This morning I said a very abrupt goodbye to Masto, and I felt it the whole day. It simply cannot be done, at least in his case. It reminds me of when I was going to college and leaving my Nani after being so long together.
Since my grandfather died and left her there had been no one in her life except me. It was not easy for her. It was not easy for me either. Except for her there was nothing to keep me in that village. I can see that day: the early morning -- it was a beautiful winter's morning and people from the village had gathered.
Even today, in those parts of central India, things are not contemporary, they are at least two thousand years old. Nobody has much to do. Everybody seems to have enough time to loaf around. I really mean that everybody is a loafer. I simply mean the literal meaning, not any association that has arisen about the word. So, all the "loafers" were there. Please write the word in inverted commas so nobody misunderstands.
My whole family was there, which was a big crowd. They had come because they had to come, otherwise I could see no point in seeing their faces, which were then, and now, faceless, just names. But my poor father was there, my mother was there, my younger brothers and sisters were there, and they were all really weeping. Even my father was weeping.
I had never seen him tearful, never before, and never afterwards. And I was not dying, just going a hundred miles away. But it was the very idea of going away for four years at least, to get a bachelor's degree. Then, what if I decide -- and nobody knows -- to stay two more years for a master's degree; then a minimum of two more years for a Ph.D.?
It was a long separation. Perhaps by that time many of them would not be in the world, who knows? But I was only concerned about my Nani, because my mother and my father had lived so long without me when I was so small. Now I could live on my own, I could help myself. I needed no other help.
But for my Nani.... I can still see the early morning sun, the warm sun, the crowd, my father, my mother. I touched the feet of my Nani, and said to her, "Don't be worried, whenever you call I will immediately rush. And don't think that I am going far away. It is only a hundred miles, just three hours by train."
In those days the fastest train did not stop at that poor village. Otherwise the journey was only two hours. Now, it stops -- but now it does not matter whether it stops or not.
I told her, "I will come running. Eighty or a hundred miles is nothing."
She said, "I know and I am not worried."
She tried to keep herself as collected as she could, but I could see the gathering of tears in her eyes. That was the moment when I turned away, and left for the station. I didn't look back when I turned the corner of the street. I knew that if I looked back, either she would burst out crying, and then I would never go to college; or, if she did not burst out crying she may even die, just stop breathing. I was so much to her. Her only existence was around me. My clothes, my toys, my room, my bed, my bed sheets, the whole day.
I used to say to her, "Nani, you are mad. Twenty-four hours a day you are engaged doing things just for me, who is never going to do anything for you in his life."
She said, "You have already done it."
I don't know what to make of it. Now, there is no way to ask her, but the way she said, "You have already done it," was so powerful, with so much energy, that whether you understood it or not, you were overwhelmed. Even today, remembering it, I am overwhelmed.
Later on I came to know that when I turned the corner of the street, the whole neighborhood wondered, "What kind of boy is this? He didn't even look...."
And my Nani was very proud; she said to them, "Yes, he is my boy. I knew he would not look back, and not only on this street corner, he will never look back in his life. And I am also proud that he understood his poor Nani, knowing that if he had looked back I would have burst into tears, and he never wanted that. He knew perfectly well, better than I knew, that if I had burst into tears he would not have been able to go. Not because of me, but because of his love for me. He would have stayed his whole life just so that I would not have to weep and cry."
Saying an abrupt goodbye to Masto is just like that. No, I cannot do it. I will have to come to a natural end with no full stop just arbitrarily chosen; because my life is such that if I go on talking about it, there will be neither beginning nor end. In my life there will be neither beginning nor end.
The BIBLE at least says, "In the beginning...." You will have to publish this within a beginning or an end. It will be very difficult to publish that way. But Devageet can understand, he is a Jew. A Jewish scroll can be almost without beginning and end. Of course there seems to be a beginning, but it is only seemingly so. That's why all the ancient stories begin, "Once upon a time" -- and then you can start anything. And once upon a time everything stops, without even saying, "The End." My life cannot be an ordinary autobiography.
Vasant Joshi is writing a biography of me. The biography is bound to be very superficial, so superficial that it is not worth reading at all. No biography can penetrate to the depths, particularly the psychological layers of a man. Especially if the man has come to the point where the mind is no longer relevant to the nothingness hidden in the center of an onion. You can peel it layer by layer, of course with tears in your eyes, but finally nothing is left, and that is the center of the onion; that is from where it had come in the first place. No biography can penetrate to the depths, particularly of a man who has known the no-mind also. I say "also" consideredly, because unless you know the mind, you cannot know the no-mind. This is going to be my small contribution to the world.
The West has gone deep in search of the mind, and has discovered layers upon layers -- the conscious, the unconscious, the subconscious, and so on and so forth. The East has simply put the whole thing aside and jumped into the pond... and the soundless sound, the no-mind. Hence East and West stand opposed.
In a way the opposition is understandable, and Rudyard Kipling was right in saying, "West is West, and East is East, and never the twain shall meet." He is right to a point. He really emphasizes a certain point that I am making.
The West has only looked into the mind, without looking into who is looking into the mind. It is very strange. The so-called great scientists are all trying to look into the mind, and nobody is bothered about who is looking into the mind.
H.G. Wells was not a bad man -- a good man, just a goody-goody. In fact he is too sweet for my taste, a little too much white sugar. But still I should not consider my taste; you have your own tastes, and not everybody is a diabetic. I am not only a diabetic, I am also against white sugar. Even before I came to know about diabetes, I was against white sugar. I call it "the white poison," so perhaps I am a little prejudiced against white sugar.
But H.G. Wells, although very full of white sugar, is not just that. Once in a while he came up with an insight which was rare. For example, his idea of a time machine. He had the idea that one day a machine is discovered that goes back into time. Do you understand the meaning of it? It means you can go back into your childhood, into your mother's womb, or perhaps, if you are a Hindu, into your past lives -- perhaps as an elephant, an ant, or whatnot. One could just go back, and one could go forward.
The idea itself is a great insight. I don't know whether there will ever be machines like that or not, but there have been people who could move back into time just as easily as you move. Do you have any difficulty in moving back to your yesterday? In the same way, the daring ones have moved into their yesterlives.
Perhaps that word may not be allowed, but I don't care. To me "yesterlife" looks perfectly right. When anything looks right to a wrong man like me, then you can be certain it must be right. It has to be right.
I suddenly said full stop to Masto, but the whole day it tortured me in a way. You know I cannot be tortured, you know I cannot be unhappy either, but the idea that I had finished so abruptly again reminds me of one incident which is directly concerned with Masto.
He had come to take me to the station at Allahabad. Deep down we both never wanted to separate, particularly on that day. The reason only became clear later on, but that had nothing to do with it. I will just mention it and give you the details later on. He had come to give me a sendoff, because he said that perhaps for two or three months he may not be able to see me. So, as long as he could be with me, he would like to be.
Masto said, "Let us hope the train is late."
I said, "What nonsense are you talking, Masto? Have you really gone mad? Indian trains and you have to hope for them to be late!"
