Text Size +   -
Swatantra Sarjano

Of Hands in Hands – A Memory

November, 2011

(India and Indians seen through the eyes of a foreigner)

Went for an evening walk with Sachin, the little son of my watchman.

Usually he holds my hand, and in a very beautiful way, may I say. If I hold him too tightly, he gently removes his hand, and gives it back to me after few minutes in a more relaxed and loose manner.

If I let his hand too loose, then again he shows me exactly HOW he likes to be held by my hand. I'm sure almost any lover can learn from him what it is to hold hands.

This evening Sachin is restless, curious about everything, and he runs here and there, just to exhaust his abundant energy; exploring everything that moves around us.

On the other side of the road a bunch of crows are banqueting on the carcass of a dead dog, feasting on its intestines. I think that the little boy shouldn't see such a disgusting scene. Perhaps he even knew the dog, when alive. But the boy leaves my hand and runs to see the banquet from close up.

You can imagine the scene: we know what crows like the most! The child doesn't know, so he starts observing everything carefully and with great attention. I observe him, his eyes, his face, his expressions. There are none. There is nothing in his eyes. Only an infinite, pure, boundless curiosity.  No disgust. No fear. No condemnation. Nothing.

Just a mere observation of reality, non-judgmental and utterly innocent.

He takes my hand again. He shows me one more time how: not too tight, not to loose. For children know that adults are a little retarded, and they need things to be explained many times, before they get it.

He holds my hand for two minutes or three, as we start to walk towards home. Nothing is said. And in a flash of light he is running after a huge frog.

And I am happy that even if it’s for today, I had found my daily Master, on the roads of India.


India and Indians seen through the eyes of a foreigner

October 2011

I love India.

I have chosen to live here for many years now, because I like to live amongst people who have not made SPEED the greatest value of their lives. But then, on the other hand, I complain when Indians are soooo slow!

It happens to every foreigner who lives here. We love India for the same reasons that we hate her.

I say "her", because to me India is perhaps the most feminine country in the world. She has always been that way. She's the most receptive, peaceful and silent. And of course, the most spiritual.

We come here in millions, to follow the steps of Gautama the Buddha, to walk along the paths where Kabir once danced, to sit under the trees which had  given shelter to generations of meditators.

Meditation can still be felt in the life of India, where we, the speedy foreigners, come to perceive another dimension of time. But in India, time is certainly not a pressure. People are so relaxed about timing that they always end up late at every appointment!

Do you see the mind of these stupid foreigners? On the one hand they praise India and the fact that it still has a "human dimension", and their people are never in a hurry; never slaves of King Time, and on the other hand they get pissed off because people here have no respect for time.

These foreigners really don't know what they want, and I suspect that's why they have come to India.

The problem is that they have come with their rational, western, time-oriented minds, and they want TO UNDERSTAND India and the Indian way of life, which is an impossible task, needless to say, for I've never heard of anybody understanding India.

You can enjoy it, you can surrender to it...but understanding it? Once a foreigner has chosen to live in such a feminine country, ancient, meditative & timeless, how can he expect to understand it? It is like wanting to understand a woman. Can't you see that it's impossible?

Have you ever heard of a man - any man - having understood a woman?

The same is true about foreigners who try to understand India, forget about it. Just make it your first step towards surrendering to the mystery of existence. At least, this is the advice I've got from most of our wise men here. And if it has worked for me, you can try, it may work for you too.

THE OTHER SIDE, because there is always ANOTHER side, can be seen in all its horrific magnitude and mysterious contradiction at nearly every train level crossing in town. The bars are down, because the train is supposed to pass through at any minute, but two-wheeler drivers seem to be suddenly in a desperate hurry, so they try their best to transit anyway, bending low under the bars, even when they can hear the train-whistle.

Those who have decided to wait quietly, meanwhile, seem to pack simultaneously in a desperate effort to catch a view of the train, and everybody amasses at the frontline FROM BOTH SIDES. After the train has gone, all these people are stuck, facing each other, just like in an American football match. And they get out of the mess the same way. How they manage it is a mystery.


© All Rights Reserved ninja-axel's photostream

This is just one of the thousands of contradictions that punctuate our lives as foreigners in this country. We witness the same mystery day in and day out for ages now.

But that's it: India IS a country of contradictions. A place where opposites meet.

We, the foreigners, are still hoping that they MEET, not CLASH.

And that's finally, why we love her so much.


