Vysat Jeevan Main Ishwar Ki Khoj #4
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, …when I meditate a sound arises there; you said only yesterday to meditate right there. But because the vibrations become intense, I cannot keep my concentration…
No. First, it has not occurred to you that concentration is not meditation. I have never asked you to concentrate. Meditation is something very different. Commonly it is assumed that concentration is meditation. Concentration is not meditation, because concentration contains tension. Concentration means forcing the mind to be held in one place by abandoning everywhere else. Concentration is always a compulsion; there is coercion in it. The mind wants to run and you say, “We will not let it run.” Then a fight begins between you and the mind. And where there is a fight, meditation can never happen, because that very fight is the disturbance of our whole being—there is constant conflict, duality, struggle.
So the mind has to be left in a state where there is no conflict at all. Only then can you enter meditation. The mind has to be left non-dual, without inner quarrel. If you engage in conflict, you will never enter meditation. And if you do fight, trouble will only increase: you will be defeated, you will be miserable. The harder you fight, the more you will be defeated and saddened, and the consciousness will become more and more distracted. Instead of becoming joyous and blossoming, you will become more depressed, more defeated, frustrated.
So you are not to fight with the mind at all—that is my first sutra. Whoever fights the mind is bound to lose. If you want to master the mind, the first rule is: do not fight. That is why I do not advise concentration. My advice is for relaxation, not for concentration. My guidance is not for concentration but for rest.
Give the mind rest for an hour. The method for rest is different. The first principle of rest is: we are at ease with the mind as it is. If you are annoyed with it, rest is not possible, because annoyance starts a fight. However the mind is—good or bad, full of anger, full of worry, full of thoughts—just as it is, we are at ease with it. So, take out an hour and be totally at ease with the mind as it is. Total acceptance. We have no opposition at all. If the mind runs, we let it run. If it cries, we let it cry. If it laughs, we let it laugh. If it thinks useless thoughts, we let it think them. We say: whatever the mind does, for one hour we will not fight. First point: we will not fight at all. Whatever the mind does, we will sit silently and watch.
To understand this non-fighting: one is the gross fight, when you actually fight—mind says, “Go there,” and you say, “We will not go.” This is what the so-called religious person ordinarily keeps doing. Therefore the religious person is usually a miserable person. He keeps doing only this all the time: the mind says, “Eat,” he says, “I will not eat.” The mind says, “This dress is very beautiful,” he says, “I will renounce clothes.” He proceeds by fighting the mind. So by fighting the mind he will be unhappy, troubled—but he will not become peaceful.
So for one hour, do not take up any fight with the mind. Whatever the mind does, we say, “Do it.” But this is still a very gross point; in our mind there is a very subtle fight which we are not aware of: there is condemnation in our mind. For example, we may say, “Alright, do whatever you want,” yet even in that there can be condemnation.
It can happen like this: “No matter, we won’t fight. It isn’t right that the mind is thinking of going to a prostitute’s house. We say, it isn’t right, but since for one hour we must not fight, we won’t fight—but it isn’t right.” If even this much of an inner stance persists—that “this is not right”—then the fight continues. Then rest will not be available.
So there should be no gross fighting, and there should also be no subtle condemnation or praise—no judging, “This is right, that is wrong.” If the mind does something, we should not give it an inner approval that, “Yes, this is very good—he is sculpting an image of Lord Krishna, very good,” and, “He is sculpting a nude woman, very bad.” Even such subtle condemnation and praise should not be there in meditation. That means: do not fight, and do not take any stance, any attitude, that “this is good” or “this is bad.” Do not make judgments about what is. What is—simply is.
We are standing by a tree. There are thorns on it—so be it—and there are blossoms—so be it. We neither say that the flower is good nor that the thorns are bad. We only say that we can see: there are thorns, and there is a flower. Between the flower and the thorns we do not compare, we do not rank one above the other, nor do we wish that there be only flowers and no thorns at all.
If you understand this rightly, there is a gross fight, a subtle fight, and there is a very subtle fight. The very subtle means that if somewhere in the mind there is even a desire that “it should be like this,” then deep down the fight continues. We may not say that the thorn is bad, but deep within there is the feeling that it would be better if the thorn were not there and only the flower remained. If even such a feeling exists on some inner layer, the fight continues—you are still fighting. You have not been able to accept the thorn.
So for me, meditation means total acceptance—no gross fight, no subtle fight, not even the ultra-subtle fight of hidden attitudes.
For an hour or two within the day, begin to let yourself be in this way. As this letting go becomes easier… to drop it all at once is very difficult, because we are so used to fighting that we have forgotten how to be without fighting.
If we tell a husband and wife to stay in the house for twenty-four hours without fighting, they can manage not to fight. But if we say to them: do not even allow the feeling of fighting to arise—do not even indulge in condemnation or praise—then the difficulty begins. And if we say to them: do not even think about what the wife is like or what the husband is like; as they are, so they are—then it becomes even harder. Not fighting is quite easy: they take an oath not to fight for twenty-four hours, and then they keep avoiding each other. But the fight continues, because in that very avoidance the fight is going on. They do not speak lest a quarrel erupt—then the not speaking itself becomes the fight. They avoid topics that might lead to a quarrel—so the fight continues.
But on the subtle plane, if we are still taking any inner posture or attitude—“I see that this wife is again putting the table exactly where I have told her a thousand times not to put it”—since we are not to fight, we don’t fight. “Alright, we accept it—put the table wherever you want, it doesn’t matter, because for twenty-four hours we are not to fight.” Yet in the mind the feeling arises: the same mistake is being repeated which has always been forbidden. So the fight is continuing. Now it is not manifest, but it is still going on.
So the mind has to be left in a state where there is no conflict at all. Only then can you enter meditation. The mind has to be left non-dual, without inner quarrel. If you engage in conflict, you will never enter meditation. And if you do fight, trouble will only increase: you will be defeated, you will be miserable. The harder you fight, the more you will be defeated and saddened, and the consciousness will become more and more distracted. Instead of becoming joyous and blossoming, you will become more depressed, more defeated, frustrated.
So you are not to fight with the mind at all—that is my first sutra. Whoever fights the mind is bound to lose. If you want to master the mind, the first rule is: do not fight. That is why I do not advise concentration. My advice is for relaxation, not for concentration. My guidance is not for concentration but for rest.
Give the mind rest for an hour. The method for rest is different. The first principle of rest is: we are at ease with the mind as it is. If you are annoyed with it, rest is not possible, because annoyance starts a fight. However the mind is—good or bad, full of anger, full of worry, full of thoughts—just as it is, we are at ease with it. So, take out an hour and be totally at ease with the mind as it is. Total acceptance. We have no opposition at all. If the mind runs, we let it run. If it cries, we let it cry. If it laughs, we let it laugh. If it thinks useless thoughts, we let it think them. We say: whatever the mind does, for one hour we will not fight. First point: we will not fight at all. Whatever the mind does, we will sit silently and watch.
To understand this non-fighting: one is the gross fight, when you actually fight—mind says, “Go there,” and you say, “We will not go.” This is what the so-called religious person ordinarily keeps doing. Therefore the religious person is usually a miserable person. He keeps doing only this all the time: the mind says, “Eat,” he says, “I will not eat.” The mind says, “This dress is very beautiful,” he says, “I will renounce clothes.” He proceeds by fighting the mind. So by fighting the mind he will be unhappy, troubled—but he will not become peaceful.
So for one hour, do not take up any fight with the mind. Whatever the mind does, we say, “Do it.” But this is still a very gross point; in our mind there is a very subtle fight which we are not aware of: there is condemnation in our mind. For example, we may say, “Alright, do whatever you want,” yet even in that there can be condemnation.
It can happen like this: “No matter, we won’t fight. It isn’t right that the mind is thinking of going to a prostitute’s house. We say, it isn’t right, but since for one hour we must not fight, we won’t fight—but it isn’t right.” If even this much of an inner stance persists—that “this is not right”—then the fight continues. Then rest will not be available.
So there should be no gross fighting, and there should also be no subtle condemnation or praise—no judging, “This is right, that is wrong.” If the mind does something, we should not give it an inner approval that, “Yes, this is very good—he is sculpting an image of Lord Krishna, very good,” and, “He is sculpting a nude woman, very bad.” Even such subtle condemnation and praise should not be there in meditation. That means: do not fight, and do not take any stance, any attitude, that “this is good” or “this is bad.” Do not make judgments about what is. What is—simply is.
We are standing by a tree. There are thorns on it—so be it—and there are blossoms—so be it. We neither say that the flower is good nor that the thorns are bad. We only say that we can see: there are thorns, and there is a flower. Between the flower and the thorns we do not compare, we do not rank one above the other, nor do we wish that there be only flowers and no thorns at all.
If you understand this rightly, there is a gross fight, a subtle fight, and there is a very subtle fight. The very subtle means that if somewhere in the mind there is even a desire that “it should be like this,” then deep down the fight continues. We may not say that the thorn is bad, but deep within there is the feeling that it would be better if the thorn were not there and only the flower remained. If even such a feeling exists on some inner layer, the fight continues—you are still fighting. You have not been able to accept the thorn.
So for me, meditation means total acceptance—no gross fight, no subtle fight, not even the ultra-subtle fight of hidden attitudes.
