Is there a place for mourning?

Yesterday I heard that my friend had died. Yet as I wept, I found myself giving thanks for the sweetness of life. Is there a place for mourning?

If you have loved somebody, really loved, and you didn't miss an opportunity to love, then there is no place for mourning because then there is no repentance. You never postpone anything, death cannot destroy anything. If you postpone, then death destroys. For example: you love somebody but you say,'I will love tomorrow,' and that's what you go on saying. You go on imagining tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, You go on postponing: you fight today, you will love tomorrow. You are angry here-now, you will love tomorrow. You go on postponing. Then one day suddenly death comes, and it is always sudden. It gives no hint that it is coming. The foot sounds are never heard, the footsteps can never he guessed. It always comes suddenly, catches you unawares, and the friend is gone, the lover is gone, the beloved is gone; the mother, the father, the brother is gone. Then…

Osho, you say sadness isn’t right, but in the presence of death, how can one be free of sadness?

It’s a matter of vision. Where is death right now! Right now you are alive. One thing is certain: you haven’t died yet. If, while life is here, you are not filled with the joy of life, then by bringing up death... Death hasn’t happened yet; it may happen someday. And who knows whether it happens at all! For those who know say: it never happens. They say death is the greatest lie. It doesn’t happen—only an appearance. The body does not die, because the body is already dead. And the soul cannot die, because the soul is immortal. The conjunction of the two breaks. The breaking of the conjunction is called death—that’s all. Understand it this way: the needle and the thread have come apart. Just that. Nothing more. The needle is there; the thread is there. You can thread them again. If a little desire remains, the thread…

Question: Last question: Osho! Two months ago my brother—my maternal aunt’s son—died at the age of twenty-six. He had lived with us for five years and was more intimate than even a brother or a son. We gave him a beautiful send-off for the onward journey of his departed soul. We knew how. We sang hymns and melodies. Not mourning—celebration. One hymn was: मुखड़ा नी माया लागी रे... मोहन प्यारा, मुखडूं में जोयूं तारूं, मन मारूं धयूं न्यारूं रे... मोहन प्यारा! In this song there was a sweetness addressed to Krishna, and at the same time a remembrance of the late Raj. Today, upon hearing your discourse in person for the first time, that hymn spontaneously began to resonate within me and stayed with me all day. Perhaps it was a glimpse—of the inner meaning of that hymn we had sung—मुखड़ा नी माया लागी रे...!

Osho, I am extremely sad. Since my wife’s death, my sorrow has known no end. I have come to you seeking consolation.

Then you have come to the wrong place. I don’t give consolation here to anyone. If you want truth, take it; don’t ask for consolation. All consolations are false. They are bandages on the wound, not its healing. Since you have come here, it is better to let the pus of the wound drain out. Better to open the wound, let open air and sunlight touch it. Don’t hide the wound, because hidden wounds do not heal. Expose the wound so that it can be healed. You say: I am extremely sad. Then cry—let the wound flow—open the wound! Why be afraid? You found happiness in your wife; should someone else bear the sorrow? When you had happiness, you didn’t come saying, “I am so happy—please take a little of it too.” Now that sorrow has come to you, you have come to take consolation! Whoever receives happiness will also…

Osho, I am deeply confused. On the 30th of October my dear little sister Jyoti passed away. I feel a great deal of grief and distress. Listening to your talks and meditating brings a slight sense of peace, yet after so many years of love and affection, every fiber of my being is haunted by her memory. In such a circumstance what should I do? Osho, please bestow some compassionate guidance.

You are deceiving yourself. You put it all on Jyoti—as if, had you not gone, I would not be miserable; you left and plunged me in grief. You are trying to forget that the grief is not about Jyoti’s going; it is about the fact that you too must go. Her death has made you alert to death: it came to me, it will come to you too. Look, it has come to me—and I was younger than you! Do not falsify this. You say that listening to discourses and meditating brings you a little peace. That is not peace; it is consolation. Listening, you forget. That is not peace; it is oblivion—like losing yourself in a film for two hours and forgetting your own story; or being engrossed in a sensational detective novel and forgetting your worries; or drinking alcohol, sinking into a slight stupor and forgetting your turmoil.…