Prem Nadi Ke Teera #8
Chapter Summary
Osho insists the primary error in spiritual questioning is the false separation of 'me' and life: language tempts us to treat life as an object with a goal when you are life itself. Life is the ultimate, an end in itself; joy is the uncaused bliss of simply being, and all means—prayer, scripture, austerity—are valuable only insofar as they serve life rather than sacrifice it. He cautions that form and name mislead: birth and death mark changes of house and the limits of perception, not the end of being, and life is continuous transformation. Because life embraces opposites, Rama and Ravana arise from the same root and moral polarities become matters of degree; reducing the Divine to yes-or-no propositions destroys depth. On the goal of life: realization of total being is the summit, and no further goal transcends life itself. On death and rebirth: what appears as death is movement beyond our sensory range, not annihilation; intervals always exist but nothing of the whole is lost. On scripture and debate: books express truth but cannot confer realization, and the deepest questions elude yes-or-no answers or scholastic shastrartha, demanding silence beyond thought. On relationships and social norms: individual understanding must be the basis, inquiry should replace blind adherence, and treating life as a means—for God, nation, or ideology—permits violence and must be resisted.
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Questions in this Discourse
Osho, since life and death follow each other, there must surely be some gap in their timing. People say the life that follows death is just a change of dress—the clothing changes, the soul remains the same. The “dress” we receive—do we get it by our own choice, with our consent, or is it forced upon us? Birth seems to be given to us without our consent. If so, does it mean that at that time we had some intention about what we would do with this dress? And have we now forgotten what that intention was—what our goal is? And if it is given to us, surely it must be given with some thought—“Go, and do this.” So what is our goal now? If all of us share the same goal, why then are our environments and “dresses” not the same? Some say our goal is to attain God. Some say, as you know, that God cannot really be attained. Some say by remaining thoughtless and doing nothing for a while, one finds God; while life is said to be struggle. Such contradictions arise. What is our goal? That is our question.
Many such questions arise. In questions of this kind, a fundamental mistake slips in, and we don’t notice it. Because the mistake sits inside the question, no answer can ever be right. We take the question as it is and start thinking, without first checking whether there is a basic flaw in it; then whatever answers we reach will be wrong and unsatisfying. So first examine whether the question itself hides a fundamental error; only then proceed.
For example, whenever we ask, “What is the goal of my coming into life?” we immediately separate “life” from “me”—and that is wrong. There is no “me” apart from life. Life is not other than you. Life is what you are. Language creates the trouble: “What is the goal of my life?”—as if I am one thing and life another. I am life. What you call “me” is simply a name given to this aliveness within. If we were to name waves rising on the ocean, each wave could ask, “Why do I become a wave and then disappear?” But the very way it asks is mistaken.
As long as we keep ourselves apart from life, any question asked from that separation will never receive a right answer. So don’t ask, “What is the goal of my life?” Ask simply, “What is the goal of life?” That brings the question closer to the mark. Don’t ask, “Why was I born? For what was I given life?” You are not separate. It isn’t that you existed first and then life was handed to you, like being given clothes. Before the clothes, you were there—and after they are taken away, you remain. Clothes are given to you, so you can meaningfully ask, “What are clothes for?” But life is not something you had before or after. You are life. So do not separate “I” and “life”; to separate them is the first mistake—and our everyday language constantly pushes us into it.
Someone says, “Anger came over me.” Someone says, “I fell in love.” The same mistake. When you are in anger or in love, it is not that you are one thing and anger or love another. When you are in love, you are love. When you are in anger, you are anger. Anger isn’t a foreign body that arrives from outside while you remain separate. Our language makes you the subject and separates anger as an object: “I was in anger.”
Like saying, “The storm is now calm.” As if storm were some thing that could be calm. The ocean’s calmness means there is no storm. The ocean’s restlessness is what we call storm. A “calm storm” is a contradiction. Storm simply means unrest; a calm storm does not exist.
So, don’t begin with “What is the goal of my life?” Ask, “What is the goal of life?” And the moment you make that shift, the next insight is ready to arise: is this even a question that can be asked? The mere forming of a question is not enough to make it askable. You can form any question, but is it a valid one? Suppose someone gives an answer—“Here is the goal.” You could then ask, “And what is the goal of that goal?” Whatever target is offered, you can again ask, “And what is its goal?” There will be no end to this chain. If someone says, “The goal of life is love,” you can ask, “What is the goal of love?” If someone says, “The goal of life is God,” you can ask, “What is the goal of God?” This question applies back to every possible answer with the same force; hence it will never be satisfied unless we understand it correctly.
At some point we must accept one situation that is without goal—the ultimate. Beyond it, the very idea of goal has no meaning. I regard life itself as that ultimate. All goals are for life; life has no goal. All means are for life. We laugh for life, we cry for life; we live for life, we die for life; prayer is for life, love is for life; even “God” is for life. All our means are for life. Life, then, is not for anything else. Life is the end in itself; it is never a means.
Because life is ultimate, beyond which there is nothing higher, asking “What is the goal of life?” is a mistake. If I ask you, “What is the goal of your watch?” you can say, “It tells me the time,” because you are the end and the watch is a means. If I ask, “What is the goal of your clothes?” you say, “They protect me from cold and sun.” You are the end; clothes are a means. Your car? “It takes me to the store, brings me home.” But if someone asks, “What is your goal?” things become difficult—because we have separated “God” from life.
I say: to realize life totally is to realize God. I do not separate life and God. “Life” is the secular word; “God” is the religious word. That is the only difference. Attaining the fullness of life is what religious people call “attaining God.” Life has no goal. But this unsettles us, because in our daily living everything has a goal. To accept that life itself has no goal makes us restless; our minds are trained to ask, “For what?” We ask it of clothes, houses, gardens—and then we ask of life, “For what?” When I say “Life is an end unto itself,” I mean: being alive is joy in itself; it needs no further joy to justify it.
Imagine an emperor lost in a desert. Someone says, “I’ll show you the way out—give me half your kingdom.” He will agree. Dying of thirst, if someone says, “I’ll give you a glass of water—give me half your kingdom,” he will agree. He will lose the whole kingdom to save himself. If someone asks, “Are you mad? What will you do with yourself, having lost everything?” he will answer, “Saving myself is delightful in itself. The kingdom was for me; I was not for the kingdom.” Everything can be sacrificed for life—everything.
The Upanishads say a startling, even harsh, but profound thing: a mother loves her son for her own sake, not for the son’s; it is blissful for her to love. A husband loves his wife for his own sake. Even when someone declares, “My goal is to do everything for my child,” he is still wrong; it is his child, a branch of his own life-stream; in caring for him, he feels joy.
Being alive is joy in itself—uncaused. Illness hurts because it obstructs your being fully alive; poverty hurts because it hinders the blossoming of life. Excessive wealth also begins to hurt, because it too can obstruct life’s flower from opening. Without friends, there is trouble; with too many friends and entanglements, trouble again. We seek friends and make enemies, build houses and one day leave for the forest—all in search of the space where life’s flower can fully bloom. That flowering is the joy itself; outside it there is no joy.
Understand two kinds of joy. One is the joy of means; it is not in the means themselves, only in their service of the end. You may have a magnificent fast car, perfect in every way, except it won’t take you where you want to go—then it is useless. Its only value was to take you where you choose to go. Money has value as a means—to free you, not to bind you; that you do not have to stop for lack of money when you want to live in a certain way. Everything in life has value as a means, given that life is the end. The one for whom all things are means is not a means for anything. Life is the master, the sovereign; it is no one’s servant. Just being alive is supreme joy, on any plane.
A plant in bloom, a bird, a human—their joy is simply in being. Just being is a miracle. We ask these questions because it came to us for free. If someday being had to be purchased, we’d realize its price. A dying man—if he could buy even one more moment of being, there is no price he would refuse to pay. Because life is given without asking—you did not exist to be asked—it must arrive unasked; it can be no other way. Given freely, we take it for granted and ask, “Why life?” Remember: the “goal” of our being is pure being—how to be totally. Whenever, even for a moment, you can be totally, you taste supreme joy.
Sit with an enemy: you cannot be total. His presence keeps you fearful, contracted, as if the petals of a flower are closed. With a friend, you open and bloom. The joy with a friend is the joy of being—nothing else. The same person, if he becomes your enemy tomorrow, will no longer give joy. What we call love simply marks those in whose presence our flower of being opens a little. In their presence we are unafraid, unguarded; our being blossoms, and the savor is in that blossoming itself, an end in itself—whether it comes in meditation, in prayer, or anywhere. Wherever joy arises, it is that causeless being. When this does not happen, life grows painful; then we ask, “What is the goal?”—and we ask the wrong question.
Life is so precious—nothing is more so—that it cannot be a means for anything. We cannot say, “The goal of life is to get this chair, or to build this house.” Even to say, “The goal of life is to attain God,” is wrong—first, because God is simply another name for life; second, because the ultimate cannot be made a goal. The ultimate means “that beyond which there is nothing further.”
If you think in this way, you may come close to a resolution. If you keep thinking in the usual question-and-answer pattern, you will never arrive—because the question is wrong. Most people suffer because they ask wrong questions. They don’t realize it.
Someone may ask, “What fragrance does the color green have?” Grammatically the question is fine, but it is wrong. Green has nothing to do with fragrance. Ask this of a blind man; he’ll say, “I don’t know; I’ll find out”—because he does not know green. A man who is both blind and without a sense of smell might say, “Surely everything has some fragrance; green must have one too. I’ll ask.” If a whole crowd is like this, answerers will also appear: “It’s like this…” “No, like that…” You will never be satisfied, because the original question is wrong.
Humanity has asked many wrong questions for thousands of years. “Who created the world?” is one such question. It has no solution—not because there is no answer, but because creator and creation are not two. It is not like a painter and his painting, where the painting remains after the painter dies. It is like a dancer and the dance: if the dancer dies, the dance vanishes. They are one. While he dances, he is a dancer; afterward you cannot even call him that.
Once you ask a wrong question like “Who created the world?” you will be trapped for millennia. If you answer, “God created it,” the questioner will ask, “Who created God?” You cannot scold him—you accepted the initial mistake. If you insist, “Nothing can exist without being created,” then how can God exist without a creator? There is no end to this regress. Our mistake was to separate maker and made. We imagined God like a potter making pots. Then we must also ask, “Who made the potter?” and so on without end.
Rather than chasing answers, first look inside the question: is there some basic mistake? A small error can erect vast philosophies on a false foundation. So, first: you are not separate from life. Don’t ask, “What is the goal of my life?” You are life. Ask instead, “What is the goal of life?” And before you ask even that, recognize: there must be one thing that is an end in itself—everything else can be a means toward it, but it is never a means toward anything further. If you will not accept that, your question can never be answered—then better not ask. If you do accept that, then I call that end “life.” In religious language, “God.” If “God” sounds off-putting, say “life”; if “life” sounds too ordinary, say “God.” It makes no difference. The joy of life is in being.