Past - Present - Future: The False Trinity

September, 2011

After speaking about PAST in our last issue, Sarjano now boldly moves into


Finally free from the burden of memories, I realized soon that another phenomenon, much more worrisome, was creeping into my being: I wasn’t interested in the future anymore! Exactly into the same fog where my past seemed to have disappeared in, now it was the future to lose its contours, to evaporate, to vanish completely.

This gave me a lovely feeling of great lightness and freedom, but at the same time it was making me a stranger, a total alien, because all the people that I usually meet would talk mostly about their past or about the future that they had in mind, hoping that tomorrow…; hence it was becoming more and more difficult to follow their conversations, and I started to feel like an outsider, a stranger in a strange land!

I would simply ask “how are you?”, expecting a real answer based on the present moment, and instead I had to suffer a long story of near and faraway disgraces of this particular person, plus his problems for the next six months, and not a word about his present!

All seem worried about something or other, all “pre-occupied”, which was a sort of exercise that never occurs to me anymore, because even if I wanted to, I just can’t get pre-occupied about anything…

And what about abolishing this word completely from our dictionary?

PRE-OCCUPATION – repeat it with me – doesn’t the simple word just make you laugh? Did you ever think about this? What does it mean, “pre-occupation” – what significance can it have to the REAL?

And yet, besides some rare enlightened soul you won’t find anybody on this earth who doesn’t live in “pre-occupation” of some kind or other. We can easily say the average person is at least half of the time immersed in pre-occupations of various kinds: the rent to be paid next month…the school for the children…the expiring car license, or anything else, as long as it gives you material for pre-occupation.

We are looking out for pre-occupations, and if we don’t have enough of them, we will even invent some!

We are so afraid to face the HERE AND NOW, this sheer instant of eternity in which we live (and there isn’t another one!) that we can invent anything, any pre-occupation just to avoid it, just to keep on living in our dreams…ahhh, the future…ahhhh, tomorrow, how many things will I do tomorrow!

Do you ever think how much life we have wasted in running after a future that never comes because it is always today, it is always HERE AND NOW, because there isn’t any other place in existence than this precise moment?

But do you ever think about how many times we have cried, we have worried, we have been angry, we have felt anguish for something yet to come, something that often has never happened at all and has only grown in your imagination?

Do you ever think how many moments of real life you have renounced just to run after some future, some illusion, an abstraction?

No, you never think about this, and you keep on living like a zombie suspended between past and future, letting your present passing away without living it – what am I saying – without even tasting it!

Please remember those few moments in your life when you have FALLEN into the present, just like this, not because you wanted, but because it simply happened in spite of you. It doesn’t take much: a leaf falling, a cat passing by, a gust of wind, two drops of rain…and suddenly you realize you are alive, that this instant is just so beautiful, so pulsating, and so full of life.

Don’t tell me that you don’t know this sensation, that it has never happened to you to feel ALIVE… ALIVE… ALIVE… for an instant, for a slap of destiny, for having forgotten in an instant both past and future, for having fallen into the eternal present, for having slipped out of any divisions, for having entered suddenly into yourself and your inner realm….

The tragedy is that we remove these experiences, these epiphanies, and relegate them to the world of dreams, or unreality of pure utopia, even though they are the only moments of true reality which happened to us: THIS IS YOUR REALITY, and it is your so-called normal life which is a dream, an abstraction, an unconscious prison; but when will you understand it, when are you going to simply see it?

Don’t wait for tomorrow please, but start living now, because life is always HERE AND NOW, and the moment you understand it, you will give yourself at least a good slap in your face for wasting time in running after some chimeras, past or future ones.


If you like it or not, this is all there is, period.

There is no need to say anything else.

The present has no relation with the past, neither with the future.

The present is an orphan and has no children.

“You can’t step into the same river twice,” Heraclitus used to say, and he was right, because everything flows and nothing remains the same.

To live in the present, totally in the present, is to live in meditation; but do you really want to live in meditation, when it is so cozy to live suspended between memories and hopes?

I will not talk about the present anymore, because I would feel as if I wanted to dissect a tautology, and nothing else.

There can be no bullshit regarding this, for there is only the present, and there can’t be anything else – except in your dreams – than to understand this, to finally wake up and be yourself, here and now...


