Glimpses of a Golden Childhood
1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, USA

Chapter # 9
Chapter # 10
Chapter # 11
Chapter # 12

Chapter #9

Time cannot go back, but mind can. What a wastage -- to give such a mind, which cannot forget anything whatsoever, to a man who not only has become a no-mind, but also preaches to others to drop the mind. As far as my mind is concerned -- remember, my mind, not me -- it is as much a mechanism as the one being used here. My "mind" simply means the machinery, but a perfect machine given to a man who will discard it! That is why I say what a wastage.
But I know the reason: unless you have a perfect mind, you cannot have the intelligence to discard it. Life is full of contradictions. Nothing is bad about it; it makes life more tasteful.
There was no reason for man and woman to be two; they could have been like the amoeba -- you can ask Devaraj. The amoeba is neither male nor female, it is one. It is also like Muktananda, and all the other idiotanandas -- celibate -- but it has its own way of reproducing. What a trouble it causes all the doctors in the world! It simply goes on eating, becoming fatter and fatter, and at a certain point it splits in two. That is its way of reproduction. It is really brahmacharya, celibate.
Man and woman could have been one, like amoebae, but there would have been no poetry, only reproduction. Of course, no conflict either, no nagging, no fighting; but the poetry which has arisen is so valuable, that all the conflicts and all the nagging, and all the bickering, is worthwhile.
Just now I was again listening to Noorjahan... "That trust that was between us, you may have forgotten, but I have not. I still remember at least a little. Those words that you spoke to me, perhaps you don't remember them at all, but just the memory of them is enough to keep me hoping. That love that was between us...." wo karar, "that love"...karar is far more intense than the word "love" can translate; it is far more passionate. It would be better to translate it as "that passion," or "that passionate love." And "Wo rah mujh mein our tujh mein thee -- and the way that was between you and me...."
"The way..." only once in a while, when the hearts are open is there a way, otherwise people communicate, they do not commune. They talk but nobody listens. They do business, but there is just emptiness between them, there is no overflowing joy. Wo rah -- "that way," and WO KARAR-"that passionate love".... "Perhaps you have forgotten it, but I remember. I cannot forget that you once said, `You are the queen of the world, the most beautiful woman.' Perhaps you cannot even recognize me now...."
Things change, loves change, bodies change; it is the very nature of existence to be changing, to be in a flux. I listen to that song just before I come into your cabin, because I have loved it from my very childhood. I think perhaps it may provoke some memories in me, and it certainly does.
Yesterday, I was telling you of the incident that happened between me and the Jaina monk. It was not the end of that story, because that next day he had to come again to beg for his food from my grandfather's house.
It will be difficult for you to understand why he had to come again when he had left our house in such anger. I have to explain the context to you. A Jaina monk cannot take food from anybody except another Jaina, and unfortunately for him, we were the only Jaina family in that small village. He could not beg elsewhere for his food, although he would have liked to, but it was against his discipline. So, in spite of himself, he came again.
I and my Nani were both waiting upstairs, watching from the window because we knew he had to come. My Nani said to me, "Look, he is coming. Now, what are you going to ask him today?"
I said, "I don't know. First, let him at least eat, and then conventionally he is bound to address the family and the people who have gathered." After each meal, a Jaina monk delivers a sermon of thanks. "Then don't be worried," I told her, "I will find something or other to ask. First let him speak."
He was very cautious in speaking, and very brief, which was unusual. But whether you speak or not, if someone wants to question you, he can. He can question your silence. The monk was speaking about the beauty of existence, thinking perhaps that it could not create any trouble, but it did.
I stood up. My Nani was laughing at the back of the room -- I can still hear her laughter. I asked him, "Who created this beautiful universe?"
Jainas do not believe in God. It is difficult for the western Christian mind to even comprehend a religion that does not believe in God. Jainism is far superior to Christianity; at least it does not believe in God, and the Holy Ghost, and the whole nonsense that follows. Jainism is, believe me or not, an atheistic religion, because to be atheist and yet religious seems to be contradictory, a contradiction in terms. Jainism is pure ethics, pure morality, with no God. So when I asked the Jaina monk, "Who created this beauty?" obviously, as I knew he would, he answered, "Nobody."
That was what I was waiting for. I then said, "Can such beauty be created by no one?"
He said, "Please don't misunderstand me...." This time he had come prepared; he looked more together. "Please don't misunderstand me," he said, "I am not saying that no one is someone."
Remember the story in ALICE THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS? The Queen asks Alice, "On the way here, did you meet anybody coming to see me?"
Alice said, "I saw nobody."
The Queen looked puzzled, then said, "It is strange; then nobody should have arrived here before you, and he is not here yet."
Alice, just like an English lady, of course, giggled, only spiritually. Her face remained grave. She said, "Ma'am, nobody is nobody."
The Queen said, "Of course, I know nobody is bound to be nobody, but why is he so late? It seems nobody walks slower than you."
Alice forgot for a moment and said, "Nobody walks faster than me."
The Queen then said, "That is even stranger. If nobody walks faster than you, then why has he not arrived yet?"
Alice then understood her mistake but it was too late. She again repeated, "Please Ma'am, remember that nobody is nobody."
The Queen said, "I know it already, nobody is nobody, but the question is why is he not yet here?"
I said to the Jaina monk, "I know that no one is no one, but you talk so beautifully, so praisingly of existence that it shocks me, because Jainas are not supposed to do that. It seems that because of yesterday's experience you have changed your tactics. You can change your tactics but you cannot change me. I still ask, if no one created the universe how did it come to be?"
He looked here and there; all were silent except for my Nani, who was laughing loudly. The monk asked me, "Do you know how it came to be?"
I said, "It has always been there; there is no need for it to come." I can confirm that sentence after forty-five years, after enlightenment and no-enlightenment, after having read so much and having forgotten it all, after knowing that which is and -- put it in capitals -- IGNORING IT. I can still say the same as that young child: the universe has always been there; there is no need for it to have been created or to have come from somewhere -- it simply is.
The Jaina monk did not turn up on the third day. He escaped from our village to the next where there was another Jaina family. But I must pay homage to him: without knowing it he started a small child on the journey towards truth.
Since then, how many people have I asked the same question, and found the same ignorance facing me -- great pundits, knowledgeable people, great mahatmas worshipped by thousands, and yet not able to answer a simple question put by a child.