Your second cluster of questions—about death, rebirth, change of dress—also arises from the same initial mistake. If you understand that you are life, then you never die—life cannot die. Only transformation happens. Death, in the sense of something ending forever, does not happen. In the totality of existence, nothing is ever lost; only forms change. A plant is cut down; we say it died. But nothing in the total has diminished. The plant’s earth returns to earth, its water to water, its life-breath to the vast—everything remains. Not a single grain of sand is added or subtracted from the whole. Things are only transformed. The water from your house flows to another house; you say, “Our water is gone.” There they celebrate, “Water has arrived!” It has only traveled.
Life has no death. “Death” is a false word. Life is transformation, because life is motion. Don’t mistake life for a static thing; life is a process. A movement happening every moment, never at rest. Even now, you are not “fixed,” though our language misleads. We say, “That man is old.” Better: “That man is growing old.” Nobody simply “is”; all are “becoming.” We say, “The river is,” but the river never is—it is happening. “This child is a child”—better: “The child is becoming.” In this world, nothing is in the state of “is”; everything is in the state of “becoming,” moment to moment.
Life means change, flow, the endless capacity to become. When one house becomes too small—you have ten children, parents, the family grows—you look for a new house. So too, one day this body-house becomes too small for life’s needs; it can no longer serve. Then life must move on to a new house. Life has journeyed a long way—from plants to animals to birds to humans. The journey does not end with man; it continues.
Life does not die. But because we mistake the house for life, when life moves house we are distressed. We say, “The man is gone,” we weep and conclude. But the energy that made that man has gone on a new journey. As for a “time gap”—yes, there are always intervals in any journey. Even now there are gaps; you came here, and you will not go back as exactly the same person. An hour of listening, agreeing or disagreeing, and you will leave changed. If your family had keen eyes, they would notice, “Another person has returned.” Our eyes are dull; we look at the surface and miss the inner shift. Everything is changing daily. When the change is total—body dropped—we panic, especially those who believed the body was all. After the body, we don’t see the person; to us he is “unavailable.” That is what we mean by “death”: non-availability. With new instruments, even those who have gone can be related to; dialogues are possible. New methods are needed to bring them within the range of availability. Then we will not say “He died,” but “He has set out on a journey to another body.”
No one is ever born, and no one ever dies. “Birth” and “death” are false words. Life changes location; that creates difficulty—mainly because it moves beyond our range of vision. Imagine one man sitting atop a tall tree and you sitting below. He says, “A bullock cart is coming; it’s already on the road.” You look—“Where? The road is empty.” For him it is present; for you it is future. A little later it comes into your range—you say, “It arrived.” Then it passes and disappears—you say, “It is past.” He still sees it and says, “It is present.” Birth and death are like the points where someone enters and leaves the range of our ordinary perception. We write: “Born on such date; died on such date.” Those stones mark not the person’s beginning and end, but the limits of our seeing: he appeared on our road on that date; he went out of our sight on that date.
For me, the key is not answers but seeing questions rightly. A right seeing is that which sets your consciousness in motion, widens your vision, opens new expanses, enlarges your understanding. Don’t imagine you will one day get some formula to write in a notebook—“This is the answer.” Life is too vast; every formula is small. Hence even the greatest person’s formula soon proves inadequate—not because the person was small, but because formulas are small and life is immeasurable.
There is life in a plant too. We hardly think in terms of its birth and death; we yank it out and throw it away. Our thinking horizon is small—limited to humans. As that horizon widens, even killing an animal becomes difficult: who are we to interrupt someone on life’s path? Then even uprooting a plant becomes difficult. Who can say a plant is behind us? A plant has its own joy of being. If joy is in being, then there is no difference between our joy of being and a plant’s; it is simply a different mode. We rejoice in a gentle breeze, good food, loving company; the plant rejoices in water and cool air. As your vision expands, you will feel life everywhere; we are but one wave in an infinite ocean of waves. That ocean is no one’s means; it is an end unto itself. Making it a means is dangerous. Those who made it a means harmed humanity.
If someone says, “Attaining God is the goal,” then he sacrifices life to that goal: “If fasting brings God, I’ll starve. If headstands bring him, I’ll stand on my head. If he’s on a mountain, I’ll climb. If self-flagellation brings him, I’ll whip myself. If standing in sun and cold brings him, I’ll do it.” Now he treats himself as a means, not an end. Everywhere life has been mistreated this way. If “heaven” is the goal, then anything can be justified: “Kill the infidel, and you’ll enter paradise.” Then humans, goats, cows are sacrificed on altars for “liberation.” Once we forget the fundamental truth that life is not a means for anything, we begin to abuse life. The truly religious person is one who begins to understand: no life can be sacrificed for anything. Life is the supreme end. Otherwise, sacrifice will happen somewhere—for nation, for religion, for ritual, for austerity.
If we wish to make a better world, accept life as the ultimate truth. Then we cannot mistreat life. Otherwise, we will. A husband dies and the wife is made to be sati; her life was not an end in itself—she was merely a wife. If father decides the son must become a doctor, he will sacrifice the son to that goal, whether or not the son was born for it; even if he remains frustrated and miserable, no matter—because a goal has been imposed on life.
Because we have always thought life must have some goal, we have mistreated life. The day we see that life is beyond goals, that all goals flow into it, everything changes. Ask, “Where does the ocean go?” It goes nowhere; all rivers flow into it. So it is with life: all streams—of pleasure and pain, religion and irreligion, Rama and Ravana—flow into life; life goes nowhere. If this is understood, we can treat life rightly—and right treatment of life is religion.
Think of it in this way. I am not giving you an answer—because your question is not right, so it cannot have an answer. I am only analyzing your question. We are thinking together about it. Whoever gives you a neat answer—know that he has not understood. The day this becomes clear to you, life’s supreme blessedness dawns. It will be wondrous indeed.
For example, whenever we ask, “What is the goal of my coming into life?” we immediately separate “life” from “me”—and that is wrong. There is no “me” apart from life. Life is not other than you. Life is what you are. Language creates the trouble: “What is the goal of my life?”—as if I am one thing and life another. I am life. What you call “me” is simply a name given to this aliveness within. If we were to name waves rising on the ocean, each wave could ask, “Why do I become a wave and then disappear?” But the very way it asks is mistaken.
As long as we keep ourselves apart from life, any question asked from that separation will never receive a right answer. So don’t ask, “What is the goal of my life?” Ask simply, “What is the goal of life?” That brings the question closer to the mark. Don’t ask, “Why was I born? For what was I given life?” You are not separate. It isn’t that you existed first and then life was handed to you, like being given clothes. Before the clothes, you were there—and after they are taken away, you remain. Clothes are given to you, so you can meaningfully ask, “What are clothes for?” But life is not something you had before or after. You are life. So do not separate “I” and “life”; to separate them is the first mistake—and our everyday language constantly pushes us into it.
Someone says, “Anger came over me.” Someone says, “I fell in love.” The same mistake. When you are in anger or in love, it is not that you are one thing and anger or love another. When you are in love, you are love. When you are in anger, you are anger. Anger isn’t a foreign body that arrives from outside while you remain separate. Our language makes you the subject and separates anger as an object: “I was in anger.”
Like saying, “The storm is now calm.” As if storm were some thing that could be calm. The ocean’s calmness means there is no storm. The ocean’s restlessness is what we call storm. A “calm storm” is a contradiction. Storm simply means unrest; a calm storm does not exist.
So, don’t begin with “What is the goal of my life?” Ask, “What is the goal of life?” And the moment you make that shift, the next insight is ready to arise: is this even a question that can be asked? The mere forming of a question is not enough to make it askable. You can form any question, but is it a valid one? Suppose someone gives an answer—“Here is the goal.” You could then ask, “And what is the goal of that goal?” Whatever target is offered, you can again ask, “And what is its goal?” There will be no end to this chain. If someone says, “The goal of life is love,” you can ask, “What is the goal of love?” If someone says, “The goal of life is God,” you can ask, “What is the goal of God?” This question applies back to every possible answer with the same force; hence it will never be satisfied unless we understand it correctly.
At some point we must accept one situation that is without goal—the ultimate. Beyond it, the very idea of goal has no meaning. I regard life itself as that ultimate. All goals are for life; life has no goal. All means are for life. We laugh for life, we cry for life; we live for life, we die for life; prayer is for life, love is for life; even “God” is for life. All our means are for life. Life, then, is not for anything else. Life is the end in itself; it is never a means.
Because life is ultimate, beyond which there is nothing higher, asking “What is the goal of life?” is a mistake. If I ask you, “What is the goal of your watch?” you can say, “It tells me the time,” because you are the end and the watch is a means. If I ask, “What is the goal of your clothes?” you say, “They protect me from cold and sun.” You are the end; clothes are a means. Your car? “It takes me to the store, brings me home.” But if someone asks, “What is your goal?” things become difficult—because we have separated “God” from life.
I say: to realize life totally is to realize God. I do not separate life and God. “Life” is the secular word; “God” is the religious word. That is the only difference. Attaining the fullness of life is what religious people call “attaining God.” Life has no goal. But this unsettles us, because in our daily living everything has a goal. To accept that life itself has no goal makes us restless; our minds are trained to ask, “For what?” We ask it of clothes, houses, gardens—and then we ask of life, “For what?” When I say “Life is an end unto itself,” I mean: being alive is joy in itself; it needs no further joy to justify it.
Imagine an emperor lost in a desert. Someone says, “I’ll show you the way out—give me half your kingdom.” He will agree. Dying of thirst, if someone says, “I’ll give you a glass of water—give me half your kingdom,” he will agree. He will lose the whole kingdom to save himself. If someone asks, “Are you mad? What will you do with yourself, having lost everything?” he will answer, “Saving myself is delightful in itself. The kingdom was for me; I was not for the kingdom.” Everything can be sacrificed for life—everything.
The Upanishads say a startling, even harsh, but profound thing: a mother loves her son for her own sake, not for the son’s; it is blissful for her to love. A husband loves his wife for his own sake. Even when someone declares, “My goal is to do everything for my child,” he is still wrong; it is his child, a branch of his own life-stream; in caring for him, he feels joy.
Being alive is joy in itself—uncaused. Illness hurts because it obstructs your being fully alive; poverty hurts because it hinders the blossoming of life. Excessive wealth also begins to hurt, because it too can obstruct life’s flower from opening. Without friends, there is trouble; with too many friends and entanglements, trouble again. We seek friends and make enemies, build houses and one day leave for the forest—all in search of the space where life’s flower can fully bloom. That flowering is the joy itself; outside it there is no joy.
Understand two kinds of joy. One is the joy of means; it is not in the means themselves, only in their service of the end. You may have a magnificent fast car, perfect in every way, except it won’t take you where you want to go—then it is useless. Its only value was to take you where you choose to go. Money has value as a means—to free you, not to bind you; that you do not have to stop for lack of money when you want to live in a certain way. Everything in life has value as a means, given that life is the end. The one for whom all things are means is not a means for anything. Life is the master, the sovereign; it is no one’s servant. Just being alive is supreme joy, on any plane.
