Sahaj Yog #12
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, I asked for something and received something else. I asked for the death of the mind—and received the mind’s ecstasy! In my mind, jnana-yoga has always seemed more important, but now the feelings of love and devotion are growing dense. For twenty days I have been here attending the discourses, taking part in Active and Kundalini meditations, and joining in the ashram’s music. As a result, along with peace and emptiness, immersion in rasa keeps increasing. Mind and body feel as if they have drowned in a lake of nectarous essence! What is all this—please be gracious and tell me.
Osho, I asked for something and received something else. I asked for the death of the mind—and received the mind’s ecstasy! In my mind, jnana-yoga has always seemed more important, but now the feelings of love and devotion are growing dense. For twenty days I have been here attending the discourses, taking part in Active and Kundalini meditations, and joining in the ashram’s music. As a result, along with peace and emptiness, immersion in rasa keeps increasing. Mind and body feel as if they have drowned in a lake of nectarous essence! What is all this—please be gracious and tell me.
Anand Manu! You received exactly what you asked for. At the time of asking, the one who asks perhaps does not even know what he is asking; only when it is given does one know precisely.
When you sow a seed, how can you know what flowers will bloom, what fruit will come, what tree will grow? Only when the flowers appear do you know. With the seed there is our longing, our prayer; but with the flower, what we had wished—what we had dreamed—becomes true.
You say, “I asked for one thing and received something else.” That never happens. You get exactly what you ask for. You say, “I asked for the death of the mind and received the mind’s ecstasy.” Whoever asks for the death of the mind receives the mind’s ecstasy, because the ecstasy of the mind is the death of the mind. The death of the mind is your life. As long as the mind is, you are not. As long as the mind is, where are you alive? Life is then hollow, false—a load, a burden you carry. Until the mind remains, your entire span from birth to death is only a slow death. You have mistaken a gradual dying for life.
When you ask for the death of the mind, you have asked for the death of death itself, because mind means death. When the mind dies, death dies. Then there is life—great life—eternal life. Then the doors of nectar open. Then there is ecstasy, dance, celebration. Then, in gratitude to the Divine, life is nothing but joy.
You received exactly what you asked for, though you were not yet clear what you were asking. And this is common. It is the story of most lives. Someone asks for wealth and receives poverty—then beats his chest and says, “I asked for wealth.” But has wealth ever made anyone truly wealthy? If wealth could make one wealthy, those who have it would be ecstatically blissful. Then why would Buddha leave the palace? Why would Mahavira stand naked?
No, there is no true wealth in wealth. Those who asked for wealth unknowingly asked for poverty. And when poverty breaks upon them—when their prayer is fulfilled—they beat their chests and cry, “What I asked and what I got!”
Those who asked for position asked for inferiority, for wretchedness. Being in office has never made anyone powerful. Only those became powerful who became nothing. Those who asked for emptiness received power; those who asked for power found nothing but hollowness.
You asked for happiness—did you receive it? What comes is sorrow. Then the logic won’t add up; the arithmetic of life eludes you. You say, “I asked for happiness, tried in every way for happiness, and got misery.” But what you call happiness is another name for misery. You do not yet know true happiness. You asked for counterfeit joy: pleasure on the surface, pain within. You asked for a mirage: drums that sound sweet from afar—come near and your hands grasp nothing; they remain empty.
For most people the experience is the same: they asked for one thing and got another. But I tell you: you receive exactly what you ask. If your asking is wrong, what you receive will be wrong; and if your asking is right—even if the whole world thinks you are asking for the wrong thing… For example, you asked for the death of the mind. At first glance it seems: is that any way to ask? One should ask for immortal life, for the great life, for self-realization. You asked for the death of the mind! Is that something to ask for?
But the one who asks for the death of the mind—only he attains self-realization. And the one who keeps asking for self-realization never gets anything, because the demand for self-realization only strengthens the mind. The one who asks for eternal life is afraid of death; and one who is afraid of death—how will he know eternal life? The one who says, “May I live forever,” is frightened. He knows he will have to die; he is asking against death—against life. He wants to go against the current, to swim upstream. He will be defeated, exhausted, broken. But the one who says, “Take this mind, take this life—nothing has come from it, nothing can come from it. Snatch from me all my cravings… Included in these cravings is even the craving for God, even the craving for liberation… Take from me all my cravings; burn to ash the seed of desire”—into such a life, nectar begins to shower.
And you say that jnana-yoga holds greater importance in your mind. Jnana-yoga often gets stuck in the head. It ends as mere information. Until your heart is touched, until it melts and overflows with rasa, where is wisdom? In the name of knowledge you will collect trash—heaps of information. Even if you have mountains of information, not an atom of wisdom is born.
Does knowledge produce wisdom? Meditation produces wisdom; love produces wisdom. Whoever has known love has known the Divine. The one who keeps searching in scriptures sits on a garbage heap. Some sit on refuse hoping to find riches—perhaps someone’s coin or ornament fell into the trash. Maybe, sitting on the heap, one might find a stray penny once in a while; but the one who sits on the heap of scriptures does not get even that—there is nothing there. The one who knocks at the doors of the heart, receives.
It is good you have come into this world of “madmen” here—could dance, could sing, could drown in music, could meditate, could listen to my quirky words. Blessed you are! Rasa has awakened; do not forget it. It is a small sprout now, a sapling. Guard it; nourish it with the manure of your very breath. If you can protect it, one day the fruit of liberation will ripen in your life—that is the ultimate peak of ecstasy.
But often those who are keen on knowledge are not keen on love. Love appears like madness to them. They even swear oaths not to get entangled in the bother of love. They think knowledge is enough. They keep balancing the arithmetic of knowledge—and are finished. The arithmetic of knowledge never balances. Without the alchemy of love, the arithmetic of knowledge never balances; and with the alchemy of love, it balances at once. On the foundation of love the temple of knowledge can be raised; without love, a foundationless temple cannot stand.
You may keep collecting materials—materials will lie about; the temple will never be built. The binding element is missing; what will mere bricks do? You also need cement! Love is the cement that binds the bricks.
You have been touched by the binding element—do not let it slip away. Remember: the more precious a thing is, the more easily it slips away. Useless things stick; the precious slips. For to hold the precious requires great effort. To safeguard it, constant awareness is needed.
This little drop of rasa within you can become an ocean—if protected.
Many have reduced religion to mere hollow knowledge. They have sworn not to get into the tangle of love. There are reasons too. What they called love in life gave such hurt that they become wary even of the word “love.” As they say: once burnt by milk, one blows even on buttermilk. The one they took for love in their life gave nothing but pain. Love sowed only thorns; lotuses never bloomed. At the very name of love, anxieties, melancholy, failures… Love gave such a dark night and such nightmares that the mere word startles them. They swear they will never love again.
But remember, you will have to love. And when the hour of love arrives, drop all oaths; do not be afraid. For this is a different love—you have never known it. What you knew was not love; hence the suffering. Does love ever give pain? Love is honeyed; love is wine. No wine intoxicates more than love. Yes, perhaps you searched in the wrong place. You searched in persons: men sought it in women, women in men; parents in children, children in parents; among siblings, among friends. You kept searching in the wrong place.
If someone tries to squeeze oil from sand and oil does not come, is it the sand’s fault? There is no oil in sand. Those before whom you held out your begging bowl of love were beggars too—just like you! They too held their bowls before you. If two beggars extend their bowls to each other, what will they get? How will they get? It can be received only from the Master—or from the Master himself! Love can be only toward that Supreme—toward the Divine. Lift your eyes to Him. And your eyes have lifted a little; a ray has fallen at the corner of your eye—then drop those old vows!
I will not be a culprit in the Saki’s eyes;
Let my intentions to repent break if they must.
Those vows you took never to love—if they are breaking now, let them break.
I will not be a culprit in the Saki’s eyes;
Let my intentions to repent break if they must.
You must have sworn many times: no more love, no more—too much suffering. But that from which you suffered was not love at all.
I used to think I would never weep again, O Josh,
That I would never lose the wealth of my patience, O Josh.
I would shy away even from the shade of love,
Never step outside the Kaaba of reason.
Does one lose one’s honor in the bazaar of love anywhere?
Do the buyers of the wares of wisdom ever weep anywhere?
No hint will pierce my heart again,
No star will glitter on the tip of my eyelashes.
Never again will I recall the hues of lips and cheeks,
No anklet’s tinkle will echo in my heart again.
Never again will this estranged heart speak to me,
No imagining will ever lift the veil of any face.
No more will a message come from the garden of flowers,
No more will anyone peep through the skylight of months and years.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken;
The hem of patience slipped from my hands again.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul,
In the moth’s ashes the moth’s own fire returned.
The firefly that once made nights luminous awoke,
In the blood-weeping eye the sleeping tear awoke.
The sun of reason set, the stars of love arose;
Ice melted in the moonlight and sparks leapt forth.
One has to swear off love because our love is wrong; and those before whom we had raised our goblets were no cupbearers. They had no wine to offer. They themselves were thirsty—thirsty like us. They too were looking for the Saki.
I used to think I would never weep again, O Josh…
So often the thought comes: after all that weeping, what was gained? After shedding so many tears, what did I get? Then a man decides…
I used to think I would never weep again, O Josh,
That I would never lose the wealth of my patience, O Josh…
Now I will never lose my composure, never be impatient. I will never desire, never ask. I will hold my eyes firm; I will not weep; I will never moisten my heart.
I would shy away even from the shade of love,
Never step outside the Kaaba of reason.
Now I will never step outside the temple of reason. I will remain within knowledge; I will never descend into love’s madness.
I would shy away even from the shade of love,
Never step outside the Kaaba of reason.
Honor gets lost in the market of love somewhere—
Now I have become sensible; I will not go to lose my honor in love’s bazaar. I will never become so crazy.
Honor gets lost in the market of love somewhere—
Do buyers of the wares of wisdom ever weep anywhere?
Those filled with philosophical thought—who possess philosophical intellect, who have learned philosophizing, who are jnana-yogis… Do buyers of the wares of wisdom ever weep anywhere?
No hint will pierce my heart again,
No star will glitter on the tip of my eyelashes.
Never again will I recall the hues of lips and cheeks,
No anklet’s tinkle will echo in my heart again.
Never again will this estranged heart speak to me,
No imagining will ever lift the veil of any face.
He had sworn never again to lift any veil. But there is one veil you must lift—must! The veil of the Divine has to be lifted. The anklet-chime of that Supreme Beloved must be heard.
No more will a message come from the garden of flowers,
No more will anyone peep through the window of months and years.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken—
This rock-like faith is broken.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken;
The hem of patience slipped from my hands again.
And the hem of so-called patience and knowledge that I held slipped from my hand. This is not misfortune—this is good fortune.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken;
The hem of patience slipped from my hands again.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul—
The lamp of that Beloved’s temple lit again; my soul began to call out.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul,
In the moth’s ashes the moth’s own fire returned—
What had fallen as ash, that moth rose alive again. That love you thought had gone—it had not gone; it was sitting hidden somewhere.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul,
In the moth’s ashes the moth’s own fire returned.
The firefly that once made nights luminous awoke,
In the blood-weeping eye the sleeping tear awoke.
The sun of reason set, the stars of love arose;
Ice melted in the moonlight and sparks leapt forth.
Blessed is the hour when the sun of reason sets and the night of love arrives—when stars arise in the sky.
Do not miss this hour—it comes rarely, with great difficulty. In this world there are many temples and mosques of reason, but very few taverns of love. Once in a while, at a Buddha’s, at a Krishna’s, at a Jesus’, there is a tavern of love. There the wine of bliss is poured, drunk, and offered. Later, for centuries, people discuss doctrines in their names. The wine is discussed; the word “wine” is repeated. But no wine is poured then, nor drunk, nor offered. In the scriptures there is talk of wine. Satsang is where wine is still being poured.
It is good, Anand Manu, that absorption in rasa is growing. Drink more. As much as you can, drink. Drink to your fill!
The thought of a snowy goblet, the memory of a ruby-red cup;
In the fragrance of aloeswood the tavern’s memory returns.
Long has it been heaving in the corner of the heart—
The memory of the mad whirls in intoxicated gusts of passion.
