When will healing be applied to the wounded?

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, this day-and-night throbbing, this ache without a cause—what kind of malady is this? Beloved, now tell me! Now tell me, now tell me! This day-and-night throbbing...

Which eyes can discern? Which eyes can see? Eyes in which the webs of thought are no more. Eyes in which the mounds of ego are no more. Eyes in which the sense of “I” has ended—those eyes become discerning. Then they see jewels everywhere. Then God is not far—He is near. The Upanishads say: God is farther than the farthest, and nearer than the nearest. It sounds paradoxical. Mathematics and logic will protest: if He is far, He is far; if He is near, He is near. What kind of statement is this—that He is farther than the farthest and nearer than the nearest! Yet the statement is true. Let logic and mathematics say what they will—here they have no reach. God is farther than the farthest if your eyes are dusted with ego; and He is nearer than the nearest if your eyes are free of ego. Even…

Question: Second question: Osho, We had come to your threshold to bow our heads, Now the head refuses to rise to go back. If you have given the pain, then you alone give the remedy— let it not become a tale for the world to tell. All right. There is nothing to be alarmed about. Pain itself becomes the medicine! In pain’s incompleteness there is suffering; in its completeness, there is the cure. Understand this a little. It will be hard to grasp, because none of our logical categories will be of use. But among the precious truths of the inner life there is this: if your question becomes total, the answer arises from within the question itself. And if your thirst becomes whole, springs burst forth within the thirst itself and fulfillment comes.

Osho, do not forget me, taking me to be poor; you who gave the pain, you yourself must give the remedy.

If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more! I have placed every string, Beloved, in your hands; Time will tell whether I did wrong or did right. My part is over now, but yours begins from here— If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more! For now say—more pain is needed, not a remedy. Torment me more! If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more! Since when have I desired the world’s shouts of victory? I do not care a farthing for the world’s laughter; But every signal of yours lifts me beyond death, beyond life— beyond both. Do at least laugh at my faults in such a way! If the notes have not turned sweet, tighten the veena of the heart a little more! Even…

Osho, is it necessary to pass through the state of separation for union with the Divine?

I wrote and sent countless letters, still, cruel one, you did not come. The desolate garden’s days rolled by, dark monsoon clouds kept gathering; the henna beds breathed fragrance, the thresholds rang with birdsong, the neem in the courtyard flowered, the mango grove at home bloomed. Everything spoke—only you were silent; I sat alone, my heart caged. Laughter lost, joy lost, sleep was sold, peace squandered. At whose temple shall I wave the lamp? At whose door shall I surrender? To whom shall I send my silent messages, to whom my tender invitation? I wrote and sent countless letters, none ever returned to me. All came—only you did not; why this cruel spell upon me? Such intense longing took hold, such efforts did it compel. The threshold fell hush and mute, the latch kept clicking, waiting; the clouds swayed low and bowed, the rains held back, still waiting. Whenever your…