For an hour or two within the day, begin to let yourself be in this way. As this letting go becomes easier… to drop it all at once is very difficult, because we are so used to fighting that we have forgotten how to be without fighting.
If we tell a husband and wife to stay in the house for twenty-four hours without fighting, they can manage not to fight. But if we say to them: do not even allow the feeling of fighting to arise—do not even indulge in condemnation or praise—then the difficulty begins. And if we say to them: do not even think about what the wife is like or what the husband is like; as they are, so they are—then it becomes even harder. Not fighting is quite easy: they take an oath not to fight for twenty-four hours, and then they keep avoiding each other. But the fight continues, because in that very avoidance the fight is going on. They do not speak lest a quarrel erupt—then the not speaking itself becomes the fight. They avoid topics that might lead to a quarrel—so the fight continues.
But on the subtle plane, if we are still taking any inner posture or attitude—“I see that this wife is again putting the table exactly where I have told her a thousand times not to put it”—since we are not to fight, we don’t fight. “Alright, we accept it—put the table wherever you want, it doesn’t matter, because for twenty-four hours we are not to fight.” Yet in the mind the feeling arises: the same mistake is being repeated which has always been forbidden. So the fight is continuing. Now it is not manifest, but it is still going on.
Osho, should one just keep watching it? Keep feeling it? What thought should be there at that time? What feeling should be there at that time?
No—don’t try to bring in any feeling at all. The moment you bring something, the fight begins. It isn’t for you to bring anything; whatever is happening is happening. From your side, do nothing; let whatever happens, happen. This is the trouble—this is exactly the trouble: we think, Then what should we do? No. The moment you do something, the conflict starts. Doing means something is happening that should not happen, or something that should happen is not happening, and we are trying to change it. The fight has begun.
No, I am saying: don’t do anything at all. Whatever is, let it be. Keep a state of let-go. Not a state of doing from your side—let-go is the state. Imagine I die in this room—how will the room go on? People will pass by, the table will be put somewhere, the phone will ring—everything will go on. But what will I do?
I keep telling a story of Mulla Nasruddin. Once he asked his wife, People keep dying; I just don’t understand—how do people die? And if someday I die, how will I recognize that I’ve died? If you know anything about it, tell me—how will I know I’m dead?
His wife said, What’s there to understand? Your hands and feet will turn cold!
Nasruddin went to the forest to cut wood. It was a cold morning; it was snowing; his hands and feet went cold. He thought, Looks like I’m dying now, because my hands and feet are getting cold. And he’d been told only one sign: when hands and feet turn cold.
As they kept getting colder and his axe began to slip from his hands, he said, Now it’s certain. He had seen dying people: a dead man doesn’t stand; he lies down. So he lay down. When he lay down, he got even colder; while he was working he had at least been a little warm. As everything grew colder he said, Now it’s right—this is the final moment; I’m dead. When he was completely cold, he concluded, I’m dead. Naturally, a dead man doesn’t shout, doesn’t talk to anyone, can’t see anyone. So he closed his eyes and stopped calling out. He said, There’s no point now; if I’m dead and the sign is complete...
Four men were passing along the road; they saw a man had died. They made a bier for him. He thought, A dead man’s bier is made—so it’s being made. Many times the bier wasn’t even being made properly, because those four had no proper means; several times he felt like suggesting, Tie the pole this way. But he said, A corpse… shouldn’t speak—how can a dead man tell them! So he let the bier be made however it was made, and he even climbed onto it, and the bier started off.
But those four were strangers; when they reached a crossroads they wondered, Where is this village’s cremation ground? He knew, but he thought… The four thought, It’s terribly cold, it’s snowing; where’s the cremation ground? If only some passerby came, we could ask. A long time passed; no passerby came. Nasruddin couldn’t bear it; for a long time he held himself back, then he said, Since no passerby is coming—in such an emergency even a corpse speaking would do no harm. So he said, When I used to be alive, people used to go left for the cremation ground. He said, When I used to be alive, they went to the left. And saying just that, he lay back in his place. They said, Hey, you fool! If you’re speaking anyway, why are you putting us to so much trouble!
What Nasruddin did for that one hour—that is meditation; that’s how it should be. That is, you have nothing to do at all; even if an emergency arises, don’t say, This is what’s happening. You have to drop everything. Whatever is happening is happening. When you drop everything—and what is happening will go on; it isn’t going to stop—thoughts will keep running, sounds will keep falling on the ears, the heart will keep beating, the breath will keep moving; if an insect bites your foot you’ll know it, if your leg goes numb you’ll know it; if you feel like turning over—then don’t hold back: if you feel like turning over, let the turning happen; if the hands or feet want to brush away the insect, let them. Neither brush it away from your side, nor restrain it from your side.
Do you understand what I mean? From your side, do nothing. If the hand wants to move, let it move; if it doesn’t want to move, let it lie still. Accept the whole situation in its totality. Everything will go on. But when everything goes on and we accept it all, a very new consciousness begins to be born. Instantly you become a witness—instantly! Because the very moment you cease to be the doer, you become the witness. There is no other way. This transformation is automatic.
People think one has to become a witness.
No one can become a witness. It is that when the doer is no more—then what will be? Now, like Nasruddin—his bier is being tied; what can he do, poor fellow? He is only seeing; he is just a witness; the question of doing has ended, because the man is dead. The very moment the sense of being the doer departs, in that same moment the sense of being the witness arises. It happens naturally.
Therefore witnessing is not an act, not a deed. And that becoming a witness is meditation. Becoming a witness is meditation; there is nothing more to meditation than that.
Hence concentration is never meditation, because you are the doer; you are doing it. What you do can never be greater than you. You are troubled, unhappy; what you do will carry trouble and sorrow. If I am a stupid, dull man, then my concentration will also be dullness. I will be the one who concentrates, won’t I? No one else will concentrate for me. I am a foolish man; I practice concentration—then a fool will become concentrated. What else can happen? And a concentrated fool is even more dangerous. If you are miserable, your concentration will become concentration on misery, which is even worse. Concentration can never take you beyond yourself; transcendence is not possible in it, because you are the one doing it—so how will you go beyond?
But witnessing is not your act. You are not there in it. It is a happening. You suddenly find that the moment that state arrives in which you are no longer the doer, you suddenly find you have become a witness. No journey has to be undertaken for this happening. That is, from being a doer to being a witness you do not have to go anywhere. Just suddenly—one moment earlier you were a doer, and a moment later you find the doer is gone and only the witness remains.
This state is meditation. And therefore do not try to do meditation. Let meditation happen by leaving yourself in this state. Meditation will happen; all you have to do is leave yourself in such a state that it can happen. The sun has risen and I have left my door open. The sun will rise, the light will come inside; I won’t have to bring it in.
But there is a very amusing point: I cannot tie up the sunshine and carry it into the room, but by closing the door I can keep the sunshine out. There is no difficulty in keeping it out; if the door is closed it will be stopped.
So you can prevent meditation from happening—and you are preventing it—but you cannot make it happen. Our whole problem is very reversed. The reality is that when someone asks me, Meditation is not happening, he is asking the question upside down. In fact, he is striving with all his life’s breath to make sure that meditation does not happen. He has spoiled lifetimes to see that meditation does not happen. And for meditation he has erected a thousand kinds of barriers so that it cannot happen.
You are fully arranged so that you do not become a witness. And then when you hear from someone that there is great bliss in witnessing, you think, All right, let me also become a witness. So you try to become a witness too. And all your arrangements to prevent witnessing continue as before; nothing in them changes. Within that very setup you also want to become a witness. It will not happen.
So for an hour or two, drop yourself completely and totally accept whatever is happening. Then something will happen. That something is meditation. And therefore those to whom meditation happens will not be able to say, I did it. They will not be able to say it. If someone says it, know that it has not yet happened.
And that is why such a person helplessly says, By God’s grace! It means nothing else. No God is out there bestowing grace. But he has a difficulty. His difficulty is that it did not happen through him. Where should he attribute it? To whom should he say it? It has happened, but not by him. If he goes to explain who did it, he is in great difficulty. So he says, It happened by God’s grace. This “by God’s grace” only means this much: it did not happen by me. It did not happen by God’s grace either—because the meaning of God’s grace would then be that God is less gracious to some and more to others. Then there would be great trouble; a big blemish would be put on God.
No, I am saying: don’t do anything at all. Whatever is, let it be. Keep a state of let-go. Not a state of doing from your side—let-go is the state. Imagine I die in this room—how will the room go on? People will pass by, the table will be put somewhere, the phone will ring—everything will go on. But what will I do?
I keep telling a story of Mulla Nasruddin. Once he asked his wife, People keep dying; I just don’t understand—how do people die? And if someday I die, how will I recognize that I’ve died? If you know anything about it, tell me—how will I know I’m dead?
His wife said, What’s there to understand? Your hands and feet will turn cold!
Nasruddin went to the forest to cut wood. It was a cold morning; it was snowing; his hands and feet went cold. He thought, Looks like I’m dying now, because my hands and feet are getting cold. And he’d been told only one sign: when hands and feet turn cold.