It comes again and again in the form of falling lightning—
The memory of the night they lifted the curtain and came to the door.
The Supreme, the Supreme Lover, the Supreme Beloved has knocked at your door—listen. He has lifted your curtain—welcome Him! Let Him enter.
Let all your knowledge go—it is worth two pennies. True knowing ripens only in love. There is a knowledge that is memory, and there is a knowledge that is love. The knowledge of memory has no value—borrowed and stale. The knowledge born of love is cash in hand, true, because it is yours; it is conceived within you; it is born from you.
When you sow a seed, how can you know what flowers will bloom, what fruit will come, what tree will grow? Only when the flowers appear do you know. With the seed there is our longing, our prayer; but with the flower, what we had wished—what we had dreamed—becomes true.
You say, “I asked for one thing and received something else.” That never happens. You get exactly what you ask for. You say, “I asked for the death of the mind and received the mind’s ecstasy.” Whoever asks for the death of the mind receives the mind’s ecstasy, because the ecstasy of the mind is the death of the mind. The death of the mind is your life. As long as the mind is, you are not. As long as the mind is, where are you alive? Life is then hollow, false—a load, a burden you carry. Until the mind remains, your entire span from birth to death is only a slow death. You have mistaken a gradual dying for life.
When you ask for the death of the mind, you have asked for the death of death itself, because mind means death. When the mind dies, death dies. Then there is life—great life—eternal life. Then the doors of nectar open. Then there is ecstasy, dance, celebration. Then, in gratitude to the Divine, life is nothing but joy.
You received exactly what you asked for, though you were not yet clear what you were asking. And this is common. It is the story of most lives. Someone asks for wealth and receives poverty—then beats his chest and says, “I asked for wealth.” But has wealth ever made anyone truly wealthy? If wealth could make one wealthy, those who have it would be ecstatically blissful. Then why would Buddha leave the palace? Why would Mahavira stand naked?
No, there is no true wealth in wealth. Those who asked for wealth unknowingly asked for poverty. And when poverty breaks upon them—when their prayer is fulfilled—they beat their chests and cry, “What I asked and what I got!”
Those who asked for position asked for inferiority, for wretchedness. Being in office has never made anyone powerful. Only those became powerful who became nothing. Those who asked for emptiness received power; those who asked for power found nothing but hollowness.
You asked for happiness—did you receive it? What comes is sorrow. Then the logic won’t add up; the arithmetic of life eludes you. You say, “I asked for happiness, tried in every way for happiness, and got misery.” But what you call happiness is another name for misery. You do not yet know true happiness. You asked for counterfeit joy: pleasure on the surface, pain within. You asked for a mirage: drums that sound sweet from afar—come near and your hands grasp nothing; they remain empty.
For most people the experience is the same: they asked for one thing and got another. But I tell you: you receive exactly what you ask. If your asking is wrong, what you receive will be wrong; and if your asking is right—even if the whole world thinks you are asking for the wrong thing… For example, you asked for the death of the mind. At first glance it seems: is that any way to ask? One should ask for immortal life, for the great life, for self-realization. You asked for the death of the mind! Is that something to ask for?
But the one who asks for the death of the mind—only he attains self-realization. And the one who keeps asking for self-realization never gets anything, because the demand for self-realization only strengthens the mind. The one who asks for eternal life is afraid of death; and one who is afraid of death—how will he know eternal life? The one who says, “May I live forever,” is frightened. He knows he will have to die; he is asking against death—against life. He wants to go against the current, to swim upstream. He will be defeated, exhausted, broken. But the one who says, “Take this mind, take this life—nothing has come from it, nothing can come from it. Snatch from me all my cravings… Included in these cravings is even the craving for God, even the craving for liberation… Take from me all my cravings; burn to ash the seed of desire”—into such a life, nectar begins to shower.
And you say that jnana-yoga holds greater importance in your mind. Jnana-yoga often gets stuck in the head. It ends as mere information. Until your heart is touched, until it melts and overflows with rasa, where is wisdom? In the name of knowledge you will collect trash—heaps of information. Even if you have mountains of information, not an atom of wisdom is born.
Does knowledge produce wisdom? Meditation produces wisdom; love produces wisdom. Whoever has known love has known the Divine. The one who keeps searching in scriptures sits on a garbage heap. Some sit on refuse hoping to find riches—perhaps someone’s coin or ornament fell into the trash. Maybe, sitting on the heap, one might find a stray penny once in a while; but the one who sits on the heap of scriptures does not get even that—there is nothing there. The one who knocks at the doors of the heart, receives.
It is good you have come into this world of “madmen” here—could dance, could sing, could drown in music, could meditate, could listen to my quirky words. Blessed you are! Rasa has awakened; do not forget it. It is a small sprout now, a sapling. Guard it; nourish it with the manure of your very breath. If you can protect it, one day the fruit of liberation will ripen in your life—that is the ultimate peak of ecstasy.
But often those who are keen on knowledge are not keen on love. Love appears like madness to them. They even swear oaths not to get entangled in the bother of love. They think knowledge is enough. They keep balancing the arithmetic of knowledge—and are finished. The arithmetic of knowledge never balances. Without the alchemy of love, the arithmetic of knowledge never balances; and with the alchemy of love, it balances at once. On the foundation of love the temple of knowledge can be raised; without love, a foundationless temple cannot stand.
You may keep collecting materials—materials will lie about; the temple will never be built. The binding element is missing; what will mere bricks do? You also need cement! Love is the cement that binds the bricks.
You have been touched by the binding element—do not let it slip away. Remember: the more precious a thing is, the more easily it slips away. Useless things stick; the precious slips. For to hold the precious requires great effort. To safeguard it, constant awareness is needed.
This little drop of rasa within you can become an ocean—if protected.
Many have reduced religion to mere hollow knowledge. They have sworn not to get into the tangle of love. There are reasons too. What they called love in life gave such hurt that they become wary even of the word “love.” As they say: once burnt by milk, one blows even on buttermilk. The one they took for love in their life gave nothing but pain. Love sowed only thorns; lotuses never bloomed. At the very name of love, anxieties, melancholy, failures… Love gave such a dark night and such nightmares that the mere word startles them. They swear they will never love again.
But remember, you will have to love. And when the hour of love arrives, drop all oaths; do not be afraid. For this is a different love—you have never known it. What you knew was not love; hence the suffering. Does love ever give pain? Love is honeyed; love is wine. No wine intoxicates more than love. Yes, perhaps you searched in the wrong place. You searched in persons: men sought it in women, women in men; parents in children, children in parents; among siblings, among friends. You kept searching in the wrong place.
If someone tries to squeeze oil from sand and oil does not come, is it the sand’s fault? There is no oil in sand. Those before whom you held out your begging bowl of love were beggars too—just like you! They too held their bowls before you. If two beggars extend their bowls to each other, what will they get? How will they get? It can be received only from the Master—or from the Master himself! Love can be only toward that Supreme—toward the Divine. Lift your eyes to Him. And your eyes have lifted a little; a ray has fallen at the corner of your eye—then drop those old vows!
I will not be a culprit in the Saki’s eyes;
Let my intentions to repent break if they must.
Those vows you took never to love—if they are breaking now, let them break.
I will not be a culprit in the Saki’s eyes;
Let my intentions to repent break if they must.
You must have sworn many times: no more love, no more—too much suffering. But that from which you suffered was not love at all.
I used to think I would never weep again, O Josh,
That I would never lose the wealth of my patience, O Josh.
I would shy away even from the shade of love,
Never step outside the Kaaba of reason.
Does one lose one’s honor in the bazaar of love anywhere?
Do the buyers of the wares of wisdom ever weep anywhere?
No hint will pierce my heart again,
No star will glitter on the tip of my eyelashes.
Never again will I recall the hues of lips and cheeks,
No anklet’s tinkle will echo in my heart again.
Never again will this estranged heart speak to me,
No imagining will ever lift the veil of any face.
No more will a message come from the garden of flowers,
No more will anyone peep through the skylight of months and years.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken;
The hem of patience slipped from my hands again.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul,
In the moth’s ashes the moth’s own fire returned.
The firefly that once made nights luminous awoke,
In the blood-weeping eye the sleeping tear awoke.
The sun of reason set, the stars of love arose;
Ice melted in the moonlight and sparks leapt forth.
One has to swear off love because our love is wrong; and those before whom we had raised our goblets were no cupbearers. They had no wine to offer. They themselves were thirsty—thirsty like us. They too were looking for the Saki.
I used to think I would never weep again, O Josh…
So often the thought comes: after all that weeping, what was gained? After shedding so many tears, what did I get? Then a man decides…
I used to think I would never weep again, O Josh,
That I would never lose the wealth of my patience, O Josh…
Now I will never lose my composure, never be impatient. I will never desire, never ask. I will hold my eyes firm; I will not weep; I will never moisten my heart.
I would shy away even from the shade of love,
Never step outside the Kaaba of reason.
Now I will never step outside the temple of reason. I will remain within knowledge; I will never descend into love’s madness.
I would shy away even from the shade of love,
Never step outside the Kaaba of reason.
Honor gets lost in the market of love somewhere—
Now I have become sensible; I will not go to lose my honor in love’s bazaar. I will never become so crazy.
Honor gets lost in the market of love somewhere—
Do buyers of the wares of wisdom ever weep anywhere?
Those filled with philosophical thought—who possess philosophical intellect, who have learned philosophizing, who are jnana-yogis… Do buyers of the wares of wisdom ever weep anywhere?
No hint will pierce my heart again,
No star will glitter on the tip of my eyelashes.
Never again will I recall the hues of lips and cheeks,
No anklet’s tinkle will echo in my heart again.
Never again will this estranged heart speak to me,
No imagining will ever lift the veil of any face.
He had sworn never again to lift any veil. But there is one veil you must lift—must! The veil of the Divine has to be lifted. The anklet-chime of that Supreme Beloved must be heard.
No more will a message come from the garden of flowers,
No more will anyone peep through the window of months and years.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken—
This rock-like faith is broken.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken;
The hem of patience slipped from my hands again.
And the hem of so-called patience and knowledge that I held slipped from my hand. This is not misfortune—this is good fortune.
But alas, this stone of certainty is broken;
The hem of patience slipped from my hands again.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul—
The lamp of that Beloved’s temple lit again; my soul began to call out.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul,
In the moth’s ashes the moth’s own fire returned—
What had fallen as ash, that moth rose alive again. That love you thought had gone—it had not gone; it was sitting hidden somewhere.
Once more the candle of the idol-house lit up in my soul,
In the moth’s ashes the moth’s own fire returned.
The firefly that once made nights luminous awoke,
In the blood-weeping eye the sleeping tear awoke.
The sun of reason set, the stars of love arose;
Ice melted in the moonlight and sparks leapt forth.
Blessed is the hour when the sun of reason sets and the night of love arrives—when stars arise in the sky.
Do not miss this hour—it comes rarely, with great difficulty. In this world there are many temples and mosques of reason, but very few taverns of love. Once in a while, at a Buddha’s, at a Krishna’s, at a Jesus’, there is a tavern of love. There the wine of bliss is poured, drunk, and offered. Later, for centuries, people discuss doctrines in their names. The wine is discussed; the word “wine” is repeated. But no wine is poured then, nor drunk, nor offered. In the scriptures there is talk of wine. Satsang is where wine is still being poured.
It is good, Anand Manu, that absorption in rasa is growing. Drink more. As much as you can, drink. Drink to your fill!
The thought of a snowy goblet, the memory of a ruby-red cup;
In the fragrance of aloeswood the tavern’s memory returns.
Long has it been heaving in the corner of the heart—
The memory of the mad whirls in intoxicated gusts of passion.
It comes again and again in the form of falling lightning—
The memory of the night they lifted the curtain and came to the door.
The Supreme, the Supreme Lover, the Supreme Beloved has knocked at your door—listen. He has lifted your curtain—welcome Him! Let Him enter.
Let all your knowledge go—it is worth two pennies. True knowing ripens only in love. There is a knowledge that is memory, and there is a knowledge that is love. The knowledge of memory has no value—borrowed and stale. The knowledge born of love is cash in hand, true, because it is yours; it is conceived within you; it is born from you.
