Why is there fear and objection to drinking with drunkards?

Osho, not only is there no tradition around revelers like Baba Malukdas; even companions are scarcely ever heard of! Why has there always been fear and objection to drinking with drunkards? Please speak.

When someone like Maluk appears in the world, he says: drop fear; come, let us talk of love. Drop fear—come, let us be intoxicated. Drop fear—come, let us hum the Beloved’s songs—in ecstasy, in love. Beyond God-love there is nothing else. Come, place your hand in God’s hand, embrace the Beloved; dance with God, play the rās. When a saint says something like this, you get frightened. Because the nets of fear woven over lifetimes—your chains, your habits, your notions, your conditioning—suddenly halt and stiffen: this is dangerous talk. You know that if you drop fear, your whole morality goes; your whole conduct goes. It is all false—that is why you fear its going. Maluk brings a new kind of conduct into the world—a conduct that rests on love; a conduct that rests on joy. You cannot do wrong because you are so blissful—how could you do wrong! You cannot…

Osho, you sit in the tavern and, every morning and evening, you pour brimming goblet after goblet of wine. I do get intoxicated by your wine, but I don’t lose consciousness. What should I do?

That is why even a Sufi like Omar Khayyam has been misunderstood. Whatever notion you have about Omar Khayyam is wrong. The wine he spoke of is not the wine sold in taverns. The beloved he praised is not flesh-and-bone. He called the Beloved—God. And he called wine—devotion. Fitzgerald, who first translated Omar Khayyam into English, because of whom Omar became world-famous, did not understand him. Fitzgerald thought wine meant wine. He was a Western man. He took two plus two to be four. He took “wine” as wine and “beloved” as beloved. The subtle intention of the Sufis fell into a great misunderstanding. On the basis of Fitzgerald’s version the whole world translated him, and the mistake spread everywhere. Today taverns are named “Omar Khayyam.” Nothing could be more foolish. Temples should bear Omar Khayyam’s name—not taverns. Because the tavern he spoke of is of another kind. There is…

Osho, People drink and stagger; but as for me, I come to your gathering thirsty and leave thirsty.

As you wish! Everyone makes their own choice. If you’ve decided not to drink—sworn an oath against it—then there is no remedy. There’s a saying: you can lead a horse to the river, but you can’t force it to drink. I can bring you to the river; after that, it’s your will. If you enjoy just coming and going, then come and go—you are welcome. But for how long? And what is the point of this to-and-fro? Have a sip! And stop looking for excuses. Humans are very cunning; they throw their responsibilities onto someone else. From your question it sounds as if you have no fault in it. In love’s marketplace, sometimes fate strikes the bargain; Time and again the deal of my heart is made, then undone. At times you blame fate, at times circumstances; at times you find some other cause. These are all alibis. If you…

Osho, I have seen many taverns and many drinkers dead drunk. But what can one say of your tavern! Never seen, never heard. In your tavern I have seen drinkers lost in ecstasy. And those who do not wish to drink—I see a strange ecstasy in them too. If one drinks and gets intoxicated, that I can understand. But seeing the non-drinkers in rapture—that I do not understand. Whenever I remember your tavern, a kind of heady swoon comes over me. This is even more astonishing! Is it really so, or is it my illusion? Kindly shed light on my doubt.

In the still water of that lake, the young lion saw he was not a sheep. Until now he had only seen sheep. In the world of sheep there are no mirrors. He had never seen his own face. Now he saw his own face, saw himself, and saw also that there was no difference between him and the old lion—save youth and age. Without any explanation, without any instruction, a roar—long buried in his chest since birth—burst forth, echoing through the hills. In a single instant he was no longer a sheep; he became a lion. The old lion said, “My work is done. Now it is up to you. Do you wish to return to your old family, or come with me?” He said, “What old family? A mistake has broken, a sleep has shattered, a dream has dissolved.” Do not stand outside. Do not think about those…

A friend has asked: Osho, you said about a wayward son that one should let him pass through his experiences, and he will learn on his own. But even after experiencing, he still prefers the same thing—someone is asking about his wayward son—no matter how much suffering he has to endure, even if death itself should come, still he does the same. After stumbling again and again, he repeats it. What can be done? How to reform him?

You will not be able to reform him. If life cannot reform him, if even death cannot reform him, what will you be able to do? If what you say is true—that again and again, even after suffering, he does the same thing; even if death comes, he will still do the same thing, and he does not change—then take your hands off. You will not be able to reform him. You cannot be stronger than death. And one who does not learn from suffering—what will he learn from you? Do not call him a wayward son. You have found yourself a Jadabharata. Because those whom suffering does not reform, whom even death does not reform—these are great, arrived masters; they are in the ultimate state. Do not even try to reform such a one. And why are you so eager to reform another? It is enough to reform yourself.…