Past - Present - Future: The False Trinity

August, 2011

I must confess that I am a little embarrassed at this point, because I’m entering the most obvious amongst the realities we live in, which is at the same time the most difficult to understand, and the most arduous to explain to those who live in separation. I’m talking about nothing less than our perception of TIME: we have divided our so-called time in three tenses that we call past – present – future, but in reality, existentially speaking this is just a humongous lie because – and it will be useful to repeat this a million of times – past and future do not exist, and there is only the present.

Like it or not, only the present exists, everything else is just imagination, fantasy, hypothesis and nothing else – but how can I make you understand this? When most people decide to live their life half in the past and half in the future (in the best of cases), forgetting almost completely to live at least from time to time in the present, what can I say to wake you up from this beautiful dream and bring you back to the REAL WORLD, within the pure existence?


The simple fact is that we feed ourselves continuously with memories.

We cultivate our memories.

We caress them tenderly.

We feed them motherly as if they were our creatures.

We get lost in them, sometimes with an extenuating spleen.

We beautify the dearest memories and exaggerate the ugliest ones, so that we can feel resentment, anger, hatred once again, sometimes even after many years.

Our memories give us so many feelings that they can make us live our past again and again, ad infinitum.

Our memories – as everybody says – are part of us.

There is a celebrated poem which exalts the art and the languidness of memories…

“Silvia, do you remember those moments, in our mortal life…”

There are millions of poems about memories, a number equal only to the poems on hope.

There is vast literature too about memories; for sure we all remember Proust, because he helps us to remember our past loves, our golden childhood.

That childhood was probably hell, a kind of prison from where we dreamed to escape as soon as possible, but the memories make everything sweet, even those episodes we would never want to experience again.

We handle our memories as if we were projecting some old movie, and with the new mental technologies available now it is possible to use a slow motion attachment or zoom in on the dearest details, and it is even possible to make use of a flou lens, which makes everything appear softer and enchanting.

How can we live without our memories, and who will we be without them?

I’m asking this myself since a few years; from the very day I realized that my memories are deserting me.

I haven’t done anything about it, nothing at all; I haven’t gone through any therapy, nor have I been practicing any specific meditation – I have done absolutely nothing.

Maybe I have stopped feeding them, but I haven’t done that on purpose, I swear!

Maybe I am too busy with my present life.

Maybe I got lost in the unbearable lightness of just being.

Maybe life appeared for an instant too beautiful not to be lived totally, or to be sacrificed – even for an instant – to my memories.

I was very skilled in this art once, I was a poet you know, and I used to have a special ability to sweeten my memories, and presenting them to myself every time life would become a little bitter; now I can’t do it anymore and I’m a little worried about it.

Even if I try to catch a memory, I instantly find it pale and boring – how to say – unanimated, disembodied, deprived of substance, flesh and bones, consciousness; without any smell or taste or density whatsoever…

Yes, I’ll try to pump some meaning into it, but the balloon always deflates; and it is a very worrisome phenomenon, believe me, because my memories got so pissed off to be treated this way, that slowly, slowly, they have stopped visiting me, until they disappeared almost completely.

They have left me alone, can you understand, so alone that sometimes I don’t even know who I am, and mostly who I have been.

There is a poem speaking about cemeteries that ends with these words:

“It is my heart the most devastated land…”

This is true, for the poet knows intuitively all that scientists, intellectuals, and pundits will discover only years later, and yes, it was my heart, the most devastated of all places: so many crosses, so many memories… but at least I had some company!

It was making me feel good, because there was always someone to talk to, since we speak with our memories, don’t we?

Now that they have become PAST events, we can modify them a little, imagining how it would have ended up if we had said that precise word, or made that specific gesture at a certain point of the story… ”If I had told him that I was not afraid, but that he was…then everything would have been different!”

Besides remembering, we deconstruct the sequence of events, we try to change the lines, the timing, the feelings, and all in all we look like a bunch of hyenas, because ultimately we feed ourselves with corpses that are often in an advanced state of putrefaction!

It has happened for a while now that all these people, all these memories, these crowds of ghostly sensations have stopped visiting me; and this scares me because when you let go of your memories, they go all together. It is not only the bad ones leaving you, the most painful ones that may carry with them sad memories, the boring, the embarrassing ones, no, they all leave you en masse, but really all of them, even the most beautiful, the most sweet, the dearest ones, even those connected (it seemed indelibly…) to our greatest Love Stories.

Only a few years ago I met my soul-mate – as they call it here – or more simply my perfect partner, my inner woman…

It had been beautiful: the meeting, the magic, the fusion, the intimacy…the farewell.