Second question:
Osho, while the names of the siddhas Saraha and Tilopa shine in distant Tibet, China, and Japan, they never became luminous in the very land of their birth—what could be the reason?
Osho, while the names of the siddhas Saraha and Tilopa shine in distant Tibet, China, and Japan, they never became luminous in the very land of their birth—what could be the reason?
This country is afflicted with punditry. Our greatest misfortune is the heavy, centuries-old burden of scholasticism on the nation’s chest. So whenever a Saraha, a Tilopa, a Kabir, a Gorakh raises his voice, it gets lost in the din of the pundits. And there are many pundits—Saraha is a once-in-a-while rarity. The pundits are a vast brigade, and whatever a Saraha says will naturally run counter to them—it has to. The pundits have theories and nets of logic. When Saraha speaks, he speaks truth. What has truth to do with logic? What has truth to do with theories? When the sun of truth rises, the night of theories begins to break. When the sun of truth rises, the clouds of concepts scatter. Panic spreads.
And the pundits have vested interests. Their livelihood depends on it; it is their very life. People like Saraha pull the ground out from under their feet. That cannot be tolerated. The pundits make a great clamor. They do everything they can to drown out Saraha’s voice.
Anand Maitreya, at least you should not ask this, because you see it here every day. Every possible effort is being made to suppress my voice—every effort. To stop it from reaching people; or if it does reach, to have it arrive so distorted that it cannot be understood, or is misunderstood—this is being attempted in every way. It is happening right here. Why ask about Saraha? This isn’t a matter of abstract theorizing for you; it is unfolding before your eyes; it is happening to you. My voice is being heard in distant lands. You’ll be surprised to know: books are being translated into Greek, English, German, Spanish, Dutch, Italian, French, Danish, Japanese—into the languages of the whole world—but not into Indian languages: not into Bengali, Tamil, Telugu, Punjabi, Urdu. Translations in Greece, Japan, and France; in Holland, England, Germany, Italy, Spain, Mexico, Brazil, Denmark, and America. It may surprise you a little, but it should not. This is what keeps happening, again and again. Tilopa is known in Tibet—with great reverence. Among the few awakened ones the world has seen, Tilopa is one—and radiant! He is known in Japan, in China, in Korea—across Asia, except in India.
What happened? What kind of misfortune is this? Punditry has climbed onto India’s head. There are so many scriptures and so many parrots to repeat them that when someone speaks straight from the heart, the parrots get offended. They can see clearly: if people hear this man’s voice, what will happen to our voices? What will happen to us parrots? All the pundits close ranks.
You’ll be astonished that Hindus stand against me, Muslims against me, Jains against me, Buddhists against me—though among themselves they are each other’s enemies, against me they all unite. If the Jan Sangh opposes me, one could still say, “All right, that figures.” But yesterday I saw the Communist Party propose that the government should give me no support for land or for an ashram in India—the Communist Party! On this, the Jan Sangh and the Communist Party will agree. It looks astonishing, but it should not—because this is how it has always been. Such is this voice.
In a world of the blind, to speak of light is dangerous; they will gouge out your eyes. For them, repairing their own eyes seems a long and costly affair; gouging out yours seems much easier.
What an ancient, crumbling house this world is—and what a young, dancing zest is mine!
If only there were a new world, if only a fresh realm!
This world is old and stale. On the one hand, this decrepit mansion; on the other, truth’s fresh, dewy tongue—like the morning’s first light on the first drop of dew. How can they fit together? If only there were a new world, a new realm, then truth’s new voice could be recognized and received.
But it hasn’t happened yet—and it’s doubtful it ever will—for the world has grown habituated to staleness. The older a “truth,” the more readily people embrace it, though truth is forever new. People quarrel over whose book is older. Hindus say, “Our Vedas are the oldest.” Historians judge them to be three thousand years old, five thousand at most, but Hindus won’t accept that. Lokmanya Tilak wrote that they are at least ninety thousand years old—at least! Scientific historians say three thousand—five, stretched to the limit. Tilak says at least ninety thousand. Why such insistence on dragging age backwards? The notion is: the older the truth, the more precious—if people have believed it for so long, there must be something to it.
But the Jains say, “We’re older than the Rigveda, because the Rigveda mentions the name of our first Tirthankara.” And there’s a point there. If the Rigveda mentions him, he must precede it. And the honor with which he is mentioned suggests he wasn’t a contemporary. We know how to dishonor contemporaries, not honor them. So there’s weight in the claim—by the time the Rigveda was composed, their first Tirthankara must already have been ancient, venerable. People honor only what is old—remember that. So the argument holds; then Jainism would be older than Hinduism.
But others make the same claim. Make it as old as possible—why? Because age has prestige. Like a shop’s reputation—an old shop; reputation itself sells in the marketplace. One can get lakhs merely for goodwill—for the old name, because the shop has run so long; that itself proves it had some merit.
But untruths are far older than truth. In fact, untruths are always old. Untruth can never be new. Only truth can be new, because only truth is alive. Untruth is dead. The divine is new every moment. God is neither five thousand nor fifty thousand years old. God is ever fresh from instant to instant. That is precisely his eternity—that he never grows old. No dust ever settles on him. His mirror forever gleams without dust. His flame gathers no centuries’ soot. His light is smokeless.
Tilopa would have spoken much as I am speaking to you. What is happening to me must have happened to him. It will not surprise me if, after I am gone, India forgets me while people outside remember. No surprise. The temples and mosques here will never accept truth. And if you open a tavern of truth right opposite the temple and mosque, there is bound to be trouble.
Whether this wine sells or not is in God’s hands, O cupbearer!
As for me, I have set up my shop right across from the great mosque.
Set up a wineshop before the Jama Masjid and there will be a fracas. And these are all sellers of wine—Tilopa, Saraha, Kabir, Gorakh. All the knowers come bearing a message to make you drunk with life. But here, everyone “knows.” Here, everyone is under an illusion. Even the beggar by the roadside “knows” what is in the Vedas, what is in the Upanishads! He may know nothing else, but he has two or four phrases by heart: “Aham Brahmasmi! Tat tvam asi!” Such grand words he too can parrot.
I read an anecdote: in a village square they were discussing the Ramayana. The village pundit declared, “Arre, what’s in it anyway? There’s one Ram, one Ravan. That one took that one’s wife. Then that one took this one’s kingdom. And Tulsidas wrote the book, the end!” There—four lines, and the Ramayana is finished! What’s left to say?
This country has accumulated hackneyed, hollow words—and the delusion that we are religious, a land of merit.
Whenever truth arrives, the hardened foundations of this country begin to tremble. When truth arrives, your pillars shake. Will you save your house—or safeguard truth?
China and Tibet could honor Tilopa and Saraha because they never had such a burden of scholasticism. All of Asia could receive Buddha—except India—because Buddha’s words were fresh and new. And the vast Asian mind had no such heavy load. People understood him with simplicity. Here, understanding him became difficult. Here we cut Buddha’s roots.
And Saraha and Tilopa belong to Buddha’s stream. They too are awakened ones—waves rising in the same current. While they were alive, a few lovers gathered around them. While the lamp burned, however much people denied it, some moths always came; some hearts were stirred. But the moment Tilopa leaves the body, our deep darkness returns. The greatest misfortune of this land is that it has forgotten the art of being new. And we even take pride in this. Our politicians keep repeating: “Where is Greece today? Where is Egypt, Babylon, Assyria? All those civilizations vanished—but we! We are still here!”
Neither Egypt nor Greece has vanished. No one has. They have simply kept becoming new. They donned new garments, accepted new forms. We cling to our old clothes. They have rotted, and they rot us too. We have become poor and pitiable—yet we clutch those old garments. We cannot let go. Our forefathers wore them; their forefathers wore them.
We are past-oriented. Our gaze is fixed backward. Life moves forward, our eyes look back. We are like a driver whose car goes forward while he looks behind. If we fall into ditches every day, if accidents happen daily, it’s no wonder. One must look ahead.
Look toward the future. Behind you now is only the dust you’ve passed through. Don’t go on singing the praises of that dust.
Whenever a true master awakens and lives, he wants to turn your eyes toward the future. But your neck is paralyzed; it has grown used to looking back; it cannot look ahead. All our golden ages were in the past, already gone. Ram-rajya has happened—what more can happen now? Whatever good was to happen has happened. Ahead lies only the Kali Yuga—deepening darkness!
This is a sad, despairing civilization. Its very breath has lost the eagerness to live. It is death-oriented. So whenever a living person is born, you cannot attune to him. Yes, a few courageous souls gather around—but in this vast crowd, only a few. As soon as the lamp goes out, those few dissolve like sugar in the ocean.
Only those can understand Saraha and Tilopa who are truly ready to understand—who are willing to drop all prejudices. Lovers can understand; the learned cannot. Pundits cannot. Seekers of truth can understand. Those bound by scriptures cannot. Those whose longing is free, whose beliefs are free, who say, “We don’t yet know; we want to know”—only they can understand. Then surely a Tilopa’s fingers can pluck the strings of your heart’s veena. But you must come to him bringing your veena.
Fill the air with smiles, flowers, kisses, fragrance—
redolent, glad; the soft, intoxicating midnight breeze.
Set a lamp upon the wave of the mind,
spread the radiance of nectar!
Come, and with languid glances shower
on every limb ambrosia—jasmine dust,
saffron, moonlight, sandalwood.
I am crazed with longing,
I am weary, spent,
I am a swooning greenness—grant me rain-showers.
I am restless to resound—by all ten fingers:
Enchantress! Make the strings vibrate, vibrate the strings.
When someone calls from his very life-breath—“O Beloved! O Lover! Vibrate the strings, vibrate the strings! I am restless to resound—by all ten fingers! Vibrate the strings!”—when someone comes to an awakened one with such prayer, such surrender, the veena sings. But those filled with ego, who think they already know—why would they come? What purpose would their coming serve? How will their ego allow it?
It was this country’s good fortune that countless buddhas were born here—and from another angle, its misfortune. Had those awakened ones been born elsewhere, perhaps we would have given them a little respect. The nearer something is, the farther we move from it. The farther it is, the more intense our eagerness to know.
And the pundits have vested interests. Their livelihood depends on it; it is their very life. People like Saraha pull the ground out from under their feet. That cannot be tolerated. The pundits make a great clamor. They do everything they can to drown out Saraha’s voice.
Anand Maitreya, at least you should not ask this, because you see it here every day. Every possible effort is being made to suppress my voice—every effort. To stop it from reaching people; or if it does reach, to have it arrive so distorted that it cannot be understood, or is misunderstood—this is being attempted in every way. It is happening right here. Why ask about Saraha? This isn’t a matter of abstract theorizing for you; it is unfolding before your eyes; it is happening to you. My voice is being heard in distant lands. You’ll be surprised to know: books are being translated into Greek, English, German, Spanish, Dutch, Italian, French, Danish, Japanese—into the languages of the whole world—but not into Indian languages: not into Bengali, Tamil, Telugu, Punjabi, Urdu. Translations in Greece, Japan, and France; in Holland, England, Germany, Italy, Spain, Mexico, Brazil, Denmark, and America. It may surprise you a little, but it should not. This is what keeps happening, again and again. Tilopa is known in Tibet—with great reverence. Among the few awakened ones the world has seen, Tilopa is one—and radiant! He is known in Japan, in China, in Korea—across Asia, except in India.
What happened? What kind of misfortune is this? Punditry has climbed onto India’s head. There are so many scriptures and so many parrots to repeat them that when someone speaks straight from the heart, the parrots get offended. They can see clearly: if people hear this man’s voice, what will happen to our voices? What will happen to us parrots? All the pundits close ranks.
You’ll be astonished that Hindus stand against me, Muslims against me, Jains against me, Buddhists against me—though among themselves they are each other’s enemies, against me they all unite. If the Jan Sangh opposes me, one could still say, “All right, that figures.” But yesterday I saw the Communist Party propose that the government should give me no support for land or for an ashram in India—the Communist Party! On this, the Jan Sangh and the Communist Party will agree. It looks astonishing, but it should not—because this is how it has always been. Such is this voice.
