According to Osho, Meera’s sayings are the pure voice of love—lavish giving, trust, and God-intoxication—arising as a miracle amid a money-gripping culture. Where miserliness hoards from fear of age and death, Meera pours herself out and thus transcends death. Her words don’t calculate; they celebrate. Compared to others, her realization speaks as devotion, not doctrine: the heart’s overflow, not the head’s accounting.
Meera talks like a heart singing love, not like someone counting coins, and that love makes her fearless and free.
From the Discourses
Passages where Osho speaks to this question — each links to the complete discourse.
Osho, compared to Meera’s saying “Peevat Meera hansi re,” the far more wondrous saying is “Mharo desh Marwar,” for which reason I honor Meera more than other awakened ones. What do you say?
Prafulla Bharti, Surely Meera must have said: “Mharo desh Marwar!” Seeing the state of Marwar, seeing the condition of the Marwaris—“Blessed be the land of Marwar!” Meera must have been astonished, startled: “In such a land, and I was born here!” That itself is a miracle. Take it as God’s grace that in Marwar Meera should be born! In Marwar, quite a different kind of people are usually born. What has Marwar to do with Meera? Elsewhere it would have fit; but she was born in Marwar! Startled, she must have exclaimed: “Mharo desh Marwar!” Prafulla Bharti, are you a Marwari, that this delights your heart so much? A certain poet arrived at the house of Seth Dhaniramji, a literature-loving Marwari merchant. He sent in his collection of poems and waited for the outcome. Dhaniramji read a few pages and ordered his servant, “Tell the accountant to give the poet…
Note: the following are translated from Hindi for the Book Compilation: The World of Mysticism, Chapter on Women Mystics. All are translated from Hindi talks I have spoken on enlightened men. For the first time I start discussions on enlightened women. It was easy to speak on enlightened men. I can understand them -- they are alike. It will be a little bit difficult to speak on enlightened women -- it is a little stranger path. Although man and woman are one in their innermost core, their expressions are very different. Their ways of being, their appearances, their statements, their thought processes are not only different but opposite. I talked on Kabir, on Farid, on Nanak, Buddha, Mahavira and hundreds of enlightened men, but that was just one-dimensional. Today I add the second dimension.
Osho! I set out to seek the Beloved; how is union with the Beloved attained?
Yog Neelam! The Beloved is not far. Not even so far that any meeting would be needed. There has only been forgetfulness, not separation. Separation cannot be. The Beloved abides within. He is the breath of our breath, the heartbeat of our heart. Without him we have no being. Because he is, we are. As the ocean is, so the waves are. The ocean can be without waves, but the waves cannot be without the ocean. Yet a wave can fall into a delusion—the delusion that “I am separate from the ocean.” In that very delusion, forgetfulness happens. Only forgetfulness happens; separation cannot. The whole search for the Beloved is nothing but remembrance—re-remembering. That is why the saints have called this search surati. Surati means remembrance, recollection. Surati is the folk form of the word smriti. What the Buddha called smriti, by the time of Kabir and Nanak became surati—dearer,…
Osho, O beloved, dearest one! Accept my salutations; grant these tears a resting place. You have filled my alms-bag, and yet I remain utterly empty. O beloved, dear one, my companion! I lay my head—the sacred coconut—at your feet! Jaya has asked.
Jaya has been close to me for many years. She has a heart just like Meera’s; the same song lies hidden in her heart; the same dance lies hidden in her heart. When it manifests, when she appears in her splendor, another Meera will be revealed. It is only a matter of waiting for the right time; at any moment a ray will descend and the darkness will be cut through. And she is courageous—therefore one can predict that it will happen. But is it not this very mist, the eternal swirl, in which your seamless compassion keeps pouring itself out day and night? That shadow that sometimes peeks through is the final language, the possible name— abode of compassion, this, the seed-mantra, this, the essential thread, this alone the measure of depth— this, our salutation. Mist-covered, how deep your reservoir, how small our cupped hands! Before the Lord, our…
Osho, when I listen to your discourse I don’t know why I get lost in its love-music. It feels as if you are playing the sitar and I am playing the tabla. Sometimes it seems I am playing the tanpura and you are setting the keynote. Osho, what has happened to me? Please hold me!
Say to me: hurry! Say to me: let there no longer remain this fear that I might clutch at something and stop. Say to me: now drown me, make me senseless. Because what you have so far taken as sense was insensibility. What you have so far taken as awareness was unconsciousness. And what you thought was awakening was no more than dreams—deep dark night and sleep. Now this swoon I want to give you, this intoxication I want you to drink—this is the advent of awareness. It feels like unconsciousness to you because what you have so far called awareness, this is its opposite. This is a wine that brings awareness. From unknown realms, in secret, as rays descend and, drinking nectar to quench their thirst, open the hearts of flowers— so come, hidden, clothed in shadow! Let me come. When you say, Hold me! it means you have…