One day, without any reason, just as she had come, she had gone too – in silence. The only thing I could remember was her one and only comment: ”I WANT TO LIVE LIKE A BIRD, WITHOUT LEAVING ANY TRACE IN THE SKY.…”

Her departure left a void, an absence that seemed could never been filled again, a profound sadness, a languid frustration, a sad movie…

Sometimes I would start listening to the music that used to accompany us while making love, and I would inevitably start crying, until one day I threw the tape out of the window and felt suddenly much better.

She had left her green cup in my house, which she used daily for her customary tea, and sometimes I would hold it in my hands to drink some tea myself…which was always served with some silent tears.

One day I threw the green cup too out of the window.

In a way it was like to have thrown all the memories connected to that faraway love out of the window, and this left space for immense gratitude.

Yes, I had met the woman of my dreams, yes, she had loved me more than any woman before, yes, she had accepted me in all my madness (which is a lot!) and she had never judged me…and then she was gone for no apparent reason, after an eternity that lasted more than ten years.

Deprived of that memory, only immense gratitude remained for this eternity, for this love that at least I had met in this life.

Before, I didn’t know that it is possible to love that much.

Before, I didn’t know that someone could have loved me so much.

Before, I didn’t know how much love can blossom from a man and a woman who accept each other to such an extent.

Now I knew it and I was simply grateful.

The mind, the time, the greed and all these similitudes were screaming that she had gone too soon, and this song was repeated by all my memories until they became painful.

My memories – like all the memories – were not born out of wisdom, out of love, but out of sheer greed; they were born like a complaint, and that’s why I decided to stop feeding them. Now all these memories have abandoned me, they no longer knock at my door like street vendors selling magic potions.

Sometimes I try to invite at least the memories of my Master, certainly the dearest among them all, but they never want to come…


Looking carefully among the dusty pages of my memory I could still unearth some memories with all their sweet details, but they carried no emotions, they seemed dead, useless corpses.

This was hurting a lot, especially when I was reading among the pages related to my Master: when I went back to Italy for the first time, in September of ’78, Osho told me to stop cultivating ideals about myself, that I should accept myself the way I was, and then he placed one of his white robes in my hands saying “And the next time you don’t accept yourself, wear this and you will feel like a Buddha!”

This particular memory always used to make me cry silently…once upon a time, during the time when all my memories – good and bad – were still visiting me at every hour of the day and of the night, at the time when I was still nourishing and caressing them.

Now even this one has become a dusty and foggy memory, like some past life event.

Sometimes I looked at the pictures of my Master that I had taken myself, remembering that there was a time when all the little reminiscences connected to that peculiar event would have jumped on me instantly…Osho asking about my health…Osho admiring my shirt and confessing that he would have liked a robe with the same kind of sleeves that I was wearing…Osho noticing that I was more beautiful with a beard…demonstrating with his ordinariness what an incredible ordinary being he was.

Those memories tore me apart, and sometimes I had to take my eyes away from those pictures, because Osho was dead and I wouldn’t photograph him anymore, and even worse, I would never see him smiling again.

My only hope at that time was that Osho would live long enough to give all his disciples the chance to see him like this: ordinary in his ordinariness.This gift had been given to me at various times and I felt always blessed for it; yet now these memories were provoking more sadness than gratitude, and even when they abandoned me, they left space for immense gratitude.

Perhaps the memories had taken away my Master’s image, but they had left behind – or in their place – an ocean of gratitude, with no face, no memories, no excitement, no words.


To be continued...


The End of A Dream

July, 2011

Continued from previous issue...

And now you all know with what dangerous things these miserable people were preventing him to write, for the safety of their miserable place! In short, they were letting him enter the Resort, but they had cut him off from every communication, any creativity, and in one word from all the activities that he had undertaken in the Commune.

He thought about that poor Shunyo who he had nourished for years since she was the girlfriend of Marco, his Roman friend who had followed him to Pune over ten years ago and he was sharing his house with; this poor Shunyo who used to say in front of his soup: ”THIS IS NOT A SOUP, IT IS A BLESSING!” “What people have to do in order to live or just to survive,” he was telling himself bitterly.

Naturally now, wherever he would go, people were asking continuously about this story and what he wanted to do next and so on, and since he was getting tired of all this blah-blah, he decided at a certain point to propose to Gulestan to go to Goa together for a couple of weeks, and on the same evening they were already on the night bus that would take them to the ocean.