The train came, of course, six hours late, which is not much for an Indian passenger train -- just usual. But we could not separate. We talked and talked, and got so involved in talking that the train was missed. We both laughed. We were happy that at least we could be together for a few hours more, before another train came.
Listening to our talk, and our laughter, and the reason for the laughter, the station master said, "Why are you wasting your time on this platform? You can go to the other platform opposite."
I asked him, "Why?"
He said, "Only goods trains stop there, so you can talk, hug each other, and enjoy yourselves, and there will be no need to worry that you may catch the train. You cannot catch it on that platform."
I told Masto that the idea sounded very spiritual. The station master was thinking that we might hit him over the head, but when we both thanked him, and went over to the other platform, he came running behind us saying, "Please, don't take the idea seriously: I was just joking. Believe me, only goods trains stop here. You will never catch any train on this platform."
I said to him, "I don't want to catch any train. Nor does Masto want me to catch any train, but what to do?" The host where we were staying was very insistent that it was time for me to go back to the university hostel, saying that my time should not be wasted.
And Masto too wanted me to at least get a master's degree, according to the wishes of my dead friend Pagal Baba. So I had to go. You will not believe me, but I only remained at university because I had promised Pagal Baba to get a master's degree. The university gave me a scholarship for further studies, but I said, "No, because I had promised only up to this point."
They said, "Are you mad? Even if you go directly into service you cannot get more money than you will get with this scholarship. And the scholarship can extend from two to as many years as your professors recommend. Don't waste the opportunity."
I said, "Baba should have asked me to get a Ph.D. What can I do? He never asked me, and he died without knowing about it."
My professor tried hard to persuade me, but I said to him, "Simply forget it, because I only came here to fulfill a promise given to a madman."
Perhaps if Pagal Baba had known about Ph.D. or D.Litt. then I would have been in a trap, but thank God he only knew about the master's degree. He thought that was the last word. I don't know whether he really wanted me to go for more scholarship. Now there is no way. One thing is certain, that if he had wanted it, I would have gone and wasted as many years as necessary. But it was not a fulfillment of my own being, nor was the master's degree. Somehow Pagal Baba got the idea that unless you had a master's degree, a postgraduate degree, you would not be able to get a good job.
I said, "Baba, do you think I will ever desire a job?"
He laughed and said, "I know you will not desire it, but just in case. I am just an old man, and I think of all the worst things possible. You have heard the proverb, `Hope for the best, but expect the worst.'" He added something more to it. Baba said, "Prepare for the worst too. It should not be met unprepared, otherwise how are you going to face it?"
Masto cannot be given a farewell so easily. So I will drop the very idea. Wherever he pops up, it's okay. This is not going to be an orthodox, conventional autobiography. It is not an autobiography at all, just fragments of a life reflected in thousands of mirrors.
I was once a guest at a place called "the mirror palace." It was made only of mirrors. It was horrible, to live in it was so difficult, but perhaps I was the only man who enjoyed it. The raja who owned the palace was puzzled. He said to me, "Whenever I put a guest there, after just a few hours they say to me, `Please put me somewhere else, it is too much.' To see so many people just like yourself all around... and whatever you do, they all do. If you laugh, they all laugh; if you cry, they all cry; if you hug your girl, they all hug.... It is so horrible. You feel that you are just a mirror and nothing else, and all the mirrors seems to be doing even better than you are."
I said to the raja, "I don't want to change anything; in fact if you want to sell this palace I am ready to purchase it and make it a meditation center. It will be hilarious. People just sitting there looking at themselves from all directions, everywhere thousands of miniatures of themselves.
"They may go mad -- which is not a calamity anyway. They will go mad sooner or later in some other life. It will just take a little longer. I will do it quickly. I believe in instant-coffee methods. But if they can relax with the whole crowd surrounding them and not be worried; if they can accept that and say `It is okay, thank you for surrounding me for so long,' and still remain centered, they will become enlightened. Either way they will be benefited."
Madness is falling below the mind. There is a madness that is falling above the mind; that madness is enlightenment. It is abnormal, hence it is not wrong that poor psychologists think that people like Jesus or Buddha are abnormal. But they should be a little sensitive about their words.
If they use the same word "abnormal" for the inmates of a madhouse, with what face can they use the same word for the Buddha? They should say "supranormal." Buddhas and madmen are certainly not normal; about that we agree. One is below normal, one is above normal. Both are abnormal, we agree, but they need different classifications. And psychology has no place for what I call "the Psychology of the Buddhas."
Masto was certainly a Buddha. I cannot just say, "Thank you, see you again," for the reason that he has done so much for me. "Thank you" is very small, and too inappropriate. Nobody does so much for anybody.
That's why there is no word for it -- nobody needs it. And I cannot say, "See you again," because neither he is going to again be in this world, nor am I going to again be in this world. The meeting is, in the very nature of things, impossible. So the only way is to let him come whenever it happens. And in this way these memoirs will have their own flavor. Sudden abrupt arrivals and departures.
So, I bring Masto in again. He was not the same type of man as Pagal Baba. Pagal Baba was simply a mystic; Masto was a philosopher too. At night, we would lie for hours by the banks of the Ganges discussing so many things. We enjoyed just being together, either discussing or being silent. That same Ganges, where the UPANISHADS were first sung, where Buddha delivered his first sermon, where Mahavira moved and preached.... One cannot think of eastern mysticism without the Himalayas and the Ganges. In fact, both have contributed infinitely.
I remember the beauty of that silence.... We sat there for hours. Once in a while we even slept there, on the sand, because Masto had said, "It is so beautiful tonight that it would be insulting to go to bed. The stars are so close." That's his word, "insulting." I am simply quoting.
I said, "Masto, you know that I love the stars, and particularly when they are reflected in the river. Stars are beautiful, but their reflection is a miracle. What water does so simply is only possible to compare with dreams. I love the stars, the river, the reflection of the stars, and I love your company, and your warmth. So there is no question about staying. Never consider me even for a single moment when you want to do something, because even that consideration will hurt me. It will show that I am being a burden to you."
He said, "What! I have not said anything about you being a burden to me."
I said, "You have not said it, nobody has. I was just saying it for the future. Remember, if you consider me, for any reason, then tell me about it, because I feel very offended by any consideration."
I told him that day, and today I will tell you too, that Gurdjieff had a very strange idea. I don't think any Master had ever entertained it. It is not that it could not have knocked on their doors, but I think nobody was the type to receive it, and respond to it.
Gurdjieff used to say, "Please, never, never consider others. It is an insult." He had these words written over his door. It is a tremendously significant statement.
People force one another to consider each other. They say, "Please consider me." What could be more humiliating than to say to somebody, "Please consider me"? In my life I have never said that to anybody, not a single person.
I remember many situations where just those words would have helped me immensely, but they are so humiliating. It is not ego, remember. The egoist is always asking for consideration; in fact more so, because he is no ordinary person, he has to be considered first. A really humble person cannot ask for consideration; in fact, he will reject any consideration even if it is given to him.