In a world of the blind, to speak of light is dangerous; they will gouge out your eyes. For them, repairing their own eyes seems a long and costly affair; gouging out yours seems much easier.
What an ancient, crumbling house this world is—and what a young, dancing zest is mine!
If only there were a new world, if only a fresh realm!
This world is old and stale. On the one hand, this decrepit mansion; on the other, truth’s fresh, dewy tongue—like the morning’s first light on the first drop of dew. How can they fit together? If only there were a new world, a new realm, then truth’s new voice could be recognized and received.
But it hasn’t happened yet—and it’s doubtful it ever will—for the world has grown habituated to staleness. The older a “truth,” the more readily people embrace it, though truth is forever new. People quarrel over whose book is older. Hindus say, “Our Vedas are the oldest.” Historians judge them to be three thousand years old, five thousand at most, but Hindus won’t accept that. Lokmanya Tilak wrote that they are at least ninety thousand years old—at least! Scientific historians say three thousand—five, stretched to the limit. Tilak says at least ninety thousand. Why such insistence on dragging age backwards? The notion is: the older the truth, the more precious—if people have believed it for so long, there must be something to it.
But the Jains say, “We’re older than the Rigveda, because the Rigveda mentions the name of our first Tirthankara.” And there’s a point there. If the Rigveda mentions him, he must precede it. And the honor with which he is mentioned suggests he wasn’t a contemporary. We know how to dishonor contemporaries, not honor them. So there’s weight in the claim—by the time the Rigveda was composed, their first Tirthankara must already have been ancient, venerable. People honor only what is old—remember that. So the argument holds; then Jainism would be older than Hinduism.
But others make the same claim. Make it as old as possible—why? Because age has prestige. Like a shop’s reputation—an old shop; reputation itself sells in the marketplace. One can get lakhs merely for goodwill—for the old name, because the shop has run so long; that itself proves it had some merit.
But untruths are far older than truth. In fact, untruths are always old. Untruth can never be new. Only truth can be new, because only truth is alive. Untruth is dead. The divine is new every moment. God is neither five thousand nor fifty thousand years old. God is ever fresh from instant to instant. That is precisely his eternity—that he never grows old. No dust ever settles on him. His mirror forever gleams without dust. His flame gathers no centuries’ soot. His light is smokeless.
Tilopa would have spoken much as I am speaking to you. What is happening to me must have happened to him. It will not surprise me if, after I am gone, India forgets me while people outside remember. No surprise. The temples and mosques here will never accept truth. And if you open a tavern of truth right opposite the temple and mosque, there is bound to be trouble.
Whether this wine sells or not is in God’s hands, O cupbearer!
As for me, I have set up my shop right across from the great mosque.
Set up a wineshop before the Jama Masjid and there will be a fracas. And these are all sellers of wine—Tilopa, Saraha, Kabir, Gorakh. All the knowers come bearing a message to make you drunk with life. But here, everyone “knows.” Here, everyone is under an illusion. Even the beggar by the roadside “knows” what is in the Vedas, what is in the Upanishads! He may know nothing else, but he has two or four phrases by heart: “Aham Brahmasmi! Tat tvam asi!” Such grand words he too can parrot.
I read an anecdote: in a village square they were discussing the Ramayana. The village pundit declared, “Arre, what’s in it anyway? There’s one Ram, one Ravan. That one took that one’s wife. Then that one took this one’s kingdom. And Tulsidas wrote the book, the end!” There—four lines, and the Ramayana is finished! What’s left to say?
This country has accumulated hackneyed, hollow words—and the delusion that we are religious, a land of merit.
Whenever truth arrives, the hardened foundations of this country begin to tremble. When truth arrives, your pillars shake. Will you save your house—or safeguard truth?
China and Tibet could honor Tilopa and Saraha because they never had such a burden of scholasticism. All of Asia could receive Buddha—except India—because Buddha’s words were fresh and new. And the vast Asian mind had no such heavy load. People understood him with simplicity. Here, understanding him became difficult. Here we cut Buddha’s roots.
And Saraha and Tilopa belong to Buddha’s stream. They too are awakened ones—waves rising in the same current. While they were alive, a few lovers gathered around them. While the lamp burned, however much people denied it, some moths always came; some hearts were stirred. But the moment Tilopa leaves the body, our deep darkness returns. The greatest misfortune of this land is that it has forgotten the art of being new. And we even take pride in this. Our politicians keep repeating: “Where is Greece today? Where is Egypt, Babylon, Assyria? All those civilizations vanished—but we! We are still here!”
Neither Egypt nor Greece has vanished. No one has. They have simply kept becoming new. They donned new garments, accepted new forms. We cling to our old clothes. They have rotted, and they rot us too. We have become poor and pitiable—yet we clutch those old garments. We cannot let go. Our forefathers wore them; their forefathers wore them.
We are past-oriented. Our gaze is fixed backward. Life moves forward, our eyes look back. We are like a driver whose car goes forward while he looks behind. If we fall into ditches every day, if accidents happen daily, it’s no wonder. One must look ahead.
Look toward the future. Behind you now is only the dust you’ve passed through. Don’t go on singing the praises of that dust.
Whenever a true master awakens and lives, he wants to turn your eyes toward the future. But your neck is paralyzed; it has grown used to looking back; it cannot look ahead. All our golden ages were in the past, already gone. Ram-rajya has happened—what more can happen now? Whatever good was to happen has happened. Ahead lies only the Kali Yuga—deepening darkness!
This is a sad, despairing civilization. Its very breath has lost the eagerness to live. It is death-oriented. So whenever a living person is born, you cannot attune to him. Yes, a few courageous souls gather around—but in this vast crowd, only a few. As soon as the lamp goes out, those few dissolve like sugar in the ocean.
Only those can understand Saraha and Tilopa who are truly ready to understand—who are willing to drop all prejudices. Lovers can understand; the learned cannot. Pundits cannot. Seekers of truth can understand. Those bound by scriptures cannot. Those whose longing is free, whose beliefs are free, who say, “We don’t yet know; we want to know”—only they can understand. Then surely a Tilopa’s fingers can pluck the strings of your heart’s veena. But you must come to him bringing your veena.
Fill the air with smiles, flowers, kisses, fragrance—
redolent, glad; the soft, intoxicating midnight breeze.
Set a lamp upon the wave of the mind,
spread the radiance of nectar!
Come, and with languid glances shower
on every limb ambrosia—jasmine dust,
saffron, moonlight, sandalwood.
I am crazed with longing,
I am weary, spent,
I am a swooning greenness—grant me rain-showers.
I am restless to resound—by all ten fingers:
Enchantress! Make the strings vibrate, vibrate the strings.
When someone calls from his very life-breath—“O Beloved! O Lover! Vibrate the strings, vibrate the strings! I am restless to resound—by all ten fingers! Vibrate the strings!”—when someone comes to an awakened one with such prayer, such surrender, the veena sings. But those filled with ego, who think they already know—why would they come? What purpose would their coming serve? How will their ego allow it?
It was this country’s good fortune that countless buddhas were born here—and from another angle, its misfortune. Had those awakened ones been born elsewhere, perhaps we would have given them a little respect. The nearer something is, the farther we move from it. The farther it is, the more intense our eagerness to know.
In this connection, Sumitra has asked: Osho, you say that wherever a Buddha lives, even the dried-up trees around him become lush and green. But why are the people of Poona withering? When, thousands of miles away in Kathmandu, people merely hearing your voice cannot restrain themselves and joyfully ask, “Will Osho not come here?”—I can only say, “Osho is here.” Even so, their hearts are not satisfied. At the Ashish Osho Meditation Center, every day not only new leaves but new flowers are blooming. Why is this happening? Kindly shed light on it.
Sumitra! This is how it has always been; this is the eternal rule. It is Poona’s misfortune that I am here. As long as I am here, those in Poona will not be able to connect with me. If I move from here, a little connection might be made. There is hesitation in coming. It takes courage even to enter the doorway of this madhushala, this tavern of wine. … “What will people say if they see you there!” There is fear: what will you answer the crowd in the marketplace, the family at home? If a wife comes, she comes afraid—what will she say to her husband when she returns? If a husband comes, he comes afraid—what will he say to his wife, “You—and there!”
And then Poona is the Kashi of Maharashtra; it is crowded with pundits! A pundit to begin with—and then Maharashtrian on top of that… like a bitter gourd with neem poured over it! So the stiffness grows even more. … If one does not drop this stiffness, there is no way to come here. And they cannot drop it.
Sometimes it happens that there is no stiffness—and not everyone is a pundit—still, what is close at hand is taken lightly: “If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—what’s the hurry? We’ll go someday.”
In London a survey was done. People from all over the world come to see the Tower of London. How many Londoners have not seen it? Ten lakh (a million) people in London had not seen it. The Tower that draws the whole world—yet a million Londoners hadn’t been! The psychologists doing the survey asked, “Why?” People said, “We can see it anytime—what’s the hurry?”
In the Second World War, when Hitler began planning to bomb London, and bombs started falling, and the rumor spread that he intended to bring down the Tower, thousands who had lived in London all their lives and had never seen it rushed to see it. Queues formed. The Tower officials asked, “Why suddenly so many?” They replied, “We’ve heard Hitler is going to bomb it. Before the bomb falls, it’s necessary to see it. Since we live here we thought we could see it anytime—but now, with the bombs about to fall, better to see it now.”
I lived in Jabalpur for years. There, on this earth, is one of the most beautiful places in the world—Bhedaghat. In my view there is perhaps no place on earth more beautiful. For two miles the Narmada flows between marble cliffs; on both sides, mountains of marble—a thousand Taj Mahals gathered in one splendor! And the river flowing between—an incomparable world! I took an old professor of mine, who had taught me, to see it. He wept with joy. He had grown old—now he has left this world. When I took him out on a boat into the gorge, he said, “What I am seeing—is it real? It feels like a dream.” He asked the boatman to pull to the side. “I want to touch these marble cliffs to see if they are real.” On a full-moon night such magic happens.
One can hardly believe that on this earth such beauty is possible! And yet there are thousands in Jabalpur who have never gone the thirteen miles to see Bhedaghat. Guests come to their houses expressly to see it, but it never occurs to them to go. It is so near—“We can see it anytime.” What is near, we think we’ll see anytime.
If you don’t believe me, ask Chaitanya and Chetna. I lived for years in Bombay. In the very same building where I lived—Woodlands—Chaitanya and Chetna also lived. We were in the same building, yet they never came to meet me. They must have thought: “We can meet him anytime.” And perhaps they were also afraid that the other residents at Woodlands might find out they were visiting that madman—then there would be trouble. Only when I left Bombay did they come here; and then they were so immersed they never returned to Bombay. They took sannyas and stayed on. They forgot Bombay—left all business and work. Such courage they showed once they reached Poona! But while in Bombay they didn’t have even the courage to come and meet me. Such is the human mind.
Those from Jabalpur who never came to meet me there now come here to meet me. They come here and write: “We’re from Jabalpur—so you must meet us.” I ask them, “Where were you in Jabalpur? I was there for twenty years; you never came to meet me, I never saw you, I don’t know you. Today you come here laying claim!” They write, “We are from Jabalpur—so we should get a special chance to meet.”
Such is this strange world! … So, Sumitra, the people of Kathmandu are fortunate. They are far—so longing arises in their hearts; love is stirred; they feel like rushing here.
Sumitra rushes here. She is old; age has come. Yet she runs. Bearing all hardships, she comes here from Kathmandu; for that reason a natural question arises: you say that where the Buddha is, even dry trees turn lush and green.
What I said is right—but I said it in regard to trees, not people. Look at the trees—how green they are! I said nothing regarding the people of Poona. Nor is there any story like that even in the life of the Buddha. It is said that when the Buddha passed by, dry trees became green—but nowhere is it said that blockheads became wise; nowhere is it mentioned that fools suddenly attained understanding. Out-of-season flowers bloomed on trees—yes, that is told. But that the lotus of meditation bloomed out of season in someone’s inner being—no.
Trees are straightforward, simple, guileless; they are not as complex as humans. Trees are neither Brahmin nor pundit; neither Dvivedi, nor Trivedi, nor Chaturvedi.
