Nirvana The Last Nightmare 02

Second Discourse from the series of 10 discourses - Nirvana The Last Nightmare by Osho.
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A monk asked Nansen, “From patriarch to patriarch there is a transmission. What is it that they wish to transmit to one another?”
Nansen said, “One, two, three, four, five.”
The monk asked, “What is that which was possessed by the ancients?”
The master said, “When it can be possessed, I will tell you.”
The monk said dubiously, “Master, why should you lie?”
The master replied, “I do not lie. Eno lied.”

On another occasion a monk said to Nansen, “There is a jewel in the sky; how can we get hold of it?”
Nansen said, “Cut down the bamboos and make a ladder; put it in the sky and get hold of it!”
The monk said, “How can the ladder be put up in the sky?”
Nansen said, “How can you doubt your getting hold of the jewel?”
Maneesha, it is very rare to find an exact comparison between two mystics. But once in a while their expressions are the same, their symbols and metaphors are the same. It happens by chance because they may not have known each other at all. This is so in the case that Maneesha has brought:
A monk asked Nansen, “From patriarch to patriarch there is a transmission. What is it that they wish to transmit to one another?”
It is a very pregnant question, but almost impossible to answer. But the master’s very being is to bring the impossible within possible limits – if not the moon itself, then at least the reflection. And the reflection can be brought. And through the reflection the moon can be found.
Nansen said, “One, two, three, four, five.”
This reminds me of Kabir. I don’t think either knew of the other, but this is how Kabir used to answer questions, exactly the same. To anybody it may look like a puzzle, but it is not a puzzle. It is a way of indicating that which is impossible to say.
The experience is of nothingness. So when the experience of enlightenment happens, it is one; there is nothing else other than the illumination. But immediately you recognize the illumination, immediately recognition comes, it becomes two. At the moment you recognize, it is a vague recognition, not yet conceptualized. When you conceptualize it as enlightenment, as awakening, as buddhahood, it has already become three. When you say it to somebody else – that is the transmission – when you convey it, communicate to somebody else, it becomes four. And if the person to whom you have conveyed it understands it, it becomes five.
At each step you are going far away from nothingness, but nothing can be done about it. That’s the nature of reality. Now it is no more a puzzle when you understand what they mean by One, two, three, four, five. On the five the transmission is complete.
The monk asked, “What is that which was possessed by the ancients?”
“The ancients” does not mean the people of the old times. “The ancients” indicate the people who have reached the heights of consciousness. They are the real ancients, not in time but in consciousness. In time they may be contemporaries, they may be sitting by your side. As far as time is concerned you may be contemporary to a buddha. But his height of consciousness has taken him far away. He has become an ancient.
Ordinarily when a man becomes old, we don’t call him ancient. He is just called old. But if the man becomes a buddha, then not only in time has he become old, grown up, ripe, but beyond time he has reached to the very source of life where all the ancient buddhas have reached. It is the same source. He has become one with all the ancient buddhas.
So when these questions are asked, always remember, “the ancients” does not mean the old people, or the people of the old times. It means the people of greater consciousness, of higher peaks of being. They are the real ancients. They may be contemporary to you, but you exist on such different levels, you cannot call them your contemporaries.