I was at university, a poor student. I reached university somehow, by working at different kinds of jobs. Again, just by coincidence, I participated in a national inter-university debate. One of the judges, who is now the head of the department of philosophy at Allahabad University, S.S. Roy, just fell in love with me. And the same was true from my side too.
He gave me ninety-nine marks out of a hundred he was one of the judges in the debate; naturally I won. It was a very important debate because the winner was going on a three months' tour of the Middle East as a government guest. He was to be treated almost as an ambassador. It was a great opportunity.
S.S. Roy gave me ninety-nine out of a hundred, and to everybody else he gave just zero -- just to be sure that I would win. I asked him later, "Why were you so partial to me?"
He said, "The moment I looked into your eyes I became hypnotized. My wife also says that I am hypnotized by you, otherwise how could I do such a thing? If anybody sees your sheet the partiality will be apparent: ninety-nine out of a hundred and simply zero for all the other dozen participants!"
I said, "No, I have not asked why you have given me ninety-nine percent; that is your wife's question. Perhaps others may ask it too. I have come to ask why you didn't give me one hundred percent."
For a moment he looked at me astounded, then he started laughing and said, "I was one of Masta Baba's devotees. He was right when he said to me, `Once you see this man you will not need me.' And Masta Baba told me this almost two or three years before he disappeared. Now I can truthfully say to you I was not hypnotized: it was just that your eyes reminded me of his eyes. I have also seen Pagal Baba, and it is strange how your eyes are almost the same. How it happens I don't know."
I said, "It is not the eyes, it is the transparency which makes them appear to be the same. I am happy that you are reminded of Pagal Baba and Masta Baba for a reason which to me is the greatest reward in the world, that in my eyes you saw something of the same. Now, I have nothing to ask you except, Why not one hundred percent?"
He said, "I am a poor professor. If I gave you one hundred percent, and gave zero to all the remaining eleven participants, it would appear that I was not being fair. I am fair, but who would understand? Where would I find Masta Baba, or Pagal Baba to understand it? I gave you ninety-nine percent just because of my cowardice."
I loved this man because he could say so simply that he was a coward. Although he had really done an uncowardly act already, almost, so what difference would one percent have made? Ninety-nine percent for one person, and zero percent for the others? It is the same. He could have given me one hundred percent, or even more.
But that debate, and his remembrance of Pagal Baba and Masta Baba was the reason I stayed at the university of Sagar. He was there at that time. I said, "If I have to be a postgraduate then let it be under you."
It was Pagal Baba's desire, and also Masta Baba's, that I should be prepared in case I was ever in need. I have never needed anything. Not only have I never needed anything, ever, but I have been showered constantly by things from all sides. That's why I told you something went right for me from the very beginning.
S.S. Roy was one of my most loved teachers, for the simple reason that he was capable of asking me to stand up in class and explain something to him that he could not understand. And I had to do it. Once I said to him, "Roy Sahib" -- that's what I used to call him -- "it does not look good that you ask me, your student."
He said, "If Pagal Baba could touch your feet, and if Masta Baba could not only touch your feet but had to fulfill every rational and irrational demand made by you" -- and I have been irrational from the very beginning, just irrational -- "then why could I not ask? I am just a small man."
I have known hundreds of professors as teachers, as colleagues and acquaintances, but S.S. Roy stands apart. He was so authentic that you could not find more authenticity in any teacher. And he was so much in love with what I used to say to him that he used to quote me in his lectures. Not just use it, but he referred to it as my statement. Of course the other students were jealous. Even the other professors in the philosophy department were jealous. You will be surprised to know that even his wife was jealous.
I came to know just by chance. One day I went to his house and she said to me, "What! You have even started coming here? He is mad about you. Since you have been in his department our love life is shattered. It's on the rocks."
I said, "I will never come to this house again, but remember, that will not put it right. One day you will have to come to me." And I never went to his house again. After a year or so his wife had to come to me, and she said, "Forgive me. Please come, only you can reconcile us."
I said, "My work of separating or reconciling couples has not begun yet. You will have to wait."
She cried and so I had to go. I didn't say anything to S.S. Roy. I just sat by his side holding his hand, and after an hour left, without saying a single word. And that did it; the alchemy worked. There is magic in silence.
How much time is left?
"Three minutes, Osho."
Good, because maximus, the maximum is my principle. The whole trinity is available, we can do miracles....
Is the time over...? Then it is over.

Chapter #35

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Okay.
I have heard Ravi Shankar play on the sitar. He has everything one can imagine: the personality of a singer, the mastery of his instrument, and the gift of innovation, which is rare in classical musicians. He is immensely interested in the new. He has played with Yehudi Menuhin. No other Indian sitar player would be ready to do it because no such thing has ever happened before. Sitar with a violin! Are you mad? But innovators are a little mad, that's why they are capable of innovation.
The so-called sane people live orthodox lives from breakfast till bed. Between bed and breakfast, nothing should be said. Not that I am afraid of saying it, I am talking about them. They live according to the rules. They follow lines.
But innovators have to go outside the rules. Sometimes one should insist on not following the lines, just for not following's sake, and it pays, believe me. It pays because it always brings you to a new territory, perhaps of your own being. The medium may be different but the person inside you, playing the sitar, or the violin, or the flute, is the same: different routes leading to the same point, different lines from the circle leading to the same center. Innovators are bound to be a little crazy, unconventional... and Ravi Shankar has been unconventional.
First: he is a pandit, a brahmin, and he married a Mohammedan girl! In India one cannot even dream of it -- a brahmin marrying a Mohammedan girl! Ravi Shankar did it. But it was not just any Mohammedan girl, it was the daughter of his master. That was even more unconventional. That means for years he had been hiding it from his master. Of course the master immediately allowed the marriage, the moment he came to know. He not only allowed, he arranged the marriage.
He too was a revolutionary, of a far greater range than Ravi Shankar. Alauddin Khan was his name. I had gone to see him with Masto. Masto used to take me to rare people. Alauddin Khan was certainly one of the most unique people I have seen. He was very old. He died only after completing the century.
When I met him he was looking towards the ground. Masto didn't say anything either. I was a little puzzled. I pinched Masto, but he remained as if I had not pinched him. I pinched him harder, but still he remained as if nothing had happened. Then I really pinched him, and he said, "Ouch!"
Then I saw those eyes of Alauddin Khan -- although he was so old you could read history in the lines of his face. He had seen the first revolution in India. That was in 1857, and he remembered it, so he must have been at least old enough to remember. And he had seen a whole century pass by, and all that he did this whole time was practice the sitar. Eight hours, ten hours, twelve hours each day; that's the classical Indian way. It's a discipline, and unless you practice it you soon lose the grip over it, it is so subtle. It is there only if you are in a certain state of preparedness, otherwise it is gone.
A master is reported to have once said, "If I don't practice for three days, the crowd notices it. If I don't practice for two days, the experts notice it. If I don't practice for one day, my disciples notice it. As far as I am concerned, I cannot stop for a single moment. I have to practice and practice, otherwise I immediately notice. Even in the morning, after a good sleep, I notice something is lost."