A friend used to write to me. Some mistake occurred. I thought he was a Dvivedi, so I addressed him as Dvivedi in my replies. He was a Trivedi. Finally he wrote: “You keep calling me Dvivedi—it hurts me. I am a Trivedi.” So I began addressing him as Chaturvedi. I told him, “Let the old accounts be settled. Fine—let’s make you the knower of all four Vedas.”
Trees are not so foolish—who is Dvivedi, who Trivedi, who Chaturvedi! Trees are not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian. They have nothing to do with the Quran, nothing to do with the Dhammapada. Trees are plain and innocent—abiding in the Divine. So that the trees turned green and also flowered—I can believe it. However impossible such a story may appear, it can be possible. But if there were even one mention that the Buddha passed by and some dunce sitting there became a wise man in an instant—I would not believe it. I can believe flowers came upon trees; it can be. Because I know trees, and I know people. People threw stones at the Buddha. It is possible that a tree, whose fruit was about to drop, held it back lest it fall on the Buddha sitting in meditation below—so it wouldn’t hurt him. That is possible. But people threw stones. People rolled boulders from the hills so that the Buddha meditating below would be swept away by the avalanche. It is said the boulder somehow swerved aside—passed by and spared him at the last moment.
They let loose a mad elephant upon the Buddha—people did this! And it is said when the elephant approached the Buddha, he stood with head bowed. Even a mad elephant has that much sensitivity—but what can you say of those who released him! And the one who did it was not a stranger—it was the Buddha’s cousin, Devadatta. A cousin suffers the deepest pain, for they grew up together, of the same age. Then the Buddha received such genius, such glory, such radiance—while Devadatta remained as he was. Jealousy arose. In the Buddha’s family jealousy arose; in the villages jealousy arose; in the near and dear jealousy arose. Those who were close became jealous. Those who were far did not. Those far away wanted to come close. Those who were close began to move away. Such is the arrangement of human life.
And what I am teaching is of such a nature … the fault is mine. The fault is Saraha’s and Tilopa’s, the fault is Buddha’s and Mahavira’s. What fault is it of the people? People are as they are. If there is blame, it belongs to those who want to change them.
What I am saying are live embers. Only those who wish to be burned can hold out their bowl to receive them. Only those ready to be consumed—these words are for moths, not for everyone.
So do not think that no one in Poona is coming. The moths have come; the moths are here. Moths will be few.
Keep this also in mind: in Kathmandu, when ten or twenty-five gather, dance, and sing, you feel that so many in Kathmandu are becoming eager! Ten, twenty, twenty-five in Poona are eager as well. The whole of Poona is not eager, nor the whole of Kathmandu. So keep the proportion in mind. And I am not present in Kathmandu, so those who are eager are eager for me; the rest are not my enemies. Where I am present, people have to split—either friend or foe; they cannot remain in between. There is no way to stay in the middle. Such is not the destiny for one like me—that anyone could remain neutral. He will have to become either a friend or a foe; either fall in love with me or be filled with hatred toward me. A relationship with me will have to be formed.
Here the difference arises. In Kathmandu, or Rangoon, or Tokyo, those who love me love me; the rest have nothing to do with me. But here in Poona, where I am present, not a single person can remain neutral; either love or hate—some tie with me must be made. I am so present that some tie has to be made. You will not find in Poona a single person who will say, “We have nothing to do with him—we are neither for nor against.” Such a person you will not find. This is natural.
And then, what I am saying is itself fire.
“My heresy of love is the radiance that ripens the seed of faith;
I am a temple-lamp whose light reaches even to the mosque.”
My “heresy” is love. I am teaching the religion of love. I am teaching something else entirely—something the so-called religious will call heresy; they will call me a kafir. Because I do not teach God; I teach love. For I know that one who learns love finds God inevitably—so raising talk of God is pointless. And one who gets tangled in God-talk never gives birth to love in his life—so how will he find God?
“My heresy of love is the radiance that ripens the seed of faith.”
And what I teach is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian—it lies beyond the boundaries of all religions. I speak the very essence that underlies them all. And how many recognize the essence? People are familiar with the nonessential. A Hindu thinks, if he has put on the sacred thread, he has become a Hindu. What has the thread to do with being a Hindu? He thinks, if he has grown a shikha (tuft), he has become a Hindu. What has a tuft to do with being a Hindu? A Muslim thinks, if circumcision is done, he has become a Muslim. What has circumcision to do with being a Muslim?
People take petty, nonessential things to be religion. So when you speak of the essence, ninety-nine percent of what they cling to is not even being addressed. Those ninety-nine percent things have become terribly important in their lives. Thus whenever anything of religion is said, it will be neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. Everyone will be annoyed.
“I am a temple-lamp whose light reaches even to the mosque.”
I am a lamp of the temple whose light falls upon the mosque as well. I am a temple-lamp whose light reaches the sanctuary of the mosque. Those who can see it will be astonished—that in me temple and mosque have become one; that though I am a lamp in the temple, my light is falling upon the mosque. But those who cannot understand—and they are the many—their crowds will be troubled by my talk of love and my worship of love.
“For the devotee of love, love itself is the law;
To remember someone and sigh is worship.”
What I am saying is a small thing—a formula—the fundamental seed. For the devotee of love, love itself is the discipline; love is the rule, love is the austerity. To remember someone and let a sigh escape is worship. It is enough that two tears of love fall from your eyes; that your eyes lift to the sky in bliss; that for a moment you dance; that you are submerged in the beauty of this vast existence—the thing has happened. No Quran read, no Vedic mantras recited—and the thing has happened! Without saying anything, the matter is done. How many will understand this? Only a few. And those who do will pass through great pain, because love takes one into unbearable anguish.
Love is fire. As gold is tempered in the flame, Sumitra, so one must be tempered in the fire of love.
We thrust gold into the fire. If gold itself had the freedom to choose whether to fall into the fire, no gold would enter; it would run away—“We don’t want to go into fire.” How would it know that only in fire is refinement!
Give—keep giving, without cease; do not leave me,
Keep thrusting into the flesh such burning splinters,
Keep beating, heating, twisting this body of mine,
O my delightful pain!
Each twinge, each constriction brings some new savor;
Breaking the scab, it fills the heart with freshness,
And, by pricking the soul, it awakens it.
At the crackling flutter of your dusky wings,
The flights of my ecstasies soar even higher;
The body cries out in pain, yet the soul keeps singing;
The fire you kindle
Drinks the heat of some harsher blaze and grows serene.
Days that were dull and lifeless
Now glow with some new light;
The world that was parched—who knows—
Flashes moment to moment with the sheen of some rare, unattainable beauty.
All is divine, fresh, intense,
All around, waves of the urge to create are rising;
There is a sting, a throb—or making me into an instrument,
Some fairy is singing songs upon the strings of my veins.
Those who understand pain and pass through it will be amazed. Pain refines, scours. And if you love, you will have to enter pain. Love is not a cheap bargain. People have made religion very cheap. Love is a costly bargain; you must pay with your very life. Those who can pay—only they will come to me.
The lamp is lit; the moths have been invited. Those who are moths will come. Do not worry about others, Sumitra. It is their whim, their freedom. If they must hate me, let them hate. If they must insult me, let them insult. If they must be hostile, let them be hostile. Do not even think of them. Do not waste time thinking about them. When their hour comes, when their time ripens, when the call of the Divine is heard in their life—if I am here, my voice will draw them; otherwise someone else’s will. Some other lamp will become the cause of the change in their life.
But everything happens in its season. Your coming to me is not accidental. Your season has arrived. You are ready—therefore you have come. Those who are not ready will come when they are. If I am no longer here, it makes no difference—someone else will be. Whenever anyone longs for truth, some guide becomes available. Whenever the disciple is ready, the master appears.
And then Poona is the Kashi of Maharashtra; it is crowded with pundits! A pundit to begin with—and then Maharashtrian on top of that… like a bitter gourd with neem poured over it! So the stiffness grows even more. … If one does not drop this stiffness, there is no way to come here. And they cannot drop it.
Sometimes it happens that there is no stiffness—and not everyone is a pundit—still, what is close at hand is taken lightly: “If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—what’s the hurry? We’ll go someday.”
In London a survey was done. People from all over the world come to see the Tower of London. How many Londoners have not seen it? Ten lakh (a million) people in London had not seen it. The Tower that draws the whole world—yet a million Londoners hadn’t been! The psychologists doing the survey asked, “Why?” People said, “We can see it anytime—what’s the hurry?”
In the Second World War, when Hitler began planning to bomb London, and bombs started falling, and the rumor spread that he intended to bring down the Tower, thousands who had lived in London all their lives and had never seen it rushed to see it. Queues formed. The Tower officials asked, “Why suddenly so many?” They replied, “We’ve heard Hitler is going to bomb it. Before the bomb falls, it’s necessary to see it. Since we live here we thought we could see it anytime—but now, with the bombs about to fall, better to see it now.”
I lived in Jabalpur for years. There, on this earth, is one of the most beautiful places in the world—Bhedaghat. In my view there is perhaps no place on earth more beautiful. For two miles the Narmada flows between marble cliffs; on both sides, mountains of marble—a thousand Taj Mahals gathered in one splendor! And the river flowing between—an incomparable world! I took an old professor of mine, who had taught me, to see it. He wept with joy. He had grown old—now he has left this world. When I took him out on a boat into the gorge, he said, “What I am seeing—is it real? It feels like a dream.” He asked the boatman to pull to the side. “I want to touch these marble cliffs to see if they are real.” On a full-moon night such magic happens.
One can hardly believe that on this earth such beauty is possible! And yet there are thousands in Jabalpur who have never gone the thirteen miles to see Bhedaghat. Guests come to their houses expressly to see it, but it never occurs to them to go. It is so near—“We can see it anytime.” What is near, we think we’ll see anytime.
If you don’t believe me, ask Chaitanya and Chetna. I lived for years in Bombay. In the very same building where I lived—Woodlands—Chaitanya and Chetna also lived. We were in the same building, yet they never came to meet me. They must have thought: “We can meet him anytime.” And perhaps they were also afraid that the other residents at Woodlands might find out they were visiting that madman—then there would be trouble. Only when I left Bombay did they come here; and then they were so immersed they never returned to Bombay. They took sannyas and stayed on. They forgot Bombay—left all business and work. Such courage they showed once they reached Poona! But while in Bombay they didn’t have even the courage to come and meet me. Such is the human mind.
Those from Jabalpur who never came to meet me there now come here to meet me. They come here and write: “We’re from Jabalpur—so you must meet us.” I ask them, “Where were you in Jabalpur? I was there for twenty years; you never came to meet me, I never saw you, I don’t know you. Today you come here laying claim!” They write, “We are from Jabalpur—so we should get a special chance to meet.”
Such is this strange world! … So, Sumitra, the people of Kathmandu are fortunate. They are far—so longing arises in their hearts; love is stirred; they feel like rushing here.
Sumitra rushes here. She is old; age has come. Yet she runs. Bearing all hardships, she comes here from Kathmandu; for that reason a natural question arises: you say that where the Buddha is, even dry trees turn lush and green.
What I said is right—but I said it in regard to trees, not people. Look at the trees—how green they are! I said nothing regarding the people of Poona. Nor is there any story like that even in the life of the Buddha. It is said that when the Buddha passed by, dry trees became green—but nowhere is it said that blockheads became wise; nowhere is it mentioned that fools suddenly attained understanding. Out-of-season flowers bloomed on trees—yes, that is told. But that the lotus of meditation bloomed out of season in someone’s inner being—no.
Trees are straightforward, simple, guileless; they are not as complex as humans. Trees are neither Brahmin nor pundit; neither Dvivedi, nor Trivedi, nor Chaturvedi.
A friend used to write to me. Some mistake occurred. I thought he was a Dvivedi, so I addressed him as Dvivedi in my replies. He was a Trivedi. Finally he wrote: “You keep calling me Dvivedi—it hurts me. I am a Trivedi.” So I began addressing him as Chaturvedi. I told him, “Let the old accounts be settled. Fine—let’s make you the knower of all four Vedas.”