A plant in bloom, a bird, a human—their joy is simply in being. Just being is a miracle. We ask these questions because it came to us for free. If someday being had to be purchased, we’d realize its price. A dying man—if he could buy even one more moment of being, there is no price he would refuse to pay. Because life is given without asking—you did not exist to be asked—it must arrive unasked; it can be no other way. Given freely, we take it for granted and ask, “Why life?” Remember: the “goal” of our being is pure being—how to be totally. Whenever, even for a moment, you can be totally, you taste supreme joy.
Sit with an enemy: you cannot be total. His presence keeps you fearful, contracted, as if the petals of a flower are closed. With a friend, you open and bloom. The joy with a friend is the joy of being—nothing else. The same person, if he becomes your enemy tomorrow, will no longer give joy. What we call love simply marks those in whose presence our flower of being opens a little. In their presence we are unafraid, unguarded; our being blossoms, and the savor is in that blossoming itself, an end in itself—whether it comes in meditation, in prayer, or anywhere. Wherever joy arises, it is that causeless being. When this does not happen, life grows painful; then we ask, “What is the goal?”—and we ask the wrong question.
Life is so precious—nothing is more so—that it cannot be a means for anything. We cannot say, “The goal of life is to get this chair, or to build this house.” Even to say, “The goal of life is to attain God,” is wrong—first, because God is simply another name for life; second, because the ultimate cannot be made a goal. The ultimate means “that beyond which there is nothing further.”
If you think in this way, you may come close to a resolution. If you keep thinking in the usual question-and-answer pattern, you will never arrive—because the question is wrong. Most people suffer because they ask wrong questions. They don’t realize it.
Someone may ask, “What fragrance does the color green have?” Grammatically the question is fine, but it is wrong. Green has nothing to do with fragrance. Ask this of a blind man; he’ll say, “I don’t know; I’ll find out”—because he does not know green. A man who is both blind and without a sense of smell might say, “Surely everything has some fragrance; green must have one too. I’ll ask.” If a whole crowd is like this, answerers will also appear: “It’s like this…” “No, like that…” You will never be satisfied, because the original question is wrong.
Humanity has asked many wrong questions for thousands of years. “Who created the world?” is one such question. It has no solution—not because there is no answer, but because creator and creation are not two. It is not like a painter and his painting, where the painting remains after the painter dies. It is like a dancer and the dance: if the dancer dies, the dance vanishes. They are one. While he dances, he is a dancer; afterward you cannot even call him that.
Once you ask a wrong question like “Who created the world?” you will be trapped for millennia. If you answer, “God created it,” the questioner will ask, “Who created God?” You cannot scold him—you accepted the initial mistake. If you insist, “Nothing can exist without being created,” then how can God exist without a creator? There is no end to this regress. Our mistake was to separate maker and made. We imagined God like a potter making pots. Then we must also ask, “Who made the potter?” and so on without end.
Rather than chasing answers, first look inside the question: is there some basic mistake? A small error can erect vast philosophies on a false foundation. So, first: you are not separate from life. Don’t ask, “What is the goal of my life?” You are life. Ask instead, “What is the goal of life?” And before you ask even that, recognize: there must be one thing that is an end in itself—everything else can be a means toward it, but it is never a means toward anything further. If you will not accept that, your question can never be answered—then better not ask. If you do accept that, then I call that end “life.” In religious language, “God.” If “God” sounds off-putting, say “life”; if “life” sounds too ordinary, say “God.” It makes no difference. The joy of life is in being.
Your second cluster of questions—about death, rebirth, change of dress—also arises from the same initial mistake. If you understand that you are life, then you never die—life cannot die. Only transformation happens. Death, in the sense of something ending forever, does not happen. In the totality of existence, nothing is ever lost; only forms change. A plant is cut down; we say it died. But nothing in the total has diminished. The plant’s earth returns to earth, its water to water, its life-breath to the vast—everything remains. Not a single grain of sand is added or subtracted from the whole. Things are only transformed. The water from your house flows to another house; you say, “Our water is gone.” There they celebrate, “Water has arrived!” It has only traveled.
Life has no death. “Death” is a false word. Life is transformation, because life is motion. Don’t mistake life for a static thing; life is a process. A movement happening every moment, never at rest. Even now, you are not “fixed,” though our language misleads. We say, “That man is old.” Better: “That man is growing old.” Nobody simply “is”; all are “becoming.” We say, “The river is,” but the river never is—it is happening. “This child is a child”—better: “The child is becoming.” In this world, nothing is in the state of “is”; everything is in the state of “becoming,” moment to moment.
Life means change, flow, the endless capacity to become. When one house becomes too small—you have ten children, parents, the family grows—you look for a new house. So too, one day this body-house becomes too small for life’s needs; it can no longer serve. Then life must move on to a new house. Life has journeyed a long way—from plants to animals to birds to humans. The journey does not end with man; it continues.
Life does not die. But because we mistake the house for life, when life moves house we are distressed. We say, “The man is gone,” we weep and conclude. But the energy that made that man has gone on a new journey. As for a “time gap”—yes, there are always intervals in any journey. Even now there are gaps; you came here, and you will not go back as exactly the same person. An hour of listening, agreeing or disagreeing, and you will leave changed. If your family had keen eyes, they would notice, “Another person has returned.” Our eyes are dull; we look at the surface and miss the inner shift. Everything is changing daily. When the change is total—body dropped—we panic, especially those who believed the body was all. After the body, we don’t see the person; to us he is “unavailable.” That is what we mean by “death”: non-availability. With new instruments, even those who have gone can be related to; dialogues are possible. New methods are needed to bring them within the range of availability. Then we will not say “He died,” but “He has set out on a journey to another body.”
No one is ever born, and no one ever dies. “Birth” and “death” are false words. Life changes location; that creates difficulty—mainly because it moves beyond our range of vision. Imagine one man sitting atop a tall tree and you sitting below. He says, “A bullock cart is coming; it’s already on the road.” You look—“Where? The road is empty.” For him it is present; for you it is future. A little later it comes into your range—you say, “It arrived.” Then it passes and disappears—you say, “It is past.” He still sees it and says, “It is present.” Birth and death are like the points where someone enters and leaves the range of our ordinary perception. We write: “Born on such date; died on such date.” Those stones mark not the person’s beginning and end, but the limits of our seeing: he appeared on our road on that date; he went out of our sight on that date.
For me, the key is not answers but seeing questions rightly. A right seeing is that which sets your consciousness in motion, widens your vision, opens new expanses, enlarges your understanding. Don’t imagine you will one day get some formula to write in a notebook—“This is the answer.” Life is too vast; every formula is small. Hence even the greatest person’s formula soon proves inadequate—not because the person was small, but because formulas are small and life is immeasurable.
There is life in a plant too. We hardly think in terms of its birth and death; we yank it out and throw it away. Our thinking horizon is small—limited to humans. As that horizon widens, even killing an animal becomes difficult: who are we to interrupt someone on life’s path? Then even uprooting a plant becomes difficult. Who can say a plant is behind us? A plant has its own joy of being. If joy is in being, then there is no difference between our joy of being and a plant’s; it is simply a different mode. We rejoice in a gentle breeze, good food, loving company; the plant rejoices in water and cool air. As your vision expands, you will feel life everywhere; we are but one wave in an infinite ocean of waves. That ocean is no one’s means; it is an end unto itself. Making it a means is dangerous. Those who made it a means harmed humanity.
If someone says, “Attaining God is the goal,” then he sacrifices life to that goal: “If fasting brings God, I’ll starve. If headstands bring him, I’ll stand on my head. If he’s on a mountain, I’ll climb. If self-flagellation brings him, I’ll whip myself. If standing in sun and cold brings him, I’ll do it.” Now he treats himself as a means, not an end. Everywhere life has been mistreated this way. If “heaven” is the goal, then anything can be justified: “Kill the infidel, and you’ll enter paradise.” Then humans, goats, cows are sacrificed on altars for “liberation.” Once we forget the fundamental truth that life is not a means for anything, we begin to abuse life. The truly religious person is one who begins to understand: no life can be sacrificed for anything. Life is the supreme end. Otherwise, sacrifice will happen somewhere—for nation, for religion, for ritual, for austerity.
If we wish to make a better world, accept life as the ultimate truth. Then we cannot mistreat life. Otherwise, we will. A husband dies and the wife is made to be sati; her life was not an end in itself—she was merely a wife. If father decides the son must become a doctor, he will sacrifice the son to that goal, whether or not the son was born for it; even if he remains frustrated and miserable, no matter—because a goal has been imposed on life.
Because we have always thought life must have some goal, we have mistreated life. The day we see that life is beyond goals, that all goals flow into it, everything changes. Ask, “Where does the ocean go?” It goes nowhere; all rivers flow into it. So it is with life: all streams—of pleasure and pain, religion and irreligion, Rama and Ravana—flow into life; life goes nowhere. If this is understood, we can treat life rightly—and right treatment of life is religion.
Think of it in this way. I am not giving you an answer—because your question is not right, so it cannot have an answer. I am only analyzing your question. We are thinking together about it. Whoever gives you a neat answer—know that he has not understood. The day this becomes clear to you, life’s supreme blessedness dawns. It will be wondrous indeed.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
Yes, that too is included in my vision of life—yes. For me, that too is included.
No, no—don’t take it that way. I use the word “life” where you might say “soul.” Life is an all-embracing word. Whatever is, is life. That too is within my purview. We, however, have made distinctions within life—something we call a higher life, something we call a lower life. But in life there is nothing higher or lower; life is one continuous stream. So in my view there isn’t some special, separate, higher form of life that I am talking about and you some other life. No—the very life you are talking about, that one.
Life is all-inclusive. It contains both Rama and Ravana. So don’t imagine that when I speak of life I mean only the life of Rama and cut off Ravana. My understanding is: if Ravana is cut out, the very being of Rama becomes just as impossible—as impossible as a plant existing once its roots are severed. In the depths of life, Rama and Ravana are connected to the same root; they can only exist together. It is our haste and our theories that split them into two.
Try once to stage a Ramlila without the part of Ravana. You will see how impossible the whole affair becomes. How will you reveal Rama alone? Play a Ramlila with only Rama and you’ll find the performance won’t run even a second; and if it does, it will become so monotonous that no one will come to watch. But our mind, which cuts everything, breaks things into two. We say darkness is separate and light is separate. Yet in the depths of life, the source of both darkness and light is one. It is our intellect that goes on splitting everything. Without dividing into duality, intellect simply won’t accept. It insists: cut it in two—darkness separate, light separate. We say: God is of the nature of light. Then who is of the nature of darkness? Is there darkness without God’s permission? Then it would be more powerful than God. No—both are his forms: darkness and light.
And when we look very deeply, we won’t see opposition there—we will see a difference of degree. What we call darkness is light to some creature; it is just a matter of degree. For our eyes it has become darkness; our eyes can catch light only to a certain point and then no longer catch it.
Step from the noon sunshine into a room: it seems dark. After ten minutes it seems bright. What happened? The room is the same; nothing there has changed. The change is in the capacity of your eyes. The eye of God—of life—sees all; for that vision, darkness and light cannot be separate. Very deep down, good and bad also cannot be separate. They simply cannot be. They are joined. Our difficulty is that we cannot see things in their togetherness; we will split them. And until we set up a fight between good and bad, and make darkness and light into enemies, our mind will not be satisfied. Where intellect dominates, enmity is inevitable: there we take things as hostile, not as friends.
