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

Chapter # 17
Chapter # 18
Chapter # 19
Chapter # 20

Chapter #17

Okay.
The first words that Ajit Saraswati uttered to me last night were, "Osho, I never expected that I would ever make it." Of course those who were present thought he was talking about coming to live in the ashram. And that too is in a way true, relevant, because I remember the first day he came to see me twenty years ago. He had had to ask permission from his wife just to see me for a few minutes. So those who were present must have understood, naturally, that he had never expected to move in, leaving his wife and children and a very good business. Renouncing all, just to be here with me... in a true sense of renunciation. But that was not what he meant, and I understood.
I said to him, "Ajit, I am also surprised. Not that I never expected it; I had always expected it, hoped and longed for this moment, and I am happy that you have come."
Again, the others must have thought I was talking about his coming here to live. I was talking about something else, but he understood. I could see it in his eyes, which have been becoming more and more childlike. I saw that he had understood what coming to a Master really means. It means coming to one's self. It cannot mean anything else other than self-realization. His smile was absolutely new.
I had been worried about him: he was becoming more serious every day. I was really concerned, because to me seriousness has always been a dirty word, a disease, something far more cancerous than cancer can ever be, and certainly far more infectious than any disease. But I breathed a great sigh of unburdening; a load disappeared from my heart.
He is one of those few people that if I had to die without them becoming enlightened, then I would have had to turn the wheel again, I would have had to be born again. Although it is impossible to turn the wheel... and I know nothing of the mechanics of turning a wheel, particularly the wheel of time. I am not a mechanic, I am not a technician, so it would have been very difficult for me to turn the wheel again... and it has not moved since I was twenty-one.
Twenty-eight years ago the wheel stopped, now everything must be rusted. Even if you poured oil on to it, it would not help. Even my sannyasins could do nothing about it -- it is not the wheel of a Rolls Royce. It is the wheel of karma, of action, and the consciousness implied in every action. I am finished with it. But for a man like Ajit, I would have tried to come back again whatever the cost.
I am determined that I will leave this body only when at least one thousand and one of my disciples are enlightened, not before that. Raj Bharti, remember it! It is not going to be difficult -- the basic work has been done -- it is just a question of a little patience.
Gudia just said as I was coming in, on hearing that Ajit had become enlightened, "It is strange, enlightenment is popping up everywhere." It has to pop up everywhere, that's my work. And those one thousand and one people are almost ready to pop at any moment. Just a little breeze and the flower opens... or the first ray of the sun and the bud opens her heart to it -- just anything. Now, what was it that helped Ajit?
In these twenty years that I have known him, I have always been loving towards him. I have never hit him -- there has never been a need. Even before I said anything to him, he received it already. Before saying, he heard it. In these twenty years he has been following me as closely as it is possible. He is my Mahakashyapa.
What caused the thing last night? It was just because he had been thinking of me every moment. The moment he saw me, all that thinking disappeared -- and that was the only thinking that had been surrounding him, like a cloud. And I don't think that he understood the exact meaning of his words! It takes time. And the words come so suddenly. He just said, as if in spite of himself, "I had never expected, Osho, that I would be able to make it."
I said, "Don't be worried. I was always certain it was going to happen sooner or later, but it was going to happen."
He looked a little puzzled. He was talking about coming and I was talking about happening. Then, just as if a window opened and you see -- just like that -- a window opened and he saw. He touched my feet with tears in his eyes and a smile on his face. To see tears and smiles mixing and merging is beautiful. It is an experience in itself.
Because of Ajit Saraswati I could not complete the story that I had begun. He had been, somehow, just around the corner for so long that I had become accustomed to him. You remember that day when I was talking of Ajit Mukherjee, the famous Tantra writer, the author of TANTRA ART and TANTRA PAINTINGS? I said -- and you can check your notes... when I said "Ajit" I could not say "Mukherjee"... to me "Ajit" has always meant "Ajit Saraswati." So when I talked about Ajit Mukherjee, first I said "Ajit Sarasw..." then I corrected myself. I had started to say "Saraswati" and got as far as "Sarasw..." then said, "Mukherjee."
He has been, without interfering in any way, present, just around the corner, waiting, only waiting. Such trust is rare, although with me there are thousands of sannyasins with the same kind of reverence. Knowing it or not, that does not matter; what matters is the presence of reverence.
Ajit Saraswati has a Hindu background, so naturally it is easier for him to have that kind of reverence, trust. But he was educated in the West, perhaps that is why he could come close to me. A Hindu background and a western scientific mind. having these two things together is a rare phenomenon, and he is a unique man.
And, Gudia, more are to follow. Yes, they are going to pop! Here, there, and everywhere. They have to pop quickly because I don't have much time. But the sound of a man popping into existence is not the sound of pop music, it is not even classical music; it is pure music, not capable of being classified... not even to be heard but only to be felt.
Now, do you see the nonsense? I am talking of a music that has to be felt and not heard. Yes, that's what I am talking about; that's what enlightenment is. All becomes silent, as if Basho's frog had never jumped into the ancient pond... never, never... as if the pond has remained without any ripples, forever reflecting the sky, undisturbed.
This haiku of Basho is beautiful. I repeat it so many times because it is always so new, and always pregnant with a new meaning. It is for the first time that I am saying that the frog has not jumped, and there is no plop. The ancient pond is neither ancient nor new; it knows nothing of time. There are no ripples on its surface. In it you can see all the stars more glorified, more magnificent, than they are in the sky above. The depth of the pond contributes immensely to their richness. They become more of the same stuff dreams are made of.
When one pops into enlightenment, then one knows the frog had not jumped... the ancient pond was not ancient. Then one knows what is.
This is all by the way. But before I again forget... the poor story that I started yesterday. You may not have thought that I would remember it, but I can forget anything except a beautiful story. Even when I am dead, if you want me to speak, ask me something about a story, perhaps just a fable by Aesop, PANCHTANTRA, JATAKA TALES, or just the parables of Jesus.
I was saying yesterday... it all began with the metaphor "dog's death." I said that the poor dog had nothing to do with it. But there is a story behind that metaphor, and because millions of people are going to die a dog's death, it is worth understanding. Perhaps you have already heard the story. I think every child has heard it; it is so simple.
God created the world: man, woman, animals, trees, birds, mountains -- everything. Perhaps He was a communist. Now, this is not good; at least God should not be a communist. It would not look good to be called "Comrade God": "Comrade God, how are you?" It just doesn't sound good. But the story says He gave everybody twenty years of life. Everybody was given the same. As could be expected, man immediately stood up and said, "Only twenty years? It is not enough."
That shows something about man: nothing is enough. It is never enough. Woman did not stand up. That also shows something about women. She is satisfied with small things. Her desires are very human; she is not asking for the stars. In fact she giggles at man for all his efforts to reach Everest, or the moon or Mars. She cannot understand what all this nonsense is about. Why don't we just go and see what is on television right now? As far as I know, watching television....
Ashu is looking downwards. Don't be ashamed. I am not saying anything against women watching television. I am talking about myself. I think that women only watch television for the advertisements, not for anything else; a new soap, or shampoo, or new car... the new, anything new.
In advertising everything is always new. It is really the old stuff packaged again and again. Yes, the package is new, the label is new, the name is new. But a woman is interested in a new washing machine, refrigerator or bicycle. A woman's interest is immediate.
In this story she did not stand up and say to God, "What! Only twenty years?" In fact when man stood up, the woman must have been pulling him down saying, "Sit down, man. Why are you grumbling, always grumbling? You grumpy old fellow, sit down."
But man stuck to his ground and said, "I resist in every possible way this imposition of just twenty years. More is needed."
God was at a loss. Being a communist God, what could He do? He had distributed the years equally. But the animals were more understanding than this communist fellow.
The elephant laughed and said, "Don't be worried. You can take ten years from my life, because twenty years is too long. What am I going to do with twenty years? -- ten years will do." So man got ten years of the elephant's life. These are the years between twenty and thirty when a man behaves like an elephant. These are the years when hippies and yippies and other similar tribes are born. Everywhere in the world they should be called "the elephants"... thinking too much of themselves.
Then the lion stood up and said, "Please accept ten years from my life. For me ten years are more than enough." Between thirty and forty man roars like a lion, as if he were Alexander the Great. Even Alexander was not a real lion, so what about the others? Between thirty and forty, every man in his own way behaves like a lion.
Then the tiger stood up saying, "When everybody is contributing to poor man, then my contribution is also ten years from my life." Between forty and fifty man behaves like a tiger -- much reduced in comparison to the lion, very much shaved, no more than a big cat, but the old habit of bragging continues.
Then up stood the horse and contributed ten years also. Between fifty and sixty a man carries all kinds of loads. He is just a horse. Not an ordinary horse either, a very extra-ordinary horse, loaded with a mountain of worries, but somehow his will is such that he pulls through, and goes on and on.
At sixty the dog contributed his ten years, and that is why it is called "a dog's death." This story is one of the most beautiful parables. Between sixty and seventy man lives like a dog, barking at everything that moves. He just finds every excuse to bark.
