beyond diamonds. Did that question never arise in you?”
The man began to weep. He dashed his head at the fakir’s feet. He said, “How foolish I am! The question never arises in me. Only when you tell me do I remember. In my lifetimes it would never have occurred to me that you have a treasure beyond diamonds.” The fakir said, “That treasure is meditation. Now you have enough wealth; you need no more riches. Now dig the inner mine, which lies beyond everything.”
That is what I say to you: farther, and farther still. Keep moving. Do not stop until all experiences fall silent. As long as even the experience of God remains, know that duality is present—the seer and the seen remain. When even that experience is gone, then nirvikalpa samadhi. Then neither the seen remains, nor the seer—no one remains. There is a vast stillness, a void. And in that emptiness the lamp of awareness burns. Just awareness, pure knowing. That alone is the ultimate. That is the supreme state; that is samadhi.
Sixth question:
Osho, if I must ask God for something, what should I ask?
Osho, if I must ask God for something, what should I ask?
If you ask for anything, you will go wrong. Best is not to ask. Not asking is the very best. Without asking, pearls are given; ask, and you won’t get even chaff. Why go to the doorway of the Divine as a beggar? If you go as a beggar, you will get only what you ask for. And many times a great mistake happens, because you will ask only for what fits into your mind. Even in asking, you will ask for something small.
Just think—what will you ask for? You will not be able to ask for what truly should be asked, because it won’t even occur to you. You have no taste of it. And then you will regret it greatly.
I have heard: A very wealthy lady went to her physician. Her illness had been cured; she had come to pay his fee. She offered him a gift—a jewel-studded pouch with something inside. The physician said, “That’s fine, but what about my fee?” He didn’t recognize it was studded with real gems; he thought it was just glass. Who gives a jeweled bag as a gift! And this lady was trying to get off cheaply. He had calculated that at least three hundred rupees were due. And she was escaping by giving this pouch. He said, “The pouch is fine; I accept it as a token of your love—but what about my fee?” The lady asked, “How much is your fee?” The most he could bring himself to say was, “Three hundred rupees.”
The lady opened the pouch—inside were currency notes worth at least ten thousand. She took out three hundred rupees, gave them to the physician, and went away with the rest of the money and the pouch. Imagine what the physician must have gone through! After that day he must have fallen ill himself; from that day his healing would have become difficult. How much he must have regretted it! She had come to give ten thousand rupees, and later he learned from friends that those were not glass bits but diamonds and jewels. But in his mind, three hundred was the largest fee imaginable.
So, even if you ask—what will you ask? Your biggest ask will still be the smallest of the small. Therefore, better not to ask. Whatever He gives, receive it with gratitude and wonder. You will be the gainer. If you ask, you will be at a loss. And your misfortune may be such that you may never even come to know what you could have received and what you went away with, having asked! You may never know what might have been possible. That physician at least came to know and may not repeat such a mistake. But you may never come to know. Who is there to tell you?
Keep the first point in mind: prayer should not become asking. Though, because of our foolishness, the very word “prayer” has come to mean asking. The one who asks we call a “supplicant,” because we have filled prayer with nothing but demands. We pray only when we want something.
In prayer, do not ask. If you can give—give. If you can offer yourself—offer yourself. If you can pour yourself out—pour yourself out. Do not ask. It will be difficult, because begging has become the very foundation of our life-breath. For birth after birth we have begged. Beggars beg, emperors beg—beggary goes on in every guise.
But if it is absolutely impossible, if you simply cannot be without asking, then ask as a lover asks the beloved, or as a beloved asks her lover. What does a lover ask? He asks for love. If you cannot refrain from asking God, then ask for love. Ask for Him. If the Master is found, everything is found. If He is found, all is found, for all is His. Why ask for trifles? Ask for the One.
And when a lover asks his beloved for something, even that asking is not asking; within it is praise, adoration.
The fire that shimmers on your tinted brow,
The fire that gleams in the blossoms of your cheeks,
The fire of youth that blazes in your breast—
Grant me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
In your eyes the sparks of youth are shining,
On your rose-hued lips the sparks of youth dance,
In your every breath the sparks of youth roll and tumble—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
In your every grace the young flame of feeling glows,
These restless tongues of fire, this yearning flame—
Cast your radiance upon my soul as well;
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
How deprived these eyes are—you cannot know;
How my arms have longed—you cannot know;
How dim my pathways are—you cannot know—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
Come, that in the darkness I may gather some light,
That I may turn my shadowed chamber into a true chamber of night,
That in this darkness I may kindle some bright candle—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
The air within my breast is heavy with layers of darkness;
No instrument of longing, no ardor for action remains.