“What is that,” the monk asked, “which was possessed by the ancients?”
The master said, “When it can be possessed, I will tell you.”
The master is saying that it can never be possessed either by you or by any ancient. When you reach to the experience, you are overwhelmed by it. It possesses you, not you possess it. Do you see the difference when you are possessed? The experience is far bigger than you. You are absorbed into it.
The master was right when he said, “When it can be possessed, I will tell you.” As far as I know, it cannot be possessed; you have to be ready to be possessed by it. But Zen does not complete its sentences; it leaves everything open; it simply gives hints. It is a test of the questioner’s intelligence to complete it.
The monk said dubiously, “Master, why should you lie?”
“You possess it. And you are lying to me.” He has missed the point. The master does not possess it; it possesses the master. Because of its possession of the master, the master is no more. It is a pure emptiness through which the whole existence can pass – no hindrance, just a pure receptivity.
The master replied, “I do not lie. Eno lied.”
Eno was his master. He said that, “You should go to Eno. He lied to me that ‘Yes, truth can be possessed.’ But when I reached to the point, the cliff from where you jump into nothingness, it was a totally different story: I was possessed by it; I was nowhere to be found; the experience was too much. I cannot hold it in my hands; it was holding me from all directions.
“I am not lying. If you want any lie, you should go to my master Eno. He lied to me.” But it is said with great respect. “Because of his lie I could come to the point where truth possessed me. If he had not lied, I would not have moved a single inch.”
All masters have to lie, because there is no way to say the truth. But with some devices you can start moving towards the truth.
I have told you the story many times: A man’s house is on fire. He has very small children inside the house. A crowd has gathered outside and they are calling to the children, “Get out of the house. There are still windows and doors left. You can come out. In a few minutes there will be no way to come out.” And nobody dared to go in. It was dangerous. The fire was going so strong.
And just then the father of the children came from his shop. The children did not listen to the neighbors, because they could not understand. They really enjoyed the flames all around the house; they had never seen such a beautiful scene. They were dancing and enjoying and they could not understand why they should leave the house.
As the father came, the people told him, “Do something immediately, all the passages are being taken over by the fire. We have been shouting, but your children are strange. They dance, they are singing and playing. They are enjoying the beautiful flames all around.”
Now there was no passage and no time to enter. The father shouted, “I am here and I have brought all the toys you had asked for.”
The children jumped from the last window which was just going to be taken over by the fire. They came running out and they said, “Where are our toys?”
The father said, “Forgive me, today I have forgotten, but tomorrow I will bring your toys.”
He has told a lie. But the lie saved the lives of the children. You cannot complain against the father.
Nansen is not complaining against his master, he is saying he was compassionate enough to lie. “I am not lying, I am simply saying, ‘When it can be possessed.’ If some time comes when I can possess it, I will tell you. Right now it possesses me so I cannot tell you.”
The monk was dubious. He said, “Master, why should you lie? You know and everybody knows that you have it.” But this is the problem with language. He says, “You have it.” If he had said, “It has you,” things would be different.
The master replied, “I do not lie. I have simply stated the straightforward fact. You ask me, ‘Do you possess it?’ I don’t. If sometime I happen to possess it, I will tell you. If you say that I am lying, I am not lying. My master Eno lied. And because he lied, I am a master. You should go to Eno.”
On another occasion a monk said to Nansen, “There is a jewel in the sky; how can we get hold of it?”
Nansen said, “Cut down the bamboos and make a ladder; put it in the sky and get hold of it!”
The monk said, “How can the ladder be put up in the sky?”
Nansen said, “How can you doubt your getting hold of the jewel?
The question is not of putting up a ladder; the question is of destroying the doubt. And the jewel is not in the sky; the jewel is in you. In the sky it is reflected, just as the moon reflects in the lake. The jewel is within you, but it is reflected in the sky far away.
“You asked me a stupid question, I have to answer you with a stupid answer. Don’t ask a stupid question and I can tell you the truth. From where did you get the idea that there is a jewel in the sky? Have you ever looked within yourself? If you had looked within yourself, you would have been surprised that all the beauty of existence is a reflection of your inner splendor. What you see outside – the roses and their beauty, and the stars and their majesty – pales down the moment you look within. Right now you don’t have even the criterion to judge which is the reflection and which is the real.”
Look within and you will find the real – just its flavor, its certainty, its grandeur – and everything outside will become pale, just a reflection.
It has to be remembered that before asking a question to the master, you should look into your question as deeply as possible. It should become more intelligent, more meaningful. Only when you are satisfied that the question is ripe, it can be polished no more, it can be made no more intelligent, you can ask. Only an intelligent question can get an intelligent answer. Otherwise you ask a stupid question and the master gives a stupid answer. It is just out of kindliness. He could have simply said, “Don’t ask such stupid questions.” Rather than saying that, he tells him, “Cut down the bamboos and make a ladder; put it in the sky and get hold of it!”

Anybody who has a little intelligence can understand that because the answer is stupid, the question must have been stupid. The master does not want to say it directly, but indirectly he is pointing to the stupidity of the question. But the questioner does not stop there; he goes on. This is the problem: a stupid person as he grows becomes more stupid; an idiot is a bigger idiot when he becomes ripe and mature – and older idiots are more dangerous because they are old and people think old people are wise.