The story does not go beyond seventy because it was originally told before man could expect to live more than seventy years. Seventy is the conventional age. If you are a conventional man then consult a calendar and die at exactly seventy. Any more than that is a little modern. Living till eighty, ninety, or even a hundred, that is ultra-modern, that is rebellious. That is going astray.
Do you know that in America there are people frozen in tanks because they were suffering from incurable diseases. Incurable at least today -- perhaps in twenty years' time we may have found the cure. So even though they could have lived a few more years with the disease, they decided to be frozen -- at their own expense, remember.
In America it is always at your own expense. Even though they are frozen, almost dead, they are paying. They had to pay beforehand, in advance, for the coming twenty years, so that their bodies can be kept continuously frozen. It is, of course, an expensive affair. Only the very rich can afford it. I think the upkeep for a frozen body costs almost one thousand dollars per day. They are hoping, or rather they had hoped, that when a cure is found they could be unfrozen and brought back to life again, cured.
They are waiting -- poor, rich fellows; there are at least a few hundred people all over America, waiting. This gives "waiting" a new meaning. This is a new kind of waiting; not breathing, and yet waiting. This is really waiting for Godot, and paying too.
The story is old, hence the proverbial seventy years. "The dog's death" simply means the death of a man who has lived like a dog. Again, don't be offended if you are a dog lover. It has nothing to do with dogs. Dogs are nice people. But "to live like a dog" means to live just for barking, enjoying the bark, shouting at each and every opportunity. Living like a dog simply means not living a human life but something subhuman, something less than human. And one who lives like a dog is bound to die like a dog.

Obviously you cannot have a death that you have not earned. I repeat: you cannot have a death that you have not earned, for which you have not been working your whole life. Death is either a punishment or a reward; it all depends on you. If you live superficially, then your death will be just a dog's death. Dogs are heady people, very intellectual. If you live intensely, intuitively, from the heart, intelligently, not intellectually; if you allow your whole being to be involved in everything you do, then you can die a god's death.
Let me coin another phrase, opposite to a "dog's death": "a god's death." As you can see, "dog" and "god" are made of the same letters, just written differently. The same stuff put backwards becomes "dog"; put rightly, becomes "god." The substance of existence, your being, is the same; whether you stand on your head or your feet it does not matter. In one way it matters; if you stand on your head you will suffer. And if you start walking on your head, then you can visualize yourself to be in the seventh hell. But you can jump up and stand on your feet -- there is nobody preventing you!
This has been my whole teaching: Jump up! Don't do a headstand. Stand on your feet, be natural! Then you will be living like a god. And, of course, a god dies like a god. He lives like a god, and dies like a god. And by god, I mean simply a master of one's self.

Chapter #18

Sigmund Freud was interviewing one of his patients. He asked the man lying on the couch, "Look through the window -- can you see the flagpole on the office building across the street?"
The old man said, "Of course. Do you think I am blind? I may be old but I can see the pole, the flag and everything. What kind of question is this? Am I paying you to ask such stupid questions?"
Freud said, "Just wait, this is how psychoanalysis works. Tell me what the pole reminds you of."
The old man started giggling. Freud was immensely happy. Very shyly the old man said, "It reminds me of sex."
Freud wanted everybody to approve his new theory, and this was a confirmation. He said, "I understand. The pole is nothing but a phallic symbol. You need not be worried, it is absolutely true."
The old man was still giggling, and then Freud asked him, "What does this couch remind you of?"
The old man started laughing and said, "This is some psychoanalysis! I have come for this? Have I paid you in advance for this?" Remember, Freud used to take his fee in advance, because when you are dealing with all kinds of crazy people you cannot depend on them to pay you later on. It has to be taken before the treatment begins.
In fact nobody in the whole world, including Sigmund Freud himself, is ever totally psychoanalyzed, for the simple reason that it cannot be done. You can just go on and on and on ad nauseam. Why? -- because it is nothing but thoughts, insubstantial. One thought leads to another, and so on and so forth; there is no end to it. Not a single psychoanalyst has existed ever who can claim to be totally psychoanalyzed. Something always remains, and that something is far bigger than the small fragment that you have been playing with in the name of psychoanalysis.
The old man was getting a little angry too. Freud said, "Just this last question, so don't get angry. Of course the couch reminds you of sex; it reminds everybody of sex, so there is no problem in it -- don't feel angry. Just this last question: what do you think of when you see a camel?"
Now the old man was really in an uproar, laughing so loudly that he had to hold his stomach with his hands. He said, "My God! I had never thought psychoanalysis had anything to do with camels. But by a strange coincidence I went to the zoo just the other day, and for the first time in my life saw a camel, and here is this old guy asking me what a camel reminds me of. The camel reminds me of sex of course, you sonofabitch."
Now it was Freud's turn to be taken aback. Camel? -- he could not figure out how a camel could remind anyone of sex... a camel? Even he, Sigmund Freud, had never thought that about a camel. It was just a question. He had been hoping the man would say, "It reminds me of nothing in particular. It is simply a camel. Should it remind me of anything?"
Freud said, "You have shattered my whole joy. I was thinking that you were confirming my beloved theory, but I cannot figure out how a camel can remind you of sex."
The man laughed even more loudly, and said, "You fool! Don't you understand anything? Don't worry about that stupid camel. Everything reminds me of sex, even you! So what can I do? That is my problem. That's why I came here. It is my obsession."
I told you this story to explain what I mean by the word "obsession." And the whole world can be divided into two categories: people who are obsessed with sex, and the people who are obsessed with death. That is the real demarcation line between East and West. It is not a geographical division, but far more important than geography.
I told you that the English language goes on taking words from other languages. "Geography" is a word, like many others, borrowed from Arabic. In Arabic it is beautiful, it is jugrafia, not "geography." But whether it is geography or jugrafia, it cannot be the dividing line. Something psychological has to be understood.
The East is obsessed with death; the West with sex. A materialist is bound to be obsessed with sex, and the spiritualist obsessed with death; and both are obsessions. And to live a life with any obsession, western or eastern, is to live almost without living... it is to miss the whole opportunity. The East and West are two sides of the same coin, and so are death and sex. Sex is the energy, the beginning of life; and death is the culmination of life.
It is no coincidence that millions of people never know what real orgasm is. It is for the simple reason that unless you are ready to go into a sort of death, you cannot know what orgasm is. And nobody wants to die, everybody wants to live, to renew life again and again.
In the East science could not gain any foothold, because when people are trying to stop the wheel, who is ready to study science? Or ready to listen? Who bothers? For what? The wheel has to be stopped. Yet that can be done by any fool, just by putting a rock in its path. You don't need much technology to stop a wheel, but to move it, you need science.
The most constant inquiry in science is to find the cause of the very movement of existence, or in other words to find some mechanism that moves perpetually on its own, without needing any fuel, without any gas -- a perpetual, constant movement unsupported by any energy. Because every energy source sooner or later runs dry, and then the wheel will stop. Science is in search of a way to keep the wheel moving forever, to find a movement that is independent of any source of energy.
In the East science could never get started; the car never started. Nobody was interested in getting it started either; they were too worried about how to stop it, because it was rolling downhill. In the East a totally different thing happened, that certainly had not ever happened in the West -- Tantra! The East could explore the deepest core of sexual energy without any inhibition, without any fear. It was not at all worried about sex. In fact I don't think that the story I told you was true.
My own feeling is that Sigmund Freud must have been in his bathroom facing the mirror, talking to himself. That old man on the couch is no one but Sigmund Freud himself. If you look into his book you will be convinced of what I am saying. Freud's whole concern was sex; everything had to be reduced to sex. He was the most sex-obsessed person in the whole history of man, and unfortunately he dominated the so-called psychology, psychoanalysis, and many other kind of therapies. He has become a father-figure.
Strange, that a man like Sigmund Freud, who suffered all kinds of fears and phobias, could become the key figure for this whole century. He was so afraid -- naturally. Remember, if you are obsessed with anything, whether sex or death -- those are the two main categories.... There are thousands of things in the world, but they will fall into these categories. If you are obsessed with either of these two, you are utterly ignorant, and you will remain afraid -- in fact, afraid of light, because in your darkness you have created your own imaginary world of theories, dogmas and all that. You will be afraid of light, of a man bringing a lamp... a man like Diogenes, entering naked with a lamp even in the full sunlight of day.
I sometimes think it would have been good, good for Sigmund Freud, if Diogenes had entered his so-called psychoanalyst's office, with his lamp still burning bright; of course naked, because he was always naked. The meeting would have produced something of immense value. People like Sigmund Freud are afraid of light; that's why Diogenes used to carry his lamp. Whenever anybody would ask why he carried the lamp in daylight, he would answer, "I am searching for a man, and I have not found him yet."
Just a moment before he died somebody asked him, "Diogenes, before you leave the body, please tell us: Have you found the man yet?"
Diogenes laughed and said, "I am sorry to say that I could not find him. But I must say one thing: I still have my lamp with me. Nobody has stolen it, and that is great."
Sigmund Freud was obsessed, but continues to represent the whole western attitude. That is why Carl Gustav Jung could not stay with him for long. The reason is simple; Jung's obsession was not sex but death. He needed a master in the East not the West. Yet such is the complexity of things that he was very proud of the West, so much so that when he visited India somebody suggested he should go and see Maharshi Raman, who was still alive, but Jung did not go.
