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Part VIII : Osho talks about his personal daily life
Throughout these series, for the first time, Osho gives insights
into his personal daily life.
I can even talk in my sleep, so it is no trouble to talk like
this.
Gudia knows I talk in my sleep but she does not know to whom.
Only I know that. Poor Gudia! I am talking to her and she thinks
and worries about why I am talking, and to whom. Alas that she
is not aware that I am talking to her just like this. Sleep is
a natural anesthetic. Life is so hard that one has to go under
every night for a few hours at least. And she wonders whether
I really sleep or not. I can understand her wondering.
For more than a quarter of a century I have not slept. Devaraj,
don't be worried. Ordinary sleep…. I sleep more than anybody
else in the whole world: three hours during the day, and seven,
eight, nine hours at night—as much as anybody can afford.
In all, in toto, I sleep twelve hours per day, but underneath
I am awake. I see myself while asleep, and sometimes it is so
lonely during the night that I start talking to Gudia. But her
difficulties are many. First, when I talk in my sleep I talk in
Hindi. I cannot talk in English while asleep. I never will, although
I could if I wanted to. Sometimes I have tried and succeeded,
but the joy was missing….
In my sleep when I speak to Gudia, I again speak in Hindi because
I know her unconscious is still not English. She was only in England
for a few years. Before that she was in India, and now she is
again in India. I have been trying to efface all that lies between
these two. Of this later, when the time comes…. glimps07
In fact, for almost thirty years I have not dreamed at all. I
cannot.
I can manage a sort of rehearsal. The word will seem strange—a
'rehearsal' dream—but the actual drama never happens, cannot
happen; it needs unconsciousness, and that ingredient is missing.
You can make me unconscious, but still you will not make me dream.
And to make me unconscious needs not much technology; just a hit
over my head and I will be unconscious. But that is not the unconsciousness
I am talking about.
You are unconscious when you go on doing things without knowing
why—during the day, during the night—the awareness
is missing. Once awareness happens, dreaming disappears. Both
cannot exist together. There is no coexistence possible between
these two things, and nobody can make it. Either you dream, then
you are unconscious; or you are awake, aware, pretending to dream—but
that is not a dream. You know and everybody else knows too. glimps43
I have received so many watches, but I have forgotten them. One
of those watches is behaving strangely. When I need it, it stops.
All the time it runs perfectly; it stops only at night between
three and five. Is that not strange behavior?—because that
is the only time when I sometimes wake up, just an old habit.
In my younger days I used to wake up at three in the morning.
I did it for so many years that even if I don't get up, I have
to turn in my bed and then go back to sleep. That is the time
when I need to see whether I should really get up, or I can still
have a little more sleep; and strangely, that is when the watch
stops.
Today it stopped exactly at four. I looked at it and went back
to sleep; four is too early. After sleeping for almost one hour,
I again looked at the watch: it was still four. I said to myself,
"Great, so tonight is never going to end." I went to
sleep again, not thinking—you know me, I am not a thinker—not
thinking that the watch may have stopped. I thought, "This
night seems to be the last. I can sleep forever. Great! Just far
out!" And I felt so good that it was never going to end that
I fell asleep again. After two hours I again looked at the watch,
and it was still four! I said, "Great! Not only is the night
long, but even time has stopped too!" glimps25
I became aware of one thing this morning—not that I was
not aware of it before, but I was not aware that it needed to
be told. But now it needs to be told.
On the 21st of March 1953, a strange thing happened. Many strange
things happened, but I am only talking about one thing. The others
will come in their own time. It is, in fact, a little early in
my story to tell you, but I was reminded this morning of this
peculiar thing. After that night I lost all sense of time. Howsoever
hard I may try, I cannot—as everybody else can at least
approximately—remember what time it is.
Not only that, in the morning, every morning I mean, I have
to look out of the window to see whether it was my afternoon sleep
or the night sleep, because I sleep twice each day. And every
afternoon too, when I wake up, the first thing I do is to look
at my clock. Once in a while the clock plays a joke on me; it
stops working. It is showing only six, so it must have stopped
in the morning. That's why I have two watches and a clock, just
to keep checking to see whether any of them is playing a joke.
And one of the other clocks is more dangerous, better not to
mention it. I want to give it to somebody as a present, but I
have not found the right man to whom I would like to give this
clock, because it is going to be a real punishment, not a present.
It is electronic, so whenever the electricity goes off, even for
a single moment, the clock goes back to twelve and flashes it:
12…12…12…simply to show that the electricity
has gone off.
Sometimes I want to throw it out, but somebody has presented
it to me, and I don't throw things away easily. It is disrespectful.
So I am waiting for the right person.
I have got not only one, but two such clocks, one in each room.
Sometimes they have deceived me when I go for my afternoon sleep.