In fact, no real question has ever been answered, and I predict that no real question will ever be answered, because when you come to a real question, the only answer is silence. Not the stupid silence of a pundit, a monk or a mahatma, but your own silence. Not the silence of the other, but the silence that grows within you. Except that, there is no answer. And that silence that grows within is an answer to you, and to those who merge with your silence with love; otherwise it is not an answer to anyone except you.
There have been many silent people in the world who have not been of any help to others. The Jainas call them arihantas, the Buddhists call them arhatas; both words mean the same. It is just that the languages are a little different; one is Prakrit, the other is Pali. They are neighboring languages or sister languages rather; arihanta, arhat, you can see yourself that both words are the same.
There have been arihantas and arhatas, but although they had found the answer they were not able to proclaim it, and unless you are able to proclaim it, proclaim it from the housetops, your answer is not of much value -- it is only one person's answer in a crowd where everybody is full of questions. Soon the arihanta dies, and with him his silence; it disappears as if one has been writing on water. You can write, you can sign on water, but by the time you have finished writing your signature it is no longer there.
The real Master not only knows, but helps millions to know. His knowledge is not private, it is open to all those who are ready to receive. I have known the answer. The question I have carried for thousands of years, in one body, in another body, through one body to another body, but the answer has happened for the first time. It has happened only because I questioned persistently without any fear of the consequences.
I am recalling these incidents to make you aware that unless one asks, and asks everyone totally, it is difficult to ask oneself. When one is thrown out from every door, when all the doors are locked or slammed in your face, then at last one turns withinwards -- and there is the answer. It is not written; you will not find a BIBLE, a TORAH, or a KORAN, a GITA, a TAO TE CHING or a DHAMMAPADA.... No, you won't find anything written there.
Nor will you find anyone there either -- no God, no father-figure, smiling and patting you on your back saying, "So, good, my son, you have come home. I forgive all your sins." No, you will not find anyone there. What you will find is a tremendous, overwhelming silence, so dense that one feels one can touch it... like a beautiful woman. One can feel it like a beautiful woman, and it is only silence, but very tangible.
When the monk had disappeared from that village we laughed continuously for days, particularly my Nani and I. I cannot believe how childlike she was! At that time she must have been nearly fifty, but her spirit was as if she had never grown older than a child. She laughed with me and said, "You did well."
Even now I can still see the back of the escaping monk. Jaina monks are not beautiful people. They cannot be, their whole approach is ugly, just ugly. Even his back was ugly. I have always loved the beautiful wherever it is found -- in the stars, in a human body, in flowers, or in the flight of a bird... wherever. I am an unashamed worshipper of the beautiful, because I cannot see how one can know truth if one cannot love beauty. Beauty is the way to truth; and the way and the goal are not different: the way itself ultimately turns into the goal. The first step is also the last.
That encounter -- yes, that's the right word... that encounter with the Jaina mystic began thousands of other encounters, Jaina, Hindu, Mohammedan, Christian, and I was ready to do anything just to have a good argument.
You will not believe me, but I went through circumcision at the age of twenty-seven, after I was already enlightened, just to enter a Mohammedan Sufi order where they would not allow anybody in who had not been circumcised. I said, "Okay, then do it! This body is going to be destroyed anyway, and you are only cutting off just a little piece of skin. Cut it, but I want to enter the school."
Even they were unable to believe me. I said, "Believe me, I am ready." And when I started arguing they said, "You were so willing to be circumcised and yet you are so unwilling to accept anything we say at all?"
I said, "That's my way. About the non-essential I am always ready to say yes; about the essential, I am absolutely adamant, nobody can force me to say yes."
Of course they had to expel me from their so-called Sufi order, but I told them, "Expelling me, you are simply declaring to the world that you are pseudo-Sufis. The only real Sufi is being expelled. In fact, I expel you all."
Bewildered, they looked at each other. But that's the truth. I had gone to their order, not to know the truth; I knew that already. Then why had I entered? Just to have good company to argue with.
Argument has been my joy from my very childhood. I will do anything just to have a good argument; but how rare it is to find a really good milieu for argument. I entered the Sufi order -- this I am confessing for the first time -- and even allowed those fools to circumcise me; and they did it by such primitive methods that I had to suffer for at least six months. But I didn't care about that; my whole concern was to know Sufism from within. Alas! I could not find a real Sufi in my life. But that is true not only about the Sufis, I have not found a real Christian either, or a real Hassid.
J. Krishnamurti invited me to meet him in Bombay. The man who brought the message was a common friend, Parmananda. I told him, "Parmananda, go back and tell Krishnamurti that if he wants to see me, he should come -- that is proper -- rather than asking me to come to him."
Parmananda said, "But he is years older than you."
I said, "You go to him. Don't answer on his behalf. If he says that he is older than me, then it is not worth going, because awakening cannot be older or younger; it is always just the same -- simply fresh, eternally fresh."
He went and never came back, because how could Krishnamurti, an old man, come to see me? Yet he wanted to see me. This is interesting, is it not? I never wanted to see him, otherwise I would have gone to him. He wanted to see me, and yet still wanted me to go to him. You must concede that is a little too much. Parmananda never returned with a reply. Next day, when he came, I asked, "What happened?"
He said, "Krishnamurti became very angry, so angry that I did not ask him again."
Now, he wanted to see me; I would have loved to see him, but I had never wanted to, for the simple reason that I don't like to go to people, even though the person was J. Krishnamurti. I love what he says, I love what he is, but I have never desired -- at least have never said to anyone -- that I want to see him, because then it is a simple matter: I should go to him. He desired; he wanted to see me, and yet wanted me to come to him. I don't like that, and never will.
That created, at least on his part, an antagonism towards me. Since then he has been speaking against me. The moment he sees one of my sannyasins he behaves exactly like a bull. If you wave a red flag at a bull you know what will happen. That's what happens when he sees one of my sannyasins, clothed in red; suddenly he becomes enraged. I say that he must have been a bull in his past life; he has not forgotten his antagonism with the color red.
This only started when I refused to go to see him. Before that, he had never spoken against me. As far as I'm concerned, I am a free man. I can speak for somebody, and in the same breath against the same person, without any trouble on my part. I love all kinds of contradictions and inconsistencies.