It was only one hour's flight away... and he went everywhere else. He was in India for months, but he had no time to go and see Maharshi Raman. Again, the reason is simple: it needs guts to face a man like Raman. He is a mirror. He will show you your real face. He will take away all your masks.
I really hate this man Jung. I may condemn Sigmund Freud, but I don't hate him. He may have been wrong but he was a genius. He was a genius, even though he was doing something which I cannot support because I know it is not right. But this man Jung was just a pygmy; compared to Freud he stands nowhere. Moreover he was also a Judas; he betrayed his master.
The master himself was wrong, but that is another matter. Wrong or right, Freud had chosen Jung to be his chief disciple, and still he proved to be just a Judas. He is not of the same caliber as Freud. The real reason why they had to part -- and I have never seen it mentioned by any Freudian or Jungian, I am telling it for the first time -- was that Jung's obsession was with death, and Freud's was with sex. They could not stay together for long, they had to part.
The East, for thousands of years, has been morbidly engaged in somehow getting rid of life. Yes, I call it morbid. I love to call a thing what it is. A spade is just a spade, neither more nor less; I want simply to state the fact. The East has suffered much just because of this morbidity, continuously thinking from the very moment of birth how to get rid of life. I think this is the oldest obsession in the world. Thousands of the same caliber as Sigmund Freud have lived under it, and strengthened it, and nourished it.
I don't recall a single man who stood against it. They all agreed, even though they disagreed about everything else: Mahavira, Manu, Kanada, Gautama, Shankara, Nagarjuna -- the list is almost infinite. And they are all far superior to Sigmund Freud, C.G. Jung or Adler, and the many bastards that they left behind.
But just to be a genius, even a great genius, does not necessarily mean that you are right. Sometimes a simple farmer may be more right than a great scholar. A gardener may be more right than a professor. Life is really strange; it always visits the simplest, the loving. The East has missed, and the West is missing too. Both are lopsided.
I had to talk about it because this is one of my basic contributions, that man should not be worried about either sex or death. He should be free from both obsessions, only then does he know, and he knows that, strangely enough, they are not different. Each moment of deep love is also a moment of deep death. Each orgasm is also an end, a full stop. Something reaches to a height, touches a star, and will never be the same again whatsoever you do. In fact, the more you do, the farther away it is.
But man lives almost like a rat, hidden in his hole. You may call it western, eastern, Christian, Hindu; there are thousands of holes available for all kinds of rats. But to be in a hole, howsoever decorated, painted, almost like a cathedral, a beautiful temple, or a mosque, still it is a hole. And to live in it is to go on committing slow suicide because you are not meant to be a rat. Be a man. Be a woman.
Up till now everything has been happening unconsciously, by nature, but now nature cannot do anything any more. Can't you see it simply? Darwin says that man is born of the monkey -- perhaps he is right. I don't think so, that's why I said "perhaps he is right." But what happened then? Monkeys are not becoming men... you don't suddenly see a monkey turning into a man and proving Darwin's theory.
No monkey is interested in Charles Darwin. I don't think they have even read his very unpoetic books. In fact they are -- they must be, I assume -- angry, because Darwin thinks that man has evolved. No monkey can believe that man is more evolved than him. All monkeys -- and believe me, I have been in touch with all kinds of people, monkeys included -- believe that man is a fallen monkey... fallen from the trees. They cannot think it is evolution. You will have to agree with me on a new word: involution. Perhaps Darwin was right, but then what happened? Forget monkeys, we have nothing to do with them.
What happened to man? Millions of years have passed and man is still the same. Has evolution stopped? For what reason? I don't think that any Darwinian is capable of answering, and know well I have studied Darwin and his followers as deeply as possible. I say "possible" because there is not much depth. What can I do? But not a single Darwinian answers the basic question: "If evolution is the rule of existence, then why has man not evolved into superman? Or at least something better?" Don't call it super; it sounds a little too grand a word to be attached to a man. Why is man not just a little better?
But there has been no change at all for centuries. As far as historians know, man has always been the same, as ugly as today. In fact, if anything can be said to have changed, he has become even uglier. Yes, I am saying what nobody seems to say. Politicians cannot say it because the votes belong to the monkeys. The so-called philosophers cannot say it because they are waiting for their Nobel prize, and the committee consists of monkeys. If you tell the truth you will be in the same trouble as I am. I have not known a single day without trouble since I became aware. Inside there is no trouble; all trouble had ceased. But outside there is trouble every moment. Even if you associate with me you will be in trouble.
Just the other day I had the message that one of our centers has been attacked. All the windows were broken in a crowd attack. People took away whatsoever they wanted. And just after that a whole center has been burned.
Now my people have not harmed anybody; they were just meeting there, meditating there. Even the policemen made the statement, "It is strange, because for two years we have been observing these people, and they are utterly innocent. They are neither political nor in any ideology -- they just enjoy themselves. Why their houses should be burned is unexplainable." The police may not find the explanation, because the explanation is here, lying down in this dental chair.
I have not known a single day when there was not some trouble or other; and it is the strangest thing to comprehend, because we have been doing harm to nobody. I have not harmed anybody; my people have not harmed anybody... but perhaps that is their crime. The mafia is okay. I am not; you are not. This world, either obsessed with sex or obsessed with death, is going to remain morbid, sick. If we want to have a healthy, wholesome humanity, then we will have to think in totally different terms.
The first thing I want to say is: accept that which is already there. Sex is not your creation, thank God! Otherwise everybody would be using a different kind of mechanism, and there would be tremendous frustration because those mechanisms won't fit together at all. They don't even fit when they are exactly the same, when they are meant to be in harmony; they don't harmonize. If everybody was inventing his own sexuality then there would be real chaos. You cannot conceive of it. It is good that you came ready-equipped, already what you are potentially going to be.
And death too is such a natural thing. Just think for a moment: if you were to live forever, what would you do? Remember, you would not be able to commit suicide. I have always loved Alexander's search for the secret of eternal life.... He finally found it, in the desert in Arabia. What joy! What ecstasy! He must have danced. But just then the crow said, "Wait, wait just a moment before you drink the water. That water is not ordinary water. I drank of it -- alas. Now I cannot die. I have tried all the methods but nothing works. Poison cannot kill me. I hit my head against a rock, but the rock broke and I am unhurt. Before you decide to drink that water, think twice." The story goes that Alexander ran away from the cave so he would not be tempted to drink the water.
Alexander's teacher was none other than the great Aristotle, the father of European philosophy and logic. In fact, Aristotle was the father of the whole of western thinking -- a great father! Without him there would have been no science, and of course no Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Without Aristotle you could not conceive of the West. Aristotle was Alexander's teacher, and I have always found teachers to be very poor.
In my childhood I remember seeing in a book -- I can't remember which -- or perhaps it was in a film, in which Aristotle was teaching Alexander, and the boy said, "Right now I don't want to learn anything; I want to ride a horse. You become a horse for me." So poor Aristotle became a horse. He got down on all fours while Alexander sat on his back and rode him. And this was the man who became the father of western philosophy! What kind of father?
Socrates is never called the "father of western philosophy." Socrates of course, was the master of Plato, and Plato was the master of Aristotle. But Socrates was poisoned because he wasn't palatable; not easy to digest. The West wanted to forget all about him. He may have created the synthesis I am talking about. If he had not been poisoned, and was listened to; if his inquiry into truth had become the very base, we would be living in a totally different world. Nor is Plato thought to be the father, because he was too closely associated with the dangerous Socrates. In fact we know nothing of Socrates except what Plato wrote about him.
Just as Devageet is taking notes, so Plato must have continuously been taking notes from his Master. Plato is not accepted because he is only a shadow of Socrates. Aristotle is Plato's disciple, but a Judas. He was a disciple in the beginning, and learned what his master had to teach, and then he became a master in his own right. But what a poor master he was, salaried by the king as a tutor to his son. It is so ugly to know that he was ready to become a horse for Alexander! Who is teaching who? Who is really the master?
I was a teacher in university. I know that Alexander riding on Aristotle disproves that he was the father of western philosophy. If he is the father then the whole philosophy in the West is just an orphan, a child adopted by the Christian missionaries, perhaps by Mother Teresa of Calcutta -- that great lady can do anything! I pity Aristotle. I cannot find any other word for him. I am ashamed because I was also a professor.
The first thing I used to say to my class each day was, "Remember, here I am the master. If you don't want to listen to me, simply get lost. If you want to listen to me, then just listen. I am ready to answer all your questions, but I will not tolerate any noise, even whispering. If you have a girlfriend here then get out immediately and I allow you to go with your girlfriend. When I am speaking, only I am speaking, and you are listening. If you want to say something then raise your hand, and keep it raised because it does not mean that when you want to ask I necessarily have to answer at that time. I am not here as your servant. I am not Aristotle. Even Alexander could not make a horse out of me."
This was my introduction every day, and I am happy that they understood it -- they had to. That's why I sometimes get hard with you, Devageet, knowing perfectly well that you have to use your buttons, and the noise of them is bound to be there. What can you do? I know it perfectly well. It is just an old habit of mine.