I usually go at eleven-thirty exactly, or at the most twelve,
but very rarely. Once or twice I have looked out from a peep hole
in my blanket, and the clock is showing twelve, and I say to myself,
"That means I have just come to bed." And I go to sleep
again.
After one or two hours I again look. "Twelve," I say
to myself. "Strange…today time seems to have finally
stopped. Better to go to sleep rather than to find everybody else
asleep." So I go to sleep again.
I have now instructed Gudia that if I am not awake by two-fifteen,
she should wake me up.
She asked, "Why?"
I said, "Because if nobody wakes me I may go on sleeping
forever."
Every morning I have to decide whether it is morning or evening,
because I don't know—I don't have that sense. It was lost
on that date I told you.
This morning when I asked you, "What is the time?" you
said, "Ten-thirty." I thought, "Jesus! This is
too much. My poor secretary must have been waiting one and a half
hours already, and I have not even begun my story." So I
said, just to finish it, "Give me ten minutes." The
real reason was that I was thinking it was night.
And Devaraj also knows; now he can understand it exactly. One
morning when he accompanied me to my bathroom, I asked him, "Is
my secretary waiting?" He looked puzzled. I had to close
the door just so that he could be himself again. If I went on
standing there in the doorway, waiting—and you know Devaraj:
nobody can be so loving to me. He could not say to me that it
was not nighttime. If I was asking for my secretary, then there
must be some reason; and of course she was not there and it was
not the time for her to come, so what should he say?
He didn't say anything. He simply kept silent. I laughed. The
question must have embarrassed him, but I am telling you the truth,
just because time is always a problem for me. Somehow I go on
managing, by using strange devices. Just look at this device:
has any buddha spoken like this? glimps40
Do you know that every morning I wake up and hurry to my bathroom
to take a bath and get ready because I know everybody must be
waiting? Today I did not have my breakfast simply because I knew
it would delay you all. I had slept a little longer than usual.
Every evening I know you all must be getting ready, taking your
shower, and the moment I see the light in your small room, I know
the devils have arrived and now I must hurry.
And the whole day you are busy. Your time is packed the whole
day. You could say that I am a completely retired man—not
tired, retired and not retired by anybody else. That is my way
of life—to live relaxedly, not doing anything from morning
to evening, from evening to morning. Keeping everybody else busy
without business, that is my whole work. I don't think there is
anybody in the world—or has ever been before, or will ever
be after—who is so without business of any kind, like me.
And yet, just to keep me breathing I need thousands of sannyasins
to be continuously working. Can you think of a greater joke? glimps22
You know the Indian dust: it is omnipresent, everywhere, particularly
in a village. Everything is dusty. Even people's faces look dusty.
What can they do? How many times can they wash? Even here, although
in an air-conditioned room where there is no dust, just out of
old habit, whenever I go to the bathroom—just to tell you
a secret, don't tell anybody—I wash my face for no reason
at all, many times each day…just an old Indian habit.
It was so dusty that I used to run to the bathroom again and again.
glimps31
I have become so accustomed to being what I am that even in small
things it is difficult for me to change. Gudia knows; she tries
to teach me in every possible way not to splash water all over
the bathroom. But can you teach me anything? I cannot stop. Not
that I want to torture the girls, or that they have to be tortured
twice every day—because I take two baths, so naturally they
have to clean twice.
Of course Gudia thinks I can take a bath in such a way that they
don't have to remove water from everywhere. But finally she dropped
the idea of teaching me. It is impossible for me to change. When
I take my shower I enjoy it so much that I forget and splash the
water all over. And without splashing it I would have to remain
controlled even in my bathroom.
Now look at Gudia: she is enjoying the idea because she knows
exactly what I am saying. When I take a shower I really take a
shower, and I splash not only the floor, but even the walls, and
if you have to clean, then of course it is a problem for you.
But if you clean with love, as my cleaners do, then it is better
than psychoanalysis, and far better than transcendental meditation.
I cannot change anything now. glimps42
For the past few months now I have not read any book. I have
stopped reading for the simple reason that what is beautiful has
already been understood. Now it is pointless to read. I don't
even read the Vedas, the Bible, the Koran. There is nothing that
can be added to my experience, so I have stopped. Why waste your
vision, your eyesight? It is not worth it.
When my doctors started saying that if I still wanted to study
I would have to use spectacles, I said, "To hell with all
books, because I hate spectacles." I hate all kinds of specs
because they obstruct, they come in between. I want things face
to face, directly, immediate. So I have stopped reading books.
And the library is so rich, and so big, containing all that is
great. But it no longer matters to me, I have gone beyond the
words. notes02
You must be aware that every day I listen to a song of Noorjahan,
the famous Urdu singer. Every day before I come in I listen to
her again and again. It could even drive you crazy. What do you
know of drilling? I know what drilling means. I drill that song
into Gudia every day. She has to hear it, there is no way to avoid
it. After my work is over I again play the same song. I love my
own language…not that it is my language, but it is so beautiful
that even if it were not mine I would have learned it.