Trees are not so foolish—who is Dvivedi, who Trivedi, who Chaturvedi! Trees are not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian. They have nothing to do with the Quran, nothing to do with the Dhammapada. Trees are plain and innocent—abiding in the Divine. So that the trees turned green and also flowered—I can believe it. However impossible such a story may appear, it can be possible. But if there were even one mention that the Buddha passed by and some dunce sitting there became a wise man in an instant—I would not believe it. I can believe flowers came upon trees; it can be. Because I know trees, and I know people. People threw stones at the Buddha. It is possible that a tree, whose fruit was about to drop, held it back lest it fall on the Buddha sitting in meditation below—so it wouldn’t hurt him. That is possible. But people threw stones. People rolled boulders from the hills so that the Buddha meditating below would be swept away by the avalanche. It is said the boulder somehow swerved aside—passed by and spared him at the last moment.
They let loose a mad elephant upon the Buddha—people did this! And it is said when the elephant approached the Buddha, he stood with head bowed. Even a mad elephant has that much sensitivity—but what can you say of those who released him! And the one who did it was not a stranger—it was the Buddha’s cousin, Devadatta. A cousin suffers the deepest pain, for they grew up together, of the same age. Then the Buddha received such genius, such glory, such radiance—while Devadatta remained as he was. Jealousy arose. In the Buddha’s family jealousy arose; in the villages jealousy arose; in the near and dear jealousy arose. Those who were close became jealous. Those who were far did not. Those far away wanted to come close. Those who were close began to move away. Such is the arrangement of human life.
And what I am teaching is of such a nature … the fault is mine. The fault is Saraha’s and Tilopa’s, the fault is Buddha’s and Mahavira’s. What fault is it of the people? People are as they are. If there is blame, it belongs to those who want to change them.
What I am saying are live embers. Only those who wish to be burned can hold out their bowl to receive them. Only those ready to be consumed—these words are for moths, not for everyone.
So do not think that no one in Poona is coming. The moths have come; the moths are here. Moths will be few.
Keep this also in mind: in Kathmandu, when ten or twenty-five gather, dance, and sing, you feel that so many in Kathmandu are becoming eager! Ten, twenty, twenty-five in Poona are eager as well. The whole of Poona is not eager, nor the whole of Kathmandu. So keep the proportion in mind. And I am not present in Kathmandu, so those who are eager are eager for me; the rest are not my enemies. Where I am present, people have to split—either friend or foe; they cannot remain in between. There is no way to stay in the middle. Such is not the destiny for one like me—that anyone could remain neutral. He will have to become either a friend or a foe; either fall in love with me or be filled with hatred toward me. A relationship with me will have to be formed.
Here the difference arises. In Kathmandu, or Rangoon, or Tokyo, those who love me love me; the rest have nothing to do with me. But here in Poona, where I am present, not a single person can remain neutral; either love or hate—some tie with me must be made. I am so present that some tie has to be made. You will not find in Poona a single person who will say, “We have nothing to do with him—we are neither for nor against.” Such a person you will not find. This is natural.
And then, what I am saying is itself fire.
“My heresy of love is the radiance that ripens the seed of faith;
I am a temple-lamp whose light reaches even to the mosque.”
My “heresy” is love. I am teaching the religion of love. I am teaching something else entirely—something the so-called religious will call heresy; they will call me a kafir. Because I do not teach God; I teach love. For I know that one who learns love finds God inevitably—so raising talk of God is pointless. And one who gets tangled in God-talk never gives birth to love in his life—so how will he find God?
“My heresy of love is the radiance that ripens the seed of faith.”
And what I teach is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian—it lies beyond the boundaries of all religions. I speak the very essence that underlies them all. And how many recognize the essence? People are familiar with the nonessential. A Hindu thinks, if he has put on the sacred thread, he has become a Hindu. What has the thread to do with being a Hindu? He thinks, if he has grown a shikha (tuft), he has become a Hindu. What has a tuft to do with being a Hindu? A Muslim thinks, if circumcision is done, he has become a Muslim. What has circumcision to do with being a Muslim?
People take petty, nonessential things to be religion. So when you speak of the essence, ninety-nine percent of what they cling to is not even being addressed. Those ninety-nine percent things have become terribly important in their lives. Thus whenever anything of religion is said, it will be neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. Everyone will be annoyed.
“I am a temple-lamp whose light reaches even to the mosque.”
I am a lamp of the temple whose light falls upon the mosque as well. I am a temple-lamp whose light reaches the sanctuary of the mosque. Those who can see it will be astonished—that in me temple and mosque have become one; that though I am a lamp in the temple, my light is falling upon the mosque. But those who cannot understand—and they are the many—their crowds will be troubled by my talk of love and my worship of love.
“For the devotee of love, love itself is the law;
To remember someone and sigh is worship.”
What I am saying is a small thing—a formula—the fundamental seed. For the devotee of love, love itself is the discipline; love is the rule, love is the austerity. To remember someone and let a sigh escape is worship. It is enough that two tears of love fall from your eyes; that your eyes lift to the sky in bliss; that for a moment you dance; that you are submerged in the beauty of this vast existence—the thing has happened. No Quran read, no Vedic mantras recited—and the thing has happened! Without saying anything, the matter is done. How many will understand this? Only a few. And those who do will pass through great pain, because love takes one into unbearable anguish.
Love is fire. As gold is tempered in the flame, Sumitra, so one must be tempered in the fire of love.
We thrust gold into the fire. If gold itself had the freedom to choose whether to fall into the fire, no gold would enter; it would run away—“We don’t want to go into fire.” How would it know that only in fire is refinement!
Give—keep giving, without cease; do not leave me,
Keep thrusting into the flesh such burning splinters,
Keep beating, heating, twisting this body of mine,
O my delightful pain!
Each twinge, each constriction brings some new savor;
Breaking the scab, it fills the heart with freshness,
And, by pricking the soul, it awakens it.
At the crackling flutter of your dusky wings,
The flights of my ecstasies soar even higher;
The body cries out in pain, yet the soul keeps singing;
The fire you kindle
Drinks the heat of some harsher blaze and grows serene.
Days that were dull and lifeless
Now glow with some new light;
The world that was parched—who knows—
Flashes moment to moment with the sheen of some rare, unattainable beauty.
All is divine, fresh, intense,
All around, waves of the urge to create are rising;
There is a sting, a throb—or making me into an instrument,
Some fairy is singing songs upon the strings of my veins.
Those who understand pain and pass through it will be amazed. Pain refines, scours. And if you love, you will have to enter pain. Love is not a cheap bargain. People have made religion very cheap. Love is a costly bargain; you must pay with your very life. Those who can pay—only they will come to me.
The lamp is lit; the moths have been invited. Those who are moths will come. Do not worry about others, Sumitra. It is their whim, their freedom. If they must hate me, let them hate. If they must insult me, let them insult. If they must be hostile, let them be hostile. Do not even think of them. Do not waste time thinking about them. When their hour comes, when their time ripens, when the call of the Divine is heard in their life—if I am here, my voice will draw them; otherwise someone else’s will. Some other lamp will become the cause of the change in their life.
But everything happens in its season. Your coming to me is not accidental. Your season has arrived. You are ready—therefore you have come. Those who are not ready will come when they are. If I am no longer here, it makes no difference—someone else will be. Whenever anyone longs for truth, some guide becomes available. Whenever the disciple is ready, the master appears.
Fourth question:
Osho, I am breaking. I keep sinking. I have come into your refuge. Osho, accept me.
Osho, I am breaking. I keep sinking. I have come into your refuge. Osho, accept me.
Vedant Sagar! There is still more breaking to happen, more scattering, more sinking. You have to be erased. Embrace death. This mind has to be shattered. It has to be finished completely. Only then will you know who you are.
On the way there will be many failures, and many hardships too. Before the destination arrives, who knows how many thorns there are on the path. The path is thorn-strewn. Do not be alarmed.
I will not bow before misfortune,
though today I may have failed in life!
Not for a moment has the spirit of practice slept,
and that I should go defeated—there is no such thing.
I will not tire on these lonely roads,
even if the goal is far, far away!
I will not bow before misfortune,
though today I may have failed in life!
Today new-moon darkness has spread everywhere,
but tomorrow, smiles will dawn on every side.
I will not halt in the crippled indecision of the mind,
even if there is no support close at hand!
I will not bow before misfortune,
though today I may have failed in life!
Many times defeat will fall into your hands. Only by losing again and again does one learn the art of winning. Only by being erased again and again does one come to be. Many times thorns will prick your hands. Whoever sets out to gather flowers must be prepared to be pricked by thorns.
Do not be in a hurry. Do not be impatient. Keep walking.
Do not lose courage!
Amid the thorns, the mind-lotus will bloom one day.
Do not lose courage!
If storms come to you,
play with them.
Whatever great boulder they hurl your way,
endure it!
You know it well—
these days are the season of rains;
there is an uproar in the sky,
the clouds are on the run,
before you existence resounds with their calls!
Quivering lightning—granted;
before you, a play
of many fireworks!
If you keep walking ceaselessly upon the path,
one day your goal will come to meet you!
Do not lose courage!
Amid the thorns, the mind-lotus will bloom one day!
Do not lose courage!
There is really no reason to lose. Defeat is the ladder to victory.
You say: “I am breaking, I keep sinking.” Do not fear in the least. When a sculptor makes a statue, he lifts his chisel and breaks the stone. If only the stone had awareness, it would start screaming, “Don’t cut me, don’t break me!” It is fortunate that the stone has no awareness; it lets its parts be broken, it allows itself to be shattered. And then one day the image of Buddha emerges, or of Jesus.
In the same way, when you come you are an unhewn stone. Let me lift the chisel; let me wield the hammer. Let me break you. Do not run away halfway.
Do not lose courage! The happening will happen. If you stay, if you remain, then one day the image of Buddha will also manifest within you. The image of Buddha is hidden within everyone—hidden within every stone. Only a little of the useless, inessential part has to be chipped away. That is your mind. That is your craving, your lust. It needs to be cut away a bit. Cutting is painful, because for so many births we have taken it to be our own; suddenly letting it go, bidding it farewell—there is resistance, there is restlessness, there is panic.
And you say: “Lord, accept me!” That I have already done. I have accepted even those who have not accepted me. From my side the acceptance is complete. The obstacle will arise on your side; from my side there is no obstacle, no hindrance. I am ready to take you on a far journey. I keep calling. I have accepted—indeed. It is in your being able to accept that the difficulty comes. And naturally the difficulty comes to you, because it is you who must break. It is your limbs that will be shattered. It is you who must bear the pain.
Do not lose courage!
Amid the thorns, the mind-lotus will bloom one day.
Do not lose courage!
On the way there will be many failures, and many hardships too. Before the destination arrives, who knows how many thorns there are on the path. The path is thorn-strewn. Do not be alarmed.
I will not bow before misfortune,
though today I may have failed in life!
Not for a moment has the spirit of practice slept,
and that I should go defeated—there is no such thing.
I will not tire on these lonely roads,
even if the goal is far, far away!
I will not bow before misfortune,
though today I may have failed in life!
Today new-moon darkness has spread everywhere,
but tomorrow, smiles will dawn on every side.
I will not halt in the crippled indecision of the mind,
even if there is no support close at hand!
I will not bow before misfortune,
though today I may have failed in life!
Many times defeat will fall into your hands. Only by losing again and again does one learn the art of winning. Only by being erased again and again does one come to be. Many times thorns will prick your hands. Whoever sets out to gather flowers must be prepared to be pricked by thorns.
Do not be in a hurry. Do not be impatient. Keep walking.
Do not lose courage!
Amid the thorns, the mind-lotus will bloom one day.
Do not lose courage!
If storms come to you,
play with them.
Whatever great boulder they hurl your way,
endure it!
You know it well—
these days are the season of rains;
there is an uproar in the sky,
the clouds are on the run,
before you existence resounds with their calls!
Quivering lightning—granted;
before you, a play
of many fireworks!
If you keep walking ceaselessly upon the path,
one day your goal will come to meet you!
Do not lose courage!
Amid the thorns, the mind-lotus will bloom one day!
Do not lose courage!
There is really no reason to lose. Defeat is the ladder to victory.