I have never spoken except in utter silence. You know, for years you have heard me. You know the silence in Buddha Hall. Only in that silence... Your English phrase is meaningful: that the silence is so profound that you can hear even a needle drop on the floor. So I know, but I am just accustomed to silence.
The other day, when I left the room, you were not looking very happy. Later that day I felt bad, it really hurt me. I never wanted in any way to hurt you, it was just my old habit, and you cannot teach me new tricks any more. I have gone beyond the possibility of being taught.
In the old days I used to drive, and sitting with me in the car people would feel annoyed once in a while. I am not a driver, what to say of a good driver -- so naturally I did everything that was wrong. Although they tried not to interfere, I could understand their difficulty. They kept control of themselves. I was driving and they were controlling themselves -- that was a great scene. But still, once in a while they forgot and started saying something to me in which they were often right. About that I have nothing to say; but, right or wrong it does not matter -- when I am driving, I am driving.
If I am going wrong then I am going wrong. How long could they control themselves? It was dangerous, and they were not concerned about their own life. They were concerned about my life, but what could I do? I could simply state the fact that if I was driving wrongly I would continue to do so. At that moment particularly I did not want to be taught. It was not any egoism.
I am simple in that way. You can always tell me where I am wrong, and I am open to listen. But when I am doing something, I hate interference. Even though the intention may be good, I don't want it even for my own good. I would rather die driving wrongly than be saved by somebody's advice. That's the way I am and it is too late to change.
You will be surprised to know that it has always been too late. Even when I was only a child it was too late. I can only do a thing the way I want to do it; right and wrong are irrelevant. If it happens to be right, good; if it does not happen to be right, that is far out.
Sometimes I may be hard on you, but I don't want to be. It is just a long, long habit from more than thirty years of teaching in utter silence. I cannot forget it.
I was making only one point, and was going to discuss it tomorrow. The point is that I am not against getting rid of the wheel, but I am against being obsessed with stopping it. It stops by itself, but not by you stopping it. It can stop only by you doing something else -- that something else I call meditation.

Chapter #19

Okay.
I said "okay" a little early, just because I was becoming concerned about your worry. At least in the beginning don't be worried; in the beginning let me have my say. If you are worried, obviously I will say "okay" but that will not be okay at all.
After my grandfather died I was again away from my Nani, but I soon returned to my father's village. Not that I wanted to -- it was just like this "okay" that I said at the beginning... not that I wanted to say "okay" but even I cannot ignore the concern of others, and my parents would not allow me to go to my dead grandfather's home. My grandmother herself was not willing to go with me, and being just a seven-year-old child, I could not see any future in it.
Again and again I pictured myself going back to the old house, alone in the bullock cart... Bhoora talking to the bullocks. He at least would have had some kind of company. I would be alone inside the bullock cart, just thinking of the future. What would I do there? Yes, my horses would be there, but who would feed them? In fact, who would feed me? 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. My grandmother was even greater than Gudia could conceive: she would even brush my teeth! I would say to her, "Nani, I can brush my own teeth."
She would say, "Shut up, Raja! Keep quiet. Don't disturb me when I am doing something."
I would shake my head and say, "This is something. You are doing something to me; I can't even tell you that I can do it myself."
I cannot remember a single thing that I was required to do except just to be myself -- and that meant the source of all mischief, because when you don't require a child to do anything at all he has so much energy, he has to invest it somewhere. Right or wrong does not matter, what matters is the investment; and mischief is the nicest investment possible. So I did all kinds of mischief to everybody around.
I used to carry a small suitcase, just like the doctors'. Once I had seen a doctor passing through the village, and I had said to my Nani, "Unless I get that suitcase I will not eat!" Where did I get the idea not to eat? I had seen my grandfather not eating for days, particularly in the rainy season when the Jainas have their festival. The very orthodox do not eat at all for ten days, that is why I had said, "I will not eat unless I get that suitcase."
You know what she did? That's why I still love her -- told Bhoora, "Take your gun and run after that doctor and snatch his bag. Even if you have to shoot the man, get his bag. Don't worry, we will take care of you in court."
Bhoora ran with his gun; I ran behind to see what would actually happen. Seeing Bhoora with the gun -- a European with a gun in India in those days was the last thing one wanted to see -- the doctor started trembling like a leaf in a strong wind. Bhoora said to him, "There is no need to tremble; just hand over your case and go to hell, or wherever else you want to go." The doctor, still trembling, handed over his case. I don't know how you call this doctor's case, Devaraj. Is it a suitcase or something? A doctor's case? Devageet, what do you call it?
"A visiting bag perhaps?"
A visiting bag? It does not look like a bag. Devaraj, can you suggest a name? A visiting bag? Okay... can you find a better word?
"The original bag was called a Gladstone bag. That was the original black bag."
What is it? A Gladstone's bag? Yes, that was what I was thinking of and could not remember... of course, a Gladstone's bag. Good, but I still don't like that name for the bag. I will continue to call it the doctor's suitcase, although I know it is not a suitcase. It does not matter; by now everybody has understood what I mean.
Seeing the doctor tremble, I saw, for the first time, that all education was useless. If it cannot make you fearless then what is it for? Just to earn bread and butter? You will tremble. You will be a bag full of bread and butter, trembling. This is wonderful. It suddenly reminds me of Doctor Eichling.
I have heard -- just a gossip, and I love gossips more than gospels.... Anyway those gospels are nothing but gossips, just not said rightly, not told juicily. I have heard -- that's the way Buddha gospels begin, I mean Buddha gossips begin. I have heard -- what a beautiful phrase! -- that Doctor Eichling's beloved, who by the way I would rather call "Inkling," but I heard that his name is not Inkling but Eichling....
I don't know this man. I thought he had died, because I gave him sannyas and called him Shunyo. I don't know what happened to Shunyo or how Doctor Eichling became resurrected, but if Jesus could manage it, why not Eichling? Anyway, he is still there -- either he survived, or he resurrected, it is not very significant which. The gossip is that his beloved went off with another sannyasin and she fell in love with this new guy.
When they came back Doctor Eichling had a "love attack." I'm surprised he could manage it, because to have a love attack you first need to have a heart. A heart attack is not necessarily a love attack. A heart attack is physiological, a love attack is psychological, from the deeper part of the heart. But first you have to have a heart.
Now, Doctor Eichling having a heart attack, or love attack, is impossible. They should have consulted me. Of course I am not a doctor, but I am certainly a physician in the same sense Buddha was. Buddha used to call himself a physician, not a philosopher.

Poor Doctor Eichling... there was nothing wrong. When there is nothing there, how can there be anything wrong? Physiologically he was found to be absolutely in order. Psychologically the problem still exists: his beloved is now somebody else's beloved. That hurts, but where?
Nobody knows where it hurts. In the lungs? In the chest? That's where Doctor Eichling was showing his pain, in the chest. Doctor Eichling, it is not in your chest, it is in your mind, in your jealousy. And the center of jealousy is certainly not in the chest; in fact everything has its center in the mind.
If you are a follower of B.F. Skinner, or Pavlov the grandfather or maybe the great grandfather of Skinner, and contemporary of Freud, his greatest opponent too -- then "mind" is not the right word; you can read "brain" instead. But "brain" is only the body of the mind, the mechanism through which the mind functions. Whether you call it the mind or the brain does not matter; what matters is that everything has its center there.
Doctor Eichling -- I cannot call him Shunyo because in front of his office in Arizona, on his sign he has written "Doctor Eichling's Office." If you phone him, his assistant says, "Doctor Eichling? He is not available. He is at a meeting." I will call him Shunyo again when he makes that board disappear, and his stupid assistant asks, "Who is this fellow Eichling? We have never heard of him. Yes, once he was here, then he went to India and died there; a fellow called Shunyo returned in his place." I will call him Shunyo only when he buries his board deep down and jumps on it and disappears.
But the story, or rather the gossip, was only to tell you that everything exists first in the mind, only then in the body. The body is an extension of the mind, in matter. Brain is the beginning of that extension, and the body its full manifestation, but the seed is in the mind. The mind carries not only this body's seed, but it also has the potentiality to become almost anything. Its potential is infinite. Humanity's whole past is contained in it, and not only humanity but even the pre-human past.
During the nine months in the mother's womb the child passes through almost three million years of evolution... very quickly of course, as if you see a film run so fast that you can hardly see it -- just glimpses. But in nine months the child certainly passes through the whole of life from its very beginning. In the beginning -- and I am not quoting the Bible, I am simply stating the facts of every child's life -- in the beginning every child is a fish, just as once the whole of life began in the ocean. Man still carries the same quantity of salt in his body as ocean water. Man's mind plays the drama again and again; the whole drama of birth, from the fish to the old man gasping for his last breath.
I wanted to go back to the village, but it was next to impossible to regain that which had been lost. That is where I learned that it is better never to go back to anything. Since then I have been to so many places but I have never gone back. Once I have left a place I have left it forever. That childhood episode forever determined a certain pattern, a structure, a system. Although I wanted to go, there was no support. My grandmother simply said, "No, I cannot go back to that village. If my husband is not there then why should I go back? I only went there for his sake, not for the village. If I have to go anywhere I would like to go to Khajuraho."