J. Krishnamurti is against me, but I say I am not against him. I still love him. He is one of the most beautiful men of the twentieth century. I don't think there is anybody else alive I can compare him with -- but he has a limitation, and that limitation has been his undoing. The limitation is that he tries to be utterly intellectual, and that is not possible if you want to rise high, if you want to go beyond words and numbers.
Krishnamurti should be beyond, just beyond, but he is tethered to the Victorian intellectuality. His intellectuality is not even modern, but Victorian, almost one century old. He says he is fortunate in not having read the Upanishads, the Gita, or the Koran. Then what does he go on doing? I will tell you. He reads third-rate detective novels!
Please don't tell it to anybody, otherwise he will hit his head against the wall. I am not worried about his head, I am worried about the wall. As far as his head is concerned, he has been suffering from migraine for more than the last fifty years -- that's more than my whole lifetime -- so much so that in his diary he says many times he wanted to hit his head against the wall.... Yes, I am worried about the wall.
Why does he suffer from migraine? -- because of too much intellectuality, and nothing else. It is not the same as poor Asheesh, my chair-maker. He too suffers from migraine, but his is physical. J. Krishnamurti's migraine is spiritual. He is too intellectual. Just to hear him is enough to give you a migraine. If you don't suffer from migraine after hearing a lecture by J. Krishnamurti it means that you are already enlightened -- or that you don't have a head. The second is more probable. The first is a little difficult.
Asheesh's migraine can be cured but Krishnamurti's is not terminable. He is incurable. But now there is no need either because he is so old and accustomed to living with his migraine. It has become almost like a wife. If you take away his migraine he will be left alone, a widower. Do not do that. He and his migraine are married, and they are going to die together.
I was saying that my first encounter with the naked Jaina monk started a long, long series of encounters with many so-called monks -- bullshitters. They all suffer from intellectuality, and I was born to bring them down to earth. But it is almost impossible to bring them to their senses. Perhaps they don't want to because they are afraid. Perhaps not to have sensibility or intelligence is very advantageous to them.
They are respected as holy men; to me they are only holy cow-dung. One thing about cow-dung is good, it does not smell. I remind you of that because I am allergic to smells. Cow-dung has this one good quality, it is non-allergic. What is the right word, Devaraj?
"Non-allergenic, Osho."
Right, non-allergenic.
My Nani was not really an Indian woman; even the West would have been a little less foreign to her. And remember, she was absolutely uneducated -- perhaps that's why she was so perceptive. Perhaps she could see something in me of which I was not aware in those days. Perhaps that's the reason she loved me so much... I can't say. She's no longer alive. One thing I do know: when her husband died she never went back to the village; she remained in my father's village. I had to leave her there, but when I returned, again and again I would ask her, "Nani, can we go back to the village?"
She would always say, "For what? You are here." Those three simple words resound in me like music reverberating: "You are here." I also say the same to you. She loved me; and you know nobody can love you more than I love you.
It is beautiful.
You have never been here.
Alas, if only I could also invite you to this Himalayan space! "Now" is such a beautiful space. And poor Devageet -- I can still hear his giggle. My God! Can no chemistry at least prevent me from hearing the giggles?
Don't think I have gone mad -- I am already mad. Do you see? -- your insanity and my insanity, they are totally different. Note it down. Even Rasputin, if he were alive, would be a sannyasin... I mean, he would have been a sannyasin. Nobody, without exception, can cheat me.
I am the type of person who even at the time of death will say, "Enough, enough for today...."

Chapter #10

I was looking at some pictures of the marriage procession of Princess Anne, and strangely, the only thing that impressed me in the whole nonsense was the beautiful horses, their joyous dance. Looking at those horses I remembered my own horse. I have not told anyone about it, not even Gudia, who loves horses. But now that I am not keeping anything secret, even this can be told.
I not only owned one horse; in fact I had four horses. One was my own -- and you know how fussy I am... even today nobody else can ride in the Rolls. It is just fussiness. I was the same at that time too. Nobody, not even my grandfather, was allowed to ride my horse. Of course I was allowed to ride everyone else's horse. Both my grandfather and my grandmother had one. It was strange, in an Indian village, for a woman to ride a horse -- but she was a strange woman, what to do? The fourth horse was for Bhoora, the servant who always followed me with his gun, at a distance of course.
Destiny is strange. I have never harmed anyone in my life, not even in my dreams. I am absolutely vegetarian. But as destiny would have it, from my very childhood I have been followed by a guard; I don't know why. But since Bhoora I have never been without a guard. Even today my guards are always either ahead or behind, but always there. Bhoora started the whole game.
I already told you that he looked like a European. That's why he was called Bhoora. It was not his real name. Bhoora simply means "the white one." Even I don't know his real name at all. He looked European, very European, and it looked really strange, especially in that village where I don't think any European had ever entered. And still there are guards....
Even when I was a child, I could see the point of Bhoora following me at a distance on his horse, because twice there was an attempt to abduct me. I don't know why anybody should have been interested in me. Now at least I can understand: my grandfather, though not very rich by western standards, was certainly very rich in that village. Dacoits -- now Devageet will be in real difficulty to spell the word "dacoit"....
It is not an English word, it comes from the Hindi word dacu; but in that sense English is one of the most generous languages in the world. Every year it goes on absorbing eight thousand words from other languages; that's why it goes on growing bigger and bigger. It is bound to become the world language -- nobody can prevent it. All the other languages of the world, on the other hand, are very shy; they go on shrinking. They believe in purity, that no other language should be allowed to enter. Naturally they are bound to remain small and primitive. Dacoit is a transliteration of dacu; it means "thief" -- not just an ordinary thief, but when a group of people, armed and organized, plan the act of stealing. Then it is "dacoitry."
Even when I was young, in India it was a common practice to steal rich people's children, then to threaten the parents that if they didn't pay, then the hands of the child would be cut off. If they paid, then they could save the child's hands. Sometimes the threat would be to blind the child, or if the parents were really rich, then the threat was direct, that the child would be killed. To save the child, the poor parents were ready to do anything whatsoever.
Twice they tried to steal me. Two things saved me: one was my horse, who was a really strong Arabian; the second was Bhoora, the servant. He was ordered by my grandfather to fire into the air -- not at the people trying to abduct me, because that is against Jainism, but you are allowed to fire into the air to frighten them. Of course my grandmother had whispered in Bhoora's ear, "Don't bother about what my husband says. First you can fire into the air, but if it doesn't work, remember: if you don't shoot the people I will shoot you." And she was a really good shot. I have seen her shoot and she was always accurate to the minutest point. She was just like Gudia -- she did not miss much.