Indian classical music is a hard discipline, but if you impose it upon yourself, it gives you immense freedom. Of course, if you want to swim in the ocean, you have to practice. And if you want to fly in the sky, then naturally it is apparent that immense discipline is required, but it cannot be imposed by somebody else. Anything imposed becomes ugly. That's how the word "discipline" became ugly, because it has become associated with the father, the mother, the teacher, and all kinds of people who don't understand a single thing about discipline. They don't know the taste of it.
The master was saying, "If I don't practice even for a few hours, nobody notices, but of course I notice the difference." One has to continuously practice, and the more you practice, the more you become practiced in practice. It becomes easier. Slowly, slowly, a moment comes when discipline is no longer a practice, but enjoyment.
I am talking about classical music, not about my discipline. My discipline is enjoyment from the very beginning, or from the beginning of enjoyment. I will tell you about it later on....
I have heard Ravi Shankar many times. He has the touch, the magic touch, which very few people have in the world. It was by accident that he touched the sitar. Whatsoever he touched would have become his instrument. It is not the instrument, it is always the man. He fell in love with Alauddin's vibe, and Alauddin was of a far greater height -- thousands of Ravi Shankars joined together, stitched together rather, could not reach to his height. Alauddin was certainly a rebel. Not only an innovator, but an original source of music. He brought many things to music.
Today, almost all the great musicians in India are his disciples. It is not without reason. All kinds of musicians would come just to touch Baba's feet: sitarists, dancers, flutists, actors, and whatnot. That's how he was known, just as "Baba," because who would use his name, Alauddin?
When I saw him, he was already beyond ninety; naturally, he was a Baba. That simply became his name. And he was teaching all kinds of instruments to so many kinds of musicians. You could have brought any instrument and you would have seen him play it as if he had done nothing else but play that instrument for his whole life.
He lived very close to the university where I was, just a few hours' journey away. I used to visit him once in a while, whenever there was no festival. I make this point because there were always festivals. I must have been the only one to ask him, "Baba, can you give me the dates when there are no festivals here?"
He looked at me and said, "So, now you have come to take even those away too." And with a smile he gave me three dates. There were only three days in the whole year when there was not a festival. The reason was there were all kinds of musicians with him, Hindus, Mohammedans, Christians, and every festival happened there, and he allowed them all. He was, in a real sense, a patriarch, a patron saint.
I used to visit him on those three days, when he was alone, and there was no crowd around. I told him, "I don't want to disturb you. You can sit silently. If you want to play your veena it is up to you, or whatsoever. If you want to recite the KORAN, I would love it. I have come here just to be part of your milieu."
He wept like a child. It took me a little time to wipe his tears away and ask, "Have I hurt you?"
He said, "No, not at all. It just touched my heart so deeply that I could not find anything else to do but cry. And I know that I should not cry. I am so old and it is inappropriate, but has one to be appropriate all the time?"
I said, "No, at least not when I'm here." He started laughing, and the tears in his eyes, and the laughter on his face, both together, were such a joy.
Masto had brought me to him. Why? I will just say a few more things before I can answer it....
I have heard Vilayat Khan, another great sitarist, perhaps a little greater than Ravi Shankar, but he is not an innovator. He is utterly classical, but listening to him even I loved classical music. Ordinarily I don't love anything classical, but he plays so perfectly you cannot help yourself. You have to love it, it is not in your hands. Once a sitar is in his hands, you are not in your own hands. Vilayat Khan is pure classical music. He will not allow any pollution. He will not allow anything popular. I mean "pop," because in the West unless you say pop nobody will understand what is popular. It is just the old "popular" cut short -- badly cut, bleeding.
I have heard Vilayat Khan, and I would like to tell you a story about one of my very rich disciples -- that is circa 1970, because since then I have not heard anything of them. They are still there. I have inquired about their well-being, but sannyas has made so many people afraid, particularly the rich ones.
This family was one of the richest in India. I was amazed when the wife told me, "You are the only man to whom I can say it: for ten years I have been in love with Vilayat Khan."
I said, "What is wrong with that? Vilayat Khan? -- nothing is wrong."
She said, "You don't understand. I don't mean his sitar, I mean him."
I said, "Of course -- what would you do with his sitar without him?"
She hit her head with her hand and said, "Can't you understand anything at all?"
I said, "Looking at you, it seems not. But I do understand that you love Vilayat Khan. It is perfectly good. I am just saying that there is nothing wrong it it."
At first she looked at me in disbelief, because in India, if you say such a thing to a religious man -- a Hindu wife falling in love with a Mohammedan musician, singer or dancer -- you cannot have his blessing, that much is certain. He may not curse you, but most likely he will; even if he can forgive you, even that is too modern, ultra-modern.
"And," I said to her, "there is nothing wrong in it. Love, love whomsoever you want to love. And love knows no barriers of caste or creed."
She looked at me as if I were the one who had fallen in love, and she was the saint I was talking to. I said, "You are looking at me as if I have fallen in love with him. That too is true. I also love the way he plays, but not the man." The man is arrogant, which is very common in artists.
Ravi Shankar is even more arrogant, perhaps because he is a brahmin too. That is like having two diseases together: classical music, and being a brahmin. And he has a third dimension to his disease too, because he married the great Alauddin's daughter; he is his son-in-law.
Alauddin was so respected that just to be his son-in-law was enough proof that you are great, a genius. But unfortunately for them, I had also heard Masto. And the moment I heard him I said, "If the world knew about you they would forget and also forgive all these Ravi Shankars and Vilayat Khans."
Masto said, "The world will never know about me. You will be my only listener."
You will be surprised to know that Masto played many instruments. He was really a versatile genius, a very fertile mind, and he could make anything beautiful out of anything. He painted, and as meaninglessly as even Picasso could not do, and as beautifully as certainly Picasso could not do. But he simply destroyed his paintings saying, "I don't want to leave any footprints on the sands of time."
But sometimes he used to play music with Pagal Baba, so I asked him, "What about Baba?"
He said, "My sitar is reserved for you; not even Baba has heard it. Something else is reserved for Baba, so please don't ask me. You may not hear it."
Naturally I wanted to know what it was. I was curious, but I said to him, "I will keep my curiosity to myself. I will not ask anybody -- although I could ask Baba, and he cannot lie to me. But I will not ask, that much I will promise you."
He laughed and said, "In that case, when Baba is no longer in the world, then I will also play that instrument for you, because only then can I play it to you or anybody, and not before."
And the day that Pagal Baba was no more, the first thing that came into my mind was, "What is that instrument? Now is the time...." I condemned myself, cursed myself, but what did it matter? The only thing that kept coming up for me again and again was, "What is Masto's instrument?"
Curiosity is something very deep in man. It was not the serpent who persuaded Eve, it was curiosity that persuaded her, and also Adam, and so on and so forth... up until now. I think it is going to go on for ever persuading people. They pursue curiosity. It is a strange phenomenon. Of course it was not a big deal. I had heard Masto play other instruments; perhaps he may be even more efficient on this one, but so what? A man has died and you are thinking about the instrument that Masto will now have to play for you... it's human.