As they kept getting colder and his axe began to slip from his hands, he said, Now it’s certain. He had seen dying people: a dead man doesn’t stand; he lies down. So he lay down. When he lay down, he got even colder; while he was working he had at least been a little warm. As everything grew colder he said, Now it’s right—this is the final moment; I’m dead. When he was completely cold, he concluded, I’m dead. Naturally, a dead man doesn’t shout, doesn’t talk to anyone, can’t see anyone. So he closed his eyes and stopped calling out. He said, There’s no point now; if I’m dead and the sign is complete...
Four men were passing along the road; they saw a man had died. They made a bier for him. He thought, A dead man’s bier is made—so it’s being made. Many times the bier wasn’t even being made properly, because those four had no proper means; several times he felt like suggesting, Tie the pole this way. But he said, A corpse… shouldn’t speak—how can a dead man tell them! So he let the bier be made however it was made, and he even climbed onto it, and the bier started off.
But those four were strangers; when they reached a crossroads they wondered, Where is this village’s cremation ground? He knew, but he thought… The four thought, It’s terribly cold, it’s snowing; where’s the cremation ground? If only some passerby came, we could ask. A long time passed; no passerby came. Nasruddin couldn’t bear it; for a long time he held himself back, then he said, Since no passerby is coming—in such an emergency even a corpse speaking would do no harm. So he said, When I used to be alive, people used to go left for the cremation ground. He said, When I used to be alive, they went to the left. And saying just that, he lay back in his place. They said, Hey, you fool! If you’re speaking anyway, why are you putting us to so much trouble!
What Nasruddin did for that one hour—that is meditation; that’s how it should be. That is, you have nothing to do at all; even if an emergency arises, don’t say, This is what’s happening. You have to drop everything. Whatever is happening is happening. When you drop everything—and what is happening will go on; it isn’t going to stop—thoughts will keep running, sounds will keep falling on the ears, the heart will keep beating, the breath will keep moving; if an insect bites your foot you’ll know it, if your leg goes numb you’ll know it; if you feel like turning over—then don’t hold back: if you feel like turning over, let the turning happen; if the hands or feet want to brush away the insect, let them. Neither brush it away from your side, nor restrain it from your side.
Do you understand what I mean? From your side, do nothing. If the hand wants to move, let it move; if it doesn’t want to move, let it lie still. Accept the whole situation in its totality. Everything will go on. But when everything goes on and we accept it all, a very new consciousness begins to be born. Instantly you become a witness—instantly! Because the very moment you cease to be the doer, you become the witness. There is no other way. This transformation is automatic.
People think one has to become a witness.
No one can become a witness. It is that when the doer is no more—then what will be? Now, like Nasruddin—his bier is being tied; what can he do, poor fellow? He is only seeing; he is just a witness; the question of doing has ended, because the man is dead. The very moment the sense of being the doer departs, in that same moment the sense of being the witness arises. It happens naturally.
Therefore witnessing is not an act, not a deed. And that becoming a witness is meditation. Becoming a witness is meditation; there is nothing more to meditation than that.
Hence concentration is never meditation, because you are the doer; you are doing it. What you do can never be greater than you. You are troubled, unhappy; what you do will carry trouble and sorrow. If I am a stupid, dull man, then my concentration will also be dullness. I will be the one who concentrates, won’t I? No one else will concentrate for me. I am a foolish man; I practice concentration—then a fool will become concentrated. What else can happen? And a concentrated fool is even more dangerous. If you are miserable, your concentration will become concentration on misery, which is even worse. Concentration can never take you beyond yourself; transcendence is not possible in it, because you are the one doing it—so how will you go beyond?
But witnessing is not your act. You are not there in it. It is a happening. You suddenly find that the moment that state arrives in which you are no longer the doer, you suddenly find you have become a witness. No journey has to be undertaken for this happening. That is, from being a doer to being a witness you do not have to go anywhere. Just suddenly—one moment earlier you were a doer, and a moment later you find the doer is gone and only the witness remains.
This state is meditation. And therefore do not try to do meditation. Let meditation happen by leaving yourself in this state. Meditation will happen; all you have to do is leave yourself in such a state that it can happen. The sun has risen and I have left my door open. The sun will rise, the light will come inside; I won’t have to bring it in.
But there is a very amusing point: I cannot tie up the sunshine and carry it into the room, but by closing the door I can keep the sunshine out. There is no difficulty in keeping it out; if the door is closed it will be stopped.
So you can prevent meditation from happening—and you are preventing it—but you cannot make it happen. Our whole problem is very reversed. The reality is that when someone asks me, Meditation is not happening, he is asking the question upside down. In fact, he is striving with all his life’s breath to make sure that meditation does not happen. He has spoiled lifetimes to see that meditation does not happen. And for meditation he has erected a thousand kinds of barriers so that it cannot happen.
You are fully arranged so that you do not become a witness. And then when you hear from someone that there is great bliss in witnessing, you think, All right, let me also become a witness. So you try to become a witness too. And all your arrangements to prevent witnessing continue as before; nothing in them changes. Within that very setup you also want to become a witness. It will not happen.
So for an hour or two, drop yourself completely and totally accept whatever is happening. Then something will happen. That something is meditation. And therefore those to whom meditation happens will not be able to say, I did it. They will not be able to say it. If someone says it, know that it has not yet happened.
And that is why such a person helplessly says, By God’s grace! It means nothing else. No God is out there bestowing grace. But he has a difficulty. His difficulty is that it did not happen through him. Where should he attribute it? To whom should he say it? It has happened, but not by him. If he goes to explain who did it, he is in great difficulty. So he says, It happened by God’s grace. This “by God’s grace” only means this much: it did not happen by me. It did not happen by God’s grace either—because the meaning of God’s grace would then be that God is less gracious to some and more to others. Then there would be great trouble; a big blemish would be put on God.
Osho, just now in response to a question you said: “By God’s will! I do nothing; God does everything.” And on top of that you said that my object is rebellion. Meaning, what I am doing is only for people’s awareness… or that I am going exactly opposite to the old orthodoxy that has been going on; therefore it is natural that one has to struggle to remove it. That’s why, that’s why I have written this letter to you—that, look, on the one hand today you are saying...
You wrote the letter a little too quickly. Because the matter is like this, the matter is like this—life is so complex, life is so complex, and our conclusions are all simple. And that’s why we fail to bring harmony. It seems so. I have read your letter. In it, it only seems that on one hand I am saying I want to raise rebellion, and on the other I am saying that whatever the divine is making happen, that I am doing. So a contradiction appears; it is not there.
Osho, now there is no contradiction. With the answer you just gave, there is no contradiction now.
Yes—now you have understood! There is no contradiction. Because when I say, “I am rebelling,” even that, in my view, is God speaking. Therefore there is no contradiction. And if, in your view, it seems that it is only I who am saying it—you don’t accept any God—then the other statement too, “It is God who is doing it,” is still being said by me. Even then there is no difference; still no contradiction.
That is, I say, “I am rebelling.” If you take it that it is simply I who am saying it—we don’t accept any God—then the second statement I also utter: “It is God who is doing it.” That too I am saying. Even then there is no contradiction; not from your side either. Contradiction arises when you take one statement from my side and one from your side—then it appears. If you take both statements from your side as well, there is no contradiction.
That is, I say, “I am rebelling.” If you take it that it is simply I who am saying it—we don’t accept any God—then the second statement I also utter: “It is God who is doing it.” That too I am saying. Even then there is no contradiction; not from your side either. Contradiction arises when you take one statement from my side and one from your side—then it appears. If you take both statements from your side as well, there is no contradiction.
I didn’t understand.
What I mean is this: I hear you say that you are arousing rebellion. If you feel it is you yourself who is saying this, and on the other hand you say that whatever is being made to happen is being made to happen by the Divine, then a contradiction appears. Because if the Divine is making it happen, then why are you saying that I am arousing rebellion? From my side there is no contradiction, because I say that even this is being made to be said by the Divine.
Osho, you have already explained that point there.
Yes, for me there is no difference between the two; it is the same thing. In other words, even this is not my own assertion—that I am awakening rebellion.
A “general gentry”...
No, no, no—don’t talk about that general gentry. It doesn’t exist anywhere. It doesn’t exist anywhere. You are here, I am; these are here, I am. The general gentry is nowhere. It simply doesn’t exist. I’ve been wandering around for the last fifteen years—I haven’t met it. We are straightforward people, and we should speak straight. That “general gentry” creates a lot of trouble. Bring it in between and it becomes very difficult to work. Your words come to my mind; my words to you—end of the matter. When I meet the general gentry, I’ll talk to it.
No, no, no—don’t talk about that general gentry. It doesn’t exist anywhere. It doesn’t exist anywhere. You are here, I am; these are here, I am. The general gentry is nowhere. It simply doesn’t exist. I’ve been wandering around for the last fifteen years—I haven’t met it. We are straightforward people, and we should speak straight. That “general gentry” creates a lot of trouble. Bring it in between and it becomes very difficult to work. Your words come to my mind; my words to you—end of the matter. When I meet the general gentry, I’ll talk to it.
You understand what I mean, don’t you!
We have all come into the general, haven’t we?
No—if it has become clear to you, then it can become clear to the general too. What I am saying is this: the moment the explosion of meditation happens—till yesterday you took yourself to be the doer, till yesterday all work was your doing—when the explosion of meditation happens, all the work will go on, but the doer will bid farewell. And then you will be in great difficulty: what will you say—how is it being done?