But that too was impossible because her parents were dead. Later on I visited her house, where she had been born. It was only a ruin. There was no possibility of going back there. And Bhoora, who was the only person who would have been ready to go back, died just after the death of his master, just twenty-four hours after.
Nobody was prepared to see two deaths happen so quickly, particularly me, to whom they both meant such a lot. Bhoora may have been just an obedient servant to my grandfather, but to me he was a friend. Most of the time we were together -- in the fields, in the forest, on the lake, everywhere. Bhoora followed me like a shadow, not interfering, always ready to help, and with such a great heart... so poor and yet so rich, together.
He never invited me to his house. Once I asked him, "Bhoora, why do you never invite me to your house?"
He said, "I am so poor that although I want to invite you, my poverty prevents me. I don't want you to see that ugly house in all its dirtiness. In this life I cannot see a time when I will be able to invite you. I really have dropped the very idea."
He was very poor. In that village there were two parts: one for the higher castes, and the other for the poorer ones, on the other side of the lake. That's where Bhoora lived. Although I tried many times to reach his house I could not manage it because he was always following me like a shadow. He would prevent me before I even stepped in that direction.
Even my horse used to listen to him. When it came to going towards his house, Bhoora would say, "No! Don't go." Of course he had brought the horse up from its very childhood, they understood each other, and the horse would stop. There would be no way to get the horse to move either towards Bhoora's house, or even towards the poorer part of the village. I had only seen it from the other side, the richer, where the brahmins and the Jainas lived, and all those who are by birth, pure. Bhoora was a sudra. The word sudra means "impure by birth," and there is no way for a sudra to purify himself.
This is the work of Manu. That's why I condemn him and hate him. I denounce him, and want the world to know of this man, Manu, because unless we know of such people we will never be able to be free of them. They will continue to influence us in some form or another. Either it is race -- even in America, if you are a negro, you are a sudra, a "nigger," "untouchable."
Whether you are a negro or a white man, both need to be acquainted with the insane philosophy of Manu. It is Manu who has influenced the two world wars in a very subtle way. And perhaps he will be the cause of the third, and last... a really influential man!
Even before Dale Carnegie wrote his book, HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE, Manu knew all the secrets. In fact, one wonders how many friends Dale Carnegie has got, and how many people he has influenced. He is certainly not like Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, Mahatma Gandhi. And all these people were absolutely unacquainted with the science of influencing people. They did not need to know, they had it in their very guts.
I don't think any man has influenced humanity more than Manu. Even today, whether you know his name or not, he influences you. If you think yourself superior just because you are white or black, or just because you are a man or a woman, somehow Manu is pulling your strings. Manu has to be absolutely discarded.
I wanted to say something else, but I started with a wrong step. My Nani was very insistent: "Always step out of bed with your right foot." And you will be surprised to know, today I did not follow her advice, and everything is going wrong. I started with a wrong "okay"; now, when in the very beginning you are not okay, naturally, everything that follows on goes berserk.
Is there still time for me to say something right? Good. Let's begin again.
I wanted to go to the village but nobody was ready to support me. I could not conceive how I could exist there alone, without my grandfather, my grandmother, or Bhoora. No, it was not possible, so I reluctantly said, "Okay, I will stay in my father's village." But my mother naturally wanted me to stay with her and not with my grandmother, who from the very beginning had made it clear that she would stay in the same village, but separately. A little house was found for her in a very beautiful place near the river.
My mother insisted that I stay with her -- for over seven years I had not been living with my family. But my family was not a small affair, it was a whole jumbo-set -- so many people, all kinds of people: my uncles, my aunts, their children and my uncle's relatives, and so on and so forth.
In India the family is not the same as in the West. In the West it is just singular: the husband, the wife, one, two or three children. At the most there may be five people in the family. In India people would laugh -- five? Only five? In India the family is uncountable. There are hundreds of people. Guests come and visit and never leave, and nobody says to them, "Please, it is time for you to go," because in fact, nobody knows whose guests they are.
The father thinks, "Perhaps they are my wife's relatives so it is better to keep quiet." The mother thinks, "Perhaps they are my husband's relatives...."
In India it is possible to enter a home where you are not related at all; and if you keep your mouth shut, you can live there forever. Nobody will tell you to get out; everybody will think somebody else invited you. You have only to keep quiet and keep smiling.
It was a big family. My grandfather -- I mean my father's father -- was a man I never liked very much, to say the least. He was so different from my other grandfather, just the opposite; very restless, ready to jump on anyone at any time; ready to take up any excuse to fight. He was a real fighter, cause or no cause. The fight itself was his exercise, and he was continually fighting. It was rare to see him when he was not fighting somebody, and, strange to relate, there were people who loved him too.
My father had a small clothes shop. Once in a while I used to sit there just to watch people, and to see what was going on, and sometimes it was really interesting. The most interesting thing was that a few people would ask my father, "Where is Baba?" -- that was my grandfather. "We want to do business with him, and not with anybody else."
I was puzzled, because my father was so simple, so true, and honest. He would simply tell people the price of an item like this: "This is my cost price. Now it is up to you how much profit you want to give us. I leave it to you. I cannot reduce the cost price of course, but you can decide how much you want to pay." He would tell his customers, "Twenty rupees is the cost price, you can give me one or two rupees more. Two rupees means ten percent profit, and that's enough for me."
But people would ask, "Where is Baba? -- because unless he is here there is no joy in doing business." I could not believe it at first, but later on I did see their point. The joy of bargaining, shopping, or -- what do you call it -- higgling?
"Haggling, Bhagwan."
Haggling? Good. It must have been a great joy to the customers, because if the item was twenty rupees, my Baba would first start at fifty rupees, and after a long session of haggling, which they both would enjoy, they would settle somewhere near thirty rupees.
I used to laugh; and when the customer had gone, my Baba used to say to me, "You are not supposed to laugh at such moments. You should be serious, as if we were losing money. Of course, we cannot lose," he used to tell me. "Whether the watermelon falls on the knife, or the knife falls on the watermelon, in any case it is the watermelon which gets cut, and not the knife. So don't laugh when you see that I am charging a person thirty rupees for a thing which he could have bought for only twenty rupees from your father. Your father is a fool."
And of course it looked like my father was a fool, the same kind of fool as Devageet. Now it is up to him to attain to the same ultimate foolishness that my father attained. For the fools everything is possible, even enlightenment. Yes, my father was a fool, and my Baba was a very cunning man, a cunning old man. The moment I remember him, it is as a fox. He must have once been born as a fox, he was a fox.
Everything Baba did was very calculated. He would have been a good chess player because he could have conceived at least five steps ahead. He was really the most cunning man I have ever come across. I have seen many cunning men, but nobody to compare with my Baba. I always used to wonder where my father got his simplicity from. Perhaps it is nature that does not allow things to become out of balance, so it gives a very simple child to a very complex man.
Baba was a genius in cunningness. The whole village would tremble. Nobody was able to conceive what his plans were. In fact, he was such a man -- and I have observed it myself -- that we would be going to the river, my Baba and me, and somebody would ask, "Where are you going, Baba?" The whole town used to call him Baba; it just means grandfather. We were going to the river, and it was clear to everybody where we were going, but this man, with his quality would say, "To the station." I would look at him, and he would look at me and wink.
I was puzzled. What was the point? No business was being done, and you are not supposed to lie just for no reason at all. When the man had passed by, I asked him, "Why did you wink, Baba? And why did you lie to that man without any reason? Why could you not say `to the river,' when we are going to the river? He knows, everybody knows, that this road leads to the river and not to the station. You know it and still you said, `to the station.'"
He said, "You don't understand, one has to practice continuously."
"Practice what?" I asked him.
He said, "One has to continuously practice one's business. I cannot just tell the simple truth because then, one day, doing business, I may simply say the right price. And it is none of your business at all; that's why I winked at you, so you would keep quiet. As far as I am concerned, we are going to the station; whether this road leads there or not is nobody else's business. Even if that man had said that this road does not lead to the station, I would have just said I am going to the station via the river. It is up to me. One can go anywhere from anywhere. It may take a little longer, that's all."
Baba was that kind of man. He lived there with all his children, my father and his brothers and sisters, and their husbands... and one could not know all the people who had gathered there. I saw people coming and never leaving. We were not rich, yet there was enough to eat for everybody.
I did not want to enter this family, and I told my mother, "Either I will go back to the village alone -- the bullock cart is ready, and I know the way; I will get there somehow. And I know the villagers, they will help support a child. And it is only a question of a few years, then I will repay them as much as I can. But I cannot live in this family. This is not a family, it's a bazaar."
And it was a bazaar, continuously buzzing with so many people, no space at all, no silence. Even if an elephant had jumped into that ancient pond, nobody would have heard the plop; there was too much going on. I simply refused, saying, "If I have to stay then the only alternative is for me to live with my Nani."
My mother was, of course, hurt. I am sorry, because since then I have been hurting her again and again. I could not help it. In fact I was not responsible; the situation was such that I could not live in that family after so many years of absolute freedom, silence, space. In fact, in my Nana's house I was the only one who was ever heard. My Nana was mostly silently chanting his mantra, and of course my grandmother had no one else to talk to.