It is good that people don't have windows in the top of their heads, otherwise everybody could see what is going on. Then there would be real trouble, because what they pretend to be on their face is totally different; it is only a persona, a mask. What are they within? -- a current of a thousand things.
If we had windows in our heads it would be very difficult to live. But I entertained the idea. It would help tremendously for people to become silent, so that anybody else could look into their head and see that there is nothing to see. The silent ones could smile looking at their neighbors and say, "Look on, boys, look on. Look on as much as you want." But the head has no windows. It is completely sealed.
At Baba's death I thought only of Masto's instrument. Forgive me, but I have decided to tell the whole truth whatsoever it is. And mind you all, I am going to tell it howsoever long it takes -- Devageet, Devaraj, and Ashu. It may take years for me to tell it and then I will tell you that you have to finish the book quickly, so don't go on piling it up.
Don't in any way depend upon tomorrows; just do it today. Only then will you be able to do it. Unknowingly you have fallen into a trap. And you think that I am caught in a mousetrap? Forget it, man. I have got all three of you, and now the trap will become tighter every day; there is no escape.
Yes, one woman -- who will come somewhere in the story because she means much to me -- she told me something similar. She is strange in a way; everything she gave me was a first: the first watch, the first typewriter, the first car, the first tape recorder, the first camera. I cannot believe how she managed it, but everything was the first. I will tell you about her later on. Remind me when the time comes.
She told me that the only thing heavy on her heart is that when her husband's mother died she felt hungry.
I said, "What is wrong with feeling hungry?"
She said, "Do you think it is okay? My husband's mother is dead, lying dead in front of me, and I just felt so hungry, and was thinking only of good food: paratha, bhajia, pulau, rasogulla -- I have never told anybody," she said to me, "because I thought nobody would forgive me."
I said, "There is nothing wrong in it. What can you do? You did not kill her. Anyway one has to start eating sooner or later, the sooner the better. And when one is about to eat, one thinks of what one would like."
She said, "Are you sure?"
I said, "How many times do I have to say it?"
At the time she told me, I again remembered how she must be feeling, because I remember Baba dying and the first thought that came to me -- thoughts are really strange people... I had thought to myself, "What is the instrument that Masto plays?" Of course the moment I saw Masto I said, "Now...."
He said, "Okay."
No other word passed between us. He understood, and for the first time he played the veena for me. He had never played it to me before. It is a sort of guitar, but more complicated, and of course reaching to heights which even the sitar cannot reach, and also to depths which sitars leave only halfway.
I said, "The veena! Masto, you wanted to hide this experience from me?"
He said, "No, no, never. But when I was with Baba, and I had not yet known you, I had promised him on my own that I would not play this instrument for anybody else while he was alive. Now to me you are Pagal Baba. That's the way I will think of you always. Now I can play for you. I was not hiding anything from you, but you were not known to me at all when this promise was given. Now it is over."
For a moment I could not believe my own ears at how much he had been hiding. I said, "Masto, you know that it was not a good thing between two friends."
He looked down towards the earth and did not say anything. It was the first time in my life that I had seen him in that mood.
I said to him, "No. No need to be sorry, and no need to feel sad. What has happened has happened; it has nothing to do with us any more."
He said, "I was not sorry. I was ashamed. I know being sorry is very easy to wash away, but to be ashamed... you can wash it but again it is still there. You can wash it again, and it is there."
The feeling of shame only happens to those who are really great. It does not happen to ordinary people. They don't know what it means to be ashamed. I am suddenly reminded of one thing.... What is the time?
"Ten twenty-two, Bhagwan."
Okay.
I was not reminded of the time. I am never reminded of the time, and you know it. Sometimes it becomes really too much. You are hungry, ready to run to Mariam... and I am still talking. Obviously you cannot stop me. Only I can stop myself. Not only that, I even tell you only to stop when I say "Stop." It is just an old habit. No, I was reminded of something else, not the time.
Masto was staying at my Nani's house. That was my guest house. In my father's house there was not even a place for the host, what to say of the guest? It was so overcrowded. I cannot believe that Noah's Ark was more overcrowded. All kinds of creatures were there -- what a world! Yes, it was almost a world. But my Nani's house was almost empty; the way I like things, empty.
The English word "empty" is not the way to express what I want to say. The word is shunya -- and please don't think of Doctor Eichling, because his name, the name given by me, is Shunyo. But poor Eichling seems to be Chinese or something. What kind of name is that: I-kling? He can't be an American, and when he shaved his beard off he looked exactly like a Chinese. Just by chance I came across him. I could not even recognize him.
I said, "What happened to you?"
Gudia reminded me, saying, "It is Shunyo."
I said, "It is good that you reminded me, otherwise I would have hit him. He looks exactly like a Chinese. Why have you cut off your beard?" I asked him.
He said, "Because I am going back to practice in America."
I said, "My God! Does one need to shave off one's beard to practice in America?"
In fact if you look into the history of medicine, all the great doctors for some unknown reason had beards. Perhaps they had no time to shave, or perhaps they had no wives, so who cares? I asked him, "Who gave you the idea that to be a doctor in America you have to cut off your beard? And from Shunyo you have become Doctor Eichling again? Are you a cat or something? They say a cat has nine lives, how many lives have you got, Mister Eichling?"
My Nani's house was really shunyo. It was so empty, as a temple should be. And she kept it so clean. I like Gudia for many reasons; one is that she keeps everything so clean. She even finds fault with me! And naturally, if she finds a fault -- as far as cleanliness is concerned -- I always agree with her. She has the same sensitivity as my Nani. Perhaps a man cannot have that quality which a woman has naturally. To see a woman unclean is very terrible. To see a man unclean is okay, one can tolerate it -- after all, he is just a man. But a woman unknowingly keeps herself and her surroundings clean. And Gudia is English, proper English.
There are only two proper English people, Gudia and Sagar... in the whole world I mean.
My Nani was so concerned with cleanliness that as far as she was concerned, God was next to cleanliness. The whole day she was cleaning... for whom? Only I was there. I came in the evenings; by the morning I was gone. And the whole day the poor woman kept herself occupied with cleaning.
Once I asked her, "Don't you get tired? And nobody is telling you to do it all."
She said, "Cleaning has helped me so much. It has become almost a prayer. You are my guest. You don't live here anymore, do you? -- you are a guest. I have to prepare my house for the guest" -- in India they say, "The guest is the god...." She said, "You are my god."
I said, "Nani, are you mad? I am your god? You have never believed in any god."
She said, "I only believe in love, and I have found it. Now you are the only guest in my temple of love. I have to keep it as clean as I can."
Her house became a guest house, not only for me, but also for my guests. Whenever Masto would come, he used to stay in her house. And my Nani would serve whosoever I brought to her house as a guest, as if the person really meant a lot to her.
I said to her, "You need not be so concerned."
She said, "They are your guests, and so I have to take care, more care than I would take of my own guests."