No—if it has become clear to you, then it can become clear to the general too. What I am saying is this: the moment the explosion of meditation happens—till yesterday you took yourself to be the doer, till yesterday all work was your doing—when the explosion of meditation happens, all the work will go on, but the doer will bid farewell. And then you will be in great difficulty: what will you say—how is it being done?
Till yesterday you told your wife, “I love you,” and you told your son, “I love you.” If the explosion of meditation happens, you will say, “I don’t know—this love flows toward you; I don’t know.” One way is this: love is happening; I don’t know. “I do it”—I can no longer say that. I never did love; it has happened. That is one way.
This is secular. That is, God is not brought in. You understand! We say love happens; no one does it. That is the secular way of putting it. There is no need felt to bring religion into it—this is the same point stated in a non-religious manner.
But if depth increases—deeper and deeper—you will find that if I say, “I did not love; love happened,” that has two meanings. Either love is just an accident, with nothing behind it, no source—which is very illogical and unscientific. Because if something is happening, there must be some original source; otherwise it cannot happen. From where would it happen? How would it happen?
The religious vision is deeper; it does not stop at the happening alone. It rests at this: I did not love, and love is happening. And I see you loving, and I see that you did not love—love is happening. And I see them loving, and see that love is happening. Then the collective name for this whole—religiously—is Paramatma. Then we say it is happening from the side of the Whole. Individuals are not doing it. From that all-comprehensive consciousness, where everything is gathered together, something is happening.
A tree is growing. If we could ask the tree and the tree could answer, there are only two answers. Either it says, “I am growing”—which is saying a bit too much. For then what about the sun? If the sun didn’t rise, the tree wouldn’t grow. What about the winds? If the winds didn’t blow, the tree wouldn’t grow. What about the earth? If the soil didn’t give water, the tree wouldn’t grow. But if the tree had a little consciousness, it might say, “I am growing.”
If it understood a little more, perhaps it would say, “I am not growing; the happening of growth is taking place.” But then it would not catch any source—where is it happening from? If its understanding deepened yet more, perhaps it would say, “The entire cosmos is growing within me.” The entire cosmos—the sun, the water, the earth, the air, the fire—everything is growing within me.
If we go on enumerating each thing in the whole world, it becomes impossible. Everything is contributing. A star sitting hundreds of millions of miles away is also lending a hand in the tree’s growth. A cloud drifting in the sky lends a hand. The sun ten crores of miles away lends a hand. A child comes in the morning, loves the tree, and waters it—he too lends a hand. A goat cuts off a branch, and from that branch four new shoots spring forth—she too lends a hand. If we list all these, it can be said in a secular way as well.
But listing everything is utterly meaningless. Therefore the religious person coined a word—Paramatma. Paramatma means: that totality which cannot be counted—everything is lending a hand.
So when I say “That One is making it happen,” I mean that all this is the must of the Whole; as separate persons we are not doing anything. But unless the event of meditation happens, this will not be seen. Then it appears, “I am doing.”
And that is why before meditation there is restlessness. Because then it is “I am doing”; if something doesn’t happen, then I failed. If I lose, I have lost; if I win, I have won. That “I” accumulates anxieties. The ego is the center of anxiety—the whole center of worry is the “I.” Today I will say, “Yes, I won!” and tomorrow if I lose I will have to say, “I lost.” So when I strutted down the street in pride after winning, I will have to go weeping after losing. All that suffering arises.
But after the event—after the happening, after meditation—the “I” evaporates. Now, if there is defeat, Paramatma is defeated; if there is victory, Paramatma is victorious. Nothing remains to do with me. I myself am no longer there. Therefore such a person has no means left either to be happy or unhappy. And when there is no way left to become happy or unhappy, what remains is bliss. When all means to be happy or unhappy fall away, something still remains—I remain, everything remains—but the state then is that of bliss, or peace, or liberation.
Therefore meditation is an indispensable process; without it there can be no glimpse of liberation, bliss, or peace. Because without it the ego does not break. And if the ego breaks, what will you say? What will you say—who is making it happen?
One way is to say, “It is happening; no one is making it happen.” There is no harm in saying this. I do not deny it. There is no harm even in that. But the deeper the vision grows, the more it will be seen that to say “no one is making it happen” is very unscientific. The collective—the Whole—is the participant. We usually take Paramatma to be a personal noun; that is wrong. It is not personal. In truth, Paramatma is not singular at all; by its very nature it is plural, not singular. That is why you cannot make a plural of the word Paramatma—“Paramatmas” makes no sense; it has no meaning. You have to speak of Paramatma in the singular only because it is not a singular; it is the report of the collective, the total—the whole of what is. And when everything is included in the all, there is nowhere further to go. Thus the usage “gods” is wrong here.
That is why languages like English do not have a proper word for Paramatma. Their “God” can become “gods,” so it is a synonym for deva (a deity), not for Paramatma. Deities can be plural; Paramatma cannot. The word points to the collective, the all—the Whole. The English word “holy” is closer to Paramatma because it derives from “whole.” From whole comes holy. “Holy” is more apt; it carries the meaning of Paramatma. But we have taken it to mean purity and other things—then it is no longer accurate. “The Holy” grasps the point more closely: that which is the Whole, where everything has come together. If we wish to give that Togetherness a name, the name is Paramatma.
So when I say “I am not doing,” I am saying “All are doing; in that doing I am only one part—no more.” And if this enters your awareness, all anxiety is gone. Then there is neither defeat nor victory; neither birth nor death. For who would die, who would live—when all is eternal? It is the person who lives and dies—and he is gone; he has dissolved in meditation, finished.
So do not try to do meditation. If you just keep this much in mind, it will be very good.
This is secular. That is, God is not brought in. You understand! We say love happens; no one does it. That is the secular way of putting it. There is no need felt to bring religion into it—this is the same point stated in a non-religious manner.
But if depth increases—deeper and deeper—you will find that if I say, “I did not love; love happened,” that has two meanings. Either love is just an accident, with nothing behind it, no source—which is very illogical and unscientific. Because if something is happening, there must be some original source; otherwise it cannot happen. From where would it happen? How would it happen?
The religious vision is deeper; it does not stop at the happening alone. It rests at this: I did not love, and love is happening. And I see you loving, and I see that you did not love—love is happening. And I see them loving, and see that love is happening. Then the collective name for this whole—religiously—is Paramatma. Then we say it is happening from the side of the Whole. Individuals are not doing it. From that all-comprehensive consciousness, where everything is gathered together, something is happening.
A tree is growing. If we could ask the tree and the tree could answer, there are only two answers. Either it says, “I am growing”—which is saying a bit too much. For then what about the sun? If the sun didn’t rise, the tree wouldn’t grow. What about the winds? If the winds didn’t blow, the tree wouldn’t grow. What about the earth? If the soil didn’t give water, the tree wouldn’t grow. But if the tree had a little consciousness, it might say, “I am growing.”
If it understood a little more, perhaps it would say, “I am not growing; the happening of growth is taking place.” But then it would not catch any source—where is it happening from? If its understanding deepened yet more, perhaps it would say, “The entire cosmos is growing within me.” The entire cosmos—the sun, the water, the earth, the air, the fire—everything is growing within me.
If we go on enumerating each thing in the whole world, it becomes impossible. Everything is contributing. A star sitting hundreds of millions of miles away is also lending a hand in the tree’s growth. A cloud drifting in the sky lends a hand. The sun ten crores of miles away lends a hand. A child comes in the morning, loves the tree, and waters it—he too lends a hand. A goat cuts off a branch, and from that branch four new shoots spring forth—she too lends a hand. If we list all these, it can be said in a secular way as well.
But listing everything is utterly meaningless. Therefore the religious person coined a word—Paramatma. Paramatma means: that totality which cannot be counted—everything is lending a hand.
So when I say “That One is making it happen,” I mean that all this is the must of the Whole; as separate persons we are not doing anything. But unless the event of meditation happens, this will not be seen. Then it appears, “I am doing.”
And that is why before meditation there is restlessness. Because then it is “I am doing”; if something doesn’t happen, then I failed. If I lose, I have lost; if I win, I have won. That “I” accumulates anxieties. The ego is the center of anxiety—the whole center of worry is the “I.” Today I will say, “Yes, I won!” and tomorrow if I lose I will have to say, “I lost.” So when I strutted down the street in pride after winning, I will have to go weeping after losing. All that suffering arises.
But after the event—after the happening, after meditation—the “I” evaporates. Now, if there is defeat, Paramatma is defeated; if there is victory, Paramatma is victorious. Nothing remains to do with me. I myself am no longer there. Therefore such a person has no means left either to be happy or unhappy. And when there is no way left to become happy or unhappy, what remains is bliss. When all means to be happy or unhappy fall away, something still remains—I remain, everything remains—but the state then is that of bliss, or peace, or liberation.
Therefore meditation is an indispensable process; without it there can be no glimpse of liberation, bliss, or peace. Because without it the ego does not break. And if the ego breaks, what will you say? What will you say—who is making it happen?