At that time all the sannyasins who were going to Goa ended up inevitably in Candolim, a long strip of beach extended from Calangute to Fort Aguada, where you could find a couple of resorts (not in Pune style!) – very sweet and civilized, because they had been hosting these sannyasins for thirty years and had slowly learned the most elementary hygienic norms, and even to cook in “western style”.

He knew that even too well, because every time he went to “Dona Florina”, his favorite little resort, she would ask him to teach her servants how to make lasagna, or the famous “Spaghetti on the rocks” (with sea-food), or “Eggplant Parmesan” or other Italians specialties…

They spent a dream-like month with Dona Florina, eating fish every day, having long walks at dawn along the ocean, enjoying the multicolored sunsets of Goa in the evenings, and forgetting all about the mess they had left behind them.

When they finally came back to Pune towards the end of March, he felt immediately something in the air that he didn’t like at all, like a presage of some disgrace on the way, and as usual his feelings were right and his intuition revealed itself correctly.

Walking around the Resort he noticed that more than half of the population had left for the West, because the so called “high season” was over, and the place looked much emptier, without even his best friends around.

He had been back just for a couple of days when he was informed by some viscid functionary that he was expected to go to the main office for some communication of extreme importance. “Here we are!” – he said to himself expecting the worst, and the worst certainly came, because in the vast saloon of the Central Office there was the entire staff at the order of Jayesh.

They really looked like a kind of modern version of “The Holy Inquisition” of medieval memory, and their faces were promising trouble, for they were all very serious and didn’t waste any time in telling him what a delinquent he was. The first person to speak against him was Zareen, an Indian woman that had always sworn to love him immensely, but in that moment she started simply to make a long list of his misbehaviors, and how all this was defaming the good name of the Resort.

What I haven’t told you is that the very next day after his exploit in Buddha Hall, there was a big article about it in the local newspapers – without anybody understanding how it was possible, and a week later there was even the weekly magazine of “INDIA TODAY”, perhaps the most respected political magazine in India that had sent a female reporter to write a long story about the latest events at the Osho Resort. This woman had been searching for him, and got the narration of his own version about all that was happening in the Resort, to publish it later in a massive article.

As if this was not enough, a journalist friend had asked him if he wanted to write a SHORT story for “The Indian Express” about his experience, and the response was a LONG story called “Three Dictators Sitting in an Ivory Tower are Destroying the Commune”.

In fact all these bureaucrats had more than one reason to be angry at him, hence to make it short he told them simply: ”Listen guys, I don’t like to waste my time unnecessarily, hence just tell me what do you want from me now, and let’s finish this story!”

There was a long embarrassed silence, because all these people had been his close friends, at least in the past, and many of them were even habitué at his homely lunches, until a viscid little Indian, who was working as an accountant for the Big Boss told him in all seriousness: ”We want that you give back your entry-pass…”

“Is that all?”, he responded with great coolness and throwing at the same time his pass in the face of that idiot! Then he looked at every member of this “Religious Tribunal” one by one and said his last words: ”I just want to tell you that you are going to repent this decision bitterly. Fare well, my friends!”

And after one minute he left his old ashram forever, and from that moment he would never enter it again.

At that point the strategy of these bureaucrats finally became clear to him: they didn’t kick him out immediately, because they understood that to throw him out just after his proclamation would have stirred a tremendous agitation, a popular protest never seen before, hence what did they do? They waited a couple of months until the commotion had cooled down and the majority of old sannyasins had left for the end of the season to kick him out unopposed like a dirty dog. But this is not going to be the end of it, for sure not!

If he couldn’t enter the Resort anymore, nothing was preventing him to walk in front of it, and in fact every morning he would have a walk in that direction to meet his friends who often would stop to talk with him about the whole story, suggesting even some way or some excuse how he could come back inside the Resort.

“We are sure that if you make some public apologies, they will let you enter again…”

This is what most of his friends were suggesting to him, and to which he would answer inevitably: ”I will apologize for sure if I had something to apologize about, but the plain fact is that in my opinion I have NOTHING to excuse myself for, so what can I do?”

Then he liked to tease the two Indian guards who had said a few months before that should he be banned they would let him enter anyway. He would stand in front of the gate intoning a sort of litany: ”Indian bolo-bolo…very cheap…Indian bolo-bolo…” – with the result of exposing their contradiction very clearly, even if he knew that they had no choice; because if they would let him in, they would have been thrown out too.

