Was there a deficiency in Mahavira’s love that prevented him from making Goshalak understand?

In the same context, someone has asked: Was there some deficiency in Mahavira’s love that he could not make Goshalak understand?

Certainly, love helps in explaining, and total love creates the whole possibility of making someone understand. But even this does not prove that a person of total love will necessarily succeed, because on the other side there may be total hatred, unwilling to understand. On the other side there may be complete deafness, unwilling to listen. So there can be no doubt about Mahavira’s love or his nonviolence merely because he is not able to make another understand, or to change him, or to erase another’s violence. There can be a thousand reasons for that. If one wishes to examine Mahavira’s nonviolence, it is wrong to examine it from the other’s side; it is proper to look directly at Mahavira himself. If you want to examine the sun, it is wrong to make a blind man the medium of your test. We go to a blind man and ask, “Is…

Osho, yesterday you said that jealousy is included in respect. I have immense respect for you, but the jealousy inherent in it keeps poisoning it, and I feel guilt and pain. Does reverence transcend this poison-laced respect?

It needs a little explaining—it's a delicate point. Whenever you respect someone, you do so because you see in that person something you do not have. You respect because you glimpse in the other something you would also like to possess. A beggar respects an emperor because he, too, longs to be an emperor. So on the one hand he respects, and inside he also envies. Because he is not yet an emperor but wants to be. You have attained what he wants to attain. He respects you as skillful, successful: “I stand far back in the line; you have gone ahead to where I should have been.” So you are powerful, clever, intelligent, strong—he respects you. But inside a fire of jealousy also burns—if he gets the chance, he would like to be in your place and push you aside. And if the beggar gets that chance, he will…

But the mistake happened again. It is not Mahavira’s fault. One must use words. And man is such that whatever word you give him, he will misuse it—because one hears only what one is able to hear. So, behind Mahavira, a procession of negative-minded people gathered. That is why Mahavira’s religion could not spread; can anything spread on the basis of negation? It shrank. Can a life be built on “no-no”? Songs of life do not arise from “no-no.” So it shrank. A few pathological people, negative by temperament, clustered around. Their whole arithmetic is to keep saying no—to deny whatever arises. With denial upon denial, they are cut, they die; their process becomes almost suicidal. Hence with Jain monks you will not find celebration, no yes-saying of life. You will not find life’s fragrance there. You will not find song and dance.

Osho, what is the constructive, positive form of nonviolence? And why did Mahavira never offer anyone physical help?

From the very word ‘ahimsa’ comes the sense of the negative, the prohibitive, the “no.” It means: no violence. So the word itself is negative. Why did Mahavira choose that word? He could have chosen love. Love is a constructive, positive word. Ahimsa means: do not cause anyone pain. Love means: give someone happiness. Because ahimsa means “do not cause pain,” it is prohibitive. That is, if I simply do not hurt you, I become nonviolent. Love is an affirmative word: it means giving happiness. So if I merely refrain from hurting you, the matter is not complete; did I also give you joy? Only if I give joy is love fulfilled. Thus love is a constructive word. Jesus used love. Ahimsa is a negative word, and Mahavira used it. Therefore it needs to be understood very deeply. Why does Mahavira employ the formula “do not give pain to anyone”?…

Osho, what is the first experience of samadhi like?

You will know only when it happens. It cannot be said; at most a few hints can be given. It is as if, in the dark, a lamp is suddenly lit. Or as if a dying patient, right at the edge of death, suddenly finds a medicine that works; life’s wave, life’s thrill spreads again—so it is. As if a corpse becomes alive—such is the first experience of samadhi. It is the taste of nectar. The experience of the ultimate music. But it will be only when it happens; and only then will you understand. You will not understand by my saying it. It is as with love. How can anyone explain it? To someone who has never loved, never known love, no matter how many explanations you offer—he will hear it all and still ask, “I haven’t understood; please explain a little more.” It is like explaining light to…