Come, that from your torch I may light my own torch—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
A lover is asking the beloved:
The fire that shimmers on your glowing brow—
the light, the aura, the flame on your forehead.
The fire that gleams in the flowers of your cheeks—
the radiance, the brilliance on your cheeks.
The fire of youth that blazes in your breast—
the youth flowing in your life-breath, the current of life itself.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life—
grant me a little of this lovely flame.
In your eyes, like sparks, youth flashes—glittering, glowing, embers.
On your rose-colored lips the dance of youth is happening.
In your every breath the sparks of youth are swirling.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire—
this lovely flame, this little blaze, a little life.
In your every gesture the bright blaze of passion shines:
these playful tongues of fire, this quivering flame—
Cast a little of your shadow, your radiance, upon my soul, too.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
How deprived these eyes are—you do not know!
How unfulfilled I am, how thirsty my eyes!
How my arms have ached with longing—you do not know!
Come, come into my embrace!
How deprived these eyes are—you do not know!
How my arms have thirsted—you do not know!
How dim my pathways are—you do not know!
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life—
a little prasad so that my dark road may have some light,
so that my empty arms may be filled, the thirst of my eyes quenched.
Come, that I may arrange some light in this darkness.
Come, that I may make my shadowed resting place truly a resting place,
that I may settle this ruined house, fill this empty home.
In this darkness let a candle be lit—
it is so dark here, so very dark. Let a single lamp be kindled.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
The air within my breast is heavy with the burden of darkness;
I am weighed down by it.
No music of longing remains, no ardor of action;
no aspiration remains, no savor of life seems to flow.
Bring your torch near me, that from your flame my extinguished torch may be lit again.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
If you must ask—first I say, better not to ask. But if you cannot be without asking, then ask as a lover asks his beloved. In his asking there is only the beloved’s praise. His asking is not an ask—it is adoration. His asking is truly prayer.
Your prayer is asking. The lover’s asking is prayer. If you can ask in that way, the happening happens—but only if you can ask rightly, precisely; a tiny slip, and you miss. If you do not ask, the happening is certain—there can be no mistake.
One who has not asked—how can he go wrong? He simply opens his heart, ready to receive whatever happens, whatever falls into the cup. If it comes, he is glad; if it does not, he is glad. Even if it does not come, he knows, “This is not the hour for it; not receiving is for my good.” He is content in all conditions.
Or else, ask like a lover. But in that there can be mistakes; it demands great care. Either sit in the attitude of emptiness—that is the highest—or sit in the attitude of love—that is second.
In the lovely shade of moon and stars, up to my heart,
a wave of light and fragrance rises.
The breeze, rustling as it passes through the flowers—
your footfall, your voice approach on it.
For some time now, in my breath the popping of buds is born;
I myself blossom like a flower.
Ah, this ecstasy—it is impossible without you;
my heart begins to beat and I grow intoxicated.
O heart, tune the strings of your barbat, your lute!
When He comes, we must have a song to sing.
With every tone an enchanting gaze will arise,
with every moment a tale of magic will unfold.
In what melodies my soul is being stifled—
already, so near, the sound of the waterskin is heard.
If only you could sit in emptiness, soon you would begin to hear the anklet-bells tied to His feet.
In what melodies my soul is being stifled—
already the sound of the waterskin is drawing near.
In the lovely shade of moon and stars, up to my heart,
a wave of light and fragrance rises.
A storm comes—a storm of beauty, of bliss. God comes like a storm. Not a little drizzle, but a cloudburst. But you—be empty.
In the lovely shade of moon and stars, up to my heart,
a wave of light and fragrance rises.
The breeze passes, rustling through the flowers—
your footfall, your voice approach on it.
And then, even in the wind moving through the trees, you will feel only His approach. Wherever you go, wherever you look, you will begin to hear His footsteps.
For some time now, in my breath the popping of buds is born—
and with each breath, buds begin to open.
I blossom, myself, like a flower.
Do not ask; without asking, much is given. And when God showers, you will blossom like a flower.
For some time now, in my breath the popping of buds is born;
I blossom, myself, like a flower.