One way is to say, “It is happening; no one is making it happen.” There is no harm in saying this. I do not deny it. There is no harm even in that. But the deeper the vision grows, the more it will be seen that to say “no one is making it happen” is very unscientific. The collective—the Whole—is the participant. We usually take Paramatma to be a personal noun; that is wrong. It is not personal. In truth, Paramatma is not singular at all; by its very nature it is plural, not singular. That is why you cannot make a plural of the word Paramatma—“Paramatmas” makes no sense; it has no meaning. You have to speak of Paramatma in the singular only because it is not a singular; it is the report of the collective, the total—the whole of what is. And when everything is included in the all, there is nowhere further to go. Thus the usage “gods” is wrong here.
That is why languages like English do not have a proper word for Paramatma. Their “God” can become “gods,” so it is a synonym for deva (a deity), not for Paramatma. Deities can be plural; Paramatma cannot. The word points to the collective, the all—the Whole. The English word “holy” is closer to Paramatma because it derives from “whole.” From whole comes holy. “Holy” is more apt; it carries the meaning of Paramatma. But we have taken it to mean purity and other things—then it is no longer accurate. “The Holy” grasps the point more closely: that which is the Whole, where everything has come together. If we wish to give that Togetherness a name, the name is Paramatma.
So when I say “I am not doing,” I am saying “All are doing; in that doing I am only one part—no more.” And if this enters your awareness, all anxiety is gone. Then there is neither defeat nor victory; neither birth nor death. For who would die, who would live—when all is eternal? It is the person who lives and dies—and he is gone; he has dissolved in meditation, finished.
So do not try to do meditation. If you just keep this much in mind, it will be very good.
Osho, alongside this, if someone holds the notion that God is the doer and the witness—that whatever happens is fine, just be a witness. But when someone sees a person speaking wrongly and he stops him, saying, “This is wrong,” harsh words slip out. Then everyone tells him, “You shouldn’t have done that; by speaking so harshly you hurt his heart.” Yet I feel those words were made to be spoken by God—that it was said, “This is wrong.”
No. If it was voiced by God, then those who are grabbing your neck and saying, “These were harsh words”—were their words not voiced by God? The matter is finished—what’s the problem then! You claim yours came from God, and these others telling you that by abusing you did very wrong—where did that come from? You leave them outside God. Then it becomes dishonesty—plain dishonesty. This is exactly the dishonesty that keeps going on all the time. And if everything is being made to happen by God, then what question remains?
No, what is happening has been called automatic.
No, no, no—it is automatic for them too. Is it only automatic for you? And that man who did the bad deed, whom you abused—for him too it is happening automatically. And these poor people who are telling you that you used very harsh words—that too is happening automatically.
No, our difficulty is that we do not know the witness. So we begin to assume: if we become a witness… There is no “if” there. Once it is known, these three things become one; there is no complication left. But we raise questions based on assumption. We say: if one becomes a witness and then such-and-such happens. But as yet you have not become a witness, so the “then such-and-such happens” you are thinking about belongs to before witnessing. Once witnessing is there, what is there to say? Then there is nothing at all—no question remains.
In the Mahabharata there is a very amusing account. All day they would fight. When evening came and the battle stopped, they would go into each other’s camps and chat. Those who had been enemies on the field all day and had put their whole life into trying to kill each other—once the bugle sounded and the fighting stopped—they would visit each other’s tents, gossip, sit and talk. Till midnight the talk would go on: who died, who survived. The very same people who had fought with all their might in the day. They were amazing folks. Because the one you have fought with all day—you don’t usually go to gossip with him in the evening. And the one you have chatted with in the evening—how will you fight him the next day!
It can be so. But one should not proceed on the assumption of the plane on which this happens. Do not assume, “Yes, I have become a witness,” and then frame a question. Become a witness first, and then bring your question. Because a witness has never brought any question. In fact, for the witness no question remains. Questions arise from our sense of being the doer. If witnessing happens, then what is, is—what question is there? Understand this well. All our questions arise from the feeling of doership. If there is no doer, what question remains? What is, is. I have not done anything—so how can a question arise?
Yesterday someone asked me a very fine thing. He asked, “Have you ever asked anyone a question?” I have not—never in my whole life. Not just now—never. Sometimes my family would say, a muni has come, a sannyasin has come, a swami has come. Even when I was small I would say, I’ll go. Many times my father would say, you talk so much—ask something! I would say, why should I ask? If I ask, “Is there God?” and that sannyasin says, “Yes,” what difference will it make to me? And if he says, “No,” what difference will it make? I will have to find out myself. His saying so is not going to make any difference. And if he says, “Yes,” and is lying, where will I verify it?
Then the people at home would say, you can find out from four others that this man does not lie. I would say, from whom shall I find out that those four do not lie? It is meaningless—absurd. How long will I keep verifying like that? It will have no end. I check with four that the sannyasin does not lie. Then I must check with sixteen that these four do not lie. And those sixteen—are they telling the truth or lying…? There will be no end to it. So I said, I will find out for myself. I’ll start from here; there is no need to go there. What is there to ask anyone!
All these questions…
No, our difficulty is that we do not know the witness. So we begin to assume: if we become a witness… There is no “if” there. Once it is known, these three things become one; there is no complication left. But we raise questions based on assumption. We say: if one becomes a witness and then such-and-such happens. But as yet you have not become a witness, so the “then such-and-such happens” you are thinking about belongs to before witnessing. Once witnessing is there, what is there to say? Then there is nothing at all—no question remains.
In the Mahabharata there is a very amusing account. All day they would fight. When evening came and the battle stopped, they would go into each other’s camps and chat. Those who had been enemies on the field all day and had put their whole life into trying to kill each other—once the bugle sounded and the fighting stopped—they would visit each other’s tents, gossip, sit and talk. Till midnight the talk would go on: who died, who survived. The very same people who had fought with all their might in the day. They were amazing folks. Because the one you have fought with all day—you don’t usually go to gossip with him in the evening. And the one you have chatted with in the evening—how will you fight him the next day!
It can be so. But one should not proceed on the assumption of the plane on which this happens. Do not assume, “Yes, I have become a witness,” and then frame a question. Become a witness first, and then bring your question. Because a witness has never brought any question. In fact, for the witness no question remains. Questions arise from our sense of being the doer. If witnessing happens, then what is, is—what question is there? Understand this well. All our questions arise from the feeling of doership. If there is no doer, what question remains? What is, is. I have not done anything—so how can a question arise?
Yesterday someone asked me a very fine thing. He asked, “Have you ever asked anyone a question?” I have not—never in my whole life. Not just now—never. Sometimes my family would say, a muni has come, a sannyasin has come, a swami has come. Even when I was small I would say, I’ll go. Many times my father would say, you talk so much—ask something! I would say, why should I ask? If I ask, “Is there God?” and that sannyasin says, “Yes,” what difference will it make to me? And if he says, “No,” what difference will it make? I will have to find out myself. His saying so is not going to make any difference. And if he says, “Yes,” and is lying, where will I verify it?
Then the people at home would say, you can find out from four others that this man does not lie. I would say, from whom shall I find out that those four do not lie? It is meaningless—absurd. How long will I keep verifying like that? It will have no end. I check with four that the sannyasin does not lie. Then I must check with sixteen that these four do not lie. And those sixteen—are they telling the truth or lying…? There will be no end to it. So I said, I will find out for myself. I’ll start from here; there is no need to go there. What is there to ask anyone!
All these questions…
In reality, there are no questions.
There aren’t, there aren’t. They cannot be. There, what is—simply is. No reason can be given for it, nor is there any reason. Therefore there are no questions there—none at all. But our sense of doership, the “doer,” is unreal. It isn’t. Hence it raises questions about everything.
When I left the university, I went and told the people in whose house I was living, “Today I’ve resigned from my job.”
They said, “Ah! You should have asked. You’ve been with us so long—eight years at least—you should have asked us once.”
So I asked them, “When I die, shall I ask you first before I die?”
They said, “No, how will you ask me before dying?”
“When I was born, did I ask you before I was born?”
They said, “No.”
“Then whom am I to ask, and what for? The real things are happening without asking—so why should I come to ask about a trivial thing?”
They said, “And tomorrow—now that you’ve left the job—if you don’t get food, if you don’t get bread, if you have to die hungry?”
I said, “Then I’ll die hungry. I won’t go to ask anyone why I am dying hungry. What is there to ask? I’ll understand the time has come to die hungry—so I am dying hungry.”
They said, “If no friend feeds you or gives you shelter”—they were very annoyed—“no one lets you stay, no one feeds you—then what will you do?”
I said, “Whatever happens in that moment, I’ll do. I won’t come to ask you what I should do. Whatever understanding dawns then, I will follow it. If I have to dig ditches, I’ll dig ditches. If I have to cut earth, I’ll cut earth.”
They said, “You will neither dig ditches nor cut earth.”
I said, “Then if I can’t get food, can’t dig ditches, can’t cut earth, and there’s no one to feed me, I’ll jump into some well, into some ravine. But what I will do—I won’t go to ask anyone. Because my being or not being has nothing to do with anyone’s answers.”
If once it dawns on us that all our questions arise from a false entity, then it becomes clear: that false entity is busy arranging its own defense. It raises a thousand questions, makes a thousand provisions—What will you do if this happens? What will you do if that happens?—and through all these arrangements it keeps getting stronger. If this goes on, every answer will give birth to ten new questions. It will be endless; it will never come to an end.