I was the only one who was ever heard, otherwise there was silence. After years of such beautitude, then to live in that so-called family, full of unfamiliar faces, uncles, and their fathers-in-law, cousins -- what a lot! One could not even figure out who was who! Later I used to think somebody ought to publish a small booklet about my family, a WHO'S WHO.
When I was a professor people used to come up to me and say something like, "Don't you know me?-I am your mother's brother."
I would look into the man's face, then say, "Please be somebody else, because my mother has no brothers -- that much I know about my family."
This particular man then said, "Yes, you are right. I mean I am really a cousin."
I said, "Then it is okay. So what do you want? I mean how much do you want? You must have come to borrow money."
He said, "Great! But it is strange, how could you read my mind?"
I said, "It is very easy. Just tell me how much you want."
He took twenty rupees, and I said, "Thank God. At least I have lost one relative. Now he will never show his face again."
And that's what actually happened: I never saw his face again, anywhere. Hundreds of people borrowed money from me and nobody ever returned it. I was happy that they didn't, because if they had they would only have asked for more.
I wanted to return to the village but could not. I had to come to a compromise just not to hurt my mother. But I know I have been hurting her, really wounding her. Whatsoever she wanted I have never done; in fact, just the opposite. Naturally, slowly slowly, she accepted me as one who was lost to her.
It used to happen that I would be sitting just in front of her, and she would ask, "Have you seen anybody about? -- because I want to send somebody to fetch vegetables from the market." The market was not far away; the village was small, it was just two minutes away. And she was asking, "Have you seen anybody?"
I would say, "No, I have not seen anybody at all -- the house seems to be completely empty. Strange, where have all the relatives gone? They always disappear when there is some work to be done." But she would not ask me to go and fetch vegetables for her. She tried once or twice, and then dropped the idea forever.
Once she asked me to purchase bananas, and I brought tomatoes because on the way I forgot. I tried hard; that was the trouble. I repeated to myself, "Banana... banana... banana... banana..." and then a dog barked, or somebody asked where I was going, and I went on saying, "Banana... banana... banana...."
They said, "Hey! Have you gone mad?"
I said, "Shut up! I have not gone mad. You must be mad. What nonsense is this, interrupting people who are silently doing their work?" But by that time I had forgotten what it was I was going to purchase, so I brought anything that I could manage to get. But tomatoes were the last thing to bring, because they are not allowed in a Jaina household. My mother beat her head saying, "Are these bananas? When will you understand?"
I said, "My God! Did you ask for bananas? I forgot -- I'm sorry."
She said, "Even if you had forgotten, could you not have bought anything else other than tomatoes? You know that tomatoes are not allowed in our house because they look so red, like meat!" And in a Jaina household, even a similarity to meat... just the color red could remind you of blood or meat; even a tomato is enough to make a Jaina feel sick.
Poor tomatoes! They are such simple fellows, and so meditative too. If you see them sitting -- they sit exactly like Buddhist monks with their shaven heads, and they look so centered too, as if they have been doing centering for their whole life, so grounded... but Jainas don't like them.
So I had to take those tomatoes back and distribute them to the beggars. They were always glad to see me. The beggars were the only ones who used to be happy to see me, because it was always an occasion when I had been sent to throw something out of the house. I never threw it, I would give it to the beggars.
I could not manage to live in the family, according to them. Everybody was giving birth; every woman was almost always pregnant. Whenever I remember my family I suddenly think of freaking out -- although I cannot freak out; I just enjoy the idea of freaking out. All the women were always with big bellies. One pregnancy over, another starts; and so many children....
"No," I said to my mother, "I know it hurts you, and I am sorry, but I will live with my grandmother. She is the only one who can understand me and allow me not only love but freedom too."
Once I had asked my Nani, "Why did you only give birth to my mother?"
She said, "What a question!"
I said, "Because in this family every woman is always carrying a load in her belly. Why did you only give birth to my mother and not have another child, at least a brother for her?"
She then said something I cannot forget: "That too was because of your Nana. He wanted a child, so we compromised. I told him, `Only one child, then it is your fate whether it is a boy or a girl' -- because he wanted a boy." She laughed, "And it was good that a girl was born, otherwise where would I have got you from? Yes, it is good," she said, "that I did not give birth to any other children, otherwise you would not have liked this place either, it would have been too crowded."
I remained in my father's village for eleven years, and I was forced almost violently to go to school. And it was not a one-day affair, it was an everyday routine. Every morning I had to be forced to go to school. One of my uncles, or whosoever, would take me there, would wait outside until the master had taken possession of me -- as if I was a piece of property to be passed from one hand to another, or a prisoner passed from one hand to another. But that's what education is, still: a forced and violent phenomenon.
Each generation tries to corrupt the new generation. It is certainly a kind of rape, a spiritual rape -- and naturally the more powerful, stronger, and bigger father and mother can force the small child. I was a rebel from the very first day that I was taken to school. The moment I saw the gates I asked my father, "Is it a jail or a school?"
My father said, "What a question! It is a school. Don't be afraid."
I said, "I am not afraid, I am simply inquiring about what attitude I should take. What is the need for this big gate?"
The gate was closed when all the children, the prisoners, were inside. It was only opened again in the evening when the children were released for the night. I can still see that gate. I can still see myself standing with my father ready to register at that ugly school.
The school was ugly, but the gate was even uglier. It was big, and it was called "The Elephant Gate," Hathi Dwar. An elephant could have passed through it, it was so large. Perhaps it would have been good for elephants from a circus -- and it was a circus -- but for small children it was too big.
I will have to tell you many things about these nine years....

Chapter #20

Wait for my "Okay...."
I am standing before the "Elephant Gate" of my primary school... and that gate started many things in my life. I was not standing alone of course; my father was standing with me. He had come to enroll me at the school. I looked at the tall gates and said to him, "No."
I can still hear that word. A small child who has lost everything.... I can see on the child's face a question mark as he wonders what is going to happen.
I stood looking at the gates, and my father just asked me, "Are you impressed by this great gate?"
Now I take the story into my own hands:
I said to my father, "No." That was my first word before entering primary school, and you will be surprised, it was also my last word on leaving university. In the first case, my own father was standing with me. He was not very old but to me, a small child, he was old. In the second case, a really old man was standing by my side, and we were again standing at an even larger gate....
The old university gate is now dismantled forever, but it remains in my memory. I can still see it -- the old gate, not the new one; I have no relationship with the new one -- and on seeing it, wept, because the old gate was really grand, simple but grand. The new one is just ugly. It is modern perhaps, but the whole of modern art has taken up ugliness, just because it has been rejected for centuries. Perhaps taking up ugliness is a revolutionary step; but revolution, if ugly, is not revolution at all, it is only reaction. I saw the new gate only once. Since then I have passed that road many times but always closed my eyes. With closed eyes I could again see the old gate.
The old university gate was poor, really poor. It was made when the university was just beginning and they were not able to create a monumental structure. We all lived in military barracks because the university had started so suddenly and there had been no time to make hostels or libraries. It was just an abandoned military barracks. But the place itself was beautiful, situated on a small hill.
The military had abandoned it because it had only been meaningful during the second world war. It was at a height they had needed for their radar, to look around for the enemy. Now there was no need, so they abandoned it. It was a blessing, at least for me, because I would not have been able to read and study in any university other than that.
Its name was the University of Sagar. Sagar means "ocean." Sagar has a tremendously beautiful lake, so big that it is not called a lake, but sagar, an ocean. It really looks like an ocean, with waves rising on it. One cannot believe that it is only a lake. I have seen only two lakes with such big waves. Not that I have only seen two lakes, I have seen many. I have seen the most beautiful lakes of Kashmir, the Himalayas, Darjeeling, Nainital, and many others in the south of India, in the Nandi Hills, but I have seen only two with waves which resemble the ocean: the lake of Sagar and the lake of Bhopal.
Compared to Bhopal, of course the lake of Sagar is small. The lake of Bhopal is perhaps the greatest in the whole world. In that lake I have seen waves that can only be described as tidal waves, rising maybe twelve or fifteen feet high. No other lake can claim that. It is so vast. I once tried to go around it in a boat, and it took seventeen days. I was going as fast as you can imagine; more so, because there were no policemen around, and no speed limit. By the time I had ended the tour I simply said to myself, "My God, what a beautiful lake!" And it was hundreds of feet deep.
The same is true, on a smaller scale, of the lake of Sagar; but in another sense it has a beauty which the lake of Bhopal does not possess. It is surrounded by beautiful mountains, not so vast but tremendously beautiful... particularly in the early morning, at sunrise and in the evening, at sunset. And if it is a full moon night you really know what beauty is. In a small boat on that lake, on a full moon night, one simply feels that nothing more is needed.
It is a beautiful place... but I still feel bad because the old gate is no longer there. It was bound to be dismantled. I am absolutely aware of that, not only now; even then everyone was aware that it needed to be dismantled. It was only temporary, made just to inaugurate the university.
