Can we come and die at your feet when our time arrives?

Beloved Osho, thoughts of death have been a frequent visitor during my disciplehood. How can a disciple die in a master's presence, especially when the master is physically distant? Osho, is mahakashyap the only answer?

They opened the door to see whether Ananda was still sitting outside -- because they had told him, "You sit outside. If we need some confirmation from you, we will ask you, but you cannot enter the conference." They saw a transformed being. The old Ananda, the old egoist was gone. An innocent being with tears of joy... and they all could see the light surrounding him. They invited him -- "You come in. Now there is no need for us to be worried. But it is strange... you could not become enlightened for forty-two years, and just after twenty-four hours you have attained that state" -- and this was continuously emphasized by Gautam Buddha. Ananda said, "It was my fault. His death became the death of my ego too." All the scriptures that are in existence are related by Ananda. There were other enlightened disciples who did not die…

Beloved Osho, I will die for you, I think, but I don't believe a single word you say, not a single word.

Good, Anand Geet. Dying is always easy, living is difficult. To become a martyr is very easy, any stupid person can do that. In fact only stupid become martyrs. Otherwise who wants to become a martyr? But it is easier to die, because it happens in a single moment. And once you are dead you are dead, there is no more to it. But to live is the real problem, because life is long. You say: I WILL DIE FOR YOU, I THINK. And I know you cannot die even, because that 'I think' is not reliable. Thinking is never reliable, only feeling is reliable. Thinking is deceptive. People come to me and they say, 'Osho, I love you, I THINK.' How can love come out of thinking? There is no possibility. It is like trying to squeeze oil out of sand. Thoughts don't have any love. Thoughts can have…

Osho, we don’t know how to keep the ritual of your gathering; we don’t know how to smear ourselves with the ash of our own body. O Osho, you who teach the way to die, listen: we don’t know how to die before we die.

If you learn the art of dying, each morning you will find you are a child again. Butterflies call again; the dew speaks again; pearls are scattered all around once more; moon and stars turn mysterious. What does childhood mean? Innocence—no self-consciousness yet. Whoever learns to die every day wins the taste and doorway to childhood day after day. The delight that was in self-forgetfulness—where is it? We came to our senses, and we saw. You ask, “Before death we cannot die.” If you die only when you are killed—what art is that! Everyone dies when they are killed—dogs and cats, men and women. If you die only when death slays you, what will be your mastery? What will be your worth? That mighty Bhima, of whom it is told There dwelt the strength of sixty thousand elephants— He could not lift a single piece of wood off his chest…

Osho, when you speak of your death I begin to tremble. Master, we cannot bear to hear it. We cannot live without you. Even the thought makes the heart shudder.

We had a friend—Ramlal Rana. In the machinery of his head, who knows what went wrong. He began to take himself to be a grain of wheat! Wherever he saw a rooster—he would be afraid: “This one will eat me”— and die a thousand deaths while still alive. Wherever he saw a sack, he grew nervous, skittish: “Someone will stuff me into it, tie it shut.” And if a flour mill came into view, Brother Rana would run for his life: “Here I’ll be ground to powder!” Well, some well-wishers, to set his brain right, filled out a form and had him admitted to the asylum. The doctor explained, “Dear Rana! You have two ears, two eyes, two legs, two hands, you walk, you speak— how can you be a grain of wheat?” But Rana wouldn’t agree— simply wouldn’t agree. He went on believing himself a grain of wheat. A…

Osho, it seems as if a constant benediction showers from your eyes—sweet and tender. Your eyes move over the listeners, and the moment they fall on me it feels as if a spear has pierced my innermost core. My whole body trembles. Something like death happens. But why does the ultimate death not take place?

The goldsmith puts gold into the fire. If the gold had a little intelligence it would scream and writhe, saying, What are you doing—will you kill me? But how could the gold know that this is the very process of becoming pure? Passing through the fire, whatever remains is kundan, pure gold. What does not die in you even when you die—that is the soul. What is not erased in you even when you are erased—that is your true being. You will have to pass through death. If you go from me having learned anything else, you will have gone collecting trash. If you go having learned death, you have taken the key. We have called India’s supreme mystical scriptures the Upanishads. Upanishad means to be near the master; it means to sit close—just that. What happens by sitting close? By sitting near one who is gone, the courage to…