The song that she hears every day, and will have to hear again
and again, says: "Whether you remember or not, once there
was a trust between us. Once you used to tell me, 'You are the
most beautiful woman in the world.' Now I don't know whether you
would recognize me or not. Perhaps you do not remember, but I
still remember. I cannot forget the trust, and the words that
you uttered to me. You used to say that your love was impeccable.
Do you still remember? Perhaps not, but I remember—not in
its totality, of course. Time has done much harm.
"I am a dilapidated palace, but if you look, look minutely:
I am still the same. I still remember the trust and your words.
That trust that once existed between us, is it still in your memory
or not? I don't know about you but I still remember."
Why do I go on playing the song of Noorjahan? It is a kind of
drilling. Not drilling of your teeth, although if you continue
drilling long enough it will get to your teeth too, but drilling
into her the beauty of a language. I know it will be difficult
for her to understand or appreciate it. glimps07
The moment before I came in I was listening to one of the greatest
flutists, Hariprasad. It stirred many memories in me.
There are many types of flute in the world. The most important
is the Arabic; the most beautiful, the Japanese; and there are
many others. But there is nothing comparable to the small Indian
bamboo flute for its sweetness. And Hariprasad is certainly a
master as far as the flute is concerned. He played before me,
not just once but many times. glimps27
I was just listening again, not to Hariprasad Chaurasia, but
another flutist. In India the flute has two dimensions: one, the
southern; the other, the northern. Hariprasad Chaurasia was a
northern flutist; I was listening to the polar opposite, the southern.
This man too was introduced to me by the same man, Pagal Baba.
When he introduced me he said to the musician, "You may not
understand why I'm introducing you to this boy; at least right
now you will not understand, but perhaps one day, God willing,
you may."
This man plays the same flute but in a totally different way.
The southern flute is far more penetrating, piercing to be exact.
It enters and stirs something in your very marrow. The northern
flute is tremendously beautiful but a little flat—just as
northern India is flat. glimps28
The whole night the wind went on blowing in the trees. The sound
was so beautiful that I played Pannalal Ghosh, one of the flutists
that Pagal Baba had introduced to me. Just now too I was playing
his music, but he has a way of his own. His introduction is very
long, so before Gudia called me it was still only the introduction;
I mean he had not started playing his flute yet. The sitar and
tabla were preparing the ground for him to play his flute. Last
night I listened to his music again after perhaps two years. glimps29
One day while sitting in my room, Sheela just laughingly offered
me a bottle of champagne, thinking that I would refuse, not knowing
me at all. I accepted it with a "thank you." She looked
puzzled. Vivek laughed, everybody laughed when I poured the champagne
into my glass and drank it. Vivek took pictures. They have been
hiding those pictures, but I will persuade them to give the pictures
to you because they are the tenth picture*. I want to add the
tenth picture to a man himself, not to any story, not to any pack
of cards.
In the East only the woman serves the wine. Ashu, don't be afraid.
Except fear, nothing has been the enemy of women. They were subjugated
because of their fear. They were so ready, so willing to be subjugated,
to be slaves, and for centuries. Don't be afraid. At least with
me be fearless, because I teach nothing but fearlessness.
I want to bring back the ordinary man, with all his extraordinariness.
Naturally, first I have to be that ordinary man myself—and
I am an ordinary man, extraordinarily ordinary…with a champagne
bottle in the marketplace, rejoicing. That's what champagne represents.
Life is nothing but wine, and at such heights I know that I am
a drunkard. I know the ultimate heights of Being and nothing can
be higher than that, that much I know. notes02
*Note: of the Ten Zen Bulls allegory
My people in the commune made a small placard for cars. It said,
"Jesus saves, Moses invests, Osho spends." I like that.
What is the point of saving? Jesus seems to be like a banker.
And of course, Moses invests. For Moses, everything is business.
And for me, certainly, everything is going to be taken away. Before
it is taken away, use it, spend it, enjoy it. Why wait for death
to snatch it away? Certainly it is absolutely right. A one-hour
religion, or even a Mohammedan who prays five times a day, is
not going to help. bodhi09
My secretary collects all kinds of crazy car-stickers. One was:
"Warning—I brake for hallucinations." I liked
it. Really great! glimps50
I have never thanked Vivek for the simple things. Her service
to me is just beyond words. It is useless to thank her, it cannot
be deep enough, be true. The last few months have been very difficult,
very difficult to stay in the body. Over the years she has served
me so beautifully, being with me like a shadow, doing a thousand
and one things. Before I can say it, she knows my need. I have
not thanked her. How can I thank her? There is no way. The English
word "thank you" is so far away, nor can I use it for
all of you who are taking care of my body, which is not just my
body but my promise to thousands of people in the world. notes01
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. glimps35
I have never learned even the art of making a single cup of tea.