This was the second gate I remember. When I left university I was standing by the gate with my old professor, Sri Krishna Saxena. The poor man died just a few days ago, and he had sent a message saying he wanted to see me. I would have loved to see him, but now nothing can be done unless he is born quickly, and to a sannyasin, so that he can reach me. I will recognize him immediately, that much I can promise.
He was a man of exceptional qualities. He was the only professor out of the whole lot that I came across -- teachers, lecturers, readers, professors and whatnot -- he was the only one who was able to understand that he had a student who should rather have been his Master.
He was standing at the gate persuading me not to leave the university. He was saying, "You should not leave, particularly when the university has granted you a Ph.D. scholarship. You should not lose this opportunity." He was trying in thousands of ways to tell me that I was his most loved student. He said, "I have had many students all over the world, particularly in America" -- because he had been teaching in America most of the time -- "but I can say," he said to me, "I would not have bothered to convince any of them to remain. Why should I care? -- it had nothing to do with me, it was their future. But as far as you are concerned" -- and I remember his words with tears in my eyes -- he said, "as far as you are concerned, it is my future." I cannot forget those words. Let me repeat them. He said, "Those other students' future was their own concern; your future is my future."
I said to him, "Why? Why should my future be your future?"
He said, "That is something I would rather not talk about to you," and he started crying.
I said, "I understand. Please don't cry. But I cannot be persuaded to do anything against my own mind, and it is set in a totally different dimension. I am sorry to disappoint you. I know perfectly well how much you had hoped, how happy you were that I topped the whole university. I have seen you, just like a child, so joyous about the gold medal that was given not even to you, but to me."
I didn't care a bit about that gold medal. I threw it down a very deep well, so deep that I don't think anybody is going to find it again; and I did it in front of Doctor Sri Krishna Saxena.
He said, "What are you doing? What have you done?" -- because I had already thrown it down the well. And he had been so happy that I had been chosen for a scholarship. It was for an indefinite period, from two to five years.
He said, "Please reconsider again."
The first gate was the "Elephant Gate," and I was standing with my father not wanting to enter. And the last gate was also an "Elephant Gate," and I was standing with my old professor, not wanting to enter again. Once was enough, twice would have been too much.
The argument that had begun at the first gate lasted up till the second gate. The no that I had said to my father was the same no that I had said to my professor, who was really a father to me. I can feel its quality. He cared for me as much as my own father had cared, or perhaps even more. When I was ill he would not sleep; he would sit at my bedside the whole night. I would say to him, "You are old, doctor," I used to call him doctor, "please go to sleep."
He used to say, "I'm not going to sleep unless you promise that by tomorrow you will be perfectly well."
And I had to promise -- as if being sick or not depended on my promise -- but somehow, once I had promised him, it worked. That's why I say there is something like magic in the world.
That "no" became my tone, the very stuff of my whole existence. I said to my father, "No, I don't want to enter this gate. This is not a school, it's a prison." The very gate, and the color of the building.... It is strange, particularly in India, the jails and the schools are painted the same color, and they are both made of red brick. It is very difficult to know whether the building is a prison or a school. Perhaps once a practical joker had managed to play a joke, but he did it perfectly.
I said, "Look at this school -- you call it a school? Look at this gate! And you are here to force me to enter for at least four years." That was the beginning of a dialogue that lasted for many years; and you will come across it many times, because it runs criss-cross through the story.
My father said, "I was always afraid..." and we were standing at the gate, on the outside of course, because I had not yet allowed him to take me in.... He went on "... I was always afraid that your grandfather, and particularly this woman, your grandmother, were going to spoil you."
I said, "Your suspicion, or fear, was right, but the work has been done and nobody can undo it now, so please let us go home."
He said, "What! You have to be educated."
I said, "What kind of a beginning is this? I am not even free to say yes or no. You call it education? But if you want it, please don't ask me: here is my hand, drag me in. At least I will have the satisfaction that I never entered this ugly institution on my own. Please, at least do me this favor."
Of course, my father was getting very upset, so he dragged me in. Although he was a very simple man he immediately understood that it was not right. He said to me, "Although I am your father it does not feel right for me to drag you in."
I said, "Don't feel guilty at all. What you have done is perfectly right, because unless someone drags me in I am not going to go of my own decision. My decision is `no.' You can impose your decision on me because I have to depend on you for food, clothes, shelter and everything. Naturally you are in a privileged position."
What an entry! -- being dragged into school. My father never forgave himself. The day he took sannyas, do you know the first thing he said to me? "Forgive me, because I have done so many wrong things to you. There are so many I cannot count, and there must be more which I don't know at all. Just forgive me."
The entry into school was the beginning of a new life. For years I had lived just like a wild animal. Yes, I cannot say a wild human being, because there are no wild human beings.
Only once in a while a man becomes a wild human being. I am now; Buddha was, Zarathustra was; Jesus was -- but at that time it was perfectly true to say that for years I had lived like a wild animal. But it is far superior to Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Napoleon, or Alexander the Great. I am only naming the worst; worst in the sense that they thought they were the most civilized.
Alexander the Great thought himself to be the most civilized man of his time, of course. Adolf Hitler, in his autobiography, MY STRUGGLE.... I don't know how Germans pronounce the title -- all I can remember is, MEIN KAMPF. It must be wrong, it has to be. Firstly it is German: M-e-i-n K-a-m-p-f. Whatever the pronunciation, it does not matter to me.
What matters to me is that in his book he tries to prove that he has attained the status of "superman," for which man has been preparing for thousands of years. And Hitler's party, the Nazis, and his race, the Nordic Aryans were going to be the "rulers of the world," and this rule was going to last for one thousand years! Just a madman talking -- but a very powerful madman. When he spoke you had to listen, even to his nonsense. He thought he was the only real Aryan, and the Nordics were the only pure-blooded race. But he was seeing a dream.
Man has rarely become a superman, and the word "super" has nothing to do with "higher." The true superman is one who is conscious of all his acts, thoughts and feelings, of all that he is made of -- of love, of life, of death.
A great dialogue started with my father on that day, and it continued on and off, and ended only when he became a sannyasin. After that there was no question of any argument, he had surrendered. The day he took sannyas, he was crying and holding my feet. I was standing, and can you believe it... like a flash, the old school, the "Elephant Gate," the small child resisting, not ready to go in, and my father pulling him -- it all flashed by. I smiled.
My father asked, "Why are you smiling?"
I said, "I am just happy that a conflict has ended at last."
But that is what was happening. My father dragged me. I never went to school willingly.
Devageet, moisten my lips....
I am happy that I was dragged in, that I never went on my own, willingly. The school was really ugly -- all schools are ugly. In fact, it is good to create a situation where children learn, but it is not good to educate them. Education is bound to be ugly.
And what did I see as the first thing in the school? The first thing was an encounter with the teacher of my first class. I have seen beautiful people and ugly people, but I have never seen something like that again! -- and underline "something." I cannot call that something "someone." He did not look like a man. I looked at my father and said, "This is what you have dragged me into?"
My father said, "Shut up!" Very quietly, so that the "thing" did not hear. He was the master, and he was going to teach me.
I could not even look at the man. God must have created his face in a tremendous hurry. Perhaps His bladder was full, and just to finish the job He did this man and then rushed to the bathroom. What a man He created! He had only one eye, and a crooked nose. That one eye was enough! But the crooked nose really added great ugliness to the face. And he was huge! -- seven feet in height -- and he must have weighed at least four hundred pounds, not less than that.
Devaraj, how do these people defy medical research? Four hundred pounds, and he was always healthy. He never took a single day off, he never went to a doctor. All over the town it was said that this man was made of steel. Perhaps he was, but not very good steel, more like barbed wire! He was so ugly that I don't want to say anything about him, although I will have to say a few things, but at least not about him directly.
He was my first master, I mean teacher, because in India school teachers are called "masters," that's why I said he was my first master. Even now if I saw that man I would certainly start trembling. He was not a man at all, he was a horse!
I said to my father, "First, look at this man before you sign."
He said, "What is wrong with him? He taught me, he taught my father -- he has been teaching here for generations."
Yes, that was true. That's why nobody could complain about him. If you complained your father would say, "I cannot do anything, he was my teacher too. If I go to him to complain, he could even punish me."
So my father said, "Nothing is wrong with him, he is okay." Then he signed the papers.
I then told my father, "You are signing your own troubles, so don't blame me."
He said, "You are a strange boy."
I said, "Certainly we are strangers to each other. I have lived away from you for many years, and I have been friends with the mango trees and the pines and the mountains, the oceans and the rivers. I am not a businessman, and you are. Money means everything to you; I cannot even count it."
Even today... I have not touched money for years. The occasion never arises. That helps me tremendously because I don't know how things go in the world of economics. I go my own way; they have to follow me. I don't follow them: I can't.
I told my father, "You understand money, and I don't. Our languages are different; and remember, you have stopped me from going back to the village, so now if there is a conflict, don't blame me. I understand something you don't, and you understand something that I neither understand nor want to. We are incompatible. Dadda, we are not made for each other."
And it took nearly his whole life to cover the distance between us, but of course, it was him who had to travel. That's what I mean when I say that I am stubborn. I could not budge even a single inch, and everything started at that Elephant Gate.