So I say: life—the whole of life—is embraced. And what you call evil—on that very branch the flowers of the good bloom. What you call a thorn—on that very rosebush the roses blossom. Therefore, do not say there is good and bad.
A thought comes to me: there was a Sufi fakir, Junun. One night he prayed, “O God, who is the best man in my village?” The message came: “Your neighbor.” From the next day he began bowing to his neighbor. His mind didn’t agree—how could he bow to this ordinary man who always used to bow to him as a fakir? His mind resisted. But since God had said the best man is this one, he continued. Then one day it occurred to him to ask, “Who is the worst?” That night he asked, “God, one more grace—tell me, who is the worst man?” The answer came: “Your neighbor.” He said, “Now you have put me in trouble—the very same neighbor?” The voice said, “The same.” He said, “But this is a great difficulty.” The voice came, “Good and bad are not two things; they are two sides of the same coin. Your neighbor is supremely auspicious at one moment and supremely inauspicious at another. In the morning he is something; by evening he is something else. He keeps becoming both. So look at him carefully—he keeps being both.” Life is very much a confluence of opposites; all opposites are contained there.
I read another story: In a certain village there was a very bad man—so bad that the whole village was harassed by him. The village’s sannyasin prayed one night, “O God, now take this man away; he is too bad.” God said to him, “The one I have kept alive for fifty years—I have kept alive with some consideration. And you are all wiser than me, worrying about having him removed? After all, I am the one keeping him alive, giving him breath and life for fifty years. So are you wiser than me, that you advise me to remove him? And the one I have tolerated for fifty years—you will not be able to tolerate?”
Life is a joining of many opposites. But our intellect looks by cutting, and so difficulty arises. We say: this is a householder, that is a sannyasin; this is good, that is bad; this is a temple, that is a house—we divide like this. Our dividing creates all the trouble. I do not approve of that dividing. Let us see life as whole, just as it is. And let us understand that whole life as God—only then will something happen. And the day we understand the whole of life as God, that which we call bad begins to transform immediately. It begins to change.
No, no—don’t take it that way. I use the word “life” where you might say “soul.” Life is an all-embracing word. Whatever is, is life. That too is within my purview. We, however, have made distinctions within life—something we call a higher life, something we call a lower life. But in life there is nothing higher or lower; life is one continuous stream. So in my view there isn’t some special, separate, higher form of life that I am talking about and you some other life. No—the very life you are talking about, that one.
Life is all-inclusive. It contains both Rama and Ravana. So don’t imagine that when I speak of life I mean only the life of Rama and cut off Ravana. My understanding is: if Ravana is cut out, the very being of Rama becomes just as impossible—as impossible as a plant existing once its roots are severed. In the depths of life, Rama and Ravana are connected to the same root; they can only exist together. It is our haste and our theories that split them into two.
Try once to stage a Ramlila without the part of Ravana. You will see how impossible the whole affair becomes. How will you reveal Rama alone? Play a Ramlila with only Rama and you’ll find the performance won’t run even a second; and if it does, it will become so monotonous that no one will come to watch. But our mind, which cuts everything, breaks things into two. We say darkness is separate and light is separate. Yet in the depths of life, the source of both darkness and light is one. It is our intellect that goes on splitting everything. Without dividing into duality, intellect simply won’t accept. It insists: cut it in two—darkness separate, light separate. We say: God is of the nature of light. Then who is of the nature of darkness? Is there darkness without God’s permission? Then it would be more powerful than God. No—both are his forms: darkness and light.
And when we look very deeply, we won’t see opposition there—we will see a difference of degree. What we call darkness is light to some creature; it is just a matter of degree. For our eyes it has become darkness; our eyes can catch light only to a certain point and then no longer catch it.
Step from the noon sunshine into a room: it seems dark. After ten minutes it seems bright. What happened? The room is the same; nothing there has changed. The change is in the capacity of your eyes. The eye of God—of life—sees all; for that vision, darkness and light cannot be separate. Very deep down, good and bad also cannot be separate. They simply cannot be. They are joined. Our difficulty is that we cannot see things in their togetherness; we will split them. And until we set up a fight between good and bad, and make darkness and light into enemies, our mind will not be satisfied. Where intellect dominates, enmity is inevitable: there we take things as hostile, not as friends.
So I say: life—the whole of life—is embraced. And what you call evil—on that very branch the flowers of the good bloom. What you call a thorn—on that very rosebush the roses blossom. Therefore, do not say there is good and bad.
A thought comes to me: there was a Sufi fakir, Junun. One night he prayed, “O God, who is the best man in my village?” The message came: “Your neighbor.” From the next day he began bowing to his neighbor. His mind didn’t agree—how could he bow to this ordinary man who always used to bow to him as a fakir? His mind resisted. But since God had said the best man is this one, he continued. Then one day it occurred to him to ask, “Who is the worst?” That night he asked, “God, one more grace—tell me, who is the worst man?” The answer came: “Your neighbor.” He said, “Now you have put me in trouble—the very same neighbor?” The voice said, “The same.” He said, “But this is a great difficulty.” The voice came, “Good and bad are not two things; they are two sides of the same coin. Your neighbor is supremely auspicious at one moment and supremely inauspicious at another. In the morning he is something; by evening he is something else. He keeps becoming both. So look at him carefully—he keeps being both.” Life is very much a confluence of opposites; all opposites are contained there.
I read another story: In a certain village there was a very bad man—so bad that the whole village was harassed by him. The village’s sannyasin prayed one night, “O God, now take this man away; he is too bad.” God said to him, “The one I have kept alive for fifty years—I have kept alive with some consideration. And you are all wiser than me, worrying about having him removed? After all, I am the one keeping him alive, giving him breath and life for fifty years. So are you wiser than me, that you advise me to remove him? And the one I have tolerated for fifty years—you will not be able to tolerate?”
Life is a joining of many opposites. But our intellect looks by cutting, and so difficulty arises. We say: this is a householder, that is a sannyasin; this is good, that is bad; this is a temple, that is a house—we divide like this. Our dividing creates all the trouble. I do not approve of that dividing. Let us see life as whole, just as it is. And let us understand that whole life as God—only then will something happen. And the day we understand the whole of life as God, that which we call bad begins to transform immediately. It begins to change.
(Recording is missing)
...If I do not accept scripture at all, how can I engage in scriptural debate? You do understand my point, don't you?
Please write this down.
No, no, no. This—this whole matter, you see—if I write it, it will turn into scripture. That is why I don’t write anything. Do you understand? I don’t want to create any scripture. I don’t write anything, you see? I don’t trust the written word. I even speak against what is written. So why should I write? It would become a scripture. Yesterday you even started showing me, “You wrote this yesterday.” Do you get my point? As for your “challenge,” I consider even the word “challenge” irreligious, because it comes from a dirty mind. So I said: the invitation is accepted. Yes, your invitation is accepted. You come there, bring whomever you like, and speak freely. Let them say whatever they want to say. I have no interest in debate, nor do I believe that religion has anything to do with debate.
You say this word is not good...
No, no, no. I... no, no, what I, what I am saying...
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
You, you, you... I have understood your point. Please bring along those friends who want to speak there; bring them onto the stage.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
You, you, you... I have understood your point. Please bring along those friends who want to speak there; bring them onto the stage.
No, not a talk—this is a scriptural debate.
From my side it will be just a talk; from your side let it be a scriptural debate—no harm. From my side, it is simply a conversation.
Your talks are such that people remain in delusion; yet your name is Acharya.
Then please bring them along—to break their delusion.
We want to ask one thing: you don’t accept the Vedas...
I... I... and then you ask the question, don’t you?
I won’t speak much; I’ll speak for five minutes. I won’t speak much.
Good. Speak, speak, speak, speak.
Osho, you do not accept the Vedas; you do not believe in the scriptures. If you do not believe in them, then at least dispel the confusion of the public who sit under the impression that you do believe in the scriptures—that’s one. Secondly, you also say plainly that you do not accept the written word. We have read your article in which it is written that a boy and a girl should live together, and after that they may or may not marry.
I understand.
So this wasn’t in the article?
Now, please listen to this point of mine. Go ahead and say everything—say it all.
When you already knew, couldn’t you have avoided so much publicity?
...you’ve already said the whole thing. Yes, what I say gets written down; I don’t write. So that isn’t an article—what comes from me is a statement. I don’t write anything. I just said something now; if you write it down and take it away, it will become an article. But I write nothing; it isn’t an article from my side. From my side it is a statement—that’s one point.
Second point: if you feel confusion is spreading among the public, then make a steady effort to break it. Confusion should not spread. Try to break it—keep breaking it. And if someone can break it by coming onto the platform, then invite him there; let him say it there. But for me, that is a conversation, not a scholastic debate.
Because I understand this should be a very loving matter. If the aim is to break the public’s confusion, that too should be done very lovingly: I say to you what seems right to me; if it seems wrong to you, you say, “This isn’t right; it’s wrong.” If it seems to me it isn’t right, it’s wrong, then I will say so. In this there is no controversy, no scriptural disputation, no quarrel. It’s a delightful thing. It can be very friendly. There is no reason for anything else. So from my side it is a conversation. From my side, it is a conversation. Bring them along.
Second point: if you feel confusion is spreading among the public, then make a steady effort to break it. Confusion should not spread. Try to break it—keep breaking it. And if someone can break it by coming onto the platform, then invite him there; let him say it there. But for me, that is a conversation, not a scholastic debate.
Because I understand this should be a very loving matter. If the aim is to break the public’s confusion, that too should be done very lovingly: I say to you what seems right to me; if it seems wrong to you, you say, “This isn’t right; it’s wrong.” If it seems to me it isn’t right, it’s wrong, then I will say so. In this there is no controversy, no scriptural disputation, no quarrel. It’s a delightful thing. It can be very friendly. There is no reason for anything else. So from my side it is a conversation. From my side, it is a conversation. Bring them along.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
Yes, certainly—whatever, in whatever way is convenient to you. Yes, we’ll accept it according to your convenience...
Osho, respectfully, we have heard it said that there are certain misconceptions—misunderstandings you people have regarding Osho. And to dispel those misconceptions, we were told that if we wished to come there and speak, we could come at eight o’clock and do so. Our request, Osho, is: what exactly is the misconception? Let whatever misunderstanding there is be cleared even before any meeting. If I put a question to you and you say, “No, you have misunderstood,” then the misconception ends right there. To resolve this very matter we sent a letter to you this morning. In it we set out five questions: what is your view regarding those five points? What is your position? We should come to know that. If, from your answers, we see that there is no difference at all between your view and ours, then the misunderstanding is finished. And if we see that there is some difference between your views and ours—between your beliefs and our beliefs—then it will be clear, and we will come before you to have our doubts resolved on that subject.
I understand your point...
But in the reply we received from you to the letter we wrote, you neither acknowledged our letter nor responded to anything written in it.
There is a reason for that—there is a reason. The reason is the difficulty between you and me, and it will remain for a long time; it won’t go quickly. The reason is that in your view answers can be given in yes or no; in my view they cannot. The most important questions of life do not have yes-or-no answers. That is my way of seeing.