Ah, this ecstasy—
the bliss is so abundant it can scarcely be contained.
Ah, this ecstasy—it is impossible without You.
One thing is certain: such bliss is showering—You must be near,
for without You this is not possible.
Ah, this ecstasy—it is impossible without You;
my heart begins to beat and I grow intoxicated.
O heart, tune the strings of your barbat!
Keep the strings of your inner veena, your heart’s lute, in tune.
O heart, tune the strings of your barbat!
When He comes, we must sing a song.
With every tone an enchanting gaze will arise,
with every moment a tale of magic will unfold.
In what melodies my soul is being stifled—
already the sound of the waterskin is drawing near.
That’s all for today.
Just think—what will you ask for? You will not be able to ask for what truly should be asked, because it won’t even occur to you. You have no taste of it. And then you will regret it greatly.
I have heard: A very wealthy lady went to her physician. Her illness had been cured; she had come to pay his fee. She offered him a gift—a jewel-studded pouch with something inside. The physician said, “That’s fine, but what about my fee?” He didn’t recognize it was studded with real gems; he thought it was just glass. Who gives a jeweled bag as a gift! And this lady was trying to get off cheaply. He had calculated that at least three hundred rupees were due. And she was escaping by giving this pouch. He said, “The pouch is fine; I accept it as a token of your love—but what about my fee?” The lady asked, “How much is your fee?” The most he could bring himself to say was, “Three hundred rupees.”
The lady opened the pouch—inside were currency notes worth at least ten thousand. She took out three hundred rupees, gave them to the physician, and went away with the rest of the money and the pouch. Imagine what the physician must have gone through! After that day he must have fallen ill himself; from that day his healing would have become difficult. How much he must have regretted it! She had come to give ten thousand rupees, and later he learned from friends that those were not glass bits but diamonds and jewels. But in his mind, three hundred was the largest fee imaginable.
So, even if you ask—what will you ask? Your biggest ask will still be the smallest of the small. Therefore, better not to ask. Whatever He gives, receive it with gratitude and wonder. You will be the gainer. If you ask, you will be at a loss. And your misfortune may be such that you may never even come to know what you could have received and what you went away with, having asked! You may never know what might have been possible. That physician at least came to know and may not repeat such a mistake. But you may never come to know. Who is there to tell you?
Keep the first point in mind: prayer should not become asking. Though, because of our foolishness, the very word “prayer” has come to mean asking. The one who asks we call a “supplicant,” because we have filled prayer with nothing but demands. We pray only when we want something.
In prayer, do not ask. If you can give—give. If you can offer yourself—offer yourself. If you can pour yourself out—pour yourself out. Do not ask. It will be difficult, because begging has become the very foundation of our life-breath. For birth after birth we have begged. Beggars beg, emperors beg—beggary goes on in every guise.
But if it is absolutely impossible, if you simply cannot be without asking, then ask as a lover asks the beloved, or as a beloved asks her lover. What does a lover ask? He asks for love. If you cannot refrain from asking God, then ask for love. Ask for Him. If the Master is found, everything is found. If He is found, all is found, for all is His. Why ask for trifles? Ask for the One.
And when a lover asks his beloved for something, even that asking is not asking; within it is praise, adoration.
The fire that shimmers on your tinted brow,
The fire that gleams in the blossoms of your cheeks,
The fire of youth that blazes in your breast—
Grant me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
In your eyes the sparks of youth are shining,
On your rose-hued lips the sparks of youth dance,
In your every breath the sparks of youth roll and tumble—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
In your every grace the young flame of feeling glows,
These restless tongues of fire, this yearning flame—
Cast your radiance upon my soul as well;
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
How deprived these eyes are—you cannot know;
How my arms have longed—you cannot know;
How dim my pathways are—you cannot know—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
Come, that in the darkness I may gather some light,
That I may turn my shadowed chamber into a true chamber of night,
That in this darkness I may kindle some bright candle—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
The air within my breast is heavy with layers of darkness;
No instrument of longing, no ardor for action remains.
Come, that from your torch I may light my own torch—
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
A lover is asking the beloved:
The fire that shimmers on your glowing brow—
the light, the aura, the flame on your forehead.
The fire that gleams in the flowers of your cheeks—
the radiance, the brilliance on your cheeks.
The fire of youth that blazes in your breast—
the youth flowing in your life-breath, the current of life itself.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life—
grant me a little of this lovely flame.