You say: “I am breaking, I keep sinking.” Do not fear in the least. When a sculptor makes a statue, he lifts his chisel and breaks the stone. If only the stone had awareness, it would start screaming, “Don’t cut me, don’t break me!” It is fortunate that the stone has no awareness; it lets its parts be broken, it allows itself to be shattered. And then one day the image of Buddha emerges, or of Jesus.
In the same way, when you come you are an unhewn stone. Let me lift the chisel; let me wield the hammer. Let me break you. Do not run away halfway.
Do not lose courage! The happening will happen. If you stay, if you remain, then one day the image of Buddha will also manifest within you. The image of Buddha is hidden within everyone—hidden within every stone. Only a little of the useless, inessential part has to be chipped away. That is your mind. That is your craving, your lust. It needs to be cut away a bit. Cutting is painful, because for so many births we have taken it to be our own; suddenly letting it go, bidding it farewell—there is resistance, there is restlessness, there is panic.
And you say: “Lord, accept me!” That I have already done. I have accepted even those who have not accepted me. From my side the acceptance is complete. The obstacle will arise on your side; from my side there is no obstacle, no hindrance. I am ready to take you on a far journey. I keep calling. I have accepted—indeed. It is in your being able to accept that the difficulty comes. And naturally the difficulty comes to you, because it is you who must break. It is your limbs that will be shattered. It is you who must bear the pain.
Do not lose courage!
Amid the thorns, the mind-lotus will bloom one day.
Do not lose courage!
Fifth question:
Osho, the one who sees all and dwells within everyone—why does he still not come to be known? How does that Seer and Witness of all come to be known? Please explain.
Osho, the one who sees all and dwells within everyone—why does he still not come to be known? How does that Seer and Witness of all come to be known? Please explain.
Balakrishna Chaitanya, precisely because it is the knower of all, it does not come into knowing. The very principle in you that knows—that is it. How will you know it? And by what will you know it? Whatever you know is not you. Whatever you come to know, know this: this is not me. This is the process of neti-neti. Whatever is known, say: neti—this is not me. I am the knower. I cannot be known. I cannot be an object of knowledge; I am the subject, the knower. I cannot be the seen; I am the Seer.
How will you make the Seer into the seen? And if you could make the Seer into the seen, before whom would it then be seen? It is like trying to grab a pair of tongs with that very pair of tongs—you will go mad. Try it some day: try to catch a pair of tongs with the same tongs. You will start going crazy. Try to see your own eye with your own eye—you will get into difficulty. The eye can see everything, but it cannot see itself. How could it see itself? And if it did see itself, then instantly it would be other than what is seen. You can see the eye only in a mirror—but what you see in the mirror is merely the eye’s shade, its reflection, not the eye itself.
Therefore self-knowledge happens only in love; love is the mirror. The one you love becomes a mirror. In that mirror your own reflection appears. But it is a shadow. Remember, what you see in the mirror is only a shadow. In love too, only the shadow of the self is glimpsed.
Yet love is the nearest that comes to knowledge; beyond this there is no other knowing. If, with eyes closed, you try to see yourself, you will never be able to see yourself.
“Self-knowledge” is a very paradoxical term. In truth it does not mean what the word suggests. Self-knowledge means: where nothing remains to be known, nothing remains to be seen—no object at all; where all objecthood has vanished; where only the Seer remains. It is not that you will see it; but there will be the experience, the final recognition, that now only I remain—now only I am; now nothing appears. In this emptiness self-knowledge happens.
But do not be misled by the word “self-knowledge,” because it sounds as if, just as we know others, we will know the self too; as the tree is visible, these pillars are visible, these people are visible—so one day, sitting inside, we will see, “Here is the self!” If you think so, you are mistaken. You will never see the self in that way.
Self-knowledge means only this: when nothing remains to be seen, the very capacity to see comes to a recognition of itself. Recognition—just a sense, just a subtle sensing. You will not be able to pounce and grab it, saying, “Here is the self; I’ve found it.” Whom will you meet? There are not two there—there is only one. Who will know? By whom will it be known?
You ask: “The one who sees all and dwells within everyone—why does he still not come to be known?” For this very reason! That is exactly why it does not come into knowing!
Ever, in the heart’s rhythm,
from the heartbeats—who are you?
Across my life-breaths a darkness
of sorrow-clouds is spreading;
today your splendor
has grown rare to behold.
In the tones of the breath, unbroken,
in the scale of notes—who are you?
On the harsh path of ancient pain
my steps are growing weary today,
and though I search, I cannot find
your dim and faded footprints.
In stillness, in repose, in motionless motion,
unceasing—who are you?
I cannot erase today
the strong images of your remembrance;
as tears they spill and roll,
these jewels of my heart.
In ceaseless agony today,
as consolation—who are you?
Even breaths, in mockery,
are growing tired today;
on the path, in dense dark,
my feet now wander astray.
In the gloom of long despair,
as a lamp of hope—who are you?
Tears, for your worship,
fall each day, unknowing;
a Diwali of pain-lamps
has risen in my heart to celebrate.
In the flame of the silent lamp,
as illumination—who are you?
Ever, in the heart’s rhythm,
from the heartbeats—who are you?
Only such a light, subtle sensing will be there—a faint intimation. But you will not be able to see it. You cannot hold it in your hand. It is inexorably the Seer and cannot become the seen. So what to do? Then what to do? Only one thing can be done: bid farewell to the seen. Whatever is seen, let it be dismissed. Let no scene remain upon the screen.
Have you ever noticed? You go to the cinema to watch a film. It begins—the play of light and shadow starts upon a blank white screen—and you become absorbed. When you are completely absorbed in watching, when the story grips your very life, you lose awareness of yourself—you forget that you are the watcher. The seen becomes everything; the Seer becomes null. The Seer is forgotten; the scenes become all in all. If the scene is tragic, tears stream from your eyes. If the scene is exciting, you straighten up in your seat. If the scene is terrifying, a cry escapes your mouth. But then the film ends, the screen is blank again, the play of light and shadow dissolves. Then, notice: suddenly you are startled into remembrance—ah, the film is over, now let’s go home. You get up. For two hours you had completely forgotten that you are someone and that you even have a home, that your wife may be waiting. Everything was forgotten. No worry, no concern. When you are not there, what worry, what concern? Now everything returns at once—awareness returns, self-awareness returns. Wiping your eyes, you walk toward home.
This world is a picture-story. You have seen everything else here, but in seeing everything else you have forgotten yourself; you have not retained the remembrance of yourself—not even the faintest trace of it.
Sannyas means only this: awaken the remembrance of yourself. Slowly, slowly, awaken the Seer. And as the Seer awakens, the curtain of the world becomes empty. The state of samadhi means only this: where all the scenes are lost and the Seer alone remains. There is nothing on the screen now; the film has ended—nothing remains but to go home. The consciousness that goes home is liberated consciousness. The consciousness returning to its source is liberated consciousness. This is nirvana.
All the experiments of meditation—however many the methods—do essentially one thing: how to bid the moving pictures on the screen of your mind goodbye. Gradually, gradually, all the images depart, and a pure emptiness remains surrounding you. In that very emptiness self-remembrance happens. “Remembrance” is the right word—“seeing” is not; “knowledge” is not the right word—“bodh,” awakening, is the right word. An awakening arises: I am the witness.
And remember, when I say an awakening arises that “I am the witness,” no such words are formed as “I am the witness.” I have to use words to tell you. It is simply such an awareness, a wordless knowing—I am the witness. In that very instant, the revolution happens. In that very instant you leap from the seen to the Seer. That leap is nirvana. That leap is supreme bliss. All pains are gone, all pleasures too—now the great bliss has come; now ananda has manifested.
How will you make the Seer into the seen? And if you could make the Seer into the seen, before whom would it then be seen? It is like trying to grab a pair of tongs with that very pair of tongs—you will go mad. Try it some day: try to catch a pair of tongs with the same tongs. You will start going crazy. Try to see your own eye with your own eye—you will get into difficulty. The eye can see everything, but it cannot see itself. How could it see itself? And if it did see itself, then instantly it would be other than what is seen. You can see the eye only in a mirror—but what you see in the mirror is merely the eye’s shade, its reflection, not the eye itself.
Therefore self-knowledge happens only in love; love is the mirror. The one you love becomes a mirror. In that mirror your own reflection appears. But it is a shadow. Remember, what you see in the mirror is only a shadow. In love too, only the shadow of the self is glimpsed.
Yet love is the nearest that comes to knowledge; beyond this there is no other knowing. If, with eyes closed, you try to see yourself, you will never be able to see yourself.
“Self-knowledge” is a very paradoxical term. In truth it does not mean what the word suggests. Self-knowledge means: where nothing remains to be known, nothing remains to be seen—no object at all; where all objecthood has vanished; where only the Seer remains. It is not that you will see it; but there will be the experience, the final recognition, that now only I remain—now only I am; now nothing appears. In this emptiness self-knowledge happens.
But do not be misled by the word “self-knowledge,” because it sounds as if, just as we know others, we will know the self too; as the tree is visible, these pillars are visible, these people are visible—so one day, sitting inside, we will see, “Here is the self!” If you think so, you are mistaken. You will never see the self in that way.
Self-knowledge means only this: when nothing remains to be seen, the very capacity to see comes to a recognition of itself. Recognition—just a sense, just a subtle sensing. You will not be able to pounce and grab it, saying, “Here is the self; I’ve found it.” Whom will you meet? There are not two there—there is only one. Who will know? By whom will it be known?
You ask: “The one who sees all and dwells within everyone—why does he still not come to be known?” For this very reason! That is exactly why it does not come into knowing!
Ever, in the heart’s rhythm,
from the heartbeats—who are you?
Across my life-breaths a darkness
of sorrow-clouds is spreading;
today your splendor
has grown rare to behold.
In the tones of the breath, unbroken,
in the scale of notes—who are you?
On the harsh path of ancient pain
my steps are growing weary today,
and though I search, I cannot find
your dim and faded footprints.
In stillness, in repose, in motionless motion,
unceasing—who are you?
I cannot erase today
the strong images of your remembrance;
as tears they spill and roll,
these jewels of my heart.
In ceaseless agony today,
as consolation—who are you?
Even breaths, in mockery,
are growing tired today;
on the path, in dense dark,
my feet now wander astray.
In the gloom of long despair,
as a lamp of hope—who are you?
Tears, for your worship,
fall each day, unknowing;
a Diwali of pain-lamps
has risen in my heart to celebrate.
In the flame of the silent lamp,
as illumination—who are you?
Ever, in the heart’s rhythm,
from the heartbeats—who are you?
Only such a light, subtle sensing will be there—a faint intimation. But you will not be able to see it. You cannot hold it in your hand. It is inexorably the Seer and cannot become the seen. So what to do? Then what to do? Only one thing can be done: bid farewell to the seen. Whatever is seen, let it be dismissed. Let no scene remain upon the screen.
Have you ever noticed? You go to the cinema to watch a film. It begins—the play of light and shadow starts upon a blank white screen—and you become absorbed. When you are completely absorbed in watching, when the story grips your very life, you lose awareness of yourself—you forget that you are the watcher. The seen becomes everything; the Seer becomes null. The Seer is forgotten; the scenes become all in all. If the scene is tragic, tears stream from your eyes. If the scene is exciting, you straighten up in your seat. If the scene is terrifying, a cry escapes your mouth. But then the film ends, the screen is blank again, the play of light and shadow dissolves. Then, notice: suddenly you are startled into remembrance—ah, the film is over, now let’s go home. You get up. For two hours you had completely forgotten that you are someone and that you even have a home, that your wife may be waiting. Everything was forgotten. No worry, no concern. When you are not there, what worry, what concern? Now everything returns at once—awareness returns, self-awareness returns. Wiping your eyes, you walk toward home.
This world is a picture-story. You have seen everything else here, but in seeing everything else you have forgotten yourself; you have not retained the remembrance of yourself—not even the faintest trace of it.
Sannyas means only this: awaken the remembrance of yourself. Slowly, slowly, awaken the Seer. And as the Seer awakens, the curtain of the world becomes empty. The state of samadhi means only this: where all the scenes are lost and the Seer alone remains. There is nothing on the screen now; the film has ended—nothing remains but to go home. The consciousness that goes home is liberated consciousness. The consciousness returning to its source is liberated consciousness. This is nirvana.