So the difficulty is this: when you write to me, you expect me to answer yes or no. But for me there is not a single question in life that can be answered with a yes or a no. The more important the question, the more it moves beyond yes and no. Whatever the answer is, it will either contain both yes and no—or neither. As I was saying just now, life is a confluence of opposites; hence the difficulty.
Why didn’t I answer your questions—last time too you had sent them? Because you seek yes-or-no answers. You want to know: Do you believe in God or not? Give a yes-or-no reply. For me this is so sacrilegious that if anyone answers about God in yes or no, he reduces God to a two-penny thing. Two pennies! God is such a vast matter that He cannot be answered within your yes and no. You ask about something as immense as God as if you were in the marketplace asking, “Is this two rupees or three? Just say yes or no.” I cannot answer such questions.
I cannot, because to me the very question is irreligious. These are not questions arising from a religious mind. On “Is there God or not?” a religious person will become utterly silent. Only the irreligious will speak. There are two kinds of irreligious people: one will say “Yes, He is,” the other will say “No, He is not”—both are irreligious. The religious person will remain absolutely silent.
The Upanishads say: if someone declares, “I have known Him,” know that he has not known. If you go to a Rishi of the Upanishads and ask, “Is there God?” and he says, “Yes,” he is lost—because he is asserting, “I have known: He is.” So with an Upanishadic sage you will be in trouble—he will not answer in yes or no.
Recently there was a fakir in Burma, Thuun. He died about ten years ago. Some people went to him and asked him to say something about God. He fell silent. They pressed him again—“We have come from far, say something”—again he remained silent. They shook him: “We climbed mountains, went through such trouble.” He said, “I am saying it, but you do not listen.” What a joke! You are sitting silent, we ask, you say you are speaking—and he says, “This is exactly what I am saying: if you become silent, truly silent, then something can be known.”
Now this is my difficulty. Perhaps you don’t see it. You ask for yes-or-no answers. I cannot answer in yes or no. I don’t have yes-or-no answers to give. Then you ask, “Are you a critic of the Vedas or not?” I am neither an admirer nor a critic. In truth, I am neither admirer nor critic of any book. Because I hold that criticism is inverted praise—praise doing a headstand. I have no relationship at all with the Veda. You ask, “Are you a critic or an admirer?” What a strange question!
A woman is walking down the street. You ask me, “Are you her lover or her enemy?” I say, “I have no relationship with her at all.” You insist, “Give a yes-or-no answer: are you her lover or not?” If I say, “I am her lover,” I land in trouble; if I say, “I am not her lover,” even then I have adopted an attitude. It is irrelevant; I have no connection. The difficulty with your questions is that you assume everyone must have some relevance. I have no connection with the Veda at all. No give-and-take. Our paths do not cross. You ask, “Critic or admirer?” I am neither. Let the Vedas remain there; I remain here. There is no dealing between us. Yet you want yes-or-no answers.
If I say, “Yes, I am an admirer,” you will say, “Good—come, join the Arya Samaj.” If I say, “I am a critic,” you will say, “Come, let’s debate.” I am neither. Hence the difficulty. So misunderstandings are natural. And I hold that to have confusion is not a bad thing; it is a sign of intelligence. Only the unintelligent are free of confusion.
If there is a little intelligence, there will be a little confusion, a little discussion. Good—nothing wrong in it. But it can be taken in a very loving way. There is no cause here for opposition, enmity, or ill will. No need to prove anyone right or wrong. Best is: whoever you consider suitable, let them come. I will speak; let them respond as seems right to them. Let them say whatever they wish to say; I will say what seems right to me. People will listen; they will take what feels right to them. If you can dissolve misunderstandings, you will dissolve them. If you cannot, you will not. If they are to increase, they will increase; if they are to decrease, they will decrease.
I don’t think it is in man’s hands to increase or dissolve misunderstandings. Therefore we do what can be done. Whatever comes of it is in the hands of the Divine. Action is in our hands; the fruit is in His. So bring along any friends you wish to bring. And...
So the difficulty is this: when you write to me, you expect me to answer yes or no. But for me there is not a single question in life that can be answered with a yes or a no. The more important the question, the more it moves beyond yes and no. Whatever the answer is, it will either contain both yes and no—or neither. As I was saying just now, life is a confluence of opposites; hence the difficulty.
Why didn’t I answer your questions—last time too you had sent them? Because you seek yes-or-no answers. You want to know: Do you believe in God or not? Give a yes-or-no reply. For me this is so sacrilegious that if anyone answers about God in yes or no, he reduces God to a two-penny thing. Two pennies! God is such a vast matter that He cannot be answered within your yes and no. You ask about something as immense as God as if you were in the marketplace asking, “Is this two rupees or three? Just say yes or no.” I cannot answer such questions.
I cannot, because to me the very question is irreligious. These are not questions arising from a religious mind. On “Is there God or not?” a religious person will become utterly silent. Only the irreligious will speak. There are two kinds of irreligious people: one will say “Yes, He is,” the other will say “No, He is not”—both are irreligious. The religious person will remain absolutely silent.
The Upanishads say: if someone declares, “I have known Him,” know that he has not known. If you go to a Rishi of the Upanishads and ask, “Is there God?” and he says, “Yes,” he is lost—because he is asserting, “I have known: He is.” So with an Upanishadic sage you will be in trouble—he will not answer in yes or no.
Recently there was a fakir in Burma, Thuun. He died about ten years ago. Some people went to him and asked him to say something about God. He fell silent. They pressed him again—“We have come from far, say something”—again he remained silent. They shook him: “We climbed mountains, went through such trouble.” He said, “I am saying it, but you do not listen.” What a joke! You are sitting silent, we ask, you say you are speaking—and he says, “This is exactly what I am saying: if you become silent, truly silent, then something can be known.”
Now this is my difficulty. Perhaps you don’t see it. You ask for yes-or-no answers. I cannot answer in yes or no. I don’t have yes-or-no answers to give. Then you ask, “Are you a critic of the Vedas or not?” I am neither an admirer nor a critic. In truth, I am neither admirer nor critic of any book. Because I hold that criticism is inverted praise—praise doing a headstand. I have no relationship at all with the Veda. You ask, “Are you a critic or an admirer?” What a strange question!
A woman is walking down the street. You ask me, “Are you her lover or her enemy?” I say, “I have no relationship with her at all.” You insist, “Give a yes-or-no answer: are you her lover or not?” If I say, “I am her lover,” I land in trouble; if I say, “I am not her lover,” even then I have adopted an attitude. It is irrelevant; I have no connection. The difficulty with your questions is that you assume everyone must have some relevance. I have no connection with the Veda at all. No give-and-take. Our paths do not cross. You ask, “Critic or admirer?” I am neither. Let the Vedas remain there; I remain here. There is no dealing between us. Yet you want yes-or-no answers.
If I say, “Yes, I am an admirer,” you will say, “Good—come, join the Arya Samaj.” If I say, “I am a critic,” you will say, “Come, let’s debate.” I am neither. Hence the difficulty. So misunderstandings are natural. And I hold that to have confusion is not a bad thing; it is a sign of intelligence. Only the unintelligent are free of confusion.
If there is a little intelligence, there will be a little confusion, a little discussion. Good—nothing wrong in it. But it can be taken in a very loving way. There is no cause here for opposition, enmity, or ill will. No need to prove anyone right or wrong. Best is: whoever you consider suitable, let them come. I will speak; let them respond as seems right to them. Let them say whatever they wish to say; I will say what seems right to me. People will listen; they will take what feels right to them. If you can dissolve misunderstandings, you will dissolve them. If you cannot, you will not. If they are to increase, they will increase; if they are to decrease, they will decrease.
I don’t think it is in man’s hands to increase or dissolve misunderstandings. Therefore we do what can be done. Whatever comes of it is in the hands of the Divine. Action is in our hands; the fruit is in His. So bring along any friends you wish to bring. And...
Osho, first of all, my intellect does not accept that anything cannot be answered with a simple yes or no.
Then don’t accept it.
You said, "I did not interfere in it in any way"; then, if you could just a little...
Alright, alright. No, I understand. No, it's fine. No, no—by all means, say it. Please, do say it.
The first thing is this: as far as the state of contemplation is concerned, at such a time a person can say, “I am in a contemplative state. Right now there is confusion in my mind; I cannot answer with a yes or a no. But there are some situations in which a yes-or-no answer comes immediately. If my brothers sitting here were to ask me whether the Acharya is seated before me or not, I would at once say, ‘Yes, he is.’ There is a tree in front of me. If someone were to ask whether there is a tree or not, I would immediately say, ‘Yes, there is.’”
All right.
No, no—I mean, there are many questions for which an immediate answer can be given, in yes or in no.
Exactly, exactly.
Not so. If someone says, "I cannot answer in a simple yes or no right now," it means there is still some incompleteness in his contemplation, or that in the very state of contemplation he has not reached any result; therefore he says, "I cannot answer in yes or no right now."
Understood.
Second thing, Acharya-ji, is this: you said that I never answer in yes or no, but just now, in what you said, you did. You clearly said that I do not accept the Vedas. The Vedas are there and I am here. You gave an immediate answer. You also immediately said that I have no connection with the Vedas. The Vedas are there and I am here. Immediately you gave an answer. And yet you say that my answer cannot be in yes or no. So it occurs to my limited intellect that you are learned. But even the learned, in many subjects, are still in confusion; their state is not such that, in every matter, having reached the ultimate state of contemplation, they can say with certainty: yes, I accept this; no, I do not accept that.
Understood.
Is it possible that even in your contemplation the state has not yet arisen in which you could answer yes or no to one or two of these questions?
I understand. I have understood your point.
So I would say this: there are certain things that are basic. If we could grasp those basic things, then on that basis you could explain to us.
I understand; I have understood your point completely. You said two or three things. First, that you should agree with me—such an expectation I do not have. That you accept what I say—I do not expect that. From no one—neither from you nor from anyone—do I expect to be accepted or rejected. Otherwise it would be as if I were again demanding a yes-or-no answer from another. I am simply making my statement; what you do with it is your choice.
Second, about yes-and-no answers—you are right: whether a tree is standing before us or not can be answered in yes or no. Certainly it can. If God were the same kind of matter as a tree, then a yes-or-no answer would have been given long ago. With regard to a tree you will not have heard of any atheist who says it is not there. But in relation to God, the matter is not as small as you think—and as small as you are making it. I am in front of you—that much is obvious. So in Amritsar you will not find an atheist who will say, “He is not in front of us.” But concerning God, you will find one. God is a far greater matter than I am. I am a very small thing.
So to give examples from the realm of matter in order to speak of God—that comes from a very deep atheism, not from theism. This much you say correctly. Ask me about a tree and I too will answer. And I think hardly would a dispute arise, nor would there be any need to put up posters of challenge. I too would say—“It is.” But you are not asking about a tree. What you are asking about is very profound. And regarding the profound, what you say—that perhaps someone’s capacity for reflection is limited, very limited, and therefore he cannot answer in yes or no—this may be so. It may be so. But history says otherwise.