I never saw my Nani talking to Masto. Once in a while I would see them sitting together, but I have never seen them talking. It was strange.
I asked her, "Why don't you talk with him? Don't you like him?"
She said, "I like him very much but there is nothing to say. I have nothing to ask; he has nothing to ask either. We simply nod heads and sit silently. It is so beautiful to sit silently. With you I talk. I have to ask so many things, and you have so many things to tell me. With you talking is beautiful."
I understood that they related in a different way. The way she and I related was different, and certainly not the only way. Since that day talking became less and less between us until it finally stopped. Then we used to sit for hours. Her house was really beautiful. It was just by the river, and the moment I say "river," something in my heart immediately starts singing songs.
I will never see that river again, but there is no need, because whenever I close my eyes I can see it. I hear that now it is no longer the same beautiful place. Just near it many houses have arisen, shops have opened up; it has become a marketplace. No, I would not like to go. Even if I had to go there I would close my eyes just to see the beautiful place that it was -- tall trees and a small temple... I can still hear the bell ringing.
Just the other day someone brought me a few bells, strange bells, the kind that are not known in most parts of the world. They are Tibetan. Although made in California, the design is Tibetan. Not only that, but even though they have been made in California they have certainly been improved. Tibetan bells are ordinarily crude, but these are very refined, and made of glass. Let me describe them to you.
They are not like any bells you can conceive of. They are like plates, many plates strung together so that when the wind moves them they hit each other, and the sound is really worth hearing. They are beautiful bells. Once in a while California certainly makes some beautiful things. Otherwise they are all Californiacs. But once in a while they do something really nice.
I have seen many kinds of bells. One Tibetan lama in Kalimpong showed me a Tibetan bell which I will never forget. It is worth mentioning to you. Perhaps you may never see such a thing because those bells are part of the disappearing Tibet. Soon they will disappear completely. The bell I saw was certainly a strange one.
I had only seen bells in India and had always associated the word "bell" with the Indian bell. It is hung from the ceiling and there is a small stick inside which you strike against the side of the bell. It is to wake up the god who goes on falling asleep. I can understand the beauty of it, that even God has to be woken up, what to say of man? But this Tibetan bell was totally different. It had to be placed on the floor, not hung from the ceiling.
I said, "Is it a bell? It does not look like one."
The lama laughed, "Wait and see," he said. "It is not only a bell but a special bell."
And he brought a small round wooden handle from his bag. Then he started rubbing the handle around and around the inside of the so-called bell, which looked like a pot. After going round for a few times he hit the bell at a certain point, which was marked, and strange, the bell repeated the whole Tibetan mantra Om mani padme hum! I could not believe it when I heard it for the first time. It repeated the mantra so clearly.
He said, "You will find this type of bell in every Tibetan monastery, because we cannot repeat the mantra as often as we should but we can at least make the bell repeat the mantra."
I said, "Great, so this is not a dumb bell."
He said, "Not at all. And if you hit it in the wrong place you will know that it also shouts. It will only repeat the mantra when you hit it in the right spot, otherwise it shrieks and screams, and makes all kinds of noise, but never the mantra."
I have been to Ladakh, a country between India and Tibet. Perhaps now Ladakh will become the most important religious country in the world, as Tibet once was. Tibet is finished, murdered, massacred. In Ladakh I saw those same bells but much bigger, houselike. You could go inside them and by holding the hanging rod, and then hitting with it at certain points, you could create any mantra you liked. It is only a question of knowing the language of the bell. It is almost like a computer.
What was I saying, Devageet?
"You were talking about how Nani never used to talk with Masto, they just used to sit silently...."
Right, so we should sit silently now... ten minutes for me. For God's sake, whether He exists or not, just relax.
Satyam shivam sundaram... I am not, and you are trying to reach me. Everybody can see. Do you see? I am not. Continue for just a few minutes, just two minutes, because I am waiting for something, so be alert. Yes.... Good....
No, Devageet. You would have been such a good wife, even I would laugh, but I am not supposed to.
Stop.

Chapter 36

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Just now I was thinking of a story. I don't know who created the story or why, and I don't agree with his conclusions either, but I still love it.
The story is simple. You may have heard it, but perhaps not understood it because it is so simple. Everybody thinks he understands simplicity. It's a strange world. People try to understand complexity, yet they ignore simplicity thinking it's not worth paying attention to. Perhaps you may not have paid attention to the story, but when I tell it, it is bound to come back to you.
Stories are strange creatures; they never die. They are never born either, they are as old as man; that's why I love them. If a truth is not contained in a story, it is not a story. Then it may be philosophy, theosophy, anthroposophy; and no matter how many "sophies" there are, they are all nonsense -- write nonsense, without a hyphen -- pure nonsense. Because ordinarily the word is written with a hyphen, dividing "non" from "sense." I don't see any point in the hyphen. At least remove it from my words except when I say that Zen is non-sense, then of course the hyphen needs to be there.
I had first told this story to Masto, who must have heard it before, but not in the way I distort things, or create them.
The story is -- and I am telling it to Masto -- "God created the world, Masto."
Masto said, "Great. You have always been against philosophy and religion; what happened? This is the very first enigma all religions begin with."
I said, "Wait, before you conclude. Don't be foolish in concluding without having heard the whole story."
Masto said, "I know the story."
I said, "You cannot know it."
He looked amazed and said, "This is something. I can repeat it if you want me to."
I said, "You can repeat it, but that does not mean that you know it. Is repetition knowing? Is the parrot repeating the sutras of Buddha, a buddha or at least a BODHISATTVA?"
He looked really thoughtful. I waited, but then I said, "Before you start thinking, listen to the story. What you know cannot be the same as I know, because we are not the same.
"God created the world. Naturally, the question arises, and the VEDAS ask it exactly: Why did He create the world? The VEDAS, in that sense, are just great. They say, `Perhaps even He does not know why' -- and by `He' they meant God."
And I can see the beauty of it. Perhaps it all came out of innocence, not knowledge. Perhaps He was not creating; perhaps He was just playing, like a child making houses in the sand. Do children know for whom the houses are being made? Do they know the ant who will crawl in during the night and will feel warm?
In Hindi, ants are always "she" -- I don't know why. They are never thought to be male. The truth is that only one ant, the queen, is female, all other ants are male. It is strange, perhaps not so strange, but to hide the truth they call the ant "she." Perhaps because the ant is so small, to call it "he" would be against the male ego. They call the elephant he. They call the lion he. If they specifically want to indicate the female elephant they call it a she-elephant, or a female lion a she-lion, but otherwise the term in general use is the male. But the poor ant... and unfortunately I have chosen it for the story.
He, or she, whoever the ant is, philosophizes -- perhaps the ant cannot be a "she," otherwise where will the philosophy come from? -- I have never come across a woman who philosophizes. I have known many women professors of philosophy, but strangely, even these professors talk only of clothes and pictures. If somebody is present then they praise her; if she is absent, then they condemn her. Philosophy is the last thing they think of. How they manage to become professors is not strange to me, although you may have thought it should have been. No, they can teach because it needs no thinking; in fact, that is its most basic requirement. If you think, you cannot teach.