Sekiso has a poem:
For six years sitting alone
still as a snake
in a stalk of bamboo,
with no family but the ice
on the snow mountain…
Last night, seeing the empty sky
fly into pieces,
he shook the morning star awake
and kept it in his eyes.
A tremendously beautiful poem. He is saying, For six years sitting alone – that means meditating; sitting, in Zen, is equivalent to meditation, just sitting and doing nothing.…six years sitting alone, still as a snake…When the snake is waiting to catch something to eat, he remains absolutely immobile as if he is dead. The slightest movement, then the bird he was going to catch will be gone, then the butterfly he was going to catch will not be there. He has to remain just dead, no movement.
Still as a snake in a stalk of bamboo, with no family but the ice on the snow mountain…Last night…those six years sitting matured. Last night the moment came of great benediction.
Last night, seeing the empty sky fly into pieces, he shook the morning star awake and kept it in his eyes. He is talking about the inner sky, the inner emptiness, that suddenly gave way. For six years he was holding. Last night, suddenly the emptiness also fell into pieces. He was thinking that just to be empty is enough for meditation. Just to be empty is only the beginning. A moment comes when emptiness falls into pieces. You go beyond emptiness.
Last night, seeing the empty sky fly into pieces, he shook the morning star awake…He is talking about his own inner being. That emptiness flying into pieces shook the star awake and kept it in his eyes. Now he is carrying that star in his eyes, that clarity, that light, that shining jewel which is not in the sky, which is hidden somewhere inside your emptiness, which is covered by your thoughts and emotions. Your mind is blocking the path, but somewhere inside you, it is shining bright. Just a little turning in, and you will be fulfilled.

Maneesha has asked:
You have often said you will have no successors. But won't all those who love you be your successors in that we carry you in our blood and bones and so you are part of us forever?
Maneesha, the concept of the successor is bureaucratic. The very idea of succession is not the right idea in the world of consciousness. That’s why I have said, I will not have successors. But you are right in saying that you will carry in your bones and in your blood my love, my insight. But don’t use the word successor, rather use the words you will be me. Why be so far away, a successor, when you can be me? Be so empty that I can make a home in you, that your emptiness can absorb my emptiness, that your heart can have the same dance as my heart. It is not succession; it is transmission.
The very idea of succession is political. Only one person can be a successor, so there is bound to be competition, ambition. There is bound to be a subtle struggle to be closer to the master, to force others away. It may not be on the surface but, underneath, the problem will remain in the disciples: “Who is going to be the successor?”
I destroy the whole conception. Every disciple who has loved has become one with the master. There is no need of any competition, nor one successor. It is for everybody who has offered himself in deep gratitude, who has become one in a certain sense with the master’s presence. There is no need of any competition. Thousands can have the same experience, millions can have the same experience.
To avoid politics in religion, I have said that I will not have successors. I want religion to be absolutely devoid of ambition, competition, being higher than another, putting everybody lower than oneself. With me you are all equal. And I trust and love you, that you will prove this equality. In equals there is no competition; there is a combined effort. You will all carry my message, but nobody will be higher or lower, nobody will be a successor. All will be my lovers and they will carry me.
I am reminded of a case: Ramakrishna had a cancer of the throat. In the last stage it became impossible even to drink water. All his disciples said, “Why don’t you ask in your prayers to God to remove this cancer? We know that if you ask, your prayer will be heard. And if your prayer cannot be heard, then all prayers are false.”
Ramakrishna was such a man that if his prayer is not heard, it can only mean there is no God, or God is deaf. If Ramakrishna’s prayer is not answered, then nobody else in the whole world should hope that his prayer will be answered. So they insisted again and again, but Ramakrishna said, “It does not look right. I close my eyes because you insist. But I cannot ask anything from existence. Perhaps cancer is right; otherwise why should it be given to me? I cannot be wiser than existence.”
The disciples in despair asked Ramakrishna’s wife, Sharda, “Unless you tell him, he will not listen to anyone. And you have to be absolutely insistent.”
Sharda told Ramakrishna. He said, “I knew that my disciples would bring you, and I cannot refuse you because I have never refused. And you have never asked anything; this is the first time in your whole life you are asking for something, and in these last moments how can I refuse you? I will try.” He closed his eyes and after a few seconds he opened them and started laughing.
Sharda said, “What happened? Did you ask?”
He said, “I asked. But the answer came: ‘Why do you insist on your own throat? Drink from all the throats of your disciples. Why insist on being identified with your own body? Why not merge into all your lovers?’ That’s why I started laughing because I knew this would be the answer. You unnecessarily made me look stupid before existence.”

If the disciple loves the master, if there is trust, and trust founded on experience, he will carry spontaneously the master’s message. There is no need to say anything, he will be his master’s message.

Now something serious…
Ronald Reagan is on his last legs as president. So to impress the world with his sense of culture, he opens a new art gallery in Washington DC Reagan invites Pope the Polack, Margaret Thatcher and Mikhail Gorbachev – also his old buddy, Bonzo, the chimpanzee.
Ronald and his tour guide, Reginald the homosexual, are giving these world famous figures a special tour of the collection of priceless paintings.
“Ah, yes,” says Reagan, the amateur art connoisseur, “this painting is by Rembrandt.”
“No, it is not,” says Reginald; “this is by Salvador Dali.”
The group pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, and then moves on.
“And this one,” says Reagan proudly, “is painted by Monet.”
“No,” corrects Reginald again, “this is painted by Van Gogh.”
At the next painting, Reagan stands motionless. He stares at it this way and that way, and then he scratches his head.
“Well, I’m sure this must be a Picasso,” he says loudly to the group.
“Wrong again, Ronnie,” replies Reginald. “That is a mirror!”