The less the reflection, the easier the yes-and-no answers become. The deeper the reflection, the boundaries of yes and no begin to break. And the day reflection reaches its full depth, on that day yes and no dissolve into one another. Therefore, the deeper the reflection, the more difficult the answer becomes—not easier. That is why for those who attained ultimate knowing, giving an answer has always been difficult. The Veda says, “Whether That is or is not—even to say that is difficult.” So by your measure, they must have been weaker than you—feebler, feebler.
…No, no—we will talk. Let me first complete what I have to say.
Second, about yes-and-no answers—you are right: whether a tree is standing before us or not can be answered in yes or no. Certainly it can. If God were the same kind of matter as a tree, then a yes-or-no answer would have been given long ago. With regard to a tree you will not have heard of any atheist who says it is not there. But in relation to God, the matter is not as small as you think—and as small as you are making it. I am in front of you—that much is obvious. So in Amritsar you will not find an atheist who will say, “He is not in front of us.” But concerning God, you will find one. God is a far greater matter than I am. I am a very small thing.
So to give examples from the realm of matter in order to speak of God—that comes from a very deep atheism, not from theism. This much you say correctly. Ask me about a tree and I too will answer. And I think hardly would a dispute arise, nor would there be any need to put up posters of challenge. I too would say—“It is.” But you are not asking about a tree. What you are asking about is very profound. And regarding the profound, what you say—that perhaps someone’s capacity for reflection is limited, very limited, and therefore he cannot answer in yes or no—this may be so. It may be so. But history says otherwise.
The less the reflection, the easier the yes-and-no answers become. The deeper the reflection, the boundaries of yes and no begin to break. And the day reflection reaches its full depth, on that day yes and no dissolve into one another. Therefore, the deeper the reflection, the more difficult the answer becomes—not easier. That is why for those who attained ultimate knowing, giving an answer has always been difficult. The Veda says, “Whether That is or is not—even to say that is difficult.” So by your measure, they must have been weaker than you—feebler, feebler.
…No, no—we will talk. Let me first complete what I have to say.
...Is it written in the Vedas whether He exists or not?
No, no—you, you, you… first listen to the whole thing.
Yes.
...Please listen to the whole thing.
...Please listen to the whole thing.
The deeper consciousness goes, the more a person’s certainties begin to wobble. Because the deeper one goes, the ground beneath the feet gives way. Standing on the shore it is easy to decide; making decisions after roaming in the ocean is very difficult. From the shore you can say how deep it is; when you go into the ocean and the depth begins to reveal itself, you discover it is beyond saying. So the deeper the thinking, the harder the conclusion—this is my understanding. You need not accept it.
Second, truth is never decided by thought. Truth is decided by going beyond thought. It is not attained by thinking, but by dissolving into no-thought, into silence. Yet debate can only be of thought; discussion is of thought. Therefore I do not believe that through debate, thought, or discourse truth has ever been decided, nor can it be. That it could be obtained through sermons—this has never happened; otherwise all of us would have attained it. We all think, we all listen to discourses, we all read scriptures. Truth is not an experience of thought at all; it is the experience of thought-free silence. How then can it be settled by debate? So when someone says to me, “Let’s have a shastrartha, a formal dispute,” I am surprised—because this is such a matter!
It is a matter whose decision cannot come through logic and thought. If you set out to decide it by logic and thought, it will not happen. Yes, debate can be enjoyable. The ego gets gratified. Someone may win, someone may lose. But truth has nothing to do with it. If you and I debate, you may defeat me in argument; even then truth is not decided. I may defeat you; even then truth is not decided. Truth is not decided in comparison with another at all; truth is a matter of one’s own direct experience.
And about what I said regarding the Vedas: I neither praise the Vedas nor do I condemn them. When I said, “The Veda remained there, I remained here,” I was not making any statement about the Vedas. I am only saying: the Veda has its own being, I have mine, you have yours. In this matter I do not take any decision—nor do I see any need to. We take decisions about those things from which we feel a path to truth will open. In my view, no path to truth leads from scripture. Therefore I take no position regarding scripture.
That is to say, I hold that scripture is what has stepped off the path of truth; it has no real connection with truth or with the way to truth. This is not about any particular scripture—Veda, Quran, Bible. No scripture can give truth; even a book compiled from my spoken words cannot give truth. No book can give truth. And that creates a difficulty: when no book can give truth, I am not condemning any particular book; I have nothing to do with any special book. I am only sharing my view about books as such: a book is an expression of truth, not the source of realization.
All these things—if someone is eager to argue—he is welcome to. But if someone thinks, “First let me fix a firm list of what Osho believes, and then we can debate,” that becomes troublesome. Troubling because then he would have to live with me for four or six months, slowly watch and understand me, and perhaps something would dawn on him. Because I do not give any definite statements. Whatever he manages to understand he may take as a definite statement if he wishes—so be it.
So when you send me something in writing, my difficulty is: how can I sign it—how can I sign on a blank paper? Because on a blank paper my statement appears. And I hold that if someday one becomes like such a blank paper, one may meet the Divine. So whenever you need my signature on a blank paper, take it from me. I do not sign on principles, because I hold that no principle has anything to do with the Divine.
Second, truth is never decided by thought. Truth is decided by going beyond thought. It is not attained by thinking, but by dissolving into no-thought, into silence. Yet debate can only be of thought; discussion is of thought. Therefore I do not believe that through debate, thought, or discourse truth has ever been decided, nor can it be. That it could be obtained through sermons—this has never happened; otherwise all of us would have attained it. We all think, we all listen to discourses, we all read scriptures. Truth is not an experience of thought at all; it is the experience of thought-free silence. How then can it be settled by debate? So when someone says to me, “Let’s have a shastrartha, a formal dispute,” I am surprised—because this is such a matter!
It is a matter whose decision cannot come through logic and thought. If you set out to decide it by logic and thought, it will not happen. Yes, debate can be enjoyable. The ego gets gratified. Someone may win, someone may lose. But truth has nothing to do with it. If you and I debate, you may defeat me in argument; even then truth is not decided. I may defeat you; even then truth is not decided. Truth is not decided in comparison with another at all; truth is a matter of one’s own direct experience.
And about what I said regarding the Vedas: I neither praise the Vedas nor do I condemn them. When I said, “The Veda remained there, I remained here,” I was not making any statement about the Vedas. I am only saying: the Veda has its own being, I have mine, you have yours. In this matter I do not take any decision—nor do I see any need to. We take decisions about those things from which we feel a path to truth will open. In my view, no path to truth leads from scripture. Therefore I take no position regarding scripture.
That is to say, I hold that scripture is what has stepped off the path of truth; it has no real connection with truth or with the way to truth. This is not about any particular scripture—Veda, Quran, Bible. No scripture can give truth; even a book compiled from my spoken words cannot give truth. No book can give truth. And that creates a difficulty: when no book can give truth, I am not condemning any particular book; I have nothing to do with any special book. I am only sharing my view about books as such: a book is an expression of truth, not the source of realization.
All these things—if someone is eager to argue—he is welcome to. But if someone thinks, “First let me fix a firm list of what Osho believes, and then we can debate,” that becomes troublesome. Troubling because then he would have to live with me for four or six months, slowly watch and understand me, and perhaps something would dawn on him. Because I do not give any definite statements. Whatever he manages to understand he may take as a definite statement if he wishes—so be it.
So when you send me something in writing, my difficulty is: how can I sign it—how can I sign on a blank paper? Because on a blank paper my statement appears. And I hold that if someday one becomes like such a blank paper, one may meet the Divine. So whenever you need my signature on a blank paper, take it from me. I do not sign on principles, because I hold that no principle has anything to do with the Divine.
Osho, do you speak only about the Divine, or do you also speak of anything besides that?
I do not speak of anything other than That. I do not speak of anything other than That.
Osho, you talk about things other than God as well. In one of your articles—the transcript of your talk, printed with your permission—it is written that a man, a boy, should take a girl and live with her for a year; or call it love, keep at it; and after that he may or may not marry. If you call such things your teaching, it isn’t some far-fetched teaching; it belongs to this country, it can be considered. Even if you don’t put it in writing, you say such things in your talks. This is wrong—wrong for society. This is not talk of God. Yet you said that you speak of God?
I, for my part, speak of nothing but God... No—it is you who raise these questions, isn’t it? Yes.
Look, apart from this, you go on with mere talk of God. You say you do not proceed on the basis of anything else. In this world there is no one who is without a basis; to judge the truth or falsehood of anything, there must be some ground—for everything. If there is no ground, you will say one thing today, tomorrow someone else will say another; I might say, perhaps... The world cannot run on empty words; some scripture or some foundation has to be fixed. Not just today—this has had to be done for millions of years. People then, too, used to consider whether something was scriptural or not. So you too must be proceeding by taking something as a basis. What is your basis? I am not saying you should accept the Vedas, I am not saying you should accept the Bible, I am not saying you should accept the Koran. But do you have any basis? “God is”—even there you say “God is.” Now if someone questions you, will you be able to say whether God is or is not? If you will not give an answer, then you are not certain; then what will you tell people? On this—about God—you will have to answer yes or no.
Understood.
Osho, if there is no God, why would you lead so many people into confusion over it? On the question of whether God exists or not, one must give an answer—about God, one has to say: does He exist or not. So please tell us; otherwise, in this way our confusion will only increase.
I understand. There are two or three things here that should be understood.
First: I speak of no one other than God, because for me there is nothing other than God. So the issue of marriage, for me, is God’s issue; and the issue of divorce, for me, is also God’s issue—because for me there is nothing apart from God. For me, the problems of Rama and of Ravana are both God’s problems. So if I ever say I have a statement about marriage, for me it is a religious question—because for me all questions are religious. That’s the first point.
Second: you say there must be some basis. If a basis is needed, then in my view there is, and can be, no other basis than one’s own understanding. Why? Because even if I decide that the Vedas are my basis, that decision still belongs to my understanding. Ultimately, it is my understanding that is decisive, not the Vedas. If I say the Quran is the basis, that too is my understanding’s decision. And tomorrow I can change it—no one can stop me. If tomorrow I say, “The Quran is not the basis,” that is again my understanding’s decision. If it is by my understanding that I decide whether the Vedas are a basis or not, then my understanding becomes the final basis. There is no other foundation.
Therefore, in my view, one’s own understanding is the basis. And you say everyone’s understanding will become different—it already is different; it won’t “become,” it is. And you ask, how will society run if everyone’s understanding is different? Everyone’s understanding already is different. The responsibility for running society is neither on me nor on you. The one on whom it rests has given everyone a different understanding. And if that one were as “sensible” as we are, he would have given us all the same understanding—then the hassles would be very easy; there would be no hassles at all. We have been given individual insight, and that personal insight is our fundamental basis.
So for me no scripture and no doctrine is a foundation; my understanding is my basis. And when I say my understanding is my basis, I am not saying you should make my understanding your basis. Your understanding will be your basis. And whatever judgment you make about me—good or bad, for or against—will be the decision of your understanding. I have nothing to do with it.