One of my professors was the strangest man I ever came across in the university world. For years not a single student enrolled in his class, the simple reason being that he would always start his lectures on time, but nobody ever knew when he was going to end.
At the very beginning he would say, "Please don't expect the end, because nothing in the world ends. If you want to leave, you can, because in the world many leave, and the world still continues. Just don't disturb me. Do not ask me, `Can I leave, sir?' -- nobody asks that, even when one has to die, so why should you ask a poor professor of philosophy? Dear one, can I ask you why you came in the first place? You can leave whenever you want. And I will speak for as long as I feel the words are coming."
When I reached university everybody told me, "Avoid that man, Doctor Dasgupta, he is just mad."
I said, "That means I have to meet him first. I have come in search of really mad men. Is he really mad?"
They said, "Really mad. He is absolutely mad, and we are not joking."
I said, "It gives me great ecstasy to know that you are not joking. I can do that for myself. Whenever I need to, I just tell myself beautiful jokes and laugh hilariously saying, `Great! Never heard that one before.'"
They said, "This guy seems to be mad himself."
I said, "Absolutely right. Now tell me where Doctor Dasgupta lives."
I went to his house and knocked on the door. There was not even a servant. He lived like a god: no wife, no servant, no children, just alone. He said to me, "You must have knocked on the wrong door. Do you know I am Doctor Dasgupta?"
I said, "I know. Do you know who I am?"
He was an old man, and he just looked at me through his thick glasses and then said, "How can I know you?"
I said, "I have come to find out."
He said, "Do you mean that you don't know either?"
I said, "No."
He said, "My God! Two madmen in one house! And you are far madder than I am. Come in, sir, and be seated."
He was really respectful. Without joking he said, "In this university nobody has turned up for my classes for three years. In fact, I have stopped going myself. What is the point? I deliver my lectures in this room, exactly where you are sitting."
I said, "That's really beautiful, but to whom?"
He said, "That's the point. Once in a while I also ask, `to whom?'"
I said, "I will enroll in your class, and you still need not bother to come to the classroom. It is almost one mile from your house. I can come here."
He said, "No, no, I will come -- that is part of my duty. Just one thing, forgive me, but although I can start my lecture on time -- if it is eleven, I can start at eleven -- I cannot guarantee that I can finish when the bell rings forty minutes later."
I said, "I can understand that. How can the poor man who rings the bell every forty minutes understand what you are doing? And not only you, what are all the professors in the whole university doing? If they stop, then they are stupid. The bell does not know; the man who rings the bell does not know, so why should you stop? If you make it a point that you will not stop, then listen, I will also make it a point, man to man, that if you stop I will hit you so hard you may not survive."
He said, "What? You will hit me?" He was a Bengali man.
I said, "I simply meant metaphorically. I will touch your head slightly, just to remind you that you need not bother about the bell."
He said, "Then it is okay. You need not go to the hostel, you can live in my house. It is very big, and I am alone."
That day I thought of Masto. He would have enjoyed that house, and that man with his contemplative eyes. That day too, I remembered this story. I will tell it again so that you can follow:
God created the world. He finished it in six days. The last thing He created was the woman. Naturally, the question arises, Why? Why did He create the woman last? Of course, the feminists will say, "Because woman is the most perfect creation of God." Obviously He created her after His experience of creating man. Man is a little older model. Naturally God refined it, and made it better.
But the male chauvinists have another reply. They say God created man as the last of His creations, but then man started asking questions such as, "Why did you create the world?" and, "Why did you create me?" And God became so puzzled that He created woman to puzzle man. Since then God has heard nothing from man.
Man comes home tail between his legs, goes out to purchase bananas, and by and by he has become a banana: Mr. Banana, Ph.D., M.A., D.Litt., and whatnot. But basically Mr. Banana is utterly rotten. Please don't eat it. Don't even look inside the skin, otherwise you will repent, and immediately start saying, "Stop the wheel!" -- the wheel of birth and death -- because who wants to be a banana? But bananas may be well-dressed, with beautiful clothes, perhaps made in Paris. Mr. Banana can do anything. He wears a beautiful tie, so that he cannot even breathe... shoes so tight that if you see Mr. Banana's feet you would never look at his face.
I have never liked shoes, but everybody insisted that I wear them. I said, "Whatsoever happens I am not going to use shoes."
What I use are called chappals in India. They are not really shoes, not even sandals, they are the least possible covering. And I have chosen the ultimate chappal; you could not reduce it any more. My chappal-maker, Arpita, knows that there is no way to make them more perfectly. Even just a little less and my feet would be nude. It is just the most minimal; just a strap somehow holding my feet in the chappal. You could not cut it down any more.
Why do I hate shoes? For the simple reason that they make you into a banana. Of course Mr. Banana, Doctor Banana, Professor Banana, all kinds of bananas; lady bananas, gentleman bananas... you can find all varieties, but they always start from the shoes.
Have you ever seen Victorian ladies with their high heels? -- so high that any tightrope walker would fall off if he tried to walk in them. Why were they chosen? They were chosen by a very religious society, for a very irreligious reason -- pornographic -- because when the heels are high, the buttocks stand out.
Now, nobody bothers about the reason; even ladies go on doing it, and thinking they are being ladylike. It is very un-ladylike. They are simply parading their buttocks around for free, and enjoying it. And with their tight clothes, obviously they look better than they ever could naked, because the skin is, after all, just skin. If you are thirty years old, the skin is thirty years old. It has seen thirty years go by, and it cannot be as tight as a newly-bought dress. And now the manufacturers are doing miracles: they are making women look so tempting that God Himself would have eaten the apple!
Do you recognize what I am saying? It may take you a little time. Even Ashu has not laughed. It will take a little time for it to sink in. Yes, a snake would not have been needed, just a clothes salesman would have done. Just a tight dress for Mrs. Eve, and God Himself would have eaten the apple, and driven out with Mrs. Eve -- for the evening, I mean.
Why did God create woman after man? The male chauvinist says man is the perfect creation. You must have seen men in Greek and Roman sculpture, but you rarely come across a woman's naked body sculpted, just men. Strange. What was the matter with those people? Could they not see any beauty in women?
They were male chauvinists, so much so that they praised homosexuality more than heterosexuality. It will sound very strange because almost twenty-five centuries have passed since Socrates, but Socrates himself was in love with men, not women. Perhaps his wife Xanthippe created so much trouble for him that he over-reacted and forgot all about women, and started loving men. Perhaps there were other reasons.
If some day I have to go into the psychoanalysis of Socrates, then I may uncover things which no one else would even think to uncover. But the male chauvinist says God created man, and just because man was alone, and needed company, God created Eve.
This is not the original story. The original woman's name was not Eve, her name was Lilith. God created Lilith, but Lilith created, from the very first moment, the problem.
