What is the meaning of the question, 'Why do you want to wound yourself?'

Osho, a disciple asked a satguru, “May I ask you a question?” The satguru replied, “Why do you want to wound yourself?” Please explain the meaning of this.

The very meaning of a satguru is this: in whose presence, in whose satsang, a disciple slowly melts and disappears. The satguru is the disciple’s death. Therefore only one who has the courage to dissolve deserves to be a disciple. And even after dissolving, something remains. In truth, only what remains after you dissolve is worth preserving. What vanishes ought to vanish. There is much rubbish inside a person, and people mistake that rubbish for their being. The diamonds are lost and life passes in the mud. What you call your personality is not you; and what you truly are, you have no acquaintance with. Until the old identity is broken, there is no way for a new knowing to arise. In this world a satguru is the most dangerous person. If by chance you meet one, run as fast as you can; don’t even look back. Yes—if you have…

Osho, the arrows you let fly from behind the shelter of Baba Maluk, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira and Christ have wounded me. When will the balm and bandage be applied to the wounded?

This alone is the meaning of a true Master: he makes you hear of the other shore. You may resist hearing, yet he keeps telling it. And one day a dream is stirred within you; you begin to dream of that far shore. This shore starts to seem futile. When there appears no substance here, then the trouble begins. On this shore nothing seems substantial; life here no longer feels meaningful. There is no relish now in earning money. No purpose now in the race for position. Even relationships look like children’s toys—wife, husband, sons, daughters. Now it is a big difficulty. Until now you managed to distract yourself with your toys; now you see they are toys. The real is across. Long were you bewitched by the counterfeit here. But now how...? Between lies a vast ocean. The real is over there and between is a great sea. To…

Osho, true and deep thirst by itself brings one to the Divine; then by praising the master again and again, aren’t you making us crippled?

You are crippled! You can’t be made any more crippled than you already are. You are blind; there is no way to close the eyes any further. Where does it hurt when you hear the master being praised? It is the ego that suffers greatly on hearing the master’s glory. The egoless one is filled with awe and gratitude. In him, the master’s praise becomes a shower of nectar, but the egoistic feels great pain—because the praise of the master means you will have to disappear. A master means you must become a “no.” As long as you are, the master cannot be. The master is death. He will efface you, wipe you out completely. This creates panic. That is why somewhere the praise of the master hurts. If it hurts, look closely within: the ego is standing there. And that ego is very cunning; it looks for big arguments…

Osho, this humble servant begs you: whenever in discourse you say “before I leave this world,” or “when I am no more,” you tear my heart apart. It causes great pain. Please do not say such words.

The dream works like the springs in a car. The car goes over a pothole; the springs swallow the jolt; you ride on. The more expensive the car, the better the springs. Railroad cars have buffers between them so if there’s a sudden stop, the cars don’t crash into each other. The buffers absorb the shock. A dream is a buffer. It saves you through the night; otherwise a thousand disturbances would awaken you. A mosquito buzzes in your ear; you think it’s Lata Mangeshkar! The dream has saved you. Lata Mangeshkar is singing! The dream offers you a trick: “Why be bothered? It’s no mosquito; it’s Lata singing. Listen closely!” You start hearing a film song. The mosquito’s whine is drowned in the melody. A buffer has come in between and swallowed the bump. All night the dream protects your sleep. But when a dream becomes something sleep cannot…

Osho, this game began unknowingly, in laughter and play. I had no idea it would drown me. Ahead there is darkness, behind a chasm. Nothing can be seen ahead, and going back feels impossible. The day somehow passes—why does this dark night come?

Days of fear, nights of fear—and you call it heaven! No one thinks so in childhood; only in old age do people look back and say, “Ah, how beautiful those days were!” It is a way to console the mind. The same happens to societies on a large scale. They say the golden age is gone—Satya Yuga was in the past; now is Kali Yuga. “Rama-rajya was before!” Was there Rama-rajya even in Rama’s time? What kind? Rama’s own life was full of suffering—let others be. His father deceived him—and at whose behest? An old man married to a young woman—the usual plight of old husbands. They are the most accommodating—obey their youthful wives like slaves. Dasharatha, a slave to his bird-like queen! He exiled a son like Rama for fourteen years—no backbone. And what joy in Rama’s life? Fourteen years wandering; then war with Ravana; he lost his wife;…