As for people being confused: that is the idea of your understanding, not mine. I feel I am doing what can benefit them. If you feel it is harmful, then explain to people that it is harmful. People are available to you and to me; present both sides. Then whatever seems right to them, let them accept it. Even then, in the end, their own understanding will be the basis. As I see it, I am trying to break the causes that confuse people. If you feel they are confused because of me, try to break my statements. There is no quarrel in this—none at all. Our work is the same.
I too want people not to be confused; you want the same. Whatever I feel is confusing them, I will oppose; if you feel I am the cause, you will oppose me. But there is no enmity in this. We are doing the same work, walking the same path. There is nothing like opposition here. So take it with great ease, take it playfully; don’t take it seriously. Take it playfully. Raise whatever questions you want to raise—raise them all. Let people hear those questions, and let them think—what do they think?
First: I speak of no one other than God, because for me there is nothing other than God. So the issue of marriage, for me, is God’s issue; and the issue of divorce, for me, is also God’s issue—because for me there is nothing apart from God. For me, the problems of Rama and of Ravana are both God’s problems. So if I ever say I have a statement about marriage, for me it is a religious question—because for me all questions are religious. That’s the first point.
Second: you say there must be some basis. If a basis is needed, then in my view there is, and can be, no other basis than one’s own understanding. Why? Because even if I decide that the Vedas are my basis, that decision still belongs to my understanding. Ultimately, it is my understanding that is decisive, not the Vedas. If I say the Quran is the basis, that too is my understanding’s decision. And tomorrow I can change it—no one can stop me. If tomorrow I say, “The Quran is not the basis,” that is again my understanding’s decision. If it is by my understanding that I decide whether the Vedas are a basis or not, then my understanding becomes the final basis. There is no other foundation.
Therefore, in my view, one’s own understanding is the basis. And you say everyone’s understanding will become different—it already is different; it won’t “become,” it is. And you ask, how will society run if everyone’s understanding is different? Everyone’s understanding already is different. The responsibility for running society is neither on me nor on you. The one on whom it rests has given everyone a different understanding. And if that one were as “sensible” as we are, he would have given us all the same understanding—then the hassles would be very easy; there would be no hassles at all. We have been given individual insight, and that personal insight is our fundamental basis.
So for me no scripture and no doctrine is a foundation; my understanding is my basis. And when I say my understanding is my basis, I am not saying you should make my understanding your basis. Your understanding will be your basis. And whatever judgment you make about me—good or bad, for or against—will be the decision of your understanding. I have nothing to do with it.
As for people being confused: that is the idea of your understanding, not mine. I feel I am doing what can benefit them. If you feel it is harmful, then explain to people that it is harmful. People are available to you and to me; present both sides. Then whatever seems right to them, let them accept it. Even then, in the end, their own understanding will be the basis. As I see it, I am trying to break the causes that confuse people. If you feel they are confused because of me, try to break my statements. There is no quarrel in this—none at all. Our work is the same.
I too want people not to be confused; you want the same. Whatever I feel is confusing them, I will oppose; if you feel I am the cause, you will oppose me. But there is no enmity in this. We are doing the same work, walking the same path. There is nothing like opposition here. So take it with great ease, take it playfully; don’t take it seriously. Take it playfully. Raise whatever questions you want to raise—raise them all. Let people hear those questions, and let them think—what do they think?
It is this: you say that my belief is my own idea. So I would like to request you—look, man is incomplete...
He is indeed.
If my ears didn’t work, if there were no sky...
All right. Perfectly all right.
Osho, because we are incomplete, I want to request that you set aside the Qur’an and the Bible for now; they can come later... Just as God made the sun for the eyes, the sky for the ears, taste for the tongue—one thing for each sense—so too there is something for my mind, to give it light. And as everything has an origin, the Vedas came at the beginning. Therefore we request you: when you mix the Qur’an and the Bible with the Vedas, it causes pain—because the Vedas are primordial. The whole world accepts that the Vedas are the scripture of the beginning. In the ordinance God made, it was in the name of the earliest human beings, not those in between. For it is not incomplete, not imperfect like the kind of knowledge one learns through experience.
Osho’s Answer:
Understood.
Osho’s Answer:
Understood.
Understood.
So all those things are what was learned earlier. What I mean to say is this: first, from the outside—because the human being is incomplete...
I understand.
And secondly, I have read your book, From Sex to...
Let me address one point of that; then we can take the second—that would be good.
This is exactly what I am saying: man is incomplete. You are quite right. Therefore no human decision can be complete. And your decision—that “the Vedas are made by God”—even that cannot be complete; it is your decision. It is your decision, isn’t it? It is we who make decisions. And whatever decisions we make are going to be incomplete. In fact, you are repeating my point and using it against yourself. I am saying that all our decisions are incomplete; therefore none of our decisions is worthy of being accepted blindly. All our decisions are to be thought over. If you say the Vedas are made by God—that, too, is something to be reflected upon. That is your statement. And you are a human being, just as I am a human being.
This is exactly what I am saying: man is incomplete. You are quite right. Therefore no human decision can be complete. And your decision—that “the Vedas are made by God”—even that cannot be complete; it is your decision. It is your decision, isn’t it? It is we who make decisions. And whatever decisions we make are going to be incomplete. In fact, you are repeating my point and using it against yourself. I am saying that all our decisions are incomplete; therefore none of our decisions is worthy of being accepted blindly. All our decisions are to be thought over. If you say the Vedas are made by God—that, too, is something to be reflected upon. That is your statement. And you are a human being, just as I am a human being.
The second question is one...
...let me first finish speaking with him. His question... it would be better if you keep your question separate.
...let me first finish speaking with him. His question... it would be better if you keep your question separate.
Since we ourselves are the arbiters even of whether the Vedas are made by God or not—because I can decide that they are not, do you understand this? Or I can decide that they are. On this too, since the final decision about any truth rests with us, ultimately it is an incomplete man who will decide. And all the decisions of an incomplete man are incomplete. I do not claim that my statement is complete. I do not say that. My word is just as incomplete as any incomplete word would be. And therefore it is worthy of reflection, not of mere belief—that you should simply accept what I say. It is worthy of thinking over. All statements are worthy of thinking over.
And when you say that you feel hurt because I mention the Quran and the Bible along with the Vedas—the follower of the Bible comes to me and says he too feels hurt that I take the name of the Vedas along with the Bible. I meet people who say that to me as well. The follower of the Quran also feels hurt. So in the matter of hurt there is no difference among you three. In the matter of hurt there is no difference. They too feel hurt: “How can you take the name of the Vedas along with the Quran?” So don’t talk of hurt. If you make it about hurt, hurt there will be.
In fact, any statement that differs even a little from you will cause hurt. But the mark of a thoughtful person is to try to understand that hurt. If we turn that hurt into enmity and abuse, then the whole point is lost. Some hurt will be there. When you say something against me, it will hurt; it should hurt. Hurt is a sign that we are alive. Then one should try to understand that hurt—how far that hurt can be of use, and how far we can reflect and inquire.
As for my own personal matter, it is simply this: if I can throw you into reflection, my work is done. Therefore you are already involved in my work. Do not stay under the impression that you are not involved in my work—you are involved in my work. My work is only this: to put you into thinking, into inquiry. And if you enter into reflection, my work is complete. What decision you take will be yours.
And when you say that you feel hurt because I mention the Quran and the Bible along with the Vedas—the follower of the Bible comes to me and says he too feels hurt that I take the name of the Vedas along with the Bible. I meet people who say that to me as well. The follower of the Quran also feels hurt. So in the matter of hurt there is no difference among you three. In the matter of hurt there is no difference. They too feel hurt: “How can you take the name of the Vedas along with the Quran?” So don’t talk of hurt. If you make it about hurt, hurt there will be.
In fact, any statement that differs even a little from you will cause hurt. But the mark of a thoughtful person is to try to understand that hurt. If we turn that hurt into enmity and abuse, then the whole point is lost. Some hurt will be there. When you say something against me, it will hurt; it should hurt. Hurt is a sign that we are alive. Then one should try to understand that hurt—how far that hurt can be of use, and how far we can reflect and inquire.
As for my own personal matter, it is simply this: if I can throw you into reflection, my work is done. Therefore you are already involved in my work. Do not stay under the impression that you are not involved in my work—you are involved in my work. My work is only this: to put you into thinking, into inquiry. And if you enter into reflection, my work is complete. What decision you take will be yours.
Osho, I would like to request you: please don’t talk the way our government does—about pleasing everyone. The one who tries to please everyone ends up pleasing no one.
No. If I were someone who tried to please everyone, you wouldn’t have come here—you simply wouldn’t have come here. I would have pleased you long ago. Don’t even think along those lines; don’t even say such a thing.
I respectfully submit: a guru says that when God gave eyes, he also gave the sun; when God gave ears, he also gave the sky. So when you say that if there is the Qur’an then there is Hatim, I would, logically, say to you that...
I understand. Please, go on.
...The Quran came later; it’s been fourteen hundred years since Muslims came into being...
Yes, yes.
...and the eye came into being at the very beginning of creation...
I understand.
...and there should be such an arrangement as there was at the very beginning of creation,
I understand. I understand.
...did not come in between. When you came in between, it means that the one who earlier had been trailing along at the back—the good-for-nothing—...
I understand, I understand.
...later he came to his senses, and there was some improvement in him...
You... you suggest the right approach.
I want to make this request to you because he is beyond improvement...
I understand.
...Therefore, what he said at the beginning was complete in itself...
I understand.
...when you have the Vedas recited along with the Quran, and along with the Bible, then I feel the same thing...
I understand. I get your point...
...that our government does.
I understand your point. About the way you argue—there’s a peculiar thing about argument: there is always an opposing argument of exactly the same weight; it doesn’t weigh any less. You argue that the Veda came first, and whatever right thing God had to give should have been given first. Sex comes to a boy at fourteen, not before. The eyes come earlier, but sex comes at fourteen—before that it doesn’t come. The one who stands with the Quran and the Bible says that when a boy becomes mature, then sex appears; it is not fit to be given to a child. So knowledge is given to the mature. And when the world became mature—this is not my own view—when the world became mature and people’s intelligence was such that knowledge could be given to them, then the Quran and the Bible were given. Now what will you do?
There is no difference between your argument and theirs. There is no difference between your argument and their argument. Whether knowledge should be given to a child, to the young, or to the old. And you too will agree that, rather than a small child, an old person’s words are more useful—why? The child came first. Then he should have been given knowledge first; why to the old man? You are taking the old man to be more knowledgeable than the child, because he comes from the later world of experience. That is exactly what the Quran-and-Bible man says, just as you say. And to me both are childish; for me, neither counts as an argument—neither yours nor his. They are childish because he also says this: the eyes were given long ago, since they can be given even to the unprepared; but knowledge cannot be given to the unworthy. It was given when man became a worthy vessel. When he became capable of bearing knowledge, then it was given; when he matured, then it was given.
Now what is the point of these arguments? What solution do they bring? For me these arguments have no meaning at all. So don’t get into argumentation, because argument is a very childish game. There is nothing in it.
