What kind of realm lies beyond the stars in the journey of love?

Osho, where are you leading me? Tell me, traveler—beyond the stars, what kind of realm is that? Are those the remaining trials of love?

Don’t ask—walk. Asking, too, is the cleverness of the intellect. Even on the path of love the intellect asks, “Where are you taking me?” And the intellect cannot walk the path of love. If the intellect keeps asking, it won’t let you walk either. For once, have the courage to say, “Let’s go. We won’t ask.” That is the very sign of love. If there is love for me, there is no need to ask—set out. Asking is a symptom of the absence of love. You want everything settled in advance—where are we going? Why are we going? What is the purpose? Is there any gain for me or not? Is the guide seeking his own gain? Is he deceiving me? Intellect is self-protection, and love is self-surrender. The two cannot go together. This is love’s final examination—the last one: set out. And how long have you relied on the…

Osho, There is a richa in the Atharvaveda: “pṛṣṭāt pṛthivyā aham antarikṣam āruham, antarikṣād divam āruham, divo nākasya pṛṣṭhāt svar-jyotir agām aham.” That is, let us rise from the earthly realm and ascend into the realm of space; from the realm of space reach the summit of the luminous deva-loka; and from the luminous deva-loka dissolve into the infinitely radiant mass of light. Osho, please tell us what these lokas are and where they are.

How many lamps of how many hopes were snuffed out; O burning of love, you proved too heavy. What hopes a man carries! What dreams he weaves! Every time the lamps go out; a small gust of wind and—dark. Then we light them again. We borrow oil and wicks from others, we borrow flame from others, and again we light the lamps. They are extinguished, we keep relighting them. But our spread of desire is such, it does not break. Awareness does not dawn; we cannot steady ourselves. There was a secret-sharer whose love gave life its savor— But where was that secret-sharer of love ever found? We keep hoping that someone will be found—one of our own, a lover, a beloved, a friend. We think: then life will be sweet, flowers will bloom. Think—how many ages you have been searching: “Where was that secret-sharer of love ever found!” Till…

Love is a breakthrough; a breakthrough from the ego, from all boundaries, from all limitations. Hence love becomes the sky, the inner sky. And the outer sky is nothing compared to the inner; the outer is just a pale reflection of the inner. Once one has looked into the inner then for the first time one feels that even this sky that we have known always is not so unlimited; it has its own limitations. And modern physics says that it is limited. But the inner sky has no limitation. That inner sky has been called by many names. Buddha called it 'nirvana': cessation of the ego. Mahavira called it 'moksha': absolute freedom. Jesus is more poetic about it; he calls it 'the kingdom of god'. But they all indicate the same thing: the moment ego disappears there is freedom, and that freedom is unlimited.

Osho, Meera’s path was the path of love, but there was a gap of five thousand years between Krishna and Meera. How, then, could this love come to be? Please explain.

For love there is no distance of time and none of space. Love is the one alchemy that dissolves both time and space. With one you do not love, even if he sits right beside you, body touching body, you are thousands of miles apart. And the one you love—though seated far away among the moon and stars—is forever by your side. Love is the one experience in life where time and space both become futile. Love is the only experience that trusts neither the distance of space nor the distance of time; it erases them both. In the definition of the divine it is said: he is beyond time and space, timeless. Jesus has said, “Love is God”—for this very reason. In human experience only love is timeless and spaceless; through that alone a connection with the divine is possible. So it makes no difference that Krishna lived five…

Osho, more or less all saints have praised love. But you have enthroned love upon Gaurishankar, the highest peak! Is love truly worthy of such a supreme place? And does love really occupy as much of existence as you give it?

So your fugitive sannyasin flees sorrow, but does not attain bliss. In your monks’ lives you will not find sorrow perhaps; they have withdrawn from the entire arrangement that produces sorrow. But have you found happiness in them? Have you seen streams of peace flowing in their eyes? Have you seen ecstasy in their hearts? Have you heard songs of joy upon their lips? Have you seen them dance? And until a renunciate can dance, there remains something lacking in his renunciation. He left the world, but did not find the divine. Those who live in the world sometimes dance; but your renunciate never dances. Those in the world sometimes get a fleeting glimpse of happiness; if they did not, they would never remain in the world. It comes for a moment—true. But it does come. Your renunciate does not get even that fleeting moment. Sometimes a little light spreads…