All the experiments of meditation—however many the methods—do essentially one thing: how to bid the moving pictures on the screen of your mind goodbye. Gradually, gradually, all the images depart, and a pure emptiness remains surrounding you. In that very emptiness self-remembrance happens. “Remembrance” is the right word—“seeing” is not; “knowledge” is not the right word—“bodh,” awakening, is the right word. An awakening arises: I am the witness.
And remember, when I say an awakening arises that “I am the witness,” no such words are formed as “I am the witness.” I have to use words to tell you. It is simply such an awareness, a wordless knowing—I am the witness. In that very instant, the revolution happens. In that very instant you leap from the seen to the Seer. That leap is nirvana. That leap is supreme bliss. All pains are gone, all pleasures too—now the great bliss has come; now ananda has manifested.
The sixth question:
Osho, it is said that under the wish-fulfilling tree, whatever you ask for, you receive. But here there is also a tree under which you receive without asking—and in abundance! Osho, how can I thank your compassion?
Osho, it is said that under the wish-fulfilling tree, whatever you ask for, you receive. But here there is also a tree under which you receive without asking—and in abundance! Osho, how can I thank your compassion?
Liberation! Sing, dance! The more you dance, the more you thank me. The more you sing, the more you thank me. There is no need to thank me directly. Become ecstatic. Live in rapture. Live brimming with nectar. Let every single moment be drenched in rasa, awash in bliss—only that is gratitude.
There is no other need to thank me; if I see you joyous, I am thanked.
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
In whose remembrance the stars
spent the night within the eyes,
that very image within the eyes
keeps growing resplendent!
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
I do not know how
the incomplete picture will ever be complete!
Even the faintest line
keeps vanishing away.
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
How shall I write, upon the page of breath,
the account of the innermost?
Even the age-old ache
on the lips keeps turning into a smile!
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
Speak of the dream of union—
life has become so filled with you!
A delay of two moments
turns into the hindrance of an age!
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
If you come to know me, then your lips should become a song. Apart from this, my sannyasin will have no other mark, no other character, no other conduct. My sannyas will be known by its state of joy. My sannyasin will be recognized by divine intoxication. My sannyasin has to drink the wine of the divine.
Others may have given different marks. Some have said: guard your character. Some have said: fashion your personality this way or that, purify it. My sannyasin will have only one sign: his every moment will be a celebration. That alone is your thank-you. Let my mark be that your lips become a song—that’s all.
There is no other need to thank me; if I see you joyous, I am thanked.
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
In whose remembrance the stars
spent the night within the eyes,
that very image within the eyes
keeps growing resplendent!
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
I do not know how
the incomplete picture will ever be complete!
Even the faintest line
keeps vanishing away.
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
How shall I write, upon the page of breath,
the account of the innermost?
Even the age-old ache
on the lips keeps turning into a smile!
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
Speak of the dream of union—
life has become so filled with you!
A delay of two moments
turns into the hindrance of an age!
Whose sign is this—that the lips keep turning into song!
If you come to know me, then your lips should become a song. Apart from this, my sannyasin will have no other mark, no other character, no other conduct. My sannyas will be known by its state of joy. My sannyasin will be recognized by divine intoxication. My sannyasin has to drink the wine of the divine.
Others may have given different marks. Some have said: guard your character. Some have said: fashion your personality this way or that, purify it. My sannyasin will have only one sign: his every moment will be a celebration. That alone is your thank-you. Let my mark be that your lips become a song—that’s all.
The last question:
Osho, O Supreme, listening to you I begin to sway in ecstasy. Existence is showering awareness from every direction—please bless me with the capacity to bear it. And this vast life, this world filled with all colors, this infinite expanse…how shall I offer the aarti? How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord? You alone pervade, pervade all places—how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord!
Osho, O Supreme, listening to you I begin to sway in ecstasy. Existence is showering awareness from every direction—please bless me with the capacity to bear it. And this vast life, this world filled with all colors, this infinite expanse…how shall I offer the aarti? How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord? You alone pervade, pervade all places—how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord!
Taru, when it feels like “How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?” only then does aarti happen. As long as you think aarti can be done, aarti does not happen. What can be accomplished by man’s doing! Whatever we do is small; the imprint of our hand is upon it. Even if we perform the aarti of the Vast, our aarti is still small. We can only present our helplessness. We can only weep in our state of powerlessness.
How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
You alone pervade,
pervade all places—
how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord!
This very feeling is aarti. Aarti has nothing to do with platters—flowers arranged, incense and lamps lit. Aarti relates to a state of feeling—helplessness! So much has been given by the Divine, so much, that even if we offer thanks our tongue is too small. Our words are paltry. Even if we lay our head at His feet—what is there in our head? It’s stuffed with chaff. Even if we surrender ourselves—what dust is that worth? For we are His gift already; we only return what is His. “What is Yours, O Govinda, to You alone I offer back!” The very perception of such helplessness is itself the aarti.
He who became the melody
rippling in the strings of my life’s veena,
who, with His own outstretched hands,
accepted my worship—
the world may call Him a stone,
but how can I call Him a stone?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
To light whose house,
sun and moon blaze forth;
at whose feet to pour themselves
hundreds upon hundreds of oceans surge—
upon the feet of that Worshiped One,
how can I offer a libation of tears?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
Even the oceans are pouring themselves at His feet—how small are our tears! Our tears as an offering…where infinite oceans are rolling at His feet! If we light lamps on the platter of aarti, what will come of it? The moon burns for Him, and the sun too is His aarti, and all the stars—endless stars—are circling in His aarti.
To light whose house,
sun and moon blaze forth;
at whose feet to pour themselves
hundreds upon hundreds of oceans surge—
upon the feet of that Worshiped One,
how can I offer a libation of tears?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
It is a great difficulty—the great difficulty of the devotee. The devotee is struck dumb, falls silent; words do not form—and when words do not form, that alone is aarti. A wordless aarti. Nothing is said, and everything is said.
He who became the melody
rippling in the strings of my life’s veena,
who, with His own outstretched hands,
accepted my worship—
the world may call Him a stone,
but how can I call Him a stone?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
And when there is a longing to sing but the inability to sing, then He Himself takes your worship in His own hands. And the real joy is only then. If you offer it, there’s no joy in that; when He accepts it, then there is joy. In your offering, it is still your game. But the moment the devotee, in a state of emptiness, feels helpless, in that very instant the Divine accepts—accepts of His own accord. His hands themselves reach out. Then spring descends upon life. Then flowers bloom profusely.
The pouch of abir is overturned!
From the golden-crowned peak, dawn has played Holi!
On every branch the birds are singing,
buds have cast off their veils;
wafted by the fragrant breeze,
tender leaf-sprays tremble!
For the bee to roam free, the Creator
has opened His eyelids!
The pouch of abir is overturned!
When His hand reaches toward us, the whole world pours itself upon us—in all colors, in all notes! The whole world bursts into song with the full scale.
When the devotee is empty, devotion becomes complete; for only into emptiness does the Full descend.
How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
You alone pervade,
pervade all places—
how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
This is the aarti, Taru! Immerse in this; slowly, slowly lose yourself in it.
From those who gave me love,
I bear the debt of all;
what is mine?
I am only the wick of a little lamp!
This web of rays is their gift—
what is mine?
With gentle hands
they entrusted me the treasure of flame!
Only these moments of burning
are the hours of life;
let us link dusk to dawn
with such chains!
This lovely vessel of clay—
what is mine?
Not even for two nights
can it make a lasting bond!
I do not move myself—
what path, what could I know?
Weeping and laughter apart—
how am I to believe it so?
They who gave ache to my very breath—
all is theirs!
What is mine?
With empty hands I come and go!
What is mine?
I am only the wick of a little lamp!
Our hands are empty.
How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
You alone pervade,
pervade all places—
how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord!
Our hands are empty. But empty hands are enough. Into this very emptiness He will descend. He does descend—He has ever descended. Whenever the devotee’s vessel has become empty and void, only then has He come, and the vessel has been filled.
They who gave ache to my very breath—
all is theirs!
What is mine?
With empty hands I come and go!
What is mine?
I am only the wick of a little lamp!
The devotee effaces himself; that is his aarti. The devotee becomes no one; that is his aarti.
That is all for today.
How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
You alone pervade,
pervade all places—
how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord!
This very feeling is aarti. Aarti has nothing to do with platters—flowers arranged, incense and lamps lit. Aarti relates to a state of feeling—helplessness! So much has been given by the Divine, so much, that even if we offer thanks our tongue is too small. Our words are paltry. Even if we lay our head at His feet—what is there in our head? It’s stuffed with chaff. Even if we surrender ourselves—what dust is that worth? For we are His gift already; we only return what is His. “What is Yours, O Govinda, to You alone I offer back!” The very perception of such helplessness is itself the aarti.
He who became the melody
rippling in the strings of my life’s veena,
who, with His own outstretched hands,
accepted my worship—
the world may call Him a stone,
but how can I call Him a stone?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
To light whose house,
sun and moon blaze forth;
at whose feet to pour themselves
hundreds upon hundreds of oceans surge—
upon the feet of that Worshiped One,
how can I offer a libation of tears?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
Even the oceans are pouring themselves at His feet—how small are our tears! Our tears as an offering…where infinite oceans are rolling at His feet! If we light lamps on the platter of aarti, what will come of it? The moon burns for Him, and the sun too is His aarti, and all the stars—endless stars—are circling in His aarti.
To light whose house,
sun and moon blaze forth;
at whose feet to pour themselves
hundreds upon hundreds of oceans surge—
upon the feet of that Worshiped One,
how can I offer a libation of tears?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
It is a great difficulty—the great difficulty of the devotee. The devotee is struck dumb, falls silent; words do not form—and when words do not form, that alone is aarti. A wordless aarti. Nothing is said, and everything is said.
He who became the melody
rippling in the strings of my life’s veena,
who, with His own outstretched hands,
accepted my worship—
the world may call Him a stone,
but how can I call Him a stone?
How can I sing the heart’s song?
And when there is a longing to sing but the inability to sing, then He Himself takes your worship in His own hands. And the real joy is only then. If you offer it, there’s no joy in that; when He accepts it, then there is joy. In your offering, it is still your game. But the moment the devotee, in a state of emptiness, feels helpless, in that very instant the Divine accepts—accepts of His own accord. His hands themselves reach out. Then spring descends upon life. Then flowers bloom profusely.
The pouch of abir is overturned!
From the golden-crowned peak, dawn has played Holi!
On every branch the birds are singing,
buds have cast off their veils;
wafted by the fragrant breeze,
tender leaf-sprays tremble!
For the bee to roam free, the Creator
has opened His eyelids!
The pouch of abir is overturned!
When His hand reaches toward us, the whole world pours itself upon us—in all colors, in all notes! The whole world bursts into song with the full scale.
When the devotee is empty, devotion becomes complete; for only into emptiness does the Full descend.
How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
You alone pervade,
pervade all places—
how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
This is the aarti, Taru! Immerse in this; slowly, slowly lose yourself in it.
From those who gave me love,
I bear the debt of all;
what is mine?
I am only the wick of a little lamp!
This web of rays is their gift—
what is mine?
With gentle hands
they entrusted me the treasure of flame!
Only these moments of burning
are the hours of life;
let us link dusk to dawn
with such chains!
This lovely vessel of clay—
what is mine?
Not even for two nights
can it make a lasting bond!
I do not move myself—
what path, what could I know?
Weeping and laughter apart—
how am I to believe it so?
They who gave ache to my very breath—
all is theirs!
What is mine?
With empty hands I come and go!
What is mine?
I am only the wick of a little lamp!
Our hands are empty.
How shall I perform the aarti, O Lord?
You alone pervade,
pervade all places—
how shall I perform the aarti, O Lord!
Our hands are empty. But empty hands are enough. Into this very emptiness He will descend. He does descend—He has ever descended. Whenever the devotee’s vessel has become empty and void, only then has He come, and the vessel has been filled.
They who gave ache to my very breath—
all is theirs!
What is mine?
With empty hands I come and go!
What is mine?
I am only the wick of a little lamp!
The devotee effaces himself; that is his aarti. The devotee becomes no one; that is his aarti.
That is all for today.