There is no difference between your argument and theirs. There is no difference between your argument and their argument. Whether knowledge should be given to a child, to the young, or to the old. And you too will agree that, rather than a small child, an old person’s words are more useful—why? The child came first. Then he should have been given knowledge first; why to the old man? You are taking the old man to be more knowledgeable than the child, because he comes from the later world of experience. That is exactly what the Quran-and-Bible man says, just as you say. And to me both are childish; for me, neither counts as an argument—neither yours nor his. They are childish because he also says this: the eyes were given long ago, since they can be given even to the unprepared; but knowledge cannot be given to the unworthy. It was given when man became a worthy vessel. When he became capable of bearing knowledge, then it was given; when he matured, then it was given.
Now what is the point of these arguments? What solution do they bring? For me these arguments have no meaning at all. So don’t get into argumentation, because argument is a very childish game. There is nothing in it.
Osho, it has been there for billions of years; this has been for fourteen hundred years now. Is this what you explain as incomplete?
What?
If you look into your own history, it spans countless years. This is just the last fourteen hundred years; that has happened millions upon millions of times, again and again.
Yes, yes.
This argument you have just offered...
This tendency of you people, you know...
If you are going to treat an argument of fourteen hundred years as mature, then our scriptures speak of Kaliyuga as being about four hundred thirty-two thousand years...
According to your scriptures, right? Only if someone accepts your scriptures.
For that, a complete investigation has just been carried out. I submit proof that our things are authentic...
Yes, yes.
...and theirs are not authentic. But here there is no representative of the Muslims; shall I give you proof?
No, no, I...
In people's thinking, this talk of maturity of yours doesn't add up at all—why? Because they have already become mature many times. Many times the eras have changed. Many times this has happened. Therefore, this argument of yours about becoming mature is only a way, by cleverness, to...
No, no, no.
If you don't want to engage in a scriptural debate with us, we'll do it orally—from memory.
No, no, no—you haven't understood. You haven't understood.
Then, instead of just saying it orally, please give it in writing.
No, no. I understand.
If you were to say that four of his disciples should be seated and made to do...
No, no, no...
Why do you say that there can be no oral scripture?
No, you—please don't talk. Don't talk among yourselves.
...We would prefer it to be in writing; that would be better. Let there be less speaking—let it be written first, and only afterward spoken.
No, no—you are asking for something very nice indeed.
From our side, let one or two pandits speak; let them write it out first and then speak. You too please write it out and then speak; afterward the public can listen. Is that all right?
I don’t write anything. I don’t write anything.
Will you speak extempore?
Yes, I’ll speak extempore. You speak and enjoy the conversation. Whatever you want to talk about, do it joyfully.
You will speak, won’t you? Be with us; as for the place, the time, and the priest—we will appoint our own.
Yes, yes, yes, absolutely... by all means, appoint...
It would be an honor for us to engage in shastrarth (scriptural debate) with you. For that, regarding time—how many minutes will each of us have to speak?
Yes, certainly—just as you say, certainly.
And by talking on and on about it...
No, no, with great delight, with great delight.
...your subject—on what subject would you hold a scriptural debate, the whole thing? Because within a simple yes or no you don’t engage in question-and-answer.
I don’t.
You don't even answer whether it is there now or not.
We will discuss that too.
In your view, whether God exists or not is not even known. Because in yes-or-no there is no answer.
As for me—what is it for me? What is it for me? We will discuss it only on those terms. Bring anyone you like.
Please state definitively—what is it for you? That is what we have sat down to discuss.
It is precisely these attempts to make things definite that I oppose. My point—my very point—is that only trivial things are definite. The more vast a thing is, the more indefinite! The more boundless, the more indefinite! The greater it is, the more indefinite!
We will write it down; you keep speaking. The discussion will be on that.
Do whatever you wish: write, do whatever you want. I have no problem with it.
Whatever we say, you call it petty. You don’t want to talk about small matters. Then you handle the big ones.
Yes. No, I... by all means, bring them along. Whoever you want to bring, just bring them to the evening meeting, that’s all.
That's not the point. Decide right now that the conversation will be on these particular subjects.
Even I don’t know what I will say in the evening. You just don’t understand. Your difficulty is this—your difficulty: you are not able to understand me. Your difficulty is that I am not a scholar.
They say, “We ourselves don’t even know what we will say!”
...I am not a pundit, someone who comes having decided in advance what to say. I simply sit. Whatever arises, I speak. I am not some pundit who goes in having fixed, “This is the speech I will give.” So I will speak whatever emerges. In that...
If this point is not decided beforehand, this issue wouldn’t arise. What does get decided is to fix on a single doctrine today...
Now you’re saying that on your own, aren’t you.
Then what will those who try to understand, understand?
Those who try to understand will think, “This man has no fixed doctrine.” What else will they understand?
What will we understand? You are confusing us.
Very good. If even that much work is done, it is enough.
We presented one point—please speak on that very point. We said that you have written this...
Yes.
...that for a year a boy, a girl...?
Yes, yes, we will certainly talk about it. Whatever point you wish to raise, please raise it.
Shall we fix a time for all those matters? Please do this: include everything in it—the five gods, whatever you wish to say.
For my part, I will say whatever I will; I’m telling you. I’ll be there, I’ll be there...
You said one thing today; tomorrow will you say something else?
I will, I will. Because I am not going to die tomorrow—understand this.
Are you here to spread confusion?
Absolutely—I have come to spread confusion; you may take it that way.
Have you come to create an upheaval in the whole system?
It has to be done, it has to be done, it has to be done. This absolutely has to be done—you have understood correctly. You have understood absolutely correctly.
And you want to cause upheaval.
I am a disorderly man, an anarchic man—do you understand? I want to wipe out the whole order—yes. ...I will do it; go ahead, oppose it—yes. I will certainly make this effort. I am absolutely...
Osho, we want to do it in such a way that everyone can enjoy it; please, let us not use obscene words.
That will depend on you.
Osho, when you say the words, “I have come to do this,” our reply is that we could be brought to tears in some other way... then you say, “I have come to do the wrong.”
Listen to me. I have heard you, I have heard you, I have heard you. What I say today does not bind me tomorrow. Do you understand?...
...then, seeing your principle...
No, no, no. But you'll have to— you'll have to listen to me, won't you. You— I, my... Please try to understand me, so that it will be easier for you. It will be easier for you that way.
Tell me.
As for me, I am not bound to what I said today—why? Because no one can be bound by their past. For tomorrow, I cannot say anything. By tomorrow I will still be alive; I will have moved ahead twenty-four hours. In that moving forward, whatever seems right to me tomorrow, that I will say.
Here, regarding what is being said about thought...
Please, understand my point. If you understand me—me—then it will be easier for you.
Very good, very good. Please say it once again.
You understand, don’t you? Anti-establishment.
Can you tomorrow speak against what you have said today?
Yes, I certainly can. There is every possibility of that. There is such a possibility.
When it comes to your own words... very good. If you could write these things...
They are written without being written; consider them written—what harm is there? But keep in mind that tomorrow I may speak against them. Keep that in mind.
So it means you are like a street performer ...
Understand me, and proceed accordingly. That will be fine—yes.
All right then, Maharaj! All right then. With the way you argue and speak, what can I even say to you today? Yesterday, while advancing that argument, you even wrote that, Maharaj, the girl and the boy should live together for a year...
Yes, yes...
Someone has written: "If a sister and brother were to marry, then you..."
One can write such things; there are people like that.
What harm is there if the family's possessions stay within the family?
...There are such people, there are such people.
But in this world there isn’t anyone—everyone is inside some method... and you speak without any method?
You are absolutely right.
Are you preparing the ground for such ideas?
Absolutely, absolutely I am. You are absolutely right.
What is the form of the Supreme, the one to which you have given a name? What is it like, and which name do you wish to give it?
Certainly. If you try to understand the Divine, you will never be able to understand. It is not a matter of understanding.
Just now you were saying...
No—it's me; I... what I’m saying to you, what I’m saying to you—to you, what I’m saying.
Those things are beyond understanding...
No, I am not saying: take it as a premise. I am saying that you should, by means of understanding, try to grasp my point—that the Divine is a matter beyond understanding; it is not within its bounds. As long as you keep trying to understand, you will not be able to understand the Divine, and you will understand everything else. And you will understand everything else.
So what is its form?
It has no form, because it is everything. Form belongs to that which is not everything—which is something.
Does the Absolutely Free also have any law?
Absolute freedom itself is its law.
Now that India has been formed, has India become absolutely free?
It is not absolutely free. It is our own bondage in place of bondage to others. It is not absolutely free.
Osho, the India we once had—was it subjugated?
It was enslaved by others; now it is enslaved by itself.
It became independent; after independence, it framed its own constitution and adopted the Indian perspectives?
Yes, yes.
About God—the Absolute, as you say—the Divine is utterly free. But doesn’t the absolutely free God also have some law?
Law belongs to dependence, not to freedom.
Do you believe in the fruits of karma?
Just a minute... just a minute—let me first address their point; I’ll come to yours.
Do you believe in the fruits of karma or not?
Let me first finish speaking with them; then I’ll take up your question.
Is there no law for freedom?
All laws belong to bondage. If the bondage is someone else’s, we call it bondage; if it is our own bondage, we call it freedom. Under the British it was bondage. Now we ourselves have sat down in that same bondage, imposing it upon ourselves—so that is called freedom. Freedom’s...
Was this very thing considered improper before? If so, then on this point—this is exactly what I say: let us discuss all of it.
Yes—about this, exactly; this is what I say: let us discuss all of it.
Do you believe in the fruits of karma? If I do something bad, will I have to bear its consequence or not?
Immediately. You experience it immediately; you will never have to experience it later. You will never have to experience it later.
If the fruits are reaped immediately, then how is it that someone is born blind while another is born already the owner of five million? What does that signify?
That too has its meaning.
What?
Now, regarding that, come calmly and then we can talk. Because it is not a matter for debate... it has meaning. One who is born blind—there is meaning in that.
No, no—you tell.
Yes, then by all means, please come tomorrow afternoon for this; let's discuss it separately.
No, no—please, you go ahead; do we need to come in the afternoon?
Come tomorrow afternoon.
Please do it here. Do you have any...
No, no, no, no... This, this... this point, you know, this very point...
...that the consequences of karma must be borne by everyone.
Yes, of course—go ahead and experience them; who is stopping you?
Will it have to be suffered? You say one suffers it immediately...
That’s exactly what I said; this—this point you’ve raised, this point you’ve raised—come again tomorrow at three o’clock, then we’ll take it up.
Will you conduct a scriptural debate on this very point?
Then you are one of those yes-or-no people. You are simply not understanding what I am saying.
So, yes-or-no—they do keep asking, don’t they? You ask in such a way that... right? For me, it...
You ask in such a way that... you know. To me...
The yes-and-no one... we do understand.
As for understanding me, as for understanding me...
We have come precisely for this question... then how did we get here?
Then how did you get here?
Please tell us… the fruit of karma…? How did you come here? It seems you came here because of some karmic result.
How did you come here? It seems you came because of some karmic fruit.
By what karmic result have you come here? Have we been saddled with you? Has your karma fallen upon us as well?
These remaining things you want to say—come tomorrow at three and say them. The time will be from three to four-thirty. And in the evening...