Nani was in many ways like Gudia, very exact as far as details are concerned. She was always to the point, never around it. There are some people who go around and around and around, you have to figure out what they really want. That was not her way; she was exact, mathematically exact. She told Bhoora, "Remember, if you come home without him just to report he has been stolen, I will shoot you immediately." I knew, Bhoora knew, my grandfather knew, because although she said it into Bhoora's ear, it was not a whisper; it was loud enough to be heard by the whole village. She meant it; she always meant business.
My grandfather looked the other way. I could not resist; I laughed loudly and said, "Why are you looking the other way? You heard her. If you are a real Jaina tell Bhoora not to shoot anybody."
But before my grandfather could say anything, my Nani said, "I have told Bhoora on your behalf too, so you keep quiet." She was such a woman that she would even have shot my grandfather. I knew her -- I don't mean literally, but metaphorically, and that is more dangerous than literally. So he kept quiet.
Twice I was almost abducted. Once my horse brought me home, and once Bhoora had to fire the gun, of course into the air. Perhaps if there had been a need he would have fired at the person who was trying to abduct me, but there was no need, so he saved himself and also my grandfather's religion.
Since then, it is strange, it seems very, very strange to me because I have been absolutely harmless to everybody, yet I have been in danger many times. Many attempts have been made on my life. I have always wondered, since life will end by itself sooner or later, why anybody should be interested to put an end to it in the middle. What purpose can it serve? If I could be convinced of that purpose I can stop breathing this very moment.
I once asked a man who had tried to kill me. I had the chance to ask him because he finally became a sannyasin. I asked, "Now we are both alone, tell me why you wanted to kill me." In those days, at Woodlands in Bombay, I used to give sannyas to people alone in my room. I said, "We are alone. I can give you sannyas, there is no problem in it. First become a sannyasin, then tell me the purpose, why you wanted to kill me. If you can convince me I will stop breathing here and now in front of you."
He started weeping and crying and holding my feet. I said, "This won't do, you have to convince me of the purpose."
He said, "I was just an idiot. There is nothing I can say to you." Perhaps that is the reason why an absolutely harmless man like me has been attacked in every possible way. I have been given poison....
Just the other day someone came to me very worried because Gudia had said in a metaphorical way that "If Bhagwan dies I will be relieved."
Naturally the person was very disturbed. She told me, "Now I cannot even sleep, because Vivek is your caretaker, and she told me she would be relieved if you were dead! This is dangerous -- she could poison you!"
I laughed and said, "Come to your senses! She must have been talking metaphorically. After being ten years with me anybody can become a philosopher; a little bit of metaphysics, and a little bit of a metaphor, that's all it is. You need not be worried. She would be the last person in the whole universe who could harm me. I could harm myself, but she would not... so don't be worried."
But I can understand her worry.
I said, "I understand, but don't be worried. Gudia goes through tantrums once in a while but even then she has not harmed me. She cannot, it is impossible for her. Yes," I said, "that is impossible."
Once in a while anybody can have a tantrum, particularly a woman; and more so if she has to live twenty-four hours a day, or maybe more, with a man like me, who is not nice at all; who is always hard, and always trying to push you to the very edge, and who does not allow you to come back. He goes on and on pushing and telling you to "Jump before you think!"
My Nani was certainly similar to Gudia, particularly when she was in a tantrum. I have seen her in a tantrum, but I was never worried. I have seen her pull her gun out and rush towards my grandfather's room. But I continued what I was doing. She asked me, "Are you not afraid?"
I said, "You go on and do your work and let me do mine."
She laughed, saying "You are a strange boy. I am going to kill your grandfather and you are trying to make a house out of playing cards. Are you mad or something?"
I said, "You just go and kill that old man. I have always dreamed of doing it myself, so why should I worry? Don't disturb me."
She sat down by my side and started helping me to make the palace I was creating out of playing cards. But when she had said to Bhoora, "If anyone touches my child you are not just to fire into the air, because we believe in Jainism.... That belief is good, but only in the temple. In the marketplace we have to behave in the way of the world, and the world is not Jaina. How can we behave according to our philosophy?"
I can see her crystal-clear logic. If you are talking to a man who does not understand English, you cannot speak to him in English. If you speak to him in his own language then there is more possibility of communication. Philosophies are languages; let that be clearly noted. Philosophies don't mean anything at all -- they are languages. And the moment I heard my grandmother say to Bhoora, "When a dacoit tries to steal my child, speak the language he understands, forget all about Jainism" in that moment I understood, although it was not so clear to me as it became later on. But it must have been clear to Bhoora. My grandfather certainly understood the situation because he closed his eyes and started repeating his mantra: "NAMO ARIHANTANAM NAMO... NAMO SIDDHANAM NAMO...."
I laughed, my grandmother giggled; Bhoora, of course, only smiled, but everybody understood the situation -- and she was right, as always.
I will tell you another resemblance between Gudia and my grandmother; she is almost always right, even with me. If she says something, I may not agree, but I know that finally she is going to be right. I will not agree, that too is true; I am a stubborn man. I have told you again and again, I stick to whatsoever I am, right or wrong. My wrong is my wrong, and I love it because it is mine; but as far as the question of it being right or wrong is concerned.... whenever there is a conflict I know Gudia is going to be right finally.... For the moment I am going to decide... and I am a stubborn man.
My grandmother had the same quality of being always right. She said to Bhoora, "Do you think these dacoits believe in Jainism? And that old fool..." she indicated my grandfather who was repeating his mantra. She then said, "That old fool has only told you to fire into the air because we should not kill. Let him repeat his mantra. Who is telling him to kill? You are not a Jaina, are you?"
I knew instinctively at that moment that if Bhoora was a Jaina he would lose his job. I had never bothered before whether Bhoora was a Jaina or not. For the first time I became concerned about the poor man, and started praying. I did not know to whom, because Jainas don't believe in any God. I was never indoctrinated into any belief, but still I started saying within myself, "God, if you are there, save this poor man's job." Do you see the point? Even then I said, "If you are there...." I cannot lie even in such a situation... but mercifully Bhoora was not a Jaina.