Things are as they are. One man abuses you and you slap him; another man slaps you. Things are like that—laugh and go home. What is there to ask in this? It happened “automatic” to you, “automatic” to him, “automatic” to the other. Now who is making this automatic happen? If you ever meet that one, then ask why this threefold automatic—why it happens this way to me, that way to him, and that way to the other. But you will never meet him. And when you reach him, you will be dissolved. The questioner will not remain; there will be no one to answer.
But we proceed by assuming. Assumption creates great trouble. In many things it works. In mathematics we assume: a man goes to the market; he buys bananas at six annas a dozen; if he buys three dozen, how many annas? We proceed by assuming. I used to enjoy this very much. One of my mathematics teachers would get very annoyed. He would say, “Assume a man goes to the market.” I’d say, “Why assume? Where did he go to the market?” He’d say, “You are foolish—you don’t understand. This is mathematics; you have to proceed by assumption.” I’d say, “If the man hasn’t gone at all, why get into this mess? Where is the man?”
It was all very delightful. He would put me out of class: “You stay outside.” He’d say, “He bought three dozen bananas.” I’d say, “But when did he buy them? Where did he buy them?” He’d say, “Mathematics cannot proceed beyond this—here you must assume.” I’d say, “If we have to assume anyway, then assume in a way that keeps it simple: assume he bought at one rupee a dozen; so three rupees for three dozen. If we’re assuming, why make it five annas and six pice and create so much hassle?”
He’d say, “You just don’t understand.” It never occurred to him that I was joking. He always thought mathematics could never enter my head. “You are unfit for mathematics—stand outside the class. You spoil the whole class.” Because the other boys also started asking, “Yes, why assume?”
If you don’t assume, it becomes very difficult. And the whole game runs on assumptions: if this happens, then that; if that happens, then this. But why accept that first premise at all? Become a witness—then see. No one goes to the market, no one buys bananas, there is no arithmetic. But that is after becoming a witness, not before. All mathematics is before that; after that there is no mathematics.
There is no place for “suppose” in life. Yet we run our whole affair on “suppose.” The husband is coming home supposing: the wife will say, “Where were you so late?”—so what answer will I give? All supposition is running. The wife at home is preparing supposing: the husband will surely say, “There was work at the office; so I’m late”—so call and check whether he was at the office till five or not. All supposition is running. And in this supposition there is great hassle, because both have their arithmetic ready—and those arithmetics are going to collide, because both have their own suppositions.
That is to say, the plain fact is: the husband is coming late—end of story. What more inquiry is needed in this? You have got a man who comes late—end of story.
But no—we do not accept life as it is. So we keep weaving a web all around it: this will happen, that will happen. And then a web of the mind is there. Then we say: the mind does not become silent; thoughts keep circling. And you are producing thoughts twenty-four hours a day. All thoughts stand upon supposition—all of them: suppose this happens—and the whole game begins.
Whatever is happening is happening; whatever will happen will happen. If this sinks in, where is there any room for thought? Do you understand?
When I left the university, I went and told the people in whose house I was living, “Today I’ve resigned from my job.”
They said, “Ah! You should have asked. You’ve been with us so long—eight years at least—you should have asked us once.”
So I asked them, “When I die, shall I ask you first before I die?”
They said, “No, how will you ask me before dying?”
“When I was born, did I ask you before I was born?”
They said, “No.”
“Then whom am I to ask, and what for? The real things are happening without asking—so why should I come to ask about a trivial thing?”
They said, “And tomorrow—now that you’ve left the job—if you don’t get food, if you don’t get bread, if you have to die hungry?”
I said, “Then I’ll die hungry. I won’t go to ask anyone why I am dying hungry. What is there to ask? I’ll understand the time has come to die hungry—so I am dying hungry.”
They said, “If no friend feeds you or gives you shelter”—they were very annoyed—“no one lets you stay, no one feeds you—then what will you do?”
I said, “Whatever happens in that moment, I’ll do. I won’t come to ask you what I should do. Whatever understanding dawns then, I will follow it. If I have to dig ditches, I’ll dig ditches. If I have to cut earth, I’ll cut earth.”
They said, “You will neither dig ditches nor cut earth.”
I said, “Then if I can’t get food, can’t dig ditches, can’t cut earth, and there’s no one to feed me, I’ll jump into some well, into some ravine. But what I will do—I won’t go to ask anyone. Because my being or not being has nothing to do with anyone’s answers.”
If once it dawns on us that all our questions arise from a false entity, then it becomes clear: that false entity is busy arranging its own defense. It raises a thousand questions, makes a thousand provisions—What will you do if this happens? What will you do if that happens?—and through all these arrangements it keeps getting stronger. If this goes on, every answer will give birth to ten new questions. It will be endless; it will never come to an end.
Things are as they are. One man abuses you and you slap him; another man slaps you. Things are like that—laugh and go home. What is there to ask in this? It happened “automatic” to you, “automatic” to him, “automatic” to the other. Now who is making this automatic happen? If you ever meet that one, then ask why this threefold automatic—why it happens this way to me, that way to him, and that way to the other. But you will never meet him. And when you reach him, you will be dissolved. The questioner will not remain; there will be no one to answer.
But we proceed by assuming. Assumption creates great trouble. In many things it works. In mathematics we assume: a man goes to the market; he buys bananas at six annas a dozen; if he buys three dozen, how many annas? We proceed by assuming. I used to enjoy this very much. One of my mathematics teachers would get very annoyed. He would say, “Assume a man goes to the market.” I’d say, “Why assume? Where did he go to the market?” He’d say, “You are foolish—you don’t understand. This is mathematics; you have to proceed by assumption.” I’d say, “If the man hasn’t gone at all, why get into this mess? Where is the man?”
It was all very delightful. He would put me out of class: “You stay outside.” He’d say, “He bought three dozen bananas.” I’d say, “But when did he buy them? Where did he buy them?” He’d say, “Mathematics cannot proceed beyond this—here you must assume.” I’d say, “If we have to assume anyway, then assume in a way that keeps it simple: assume he bought at one rupee a dozen; so three rupees for three dozen. If we’re assuming, why make it five annas and six pice and create so much hassle?”
He’d say, “You just don’t understand.” It never occurred to him that I was joking. He always thought mathematics could never enter my head. “You are unfit for mathematics—stand outside the class. You spoil the whole class.” Because the other boys also started asking, “Yes, why assume?”
If you don’t assume, it becomes very difficult. And the whole game runs on assumptions: if this happens, then that; if that happens, then this. But why accept that first premise at all? Become a witness—then see. No one goes to the market, no one buys bananas, there is no arithmetic. But that is after becoming a witness, not before. All mathematics is before that; after that there is no mathematics.
There is no place for “suppose” in life. Yet we run our whole affair on “suppose.” The husband is coming home supposing: the wife will say, “Where were you so late?”—so what answer will I give? All supposition is running. The wife at home is preparing supposing: the husband will surely say, “There was work at the office; so I’m late”—so call and check whether he was at the office till five or not. All supposition is running. And in this supposition there is great hassle, because both have their arithmetic ready—and those arithmetics are going to collide, because both have their own suppositions.
That is to say, the plain fact is: the husband is coming late—end of story. What more inquiry is needed in this? You have got a man who comes late—end of story.
But no—we do not accept life as it is. So we keep weaving a web all around it: this will happen, that will happen. And then a web of the mind is there. Then we say: the mind does not become silent; thoughts keep circling. And you are producing thoughts twenty-four hours a day. All thoughts stand upon supposition—all of them: suppose this happens—and the whole game begins.
Whatever is happening is happening; whatever will happen will happen. If this sinks in, where is there any room for thought? Do you understand?
But if we act after thinking, it will become unnatural.
Yes, that is bound to happen. But that too is human nature. Otherwise it couldn’t happen at all. Being unnatural is also human nature. Only a human can be so. A dog cannot, a cat cannot—only a human can. So one of the peculiarities of human nature is that it can be unnatural. That is its nature.
This supposition that is going on—is it the cause of all fear?
It is the cause of all fear.
What is Shiv Sena doing! What are other people doing!...
Yes, yes—this is all fear, all fear, all of it. We have made so many suppositions—that there will be a heaven; suppose heaven exists, suppose hell exists; that sin bears fruit and virtue bears fruit; that there is a God who will demand answers; that the Day of Judgment will come, he will raise you and ask, “What did you do? What did he do?” All of this is mere supposition.
Is reality different from this?
It has no meaning; it means nothing. But it is part of human nature that one can be unnatural. When one is unnatural, one suffers. Suffering means: the fruit of being unnatural. When one is natural, one is happy. Happiness means: the fruit of being natural.
But don’t try to be natural—otherwise that too will be unnatural. Simply understand your unnaturalness; the matter will be finished, and slowly your naturalness will arrive. Things are as they are. If this insight dawns, a great possibility for meditation opens.
But don’t try to be natural—otherwise that too will be unnatural. Simply understand your unnaturalness; the matter will be finished, and slowly your naturalness will arrive. Things are as they are. If this insight dawns, a great possibility for meditation opens.
Osho, how does the cessation of this ego-sense happen? That is, witnessing is not something that is brought in, nor does one make oneself into a witness. It is only because we have become something else that the feeling of witnessing does not arise. So this ego-sense—the “made-ness” we are—how does it come to an end?