The Babblebrain family are going to the theater one night, but nobody wants to stay at home to look after Granddad. So they have to take him with them.
The play is nearing its climax when the whole row is disturbed by old man Babblebrain crawling around on his hands and knees.
“Grandpa!” whispers Boris loudly. “Get back in your seat!”
“I can’t,” replies Granddad. “I’ve lost a toffee.”
“Sit down!” snaps Boris. “You are disturbing the whole theater for a lousy toffee. I’ll buy you another one if you just sit down.”
“I need that one,” says Granddad.
“My God!” cries Boris. “What’s so special about that toffee?”
“Well,” says Granddad, “my teeth are in it!”

Pope the Polack is on a ten-million-dollar pilgrimage to India. He goes to Calcutta, where he visits Mother Teresa’s orphanage.
He is in the middle of addressing a large gathering of Indian Christians, when a little boy comes up to him.
“Holy Father,” asks the boy, “tell me something. If your father was a gorilla and your mother was a gorilla, what would you be?”
Pope the Polack immediately gets annoyed, but tries to smile, and answers coolly, “My son, I guess I would be a gorilla, of course.”
A little while later, the same kid interrupts the Polack’s sermon and asks, “Holy Father, if your mother was a donkey and your father was a donkey, what would you be?”
Pope the Polack is very embarrassed and gets really pissed-off – but keeps a cool face, and answers the little boy. “Naturally, my son,” he replies tensely, “I would be a donkey.”
After the sermon, the Polack Pope sees the same kid outside. He drags him into a quiet corner, grabs him by the collar, and fuming, he splutters, “Okay, wise-guy. Here is one for you! If your father was a gorilla, and your mother was a donkey, what would you be?”
“That’s simple,” the boy replies, brightly. “I’d be Pope the Polack!”






Be silent. Close your eyes; feel your body to be completely frozen. Now look inwards, with absolute urgency, as if this is your last moment of life. Go as deep as you can. At the very end is your life source. The distance is not much. Just a little courage, courage to enter into the unknown and you are at the very source of life. This space is called the buddha.

This is not an achievement; this is a discovery. It has always been with you; it is your nature. Even if you want to lose it, you cannot; you can only forget it or remember it: those are the only two alternatives. You have lived for millions of years in forgetfulness. The original meaning of sin is forgetfulness.
Now the moment has come, you can change your face, your being into a remembrance. Remembrance is the only virtue, just as forgetfulness is the only sin. With your totality of consciousness look, and you will find you are the buddha.

To make it clear, Nivedano…


Just watch and witness the body and the mind. You are neither the body nor the mind. You are just a pure witness. Your buddhahood consists only of a pure witness – a mirror – reflecting everything without being affected by anything.

The evening was beautiful on its own, but you have made it more beautiful, more memorable. You have made it a golden moment, a milestone in your life because this buddha, this witnessing has to become your very life-style. Only in the fire of witnessing will you be transformed; there is no other way. This is the very point of departure from ignorance to wisdom, from darkness to light, from mortality to immortality, from time to eternity.
In this tremendously beautiful moment in the Buddha Auditorium there are not ten thousand people, but only one oceanic consciousness. Everybody is dissolved into it; everybody is possessed by it. This is the greatest thing that can happen in a man’s life. And if you can live it in your ordinary day-to-day life, in your actions, gestures, words, silences, you have attained the highest peak of the Himalayas – Himalayas of consciousness.



Call the buddhas back, somebody may go too far. Come back silently, gracefully, remembering that you are a buddha. Don’t forget it.
I have to call you the moment I see that a few are reaching to the point from where they can jump beyond the buddha. Then there is no way of coming back. The buddha is the last milestone where the road ends. Those who have gone beyond the buddha, they have simply dissolved into existence.
Buddha himself has said, there is still one step more. There are only two steps in the whole journey: one step from you to the buddha, and the second step from the buddha to the oceanic existence. First learn the first step in its totality. When it becomes your twenty-four hour existence, then I will not say “Nivedano” to call you back. You can take the jump, but not unripe. Be ripe, then the jump happens on its own accord. It is not an effort. It is absolutely spontaneous.

Can we celebrate the ten thousand buddhas?

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