He said, "I am not a Jaina so I don't care."
My Nani said, "Then remember what I have told you, not what that old fool has said."
In fact she always used to use that term for my grandfather, "that old fool" and I have reserved it for Devageet -- but that "old fool" is dead. My mother... my grandmother is dead -- excuse me, again I said "my mother." I really cannot believe she was not my mother and only my grandmother.
By the way, you will be surprised that all my brothers and sisters -- and there are nearly a dozen of them excluding me -- they all call my mother Ma, "mother," except me; I call her bhabhi. Everybody in India always used to wonder why I called my mother bhabhi, because it means "elder brother's wife." In Hindi, the word for elder brother is baiya; the word for his wife is bhabhi. My uncles call my mother bhabhi, and that is perfectly okay. Why do I still call her bhabhi even now? The reason is I had known another woman as my mother -- that was my mother's mother.
After those early years of knowing Nani as my mother it was impossible to call any other woman Ma -- mother. I have always called her my Nani, and I know she was not my real mother, but she mothered me. My real mother remained a little far away; a little foreign. Even though my Nani is dead, she is closer to me. Even though my mother is now enlightened I will still call her bhabhi, I cannot call her Ma. To use that would be almost a betrayal of one who is dead. No, I cannot do it.
My grandmother herself had said many times to me, "Why do you go on calling your mother bhabhi? Call her mother." I simply avoided the question. This is the first time that I have spoken about or discussed it -- with you.
My Nani has somehow become part of my very being. She loved me so immensely. Once, when a thief entered our house she fought with him barehanded, and I saw how ferocious a woman can be... really dangerous! If I had not interfered she would have killed the poor man. I said, "Nani! What are you doing! Just for my sake, leave him. Let him go!" Because I was crying and telling her to stop for my sake, she allowed the man to go. The poor man could not believe that she was sitting on his chest holding his neck with both her hands. She would certainly have killed him. Just a little more pressure on his throat and the man would have died.
When she spoke to Bhoora I knew she meant it. Bhoora knew she meant it too. When my grandfather started the mantra, I knew he also understood that she meant business.
Twice I was attacked -- and to me it was a joy, an adventure. In fact deep down, I wanted to know what it meant to be abducted. That has always been my characteristic, you can call it my character. It is a quality I rejoice in. I used to go on my horse to the woods which belonged to us. My grandfather promised that all that belonged to him would be willed to me, and he was true to his word. He never gave a single pai to anybody else.
He had thousands of acres of land. Of course, in those days it didn't have any value, but value is not my concern. It was so beautiful -- those tall trees, and a great lake; and in summer when the mangos became ripe it was so fragrant. I used to go there on my horse so often that the horse became accustomed to my path.
I am still the same... and if I don't like a place I never return there.
I have been to Madras only once, just once because I never liked the place, particularly the language. It sounded as if everybody was fighting with everybody else; I hate that. And I hate that kind of language, so I said to my host, "This is my first and last visit to you."
He said, "Why the last?"
I said, "I hate this type of language. Everyone seems to be fighting. I know they are not -- it is just the way they speak." I hate Madras, I don't like it at all.
Krishnamurti likes Madras, but that is his business. He goes there every year. He is a Tamil. In fact he was born near Madras. He is a Madrassee, so for him to go there is perfectly logical. Why should I go there?
I used to go to many places. Why? There is no why. I just liked to go. I like to be on the go. Do you get it?... on the go. I am a man who has no business here, or there, or anywhere. I am just on the go. Let me say it in other words: I am on the merry-go-round. Now I think you get it.
I used to go on my horse, and seeing those horses in Princess Anne's wedding procession I could not believe that England could have such beautiful horses. The queen is just homely -- I don't want to say ugly, just out of politeness. And Prince Charles is certainly not a prince; look at his face! You call his type of face princely? Perhaps in England... and the guests! The bigwigs! In particular, the high priest -- what do you call him in England?
"The archbishop of Canterbury, Bhagwan."
Great! Archbishop! A great name for such a dash-dash-dash. Otherwise they will say that because I used such words I cannot be enlightened. But I think everybody in the world will understand what I mean by dash-dash-dash -- even the archbishop!
All those people, and I could only love the horses! They were the real people. What joy! What steps! What dance! Just sheer celebration. I immediately remembered my own horse, and those days... their fragrance is there still. I can see the lake, and myself as a child on the horse in the woods. It is strange -- although my nose is under this mousetrap I can smell the mangos, the neem trees, the pines, and I can also smell my horse.
It is good that I was not allergic to smell in those days, or, who knows, I may have been allergic but unaware of it. It is a strange coincidence that the year of my enlightenment was also the year of my becoming allergic. Perhaps I was allergic before and just not aware of it. And when I became enlightened, the awareness came. I have dropped the enlightenment now. "Please," I am telling existence, "drop this allergy so that again I can ride a horse." That will be a great day, not only for me but for all my sannyasins.
There is only one picture, which they go on publishing all over the world, in which I am riding on a Kashmiri horse. It is just a picture. I was not really riding, but because the photographer wanted me to be photographed on a horse, and I loved the man -- the photographer, I mean -- I could not say no to him. He had brought the horse and all his equipment, so I said okay. I just sat on the horse, and you can even see from the picture that my smile was not true. It is the smile when a photographer says, "Smile please!" But if I can transcend enlightenment, who knows, I may transcend allergy to horses at least. Then I can have the same kind of world around me:

the lake...
the mountains,
the river...
only I will miss my grandmother.

Devageet, you are not the only Jew here. Remember, you are not in a hurry. I am in the hurry, my bladder is hurting! So please... I always want to have the last word. Devageet, you would have been such a good nagging wife. Really, I mean it! Just find a nice boy and go on honeymoon. Look, you are already thinking that I have released you. Don't be in such a hurry. Your bladders are not bursting! Now....
That's good.
This is fabulous! I have just used this word for the first time in my life... just fabulous! I don't know what it means, but when your bladder is bursting, who cares!

Chapter #11

Devageet... really good, and after being hit, you have seen stars. I too can see the stars along with you. Okay.

The village where I was born was not part of the British Empire. It was a small state ruled by a Mohammedan queen. I can see her now. Strange, she was also as beautiful as the queen of England, exactly as beautiful. But there was one good thing: she was Mohammedan, whereas the queen of England is not. Such women should always be Mohammedan, because they have to remain hidden behind a veil, called a burqa. She used to visit our village once in a while; and of course, in that village, my house was the only one where she could stay, and moreover, she loved my grandmother.