It started like this: Night was coming on, the sun was setting, and they had only one bed, this was the problem. They were not as fortunate as me in having Asheesh, otherwise he would have prepared -- even though he may have been suffering from a migraine -- still he would have created a perfect bed. But Asheesh was not there, in fact no other human being was there....
My watch has stopped, and just the other day I was talking about it, and it stopped. You know watches are temperamental. It stopped exactly at that same moment. And I was talking about another watch, a metaphorical watch, but who is going to explain to this watch that I was not talking about her? During the night I tell her many times again and again, "Listen, you need not stop. I was not talking about you -- you are such a beautiful watch..." but she won't listen.
What was I saying?
"You were talking about Eve not having a bed... or Lilith not having a bed, Osho."
Yes. The fight started even before going to bed. Lilith was certainly the originator of the Woman's Liberation Movement, whether they know it or not. She fought. She threw Adam out of bed. What a great woman! Adam tried again and again to throw her out, but what was the point? Even if he succeeded, she was back again, throwing him out.
She said, "Only one can sleep in this bed. It is not meant for two." Of course it was not made for two by God; it was not a double bed.
They fought the whole night, and in the morning Adam said to God, "I was perfectly happy..." although he was not, but the whole night's unhappiness had helped him to see his past as very happy. He said, "I was so happy before this woman came."
And Lilith said, "I was also happy. I don't want to exist." She must have been the originator of many things. Perhaps she was the first real Zen patriarch, because she said, "I don't want to exist. One night is enough for one life, because I know it is going to be almost the same every night, again and again. And even if you give me a double bed, what difference does it make? We are still going to fight because the question is, `Who is the master?' I cannot allow this brute to be my master."
God said, "Okay." In those days -- and they were the days just at the very beginning; in fact it was the first day after the creation. It must have been a Sunday, according to the Christians. God must have been in a Sunday mood, because He said, "Okay, I will make you disappear." Lilith disappeared, and then God created Eve from Adam's rib.
It was the first operation, Devaraj, please take note. God was the first surgeon, whether the royal society recognizes Him or not does not matter. He did a great job. No other surgeon has been able to do the same since then. From just a rib, He created woman. But it is insulting, and I hate the story. It is not the way God should behave. Just a rib...!
And then there is the rest of the story. Every night, Eve counts Adam's ribs before she goes to sleep, to be certain that all the other ribs are still there and that there is no other woman in the world, then she can sleep well.
Strange... if other women are there, why can't she sleep well? But I don't like that ending to the story. In the first place it is male chauvinistic; in the second place, very ungodly; in the third place, very unimaginative and too factual. Things should only be indicated.
Masto asked me, "What is your conclusion?"
I then said, "My conclusion is that God created man first because He did not want any interference while He was creating." This is a well-known saying in the East. It has nothing to do with me, but I loved it so much that I can almost claim that it is mine. If love can make anything one's own, then it is mine. I don't know who said it in the first place, and I don't need to know either.
I also told Masto,"Since then, nothing has been heard of God. Have you any news about the poor old man? Has He retired? Has He forgotten His creation? Has He no love and compassion for those whom He has made?"
Masto said, "You always create such strange questions out of such absurd stories, and then you make them sound sensible. I wonder if one day you will become a story writer."
I said, "Never. Far more talented people are engaged in that work. I am needed somewhere else where nobody else seems to be interested, because I am thinking to be interested only in God."
Masto was shocked! He said, "In God? I thought you don't believe in Him."
I said, "I don't believe, because I know, and I know so deeply that even if you cut off my head I will still say, `I know.' I may not be... once before I was not.... He was, and He will be."
In fact, to say "He" is not right. In the East we say "It," and that sounds perfect. IT written in capital letters gives a real meaning to Buddha's words, Lao Tzu's sayings, Jesus' prayers. "He" is again male-oriented, and "He" is not "She" either.
I have heard... you may not have heard yet, because it belongs to the future. It's a future story. The polack pope dies, and goes to heaven, of course. He rushes in to see God, and as fast as he goes in, he comes out even faster -- crying and weeping. Saints Peter, Paul, Thomas, and all the other saints gather and say, "Don't cry, don't weep. You are a good man, and we understand your feelings."
The pope shouted, "What do you understand? Did you know that in the first place He is not even a white man, He is a nigger? And in the second place, even worse: He is not even a He, He is a She!"
God is neither He nor She -- but polacks are polacks. You can make them popes, but that does not make any difference. God created the world, not according to the male chauvinists' or the feminists' points of view. Their views are just opposite.
He created woman as the perfect model, and certainly every artist believes she is the perfect model. If you see their paintings, you will also believe that she is the perfect model. But please stop there. Don't touch a real woman. Paintings are okay, statues too, but a real woman is as imperfect as she should be.
I don't mean anything derogatory by that. Imperfection is life's very law. Only dead things are perfect. Life is, necessarily, imperfect. Women are imperfect, men are imperfect; and when two imperfections meet, you can imagine what the outcome will be.
"That's what my conclusions are," I told Masto; "that God created man, and man started asking philosophical questions. God created woman to keep man occupied. Since then man has been purchasing bananas, and by the time he reaches home he is so tired that although his wife wants to discuss great things, he just wants to hide himself behind THE TIMES or any other newspaper. He is kept continuously on the run by the woman: `Do this, do that.'
"It is strange that women are given the job of teacher, although they are not allowed many other jobs. Perhaps there is a logic in it. It is good to catch hold of the poor boys before it is too late, and after that they are always trembling before the woman, continuously afraid. Since then God has been enjoying looking at the whole nonsense going on in the world He created in six days."
Buddhas are trying, in some way, to give you a glimpse of that world of relaxation that existed before the world and all its troubles began. Even now it is possible to just step aside. In stepping outside the stream you suddenly start laughing; God or no God, it was just a story. I told Masto, "Unless somebody steps outside the mundane stream of life...."
I wanted to say goodbye to this man, but it is good that I could not. So many things are still related to him, and any thing may reflect many other things. Life is always simple and complex, both. Simple as a dewdrop, and as complex also as a dewdrop, because the dewdrop can reflect the whole sky, and it contains all the oceans. And certainly it is not going to be there forever... maybe just a few minutes, and then gone forever. I emphasize forever. Then there is no way to get it back, with all those stars and oceans.
So much is involved with Masto....
Whenever I wanted to cry I would ask Masto to play his veena. It was easy, no explanation needed; nobody asks why you are crying. The veena is such that it simply stirs your depths. But it was his stubbornness that made me tell you that story, because he used to say to me, "Unless you tell me a story I will not play." I have told him the story, and now is the time for him to play... but only I can hear. It is better that still only I can hear.
Just ten minutes for me to hear it. I am enjoying it in the sense that Adam must have.
How many minutes have we been in this ancient bullock cart procedure? Can anyone figure it out?
"Forever, Osho."
Then just one minute, and you can stop.
This is good. One should never want to continue anything so beautiful; one should be capable of ending it too. I know that you can continue, but no -- my doctor prohibits me from eating too much of anything. He wants me to reduce my weight, and if I eat your diet, then Jesus...!
You can end it now.