No, no—you cannot bring about its cessation. Because the very one who is asking, “How should I end it?”—that itself is the ego. You cannot end it. The ego is so subtle that when it asks, “How do I erase the ego?” it is the ego itself that is asking. The question is not coming from anywhere else. Beyond the ego there is no questioning at all; there, the ego is not. Ego belongs to the mind that asks; it is not part of the consciousness-state of being a witness.
Understand it like this: there is water. The water asks, “How can I eliminate my fluidity?” Water can only be by being fluid. It cannot remove fluidity, because in the very definition of water, fluidity is included; it is part of it. We say to it, “Cool down below zero degrees,” or “Heat up to a hundred degrees.” If you go below zero, you will no longer remain water; you will become ice. Then it says, “All right, granted that I become ice—but how will fluidity end?” Its trouble is that it refuses to see by actually becoming that. It keeps saying, “Granted that I become ice, but how will fluidity end?” We say, “Heat up to a hundred degrees; you will become steam.” It says, “Granted that I become steam—but how will fluidity end?” No—fluidity is only the play of water between these two points, zero and one hundred degrees.
Ego is the play within the degrees of the doer. Either you drop below it—as a person drops into unconsciousness. The ego disappears. That is a frozen state: you have become ice; you have fallen below. That is why there is so much fascination with alcohol: it is a relief from the ego—by falling downward. It brings you into the state of ice. But life is very warm; you cannot remain ice for long. The warmth of life melts you back into water. As morning comes, the intoxication is gone; awareness returns, and again it is felt, “I am.”
So one way is to become unconscious—you will be outside the ego. But you will not know you are outside it, because you went out by becoming unconscious. The other way is to arrive in witnessing; then you will find you have gone beyond. And because you have gone into witnessing, which is awareness, you will also know that the ego is no more.
Thus the state of witnessing and the state of unconsciousness are often confused. As I understand it, Ramakrishna never reached the witnessing state; he kept arriving at the state of unconsciousness, kept falling downward. But the two states appear exactly alike, because in both conditions water is no longer liquid. One property is common to both ice and steam—that fluidity is lost.
Understand it like this: there is water. The water asks, “How can I eliminate my fluidity?” Water can only be by being fluid. It cannot remove fluidity, because in the very definition of water, fluidity is included; it is part of it. We say to it, “Cool down below zero degrees,” or “Heat up to a hundred degrees.” If you go below zero, you will no longer remain water; you will become ice. Then it says, “All right, granted that I become ice—but how will fluidity end?” Its trouble is that it refuses to see by actually becoming that. It keeps saying, “Granted that I become ice, but how will fluidity end?” We say, “Heat up to a hundred degrees; you will become steam.” It says, “Granted that I become steam—but how will fluidity end?” No—fluidity is only the play of water between these two points, zero and one hundred degrees.
Ego is the play within the degrees of the doer. Either you drop below it—as a person drops into unconsciousness. The ego disappears. That is a frozen state: you have become ice; you have fallen below. That is why there is so much fascination with alcohol: it is a relief from the ego—by falling downward. It brings you into the state of ice. But life is very warm; you cannot remain ice for long. The warmth of life melts you back into water. As morning comes, the intoxication is gone; awareness returns, and again it is felt, “I am.”
So one way is to become unconscious—you will be outside the ego. But you will not know you are outside it, because you went out by becoming unconscious. The other way is to arrive in witnessing; then you will find you have gone beyond. And because you have gone into witnessing, which is awareness, you will also know that the ego is no more.
Thus the state of witnessing and the state of unconsciousness are often confused. As I understand it, Ramakrishna never reached the witnessing state; he kept arriving at the state of unconsciousness, kept falling downward. But the two states appear exactly alike, because in both conditions water is no longer liquid. One property is common to both ice and steam—that fluidity is lost.
Osho, even if the ego remains, let it be; it too is a form of the soul. Why do you try to kill it?
It is not the nature of the soul.
No—whatever there is is a quality of the soul; if it remains, let it remain. Why try to kill it?
No, no—there is no question of doing anything. That’s exactly what I am saying. No, there is no question of trying. Even if you try, you cannot kill it.
Nowadays the whole world is busy trying to kill the ego.
That too is part of the ego; it makes no difference. Whether you try to inflate the ego or to kill it, in both cases the ego remains. Nothing is going to change by that. So I am not talking about trying; I am saying that from the very stance of being a doer, a leap happens on its own.
"Become the witness and keep watching the ego."
There will be nothing left there to see. That is exactly the whole mess. It is a matter of supposition. We say, “Become a witness to the ego...” Where witnessing is, how can ego be? The two cannot be together. The moment witnessing happens you will find—ego was not, is not, and cannot be.
Like someone who, having seen a dream at night, says in the morning, “How can I break the dream?” We will tell him, “Break sleep; forget the dream.” If he says, “Yes, that’s right—wake up and keep watching the dream,” what sense would that make? How will he go on watching the dream once awake? With awakening, the dream breaks. With waking, nothing remains there to watch of the dream. It belongs to sleep.
The dream is not primary; sleep is primary. Sleep can be without dreams, but a dream cannot be without sleep. Therefore, do not fight the dream. Because if in the dream you even fight the dream, you can only create new dreams—nothing else. Wake up—drop concern about the dream. It is part of sleep; you wake up and it goes with sleep. It will not remain anywhere.
The sleep of our “being the doer” is fundamental; ego is its dream. If you fight the ego, the fight will continue within sleep; you will not arrive anywhere. Two kinds of sleep-dreams are possible. One man says, “Now I have become absolutely egoless”—but it is the “I” that has become egoless. Who will be egoless? One man says, “I am full of ego.” Another says, “In me no ego is left at all.” But in both, the “I” remains. They are making two different proclamations; it makes no difference. The I is present and is proclaiming. That makes no difference.
No—one man has awakened. Ask him, “Has your ego been erased?” He will say, “It never was. Because had it been, it would have been difficult to erase. How would it be erased? That which is, never gets erased. It never was.” Then we say, “So you got rid of the ego?” He will say, “We were never trapped, never bound.” Then we cannot understand his language. We say, “This is very difficult talk. We are trapped by it; so tell us some trick—how did you get out?” He never got out; he woke up and saw that in sleep he had dreamed he was bound.
Therefore my whole emphasis is this: accept life as it is, quietly. Accept totally whatever is. The day acceptance becomes total—when not even an inch of rejection remains within you—on that very day you will find the happening has happened. After that, there is not a single moment’s need to wait for it; only until that moment it cannot happen. It will happen. And beyond it there is no beyond; beyond it you also know that even before, it had never been there.
Therefore whoever says, “Drop the ego!” is speaking wrongly—speaking wrongly. Ego cannot be dropped. Because dropping and grasping are all satisfactions of the ego. Our whole trouble is like a dog trying to catch its own tail. It looks so close, right by the mouth; he leaps. When he leaps, the tail also leaps. The same distance remains. Then he thinks, “It is really very close—just make the jump properly. I haven’t caught it yet because I missed a bit. Now leap with such force that the tail will be met right where it is.” The more strongly he leaps, the more strongly the tail leaps—because the tail is part of the dog. So he thinks, “It doesn’t come into my grip from this side; catch it from that side.” He turns his head and tries from the opposite side. Leaping from there too, he finds that the tail always springs away. He cannot realize—how could he?—that the tail is joined to his very leap.
Therefore he accumulates wealth and the ego grows strong. Then he thinks: “Leave wealth.” He leaves wealth and the ego grows strong. It is his tail, attached to him. He says, “In household life one cannot be free of ego—become a sannyasin.” Then the sannyasin’s ego grabs him. Nothing changes. Nothing can change.
One day the dog has to understand that the tail is his own—there is no need to catch it; it hangs behind of itself. Drop it; there is no need to get entangled in it at all. This tail is your own—what is there to catch? It is already caught. The dog is free. Now he does not try to catch the tail. Now he walks along with grace.
Our entire difficulty is very vicious. Because whatever we do, that difficulty appears to grow, not diminish. The dog can go mad—leaping harder and harder to catch the tail—until he goes insane, his mind deranged. And the tail seems so near that he thinks, “We missed this time; next time we will catch it.” It does not appear far; it is so near. He has always caught things farther away than this. A sweet was lying that far—he leapt and caught it. A man was going that far—he ran and caught him. He has caught things far away. So the dog’s mind is deeply pained that this tail, kept so near, keeps slipping; then great anger fills the mind. From anger, the leap grows more forceful.
The sannyasin and the householder are catching the tail by turning over. There is no difference. One catches from this side; one from that side. Do not try to catch the tail at all.
(The audio recording of the question is unclear.)
They will, of course, say that. They will. You went to Haridwar—that is your mistake. You took them to be a mahatma—that is your error. What can they do about that? What can they do? They make arrangements for your return: “Return—buy a ticket and go back.” If you do not go to Haridwar, then in a few days the mahatma will come to Bombay here to you: “Mother, if you wish to know anything, we have come to tell you.” Tell him, “Baba, I wish to know nothing—go.” Then he will go back to Haridwar.
Like someone who, having seen a dream at night, says in the morning, “How can I break the dream?” We will tell him, “Break sleep; forget the dream.” If he says, “Yes, that’s right—wake up and keep watching the dream,” what sense would that make? How will he go on watching the dream once awake? With awakening, the dream breaks. With waking, nothing remains there to watch of the dream. It belongs to sleep.