My Nani and she were both talking when I first saw the queen without her veil. I could not believe it: a queen, and so homely! Then I understood the purpose of the burqa, the veil -- what the Hindus call parda. It is good for ugly women. In a better world it would be good for ugly men too. At least then you can't attack anybody with your ugliness. It is an aggression. If beauty is an attraction, then what is ugliness? It is an aggression, an attack, and nobody is protected against it. No law protects anyone.
I laughed in the very face of the queen.
She said, "Why are you laughing?"
I said, "I am laughing because I always wondered what was the purpose of a parda, and burqa. Today I know."
I don't think she understood, because she smiled. Although she was an ugly woman I must concede her smile was beautiful.
The world is full of strange things. I came across many people who were beautiful, but when they smiled their faces would look distorted, ugly. I have seen Mahatma Gandhi, again only when I was a child. He was ugly to the core. In fact I would say he was uniquely ugly, but his beauty was in his smile. He knew how to smile; about that I cannot be against him. About everything else I am against him, because except for his smile everything was just rubbish, rot! He was really a great Bodhigarbage. Our own Bodhigarbage is nothing compared to him.
I have heard that people call Swami Bodhigarbha, Bodhigarbage. I like it! They have added something to the name. In fact they have put him exactly where he is. I gave him the name Bodhigarbha, which can only be his future. But people can only see what is under their feet; they call him Bodhigarbage. Perhaps this name would have been good for Mahatma Gandhi.
The queen...(DEVAGEET STIFLES A SNEEZE) Now, this really distracts me. Do you know, Devageet, that in India people believe that when you sneeze, the devil enters into you? So when they sneeze, to prevent the devil from coming, they say, with a click (OSHO SNAPS HIS FINGERS WITH A CLICK) "OM SHANTI, SHANTI, SHANTI... OM SHANTI, SHANTI, SHANTI... OM SHANTI, SHANTI, SHANTI...." Thrice you have to click with your fingers. I don't know what you call this click with the fingers; whatsoever it is, the Indians actually do it.
I don't know whether the devil is prevented or not, but whatsoever you were doing is not disturbed. Now you are a Jew, not a Hindu, so at least you only sneezed and did not go through the whole Hindu procedure. Otherwise I would really have gone sane, and I am so afraid of sanity. But I am not saying anything wrong. I mean SANITY... I am so afraid of sanity.
I can feel your bewilderment. No need for you to be bewildered. I am an insane man afraid of being sane again; and that procedure could drive anybody sane. But you are a Jew, thank God! Like an Englishman, you tried hard to prevent the sneeze; even that I can understand. An Englishman prevents everything possible, even a sneeze, particularly when you are in the presence of someone who pretends to be holier-than-thou.
But relax, I don't pretend to be holier than you. You can sneeze joyously, then it will not distract me. It may even give me a few hints for the story I am telling you. Back to the work. Enough distraction from this sneeze.
As I was saying, my village belonged to a small state, very small, Bhopal. It was not part of the British Raj. Of course the queen of Bhopal used to visit us once in a while. I was talking about the time when I was present, and laughed at the ugliness of the woman and the beauty of her mask. Her burqa was really beautiful; it was studded with sapphires. She was so impressed by my grandmother that she invited her to the coming yearly celebration in the capital. My grandmother said, "It is impossible for me to go because I can't leave my child uncared for for so many days."
In Hindi "my child" is a tremendously beautiful phrase, mera beta; it means "my child, my boy."
The queen said, "There is no problem: you can bring him too. I also love him."
I could not understand why she should love me. I hadn't done anything wrong. Why should I be punished? Just the very idea of being loved by this woman was as if a monster was crawling on you. At that moment she looked exactly like a monster, full of sticky stuff. Perhaps she liked to chew gum -- she was all gum. In my life I have never been afraid, except of that woman. But the adventure of going to the capital as a guest of the queen, and staying at her beautiful palace, of which I had heard a thousand and one stories, was too much. Although I never wanted to see the woman again, I went with my grandmother to the yearly celebration.
I remember the palace. It is one of the most beautiful in India. It has five hundred acres of woodland and a five hundred acre lake, one thousand acres in all. The queen was good to us, as her guests, but I confess, I avoided seeing her face as much as I could. Perhaps she is still alive, because she was not very old then.
A strange incident happened concerning that palace -- I should call it a coincidence. On the day I said, "Okay, I am ready to move to the Himalayas," on that very same day the son of the queen of Bhopal phoned saying that if we were interested they were willing to offer their palace -- the same palace that I am telling you about. That palace... for a moment I could not believe that they would offer it. They had lost everything; the whole state was gone, merged into India. All that was left was only the one thousand acres, and that palace. But still it is a beautiful kingdom -- five hundred acres of ancient trees, and five hundred acres of a lake that was just part of the great lake of Bhopal.
In India the lake of Bhopal is the greatest lake. I don't think there is any other lake in the world that can compete with it, it is so huge. I can't remember how many miles wide it is, but one cannot see the other shore from anywhere. Those five hundred acres in the palace grounds are part of the same lake but they belong to the palace.
I said, "It is too late. Tell the prince and his mother, if she is still alive, that we are thankful for their offer but I have decided to go to the Himalayas." For seven years I have been trying to find just a few thousand acres of land, and the politicians are always interfering. Tell him, "I remember visiting your palace and your mother." Perhaps she is still alive, I don't know. But tell him, "I loved the palace, and still do, even more so now that you have offered it to me. But I have decided to go to the Himalayas."
My secretary was shocked and she said, "He is offering the palace to you and not even asking for any money. It must be worth at least two million dollars."
I said, "Two million or twenty million dollars, it does not matter at all. My `thank you' is far more valuable. How many million dollars do you think it is worth? Just say to him, `Bhagwan sends his thanks, but your offer came just a few hours too late. If you had offered the palace just a few hours earlier perhaps He may have accepted it. Now nothing can be done at all.'"
When he heard, the prince was shocked. He could not believe that one could offer such a palace without asking for anything in exchange and just be told "Sorry, no thank you."
