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Part VI : Death of Nani, Osho’s grandmother
October 7th 1970 Osho rushes to his Nani's deathbed. It is his
last visit to Gadarwara*. Osho arranges to move his library from
Jabalpur to Bombay.
*Note: Osho relates several stories about old village friends
he met on this last visit to Gadarwara, some of which have been
included elsewhere
My grandmother was right in saying I would not have friends...only
to the point when I started initiating people into sannyas. She
was alive for just a few days after I initiated the first group
of sannyasins in the Himalayas. I had particularly chosen the
most beautiful part of the Himalayas, Kulu Manali - "the
valley of the gods" as it is called. And certainly it is
a valley of gods. It is so beautiful that one cannot believe it,
even when one is standing in the valley itself. It is unbelievably
true. I had chosen Kulu Manali for the first initiation of twenty-one
sannyasins.
That was just a few days before my mother...my grandmother
died. Excuse me again, because I go on again and again calling
her "mother" and then correcting it. What can I do?
I had known her as my mother. My whole life I have tried to correct
it and not been able to....
I would have liked to initiate my grandmother, but she was in
the village of Gadarwara. I even tried to contact her, but Kulu
Manali is nearly two thousand miles from Gadarwara. glimps23
My grandmother lived till eighty and she was fully healthy. Even
then nobody thought she was going to die. I promised her one thing,
that when she died I would come, and that would be my last visit
to the family. She died in 1970. I had to fulfill my promise.
glimps02
This is the first time I have told anybody. My Nani was my first
disciple. I taught her the way. My way is simple: to be silent,
to experience in one's self that which is always the observer,
and never the observed; to know the knower, and forget the known.
My way is simple, as simple as Lao Tzu's, Chuang Tzu's, Krishna's,
Christ's, Moses', Zarathustra's...because only the names differ,
the way is the same. Only pilgrims are different; the pilgrimage
is the same. And the truth, the process, is very simple.
I was fortunate to have had my own grandmother as my first disciple,
because I have never found anybody else to be so simple. I have
found many very simple people, very close to her simplicity, but
the profoundness of her simplicity was such that nobody has ever
been able to transcend it, not even my father. He was simple,
utterly simple, and very profound, but not in comparison to her.
I am sorry to say, he was far away, and my mother is very very
far away; she is not even close to my father's simplicity.
You will be surprised to know - and I am declaring it for
the first time - my Nani was not only my first disciple, she
was my first enlightened disciple too, and she became enlightened
long before I started initiating people into sannyas. She was
never a sannyasin.
She died in 1970, the year when I started initiating people into
sannyas. She was on her deathbed when she heard about my movement.
Although I did not hear it myself, one of my brothers reported
to me that these were her last words.... "It was as if
she were talking to you," my brother told me. "She said,
'Raja, now you have started a movement of sannyas, but it is too
late. I cannot be your sannyasin because by the time you reach
here I will not be in this body, but let it be reported to you
that I wanted to be your sannyasin.'"
She died before I reached her, exactly twelve hours before.
It was a long journey from Bombay to that small village, but she
had insisted that nobody should touch her body until I arrived;
then whatever I decided should be done. If I wanted her body to
be buried, then it would be okay. If I wanted her body to be burned,
that too would be okay. If I wanted something else to happen,
then that too would be okay.
When I reached home I could not believe my eyes: she was eighty
years of age and yet looked so young. She had died twelve hours
before, but still there was no sign of deterioration. I said to
her, "Nani, I have come. I know you will not be able to answer
me this time. I'm just telling you so that you can hear. There
is no need to answer." Suddenly, almost a miracle! Not only
I was present, but my father too, and the whole family, were there.
In fact the whole neighborhood had gathered. They all saw one
thing: a tear rolled down from her left eye - after twelve
hours!
Doctors had declared her dead. Now, dead men don't weep; even
real men rarely do, what to say about dead men! But there was
a tear rolling from her eye. I took it as an answer, and what
more could be expected? I gave fire to her funeral, as was her
wish. I did not do that even to my father's body.
In India it is almost an absolute law that the eldest son should
begin the fire for his father's funeral pyre. I did not do it.
As far as my father's body was concerned, I did not even go to
his funeral. The last funeral I attended was my Nani's.
That day I told my father, "Listen, Dada, I will not be able
to come to your funeral."
He said, "What nonsense are you saying? I am still alive."
I said, "I know you are still alive, but for how long? Just
the other day Nani was alive; tomorrow you may not be. I don't
want to take any chances. I want to say right now that I have
decided I will not attend any other funeral after my Nani's. So
please forgive me, I will not be coming to your funeral. Of course
you will not be there so I am asking your forgiveness today."
He understood and was a little shocked of course, but he said,
"Okay, if this is your decision, but who then is going to
give fire at my funeral?"
This is a very significant question in India. In that context
it would normally be the eldest son. I said to him, "You
already know I am a hobo, I don't possess anything."...
I could not go to my father's funeral, but I had asked his permission
beforehand, a long time before, at my Nani's funeral. My Nani
was not a sannyasin, but she was a sannyasin in other ways, in
every other way except that I had not given her a name. She died
in orange. Although I had not asked her to wear orange, but on
the day she became enlightened she stopped wearing her white dress.
In India a widow has to wear white. And why only a widow? So that
she does not look beautiful - a natural logic. And she has
to shave her head! Look...what to call these bastards! Just
to make a woman ugly they cut off her hair and don't allow her
to use any other color than white. They take all the colorfulness
from her life. She cannot attend any celebration, not even the
marriage of her own son or daughter! Celebration as such is prohibited
for her.
The day my Nani became enlightened, I remember - I have noted
it down, it will be somewhere - it was the sixteenth of January,
1967. I say without hesitation that she was my first sannyasin;
and not only that, she was my first enlightened sannyasin. glimps16
I never saw a more beautiful woman than my Nani. I myself was
in love with her, and loved her throughout her whole life. When
she died at the age of eighty, I rushed home and found her lying
there, dead. They were all just waiting for me because she had
told them that they should not put her body on the funeral pyre
until I arrived. She had insisted that I set light to her funeral
pyre, so they were waiting for me. I went in, uncovered her face...and
she was still beautiful! In fact, more beautiful than ever, because
all was quiet; even the turmoil of her breathing, the turmoil
of living was not there. She was just a presence.
To put the fire to her body was the most difficult task I have
ever done in my life. It was as if I was putting fire to one of
the most beautiful paintings of Leonardo or Vincent van Gogh.
Of course to me she was more valuable than the Mona Lisa, more
beautiful to me than Cleopatra. It is not an exaggeration.
All that is beautiful in my vision somehow comes through her.
She helped me in every way to be the way I am. glimps06
Even in her death she was beautiful. I could not believe that
she was dead. And suddenly all the statues of Khajuraho became
alive to me. In her dead body I saw the whole philosophy of Khajuraho.
The first thing I did after seeing her was to again go to Khajuraho.
It was the only way to pay homage to her. Now Khajuraho was even
more beautiful than before because I could see her everywhere,
in each statue....
Khajuraho - the very name rings bells of joy in me, as if
it had descended from heaven to earth. On a full-moon night, to
see Khajuraho is to have seen all that is worth seeing. My grandmother
was born there; no wonder she was a beautiful woman, courageous
and dangerous too. Beauty is always so, courageous and dangerous.
She dared. My mother does not resemble her, and I am sorry about
that. You cannot find any proof of my grandmother in my mother.
Nani was such a courageous woman, and she helped me to dare everything - I
mean everything. Glimps04
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