One day Gudia went for a holiday and Chetana was doing her duty
here, serving me. In the morning, when I wake up, I push the button
for my tea. Chetana brought it, and put the cup by the side of
my bed, then went to the bathroom to prepare my towel and toothbrush,
and everything that I need. Meanwhile, for the first time in ten
years, do you know—one has to learn small things—I
tried to pick the cup up from the floor, and it fell down!
Chetana came running, naturally, afraid. I said, "Don't be
worried—it was my responsibility. I should not have done
such a thing. I have never needed to pick up my cup from the floor.
Gudia has been spoiling me for ten years. Now you cannot unspoil
me in just one day."
I had so many years of spoiling. Yes, I call it spoiling because
they never allowed me to do anything for myself. glimps19
Gudia is special in that way; she always tells me, "Wait.
The tea is too hot." Perhaps it is my old habit. I again
start taking the cup and so she says, "Wait! It's too hot."
I know she is right, so I wait until she does not object, then
I drink the tea. Perhaps the old habit of just drinking tea and
rushing to the river is still there. glimps27
Gudia goes through tantrums once in a while but even then she
has not harmed me. She cannot, it is impossible for her. Once
in a while anybody can have a tantrum, particularly a woman; and
more so if she has to live twenty-four hours a day, or maybe more,
with a man like me, who is not nice at all; who is always hard,
and always trying to push you to the very edge, and who does not
allow you to come back. He goes on and on pushing and telling
you to "Jump before you think!" glimps10
Poor Chetana, I have told her that my clothes have to be snow-white.
She is my washerwoman. She does whatsoever she can, whatsoever
is possible. books13
The other day I asked Chetana, "Chetana, how is my face
looking?"
She said, "What?"
I said, "I am asking because I have not eaten anything but
fruit for months, except for a few days of Devaraj's concoction.
I don't know what it consists of; all that I know is it needs
immense will-power to eat it. You have to chew it for half an
hour, but it is very good. By the time I am finished I am so tired,
utterly tired, almost asleep. That's why I am asking."
She said, "Osho, you are asking me, can I tell you the truth?"
I said, "Only the truth."
She said, "When I look at you I can't see anything except
your eyes, so please don't ask me. I don't know how you looked
before, or how you look now. All I know is your eyes." glimps32
I have been working the whole night because of a small remark
I made which may have been hurtful to Devaraj. He may not have
noticed it, but it has been sitting heavy on me all night. I could
not sleep. I had said, "No buddha has ever had a personal
dentist, but Gautam the Buddha had a personal physician."
That was not quite right so I consulted the records, the Akashic
records.
I will have to say a few more things, which nobody cares about,
particularly the foolish historians. I was not consulting history.
I had to go in what H.G. Wells called The Time Machine, back into
time. It is the hardest work, and you know I am a lazy man. I
am still huffing and puffing….
Devaraj, you may not have thought about it, but I felt sad that
I had been a little cruel. I should not have said that. You are
as unique as one can be. As far as having been a physician to
a buddha is concerned, nobody can be compared to you, either in
the past or in the future…because there is never going to
be a man so simple, so insane that he calls himself Zorba the
Buddha.
That reminds me of the story I was telling you. A great burden
has been lifted from my heart. You can even see it in my breathing.
I am really relieved. It was just a simple remark, but I am so
sensitive, perhaps more than a buddha is supposed to be. But what
can I do? I cannot be a buddha according to anybody else; I can
only be myself. I am relieved of a great burden that you may not
have felt at all, or perhaps deep down you were aware of it and
you giggled just to hide it. You cannot hide anything from me.
But strangely, awareness becomes even more clear and unclouded
by anything that helps the body to disappear. I am holding on
to this chair just to remind myself that the body is still there.
Not that I want it to be there, but just so that you all won't
freak out. There is not enough room in here for four people to
freak out. Yes, if you freak in, there is enough room anywhere.
glimps12
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. glimps36
Strangely, whenever Arpita comes into my room I smell Boehme,
I suddenly remember Boehme. Maybe it's just an association, because
he was a shoemaker and Arpita is my shoemaker. But Arpita, you
are blessed that you remind me of Boehme, one of the most beautiful
Germans ever. Again, he was utterly poor. It seems one has to
be poor to be wise; that has been the case up to now. But not
after me. After me you have to be rich to be enlightened. Let
me repeat it: you have to be rich to be enlightened….
Boehme says a few things, just a few. He could not say many
things, so don't be afraid. The one thing I would like to mention
is: The heart is the temple of God. Yes, Boehme, it is the heart
not the head. books09
Vasant Joshi (Swami Satya Vedant) 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. glimps34
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