I know the palace. I was a guest there once in my childhood, and once again later in my life. I have seen it through the eyes of a child and also through the eyes of a young man. No, I was not deceived when I had seen it as a child, but it was far more beautiful than I had understood it then. A child, although innocent, has limitations; his vision cannot imply all that is possible. He sees only that which is apparent. I also visited the palace as a young man, again as a guest, and I knew that it must be one of the most beautiful structures in the world, particularly its location, but I had to refuse it.
Sometimes it feels so good to refuse, because I already knew that if I accepted, there were bound to be troubles ad infinitum. That palace could not be my palace. The politicians, who have become all-powerful -- uneducated, corrupt, untalented and immoral -- would be bound to jump in. Although I refused, they still jumped in, thinking that the prince was lying, because how could anyone refuse such an offer?
I have come to know that they are torturing him in every possible way to know why he offered me the palace. I did not accept it. Nothing happened in reality, just a phone call; but that was enough. Indian politicians must be the worst in the world. Politicians are everywhere, but they are nothing like Indian politicians.
The reason is clear: for two thousand years India has been in slavery. In 1947, just by luck, India became free. I say by luck because India still does not deserve it; the whole credit goes to Attlee, the English prime minister at that time. He was a socialist, a kind of dreamer. He thought about equality and freedom and all kinds of great things. It was he who was really the father of Indian freedom. It is not that India earned it or even deserved it. It was just luck to have Attlee as the prime minister of England.
After two thousand years of slavery the Indians have become really cunning. Just in order to survive, the slave has to be cunning. The slavery has finished but the cunningness continues. No Attlee could destroy it. It is not in anybody's hands; it has spread all over India. By the end of this century India will be the most populated country in the world. Just to think of it is enough for me not to sleep.
Whenever I don't want to sleep I think of India at the end of this century. That is enough! Then, even if you gave sleeping pills they would not affect. The very idea that India will be the most densely populated country, with all those pygmy politicians, is enough! Can you think of another nightmare to defeat it?
I refused that beautiful palace. I still feel sorry that I had to refuse the only man who has come with an offer, without even asking for money. Yet I had to. I certainly feel sorry for him.... I had to refuse because I had decided, and once I decide, rightly or wrongly, I cannot go back. I cannot cancel it; it is not in my blood. It is just a kind of stubbornness.
What is the time, Devageet?
"Ten thirty-one, Osho."
Good! Just give me ten minutes. Remembering that, I did not sleep the whole night.
Without my insistence where would you be? You would have stopped long ago. Continue -- don't be a Jewish wife... Jewish, and a wife, both together! Even God could not handle that, so He manages with a Holy Ghost.
Poor Devageet, no matter how hard I hit him he never takes revenge. So good. Anybody -- and when I say anybody, I mean Moses, Jesus, Buddha -- would be jealous of me. Gautam Buddha had his own personal physician but no Buddha has ever had his own personal dentist. They were certainly not so fortunate. At least nobody had a Devageet with them, that much is absolutely certain.
Good, now stop.

Chapter #12

I I have been working the whole night because of a small remark I made which may have been hurtful to Devaraj. He may not have noticed it, but it has been sitting heavy on me all night. I could not sleep. I had said, "No Buddha has ever had a personal dentist, but Gautam the Buddha had a personal physician." That was not quite right so I consulted the records, the Akashic records.
I will have to say a few more things, which nobody cares about, particularly the foolish historians. I was not consulting history. I had to go in what H.G. Wells called THE TIME MACHINE, back into time. It is the hardest work, and you know I am a lazy man. I am still huffing and puffing.
Buddha's physician, Jeevaka, was given to Buddha by a king, Bimbasara. Another thing is that Bimbasara was not one of Buddha's sannyasins. He was just a sympathizer. Why did he give Jeevaka to Buddha? -- Jeevaka was Bimbasara's own personal physician, the most famous of those days -- because he was competing with another king whose name was Prasenjita. Prasenjita had offered Buddha his own physician. He had just mentioned that, "Whenever you have need, my personal physician will be at your service."
This was too much for Bimbasara. If Prasenjita could do it then Bimbasara would show him that he could offer his most cherished physician to Buddha as a gift. So although Jeevaka followed Buddha wherever he went, he was not a follower, remember. He remained Hindu, a brahmin.
That was strange -- a physician to Buddha, continuously with him, even in his most intimate moments, and still a brahmin? That shows the truth. Jeevaka was still on salary from the king. He was in the service of the king. If the king wanted him to be with Buddha, okay, a servant has to follow the order of his master. Even so he was very rarely with Buddha because Bimbasara was old, and again and again he needed his doctor, so he called him back to the capital.
Devaraj, you may not have thought about it, but I felt sad that I had been a little cruel. I should not have said that. You are as unique as one can be. As far as having been a physician to a Buddha is concerned, nobody can be compared to you... either in the past or in the future, because there is never going to be a man so simple, so insane that he calls himself Zorba the Buddha.
That reminds me of the story I was telling you. A great burden has been lifted from my heart. You can even see it in my breathing. I am really relieved. It was just a simple remark, but I am so sensitive, perhaps more than a Buddha is supposed to be. But what can I do? I cannot be a Buddha according to anybody else; I can only be myself. I am relieved of a great burden that you may not have felt at all, or perhaps deep down you were aware of it and you giggled just to hide it. You cannot hide anything from me.
But strangely, awareness becomes even more clear and unclouded by anything that helps the body to disappear. I am holding on to this chair just to remind myself that the body is still there. Not that I want it to be there, but just so that you all won't freak out. There is not enough room in here for four people to freak out. Yes, if you freak in, there is enough room anywhere.
Now we come to the story. I call it a story -- not that it is, but so much in life is storylike that if you know how to read life, you won't need a novel. I wonder why J. Krishnamurti reads novels, and third-rate detective novels at that. Something is missing in him. Alas, he cannot see it, a man of such intelligence, or perhaps he sees it and is trying to deceive himself through detective novels.
He says he is fortunate not to have read the BHAGAVAD GITA or the KORAN, nor the RIG VEDA... yet he reads detective novels! He should also say that he is unfortunate in that he reads detective novels; he never says that. But I know because I was also a guest in the same house where he used to stay in Bombay. The lady who was our hostess asked me, "I want to ask you only one thing: I don't see you reading detective novels -- what's the matter?" She said, "I thought every enlightened person must read detective novels."