In your eyes, like sparks, youth flashes—glittering, glowing, embers.
On your rose-colored lips the dance of youth is happening.
In your every breath the sparks of youth are swirling.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire—
this lovely flame, this little blaze, a little life.
In your every gesture the bright blaze of passion shines:
these playful tongues of fire, this quivering flame—
Cast a little of your shadow, your radiance, upon my soul, too.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
How deprived these eyes are—you do not know!
How unfulfilled I am, how thirsty my eyes!
How my arms have ached with longing—you do not know!
Come, come into my embrace!
How deprived these eyes are—you do not know!
How my arms have thirsted—you do not know!
How dim my pathways are—you do not know!
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life—
a little prasad so that my dark road may have some light,
so that my empty arms may be filled, the thirst of my eyes quenched.
Come, that I may arrange some light in this darkness.
Come, that I may make my shadowed resting place truly a resting place,
that I may settle this ruined house, fill this empty home.
In this darkness let a candle be lit—
it is so dark here, so very dark. Let a single lamp be kindled.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
The air within my breast is heavy with the burden of darkness;
I am weighed down by it.
No music of longing remains, no ardor of action;
no aspiration remains, no savor of life seems to flow.
Bring your torch near me, that from your flame my extinguished torch may be lit again.
Give me, too, this beautiful fire of life.
If you must ask—first I say, better not to ask. But if you cannot be without asking, then ask as a lover asks his beloved. In his asking there is only the beloved’s praise. His asking is not an ask—it is adoration. His asking is truly prayer.
Your prayer is asking. The lover’s asking is prayer. If you can ask in that way, the happening happens—but only if you can ask rightly, precisely; a tiny slip, and you miss. If you do not ask, the happening is certain—there can be no mistake.
One who has not asked—how can he go wrong? He simply opens his heart, ready to receive whatever happens, whatever falls into the cup. If it comes, he is glad; if it does not, he is glad. Even if it does not come, he knows, “This is not the hour for it; not receiving is for my good.” He is content in all conditions.
Or else, ask like a lover. But in that there can be mistakes; it demands great care. Either sit in the attitude of emptiness—that is the highest—or sit in the attitude of love—that is second.
In the lovely shade of moon and stars, up to my heart,
a wave of light and fragrance rises.
The breeze, rustling as it passes through the flowers—
your footfall, your voice approach on it.
For some time now, in my breath the popping of buds is born;
I myself blossom like a flower.
Ah, this ecstasy—it is impossible without you;
my heart begins to beat and I grow intoxicated.
O heart, tune the strings of your barbat, your lute!
When He comes, we must have a song to sing.
With every tone an enchanting gaze will arise,
with every moment a tale of magic will unfold.
In what melodies my soul is being stifled—
already, so near, the sound of the waterskin is heard.
If only you could sit in emptiness, soon you would begin to hear the anklet-bells tied to His feet.
In what melodies my soul is being stifled—
already the sound of the waterskin is drawing near.
In the lovely shade of moon and stars, up to my heart,
a wave of light and fragrance rises.
A storm comes—a storm of beauty, of bliss. God comes like a storm. Not a little drizzle, but a cloudburst. But you—be empty.
In the lovely shade of moon and stars, up to my heart,
a wave of light and fragrance rises.
The breeze passes, rustling through the flowers—
your footfall, your voice approach on it.
And then, even in the wind moving through the trees, you will feel only His approach. Wherever you go, wherever you look, you will begin to hear His footsteps.
For some time now, in my breath the popping of buds is born—
and with each breath, buds begin to open.
I blossom, myself, like a flower.
Do not ask; without asking, much is given. And when God showers, you will blossom like a flower.
For some time now, in my breath the popping of buds is born;
I blossom, myself, like a flower.
Ah, this ecstasy—
the bliss is so abundant it can scarcely be contained.
Ah, this ecstasy—it is impossible without You.
One thing is certain: such bliss is showering—You must be near,
for without You this is not possible.
Ah, this ecstasy—it is impossible without You;
my heart begins to beat and I grow intoxicated.
O heart, tune the strings of your barbat!
Keep the strings of your inner veena, your heart’s lute, in tune.
O heart, tune the strings of your barbat!
When He comes, we must sing a song.
With every tone an enchanting gaze will arise,
with every moment a tale of magic will unfold.
In what melodies my soul is being stifled—
already the sound of the waterskin is drawing near.
That’s all for today.