The dream is not primary; sleep is primary. Sleep can be without dreams, but a dream cannot be without sleep. Therefore, do not fight the dream. Because if in the dream you even fight the dream, you can only create new dreams—nothing else. Wake up—drop concern about the dream. It is part of sleep; you wake up and it goes with sleep. It will not remain anywhere.
The sleep of our “being the doer” is fundamental; ego is its dream. If you fight the ego, the fight will continue within sleep; you will not arrive anywhere. Two kinds of sleep-dreams are possible. One man says, “Now I have become absolutely egoless”—but it is the “I” that has become egoless. Who will be egoless? One man says, “I am full of ego.” Another says, “In me no ego is left at all.” But in both, the “I” remains. They are making two different proclamations; it makes no difference. The I is present and is proclaiming. That makes no difference.
No—one man has awakened. Ask him, “Has your ego been erased?” He will say, “It never was. Because had it been, it would have been difficult to erase. How would it be erased? That which is, never gets erased. It never was.” Then we say, “So you got rid of the ego?” He will say, “We were never trapped, never bound.” Then we cannot understand his language. We say, “This is very difficult talk. We are trapped by it; so tell us some trick—how did you get out?” He never got out; he woke up and saw that in sleep he had dreamed he was bound.
Therefore my whole emphasis is this: accept life as it is, quietly. Accept totally whatever is. The day acceptance becomes total—when not even an inch of rejection remains within you—on that very day you will find the happening has happened. After that, there is not a single moment’s need to wait for it; only until that moment it cannot happen. It will happen. And beyond it there is no beyond; beyond it you also know that even before, it had never been there.
Therefore whoever says, “Drop the ego!” is speaking wrongly—speaking wrongly. Ego cannot be dropped. Because dropping and grasping are all satisfactions of the ego. Our whole trouble is like a dog trying to catch its own tail. It looks so close, right by the mouth; he leaps. When he leaps, the tail also leaps. The same distance remains. Then he thinks, “It is really very close—just make the jump properly. I haven’t caught it yet because I missed a bit. Now leap with such force that the tail will be met right where it is.” The more strongly he leaps, the more strongly the tail leaps—because the tail is part of the dog. So he thinks, “It doesn’t come into my grip from this side; catch it from that side.” He turns his head and tries from the opposite side. Leaping from there too, he finds that the tail always springs away. He cannot realize—how could he?—that the tail is joined to his very leap.
Therefore he accumulates wealth and the ego grows strong. Then he thinks: “Leave wealth.” He leaves wealth and the ego grows strong. It is his tail, attached to him. He says, “In household life one cannot be free of ego—become a sannyasin.” Then the sannyasin’s ego grabs him. Nothing changes. Nothing can change.
One day the dog has to understand that the tail is his own—there is no need to catch it; it hangs behind of itself. Drop it; there is no need to get entangled in it at all. This tail is your own—what is there to catch? It is already caught. The dog is free. Now he does not try to catch the tail. Now he walks along with grace.
Our entire difficulty is very vicious. Because whatever we do, that difficulty appears to grow, not diminish. The dog can go mad—leaping harder and harder to catch the tail—until he goes insane, his mind deranged. And the tail seems so near that he thinks, “We missed this time; next time we will catch it.” It does not appear far; it is so near. He has always caught things farther away than this. A sweet was lying that far—he leapt and caught it. A man was going that far—he ran and caught him. He has caught things far away. So the dog’s mind is deeply pained that this tail, kept so near, keeps slipping; then great anger fills the mind. From anger, the leap grows more forceful.
The sannyasin and the householder are catching the tail by turning over. There is no difference. One catches from this side; one from that side. Do not try to catch the tail at all.
(The audio recording of the question is unclear.)
They will, of course, say that. They will. You went to Haridwar—that is your mistake. You took them to be a mahatma—that is your error. What can they do about that? What can they do? They make arrangements for your return: “Return—buy a ticket and go back.” If you do not go to Haridwar, then in a few days the mahatma will come to Bombay here to you: “Mother, if you wish to know anything, we have come to tell you.” Tell him, “Baba, I wish to know nothing—go.” Then he will go back to Haridwar.
Is being free of the ego itself the union with the Divine, or does union with the Divine bring freedom from the ego?
Absolutely—two ways of saying the same thing.
As when the Divine is realized, can one partake only of the bliss of the Self, or of the other as well...
No “other” remains at all. That is the very trouble. It is precisely because of our suppositions that we are disturbed. When the Divine is realized, the other does not remain. Even the “self” does not remain.
Osho, then how will this realization come about through one's own direct experience?
There is simply no other way. Because you are asking someone else, the insight does not arise. Because you are asking someone else, the insight does not arise. If you do not ask, even now the insight will arise in you too.
Osho, I was very troubled, but I had no idea what meditation means—what it is, how to do it, what to do. Until I hear from someone or read...
Then keep reading, keep listening. When you become fed up with them too, where will you go? You’ll have to return to yourself.
Osho, about meditation: I have heard that sometimes meditation just happens. So how will one know that on one’s own?
It will be known by itself. And if it isn’t known, then it isn’t known. But from another you will never know it. You understand what I mean, don’t you! From another you will never know it. Ask! That, too, is part of wandering. Wandering is necessary in order to return home. And the more one wanders, the better. Because the more tired and worn out you return, the more deeply you will rest at home. Wandering is necessary, absolutely necessary. Wandering is a part of life; there is nothing wrong in it. Ask, wander. When you have wandered and you don’t get it from anyone, then what will you do? Then you will have to come back to yourself—thrown back!
Osho, after all, people have been wandering like this for thousands of years.
Oh, where have you been wandering for thousands of years! If you could wander even for one year, that would be a lot. You don’t even wander; you just stand in one place, dancing there, hopping right there. If you actually wandered, something would happen.
Now this business of wandering for thousands of years! Who is wandering? You have been wandering for thousands of years? If you wander for even a single day—twenty-four hours totally—you will reach home. But you don’t even wander; you don’t put energy even into that. You’re standing there, jumping up and down in the same spot. And you think: “We are wandering; we are doing a great search.” You are not searching anything at all. Someone is jumping on his Gita, someone on his Quran, someone is standing on his Bible and hopping. The Gita, the Quran, the Bible are dying because of all this hopping. You are not going anywhere; you are standing on your book, dancing.
Things will be seen—won’t they? Only by wandering will they be seen. Wander—there’s no harm in it. Ask—there’s no harm in it. But all this questioning will prove futile. In the end you will find what madness you have been caught in! What are you asking? Whom are you to ask? Who will tell? Even if someone tells, how will I know? It will become clear; there will be a revelation—from within you. You will feel that no one will tell, there is no one to tell. Even if someone knows, he still cannot tell; this is not something that can be told. Then what will you do? When nothing is left to do, then you will be able to meditate; otherwise you won’t. As long as anything is left to do, you will go on doing that; you won’t meditate. Meditation is the last...
Now this business of wandering for thousands of years! Who is wandering? You have been wandering for thousands of years? If you wander for even a single day—twenty-four hours totally—you will reach home. But you don’t even wander; you don’t put energy even into that. You’re standing there, jumping up and down in the same spot. And you think: “We are wandering; we are doing a great search.” You are not searching anything at all. Someone is jumping on his Gita, someone on his Quran, someone is standing on his Bible and hopping. The Gita, the Quran, the Bible are dying because of all this hopping. You are not going anywhere; you are standing on your book, dancing.
Things will be seen—won’t they? Only by wandering will they be seen. Wander—there’s no harm in it. Ask—there’s no harm in it. But all this questioning will prove futile. In the end you will find what madness you have been caught in! What are you asking? Whom are you to ask? Who will tell? Even if someone tells, how will I know? It will become clear; there will be a revelation—from within you. You will feel that no one will tell, there is no one to tell. Even if someone knows, he still cannot tell; this is not something that can be told. Then what will you do? When nothing is left to do, then you will be able to meditate; otherwise you won’t. As long as anything is left to do, you will go on doing that; you won’t meditate. Meditation is the last...
Osho, by this account—according to your theory—it would mean there is trade, people have debts... and if this same ideology continues...
That’s exactly the trouble. I’ve been saying it all along: you keep assuming that a man went to the market and bought bananas. No—he didn’t buy them, he didn’t even go. You proceed on the assumption that if one accepts what I’m saying, then such-and-such will happen. Try it and see!
Osho, no—the way people think these days is: religion is separate in the temple and business is separate in the marketplace. Then the whole business—the trade line...
By that reckoning, you’ve fallen into confusion. Either it is like this: that stage—just as in meditation thoughts arise on their own—according to the theory you’ve stated, then the whole of life is just that.
Yes, the truth is that the whole of life has to be like that.
(Question inaudible.)
Once it is understood, there’s nothing left to do; it becomes twenty-four hours. It becomes twenty-four hours.
(Question inaudible.)
It has already happened—once it is understood, the thing is done.
Yes, the truth is that the whole of life has to be like that.
(Question inaudible.)
Once it is understood, there’s nothing left to do; it becomes twenty-four hours. It becomes twenty-four hours.
(Question inaudible.)
It has already happened—once it is understood, the thing is done.