I said, "Where did you get this nonsensical idea?"
She said, "From Krishnamurti. He stays here too; my husband is his follower. I too am a lover and a sympathizer. I have seen him reading third-rate detective novels and I thought there must be something in it. Please forgive me for being curious about something very personal, but I was looking in your suitcase. I thought perhaps you were hiding detective novels in it."
I used to carry not just one suitcase, but three big ones. She must have thought that I was carrying almost a library of detective novels with me, but she could not find even a single book. She was puzzled.
Other friends from Varanasi, where J. Krishnamurti stays, have asked the same thing. Still other friends from New Delhi have asked the same question. It cannot be wrong; so many people from so many different places asking the same question again and again. Many people have seen him reading a detective novel while traveling by plane. In fact, to tell you the truth, I myself saw him by chance, on a plane traveling from Bombay to Delhi. He was reading a detective novel then. As destiny would have it, we were both traveling on the same plane, so I can say absolutely that he reads detective novels. I don't need any witnesses; I myself am a witness.
But I can create a story about any small thing that happens; it just has to be brought into a proper context. This morning I was telling you about the time when the queen of Bhopal visited our village, which was part of her state, and she invited us to be her guests at her annual celebration. When she was in our village she asked my Nani, "Why do you call the boy Raja?"
Raja means "King," and in that state, the title of Raja was of course reserved for the owner of the state. Even the queen's husband was not called "Raja," but only "Prince," "Raj-kumar," just as poor Philip in England is called "Prince Philip"... not even "King." Yet strangely he is the only man there who looks like a king. Nor does the queen of England look like a queen, nor does poor Prince Charles look like the proverbial Prince Charming.
The only man who looks like a king is not called a king, he is only called "Prince" Philip. I feel sorry for him. The reason is that he does not belong to the same blood line, and it is blood that determines everything, at least in their idiotic world. Otherwise blood is blood. In the laboratory, even a king or queen's blood will not show up as anything different.
Both of you here are doctors, and one is a nurse, and the fourth is, although not a doctor or a nurse, almost both together, without a certificate, of course. You can all understand that blood cannot be the determining factor. Queen Elizabeth has the right blood -- right, not according to the scientist, but according to the idiots. Charles is her son, at least fifty percent; he has the heritage. Philip is a foreigner, and just to console him they call him "Prince."
In the same way, in that small state at that time, the woman was the head and she was called the queen, rani, but there was no raja. Her husband was only a prince "Raj-kumar." Naturally she asked my grandmother "Why do you call this boy of yours Raja?" You will be surprised to know it was really illegal in that state to give the name Raja to anybody. My grandmother laughed and said, "He is the king of my heart, and as far as the law is concerned, we will soon leave this state, but I cannot change his name."
Even I was surprised when she said we would soon be leaving the state... just to save my name? That night I said to her, "Nani are you mad? Just to save this stupid name... any name will do, and in private you could call me `Raja.' There is no need for us to leave."
She said, "I feel in my very guts that we will soon have to leave this state. That's why I risked."
And that is what happened. This incident happened when I was eight, and after just one year we had left that state forever... but she never stopped calling me Raja. I changed my name, just because Raja -- "the king" -- seemed so snobbish, and I didn't like to be laughed at by everybody in school, and moreover I never wanted anyone else to call me Raja except my grandmother. It was a private affair between us.
But the queen was offended by the name. How poor these people are, the kings and the queens, the presidents, the prime-ministers... what a lot! Yet they are powerful. They are idiotic to the maximum, yet powerful also to the maximum. It is a strange world.
I said to my grandmother, "As far as I understand, she is not only offended by my name, she is jealous of you." I could see it so clearly that there was no question of doubt. "And," I told her, "I am not asking you whether I am right or wrong." In fact that determined my way for my whole life.
I have never asked anybody whether I am right or wrong. Wrong or right, if I want to do it, I want to do it and I will make it right. If it is wrong then I will make it right, but I have never allowed anyone to interfere with me. That has given me whatsoever I have -- nothing much of this world, no bank balance, but what really matters: the taste of beauty, of love, of truth, of eternity... in short, of oneself.
What is the time, Devageet?
"Three minutes before eight, Bhagwan."
So good. I have been hard on you too this morning. I will not say anything about it, only this much: with whomsoever I love, I forget that I have to behave. Then I start doing or saying things which are okay if I am alone, and that's what love is -- to be with someone as if one were alone -- but sometimes it can be hard on the other person.
I can always say "sorry," but it is so formal. And when I hit, and I hit often, it is so loving that a formal "sorry" won't do. But you can see my tears, they say more than I can... many times more. I remind you, in the future too I will be hard, perhaps harder, on you. That's my way of being loving. I hope you will understand; if not today then tomorrow, or perhaps the day after tomorrow. More than that I cannot say, because at least for these two days I am booked. I am going to be here. It remains open, but for the next two days I am certainly going to be here.
I was saying that after one year we had left that state and that village. I have told you before that on the way my grandfather died. That was my first encounter with death, and it was a beautiful encounter. It was not in any way ugly, as it more or less happens for almost every child around the world. Fortunately I was together with my dying grandfather for hours, and he died slowly... by and by. I could feel death happening to him, and I could see the great silence of it.
I was also fortunate that my Nani was present. Perhaps without her I may have missed the beauty of death, because love and death are so similar, perhaps the same. She loved me. She showered her love upon me, and death was there, slowly happening. A bullock cart... I can still hear its sound... the rattling of its wheels on the stones... Bhoora continuously shouting to the bullocks... the sound of his whip hitting them.... I can hear it all still. It is so deeply-rooted in my experience that I don't think even my death will erase it. Even while dying I may again hear the sound of that bullock cart.
My Nani was holding my hand, and I was completely dazed, not knowing what was happening, utterly in the moment. My grandfather's head was in my lap. I held my hands on his chest, and slowly, slowly the breathing disappeared. When I felt that he was no longer breathing I said to my grandmother, "I'm sorry Nani, but it seems that he is no longer breathing."
She said, "That's perfectly okay. You need not be worried. He had lived enough, there is no need to ask for more." She also told me, "Remember, because these are the moments not to be forgotten: never ask for more. What is, is enough."
Is it enough? Just ten minutes for me; I will tell you when to stop. I am more in a hurry than you are... I seduced you at last. Now I can say, with great joy, stop it.