The first teacher -- I don't know his real name, and nobody in the school knew it either, particularly the children; they just called him Kantar Master. Kantar means "one-eyed"; that was enough for the children, and also it was a condemnation of the man. In Hindi kantar not only means "one-eyed," it is also used as a curse. It cannot be translated in that way because the nuance is lost in the translation. So we all called him Kantar Master in his presence, and when he was not there we called him just Kantar -- that one-eyed fellow.
He was not only ugly; everything he did was ugly. And of course on my very first day something was bound to happen. He used to punish the children mercilessly. I have never seen or heard of anybody else doing such things to children. I knew of many people who had left school because of this fellow, and they remained uneducated. He was too much. You would not believe what he used to do, or that any man could do that. I will explain to you what happened to me on that very first day-and much more was to follow.
He was teaching arithmetic. I knew a little because my grandmother used to teach me a little at home; particularly a little language and some arithmetic. So I was looking out of the window at the beautiful peepal tree shining in the sun. There is no other tree which shines so beautifully in the sun, because each leaf dances separately, and the whole tree becomes almost a chorus -- thousands of shining dancers and singers together, but also independent.
The peepal tree is a very strange tree because all other trees inhale carbon dioxide, and exhale oxygen during the day.... Whatever it is you can put it right, because you know that I am not a tree, nor am I a chemist or a scientist. But the peepal tree exhales oxygen twenty-four hours a day. You can sleep under a peepal tree, and not any other because they are dangerous to health. I looked at the tree with its leaves dancing in the breeze, and the sun shining on each leaf, and hundreds of parrots just jumping from one branch to another, enjoying, for no reason. Alas, they didn't have to go to school.
I was looking out of the window and Kantar Master jumped on me.
He said, "It is better to get things right from the very beginning."
I said, "I absolutely agree about that. I also want to put everything as it should be from the very beginning."
He said, "Why were you looking out of the window when I was teaching arithmetic?"
I said, "Arithmetic has to be heard, not seen. I don't have to see your beautiful face. I was looking out of the window to avoid it. As far as the arithmetic is concerned, you can ask me; I heard it and I know it."
He asked me, and that was the beginning of a very long trouble -- not for me but for him. The trouble was that I answered correctly. He could not believe it and said, "Whether you are right or wrong I am still going to punish you, because it is not right to look out of the window when the teacher is teaching."
I was called in front of him. I had heard about his punishment techniques -- he was a man like the Marquis de Sade. From his desk he took out a box of pencils. I had heard of these famous pencils. He used to put one of those pencils between each of your fingers, and then squeeze your hands tight, asking, "Do you want a little more? Do you need more?" -- to small children! He was certainly a fascist. I am making this statement so it is at least on record: people who choose to be teachers have something wrong with them. Perhaps it is the desire to dominate or a lust for power; perhaps they are all a little bit fascist.
I looked at the pencils and said, "I have heard of these pencils, but before you put them between my fingers, remember it will cost you very dearly, perhaps even your job."
He laughed. I can tell you it was like a monster in a nightmare laughing at you. He said, "Who can prevent me?"
I said, "That is not the point. I want to ask: is it illegal to look out of the window when arithmetic is being taught? And if I am able to answer the questions on what was being taught and am ready to repeat it word for word, then is it wrong in any way to look out of the window? Then why has the window been created in this classroom? For what purpose? Because for the whole day somebody is teaching something, and a window is not needed during the night when there is nobody to look out of it."
He said, "You are a troublemaker."
I said, "That's exactly true, and I am going to the headmaster to find out whether it is legitimate for you to punish me when I have answered you correctly."
He became a little more mellow. I was surprised because I had heard that he was not a man who could be subdued in any way.
I then said, "And then I am going to the president of the municipal committee who runs this school. Tomorrow I will come with a police commissioner so that he can see with his own eyes what kind of practices are going on here."
He trembled. It was not visible to others, but I can see such things which other people may miss. I may not see walls but I cannot miss small things, almost microscopic. I told him, "You are trembling, although you will not be able to accept it. But we will see. First let me go to the headmaster."
I went and the headmaster said, "I know this man tortures children. It is illegal, but I cannot say anything about it because he is the oldest school teacher in the town, and almost everybody's father and grandfather has been his pupil once at least. So no one can raise a finger against him."
I said, "I don't care. My father has been his student and also my grandfather. I don't care about either my father or my grandfather; in fact I don't really belong to that family. I have been living away from them. I am a foreigner here."
The headmaster said, "I could see immediately that you must be a stranger, but, my boy, don't get into unnecessary trouble. He will torture you."
I said, "It is not easy. Let this be the beginning of my struggle against all torture. I will fight."
And I hit with my fist -- of course just a small child's fist -- on his table, and told him, "I don't care about education or anything, but I must care about my freedom. Nobody can harass me unnecessarily. You have to show me the educational code. I cannot read, and you will have to show me whether it is unlawful to look out of the window even though I could answer all the questions correctly."
He said, "If you answered correctly then there is no question at all about where you were looking."
I said, "Come along with me."
He came with his educational code, an ancient book that he always carried. I don't think anybody had ever read it. The headmaster told Kantar Master, "It is better not to harass this child because it seems that it may bounce back on you. He won't give up easily."
But Kantar Master was not that type of man. Afraid, he became even more aggressive and violent. He said, "I will show this child -- you need not worry. And who cares about that code? I have been a teacher here my whole life and is this child going to teach me the code?"
I said, "Tomorrow, either I will be in this building or you, but we cannot both exist here together. Just wait until tomorrow."
I rushed home and told my father. He said, "I was worried whether I had entered you in school just to bring trouble upon others and upon yourself, and to also drag me into it."
I said, "No, I am simply reporting so that later you don't say you were kept in the dark."
I went to the police commissioner. He was a lovely man; I had not expected that a policeman could be so nice. He said, "I have heard about this man. In fact my own son has been tortured by him. But nobody complained. It is illegal to torture, but unless you complain nothing can be done, and I cannot complain myself because I am worried that he may fail my child. So it is better to let him go on torturing. It is only a question of a few months, then my child will go into another class."
I said, "I am here to complain, and I am not concerned about going into another class at all. I am ready to stay in this class my whole life."
He looked at me, patted me on the back and said, "I appreciate what you are doing. I will come tomorrow."
I then rushed to see the president of the municipal committee, who proved to be just cow-dung. Yes, just cow-dung, and not even dry -- so ugly! He said to me, "I know. Nothing can be done about it. You have to live with it, you will have to learn how to tolerate it."
I said to him, and I remember my words exactly, "I am not going to tolerate anything that is wrong to my conscience."
He said, "If that is the case, I cannot take it in hand. Go to the vice-president, perhaps he may be more helpful."
And for that I must thank that cow-dung, because the vice-president of that village, Shambhu Dube, proved to be the only man of any worth in that whole village, in my experience. When I knocked on his door -- I was only eight or nine years old, and he was the vice-president -- he called, "Yes, come in." He was expecting to see some gentleman, and on seeing me he looked a little embarrassed.
I said, "I am sorry that I am not a little older -- please excuse me. Moreover, I am not educated at all, but I have to complain about this man, Kantar Master."
The moment he heard my story -- that this man tortures little children in the first grade by putting pencils between their fingers and then squeezing, and that he has pins which he forces under the nails, and he is a man seven feet tall, weighing four hundred pounds -- he could not believe it.
He said, "I have heard rumors, but why has nobody complained?"
I said, "People are afraid that their children will be tortured even more."
He said, "Are you not afraid?"
I said, "No, because I am ready to fail. That's all he can do." I said I was ready to fail and I was not insisting on success, but I would fight to the last: "It is either this man or me -- we both cannot be there in the same building."
Shambhu Dube called me close to him. Holding my hand he said, "I always love rebellious people, but I never thought a child of your age could be a rebel. I congratulate you."
We became friends, and this friendship lasted until he died. That village had a population of twenty thousand people, but in India it is still a village. In India, unless the town has one hundred thousand people it is not considered a town. When there are more than fifteen hundred thousand people then it is a city. In my whole life I never came across another in that village of the same caliber, quality or talent as Shambhu Dube. If you ask me, it will look like an exaggeration, but in fact, in the whole of India I never found another Shambhu Dube. He was just rare.
When I was traveling all over India he would wait for months for me to come and visit the village just for one day. He was the only person who ever came to see me when my train would pass through the village. Of course I am not including my father nor my mother; they had to come. But Shambhu Dube was not my relative; he just loved me. And this love started at that meeting, on that day when I had gone to protest against Kantar Master.
Shambhu Dube was the vice-president of the municipal committee, and he said to me, "Don't be worried. That fellow should be punished; in fact, his service is finished. He has applied for an extension but we will not give it to him. From tomorrow you will not see him in that school again."
I said, "Is that a promise?"
We looked into each other's eyes. He laughed and said, "Yes, it is a promise."
The next day Kantar Master was gone. He was never able to look at me after that. I tried to contact him, knocked at his door many times just to say goodbye, but he was really a coward, a sheep under a lion's skin. But that first day in school turned out to be the beginning of many, many things.