Anyway, he wasn’t in the mood to give up and leave just like this, hence he decided to go back to his street-warrior attitude for a while and start to create some disturbance for these bureaucrats. The first thing he created was a huge poster with this message written on it:


While the other side read: “TRUTH WILL WIN”

With these two posters as a sandwich around his shoulders he placed himself in front of the Resort’s gate, to be admired by all the passers-by and to attract people to stop and talk about the whole issue.

Not satisfied with this, he also made a small flier that was written by Osho in person! It was in fact nothing other than an answer that Osho had given to a question on the subject of punishment, but it seemed truly written for this specific occasion.



The End of A Dream

June, 2011

Continued from previous issue...

Next morning he decided to pass by the Resort to cheek out the atmosphere and to verify if his prevision was right or not, because somehow he was sure that the guards at the gate must have had the order of not letting Sarjano inside the premises, but he was wrong, because when he reached the gate and pretended to enter the two Indian guards greeted him as usual and were about to let him enter without problem.

He stopped in front of the gate and asked them jokingly:

“Do you let enter even rebels like Sarjano? They haven’t told you to prevent me to enter yet?”

The two guards burst in laughter’s and told him that they hadn’t received any message about it, and even if the order to stop him would arrive, they would let him enter anyhow!

Once he had satisfy his curiosity, he decided however not to enter there for a couple of days, because he was afraid that everybody would have gathered around him to ask more details about the whole story, hence he moved towards the German Bakery to have a cappuccino in peace.

After one hour he was still there chatting with some friends – he had nothing to do, hence he could have stayed all day at the bar drinking with his friends – when he saw two of the ladies working for the Big Boss Jayesh running towards the Bakery.

The two ladies were looking just for him, and once in front of him, they proceeded to tell him emphatically that there was some trouble happening, and that he was requested to go to the Resort with them immediately!

He asked what was happening and why all this agitation, to which the alert functionaries told him that some people had seen him in front of the Resort’s gate just one hour before, speaking with the guards then leaving without entering, and they had alas concluded that the guards wouldn’t let him enter!

They added further that the news of Sarjano banned from the Resort had spread like a wild fire amongst all the sannyasins and there were already people going to the main office to complain, or even asking to meet Jayesh in person to enquire and ask what a hell was happening.

In front of all this commotion, the Boss had send them in search of Sarjano, to convince him to come to the Resort for at least an half of an hour, just enough to be seen by everybody, so that they could realize that he hadn’t been kicked out as the rumors were saying.

He started laughing at the though that until a few hours before he was sure that they would have throw him out like a stray-dog, and now they were asking him to come back and to show up… and they were even begging him for that!

At that point he decided to fulfill the request of the two anxious ambassadors and went for a walk inside the Resort, with the result that he was seen by everybody and the calm finally returned amongst the orange-people.

They had found however their way to punish him in a very cruel way, because the very next day he was called in the main office and he was brought in the presence of the Personal Secretary of the Boss, which informed him plainly and without blinking that from that moment he couldn’t simply work in the Commune anymore, that Osho Café’ had been closed for good, and from now on he wasn’t supposed to translate Osho,s books any further, and even less writing on the Osho Times, especially on his Italian edition, which had the long tradition of publishing an article written by him on every issue and since many,  many years!

He went immediately to the Italian Osho Times offices to see if the girls that were running it had already received the news, and saw them both crying over her desk.

They told him in tears that just half an hour before Ma Shunyo had been there to tell them that from today Sarjano couldn’t have written on their paper anymore!

This Shunyo, beside been in charge of the of the entire publications related to Osho, was one of his dearest friends, but the two girls told him that even when they informed her that Sarjano was like a pillar of the Italian Osho Times, she became aggressive and said that these were the orders and they didn’t supposed to be discuss!

I would like to give you here a little sample of these subversive and rebellious writings, so that you can have a clearest idea about the madness of these censors.

The following stories were published just one month before, after his declaration in Buddha Hall, and I wish to offer it to you for share sympathy and for you to understand what kind of stuff he was writing on this magazine.

To be continued...


The End of A Dream

May, 2011

You have to realize that in the entire story of the ashram – or whatever they were calling it – the evening function had NEVER been disturbed by anybody, neither there had been someone reading a proclaim during the ceremony, hence this event was going to be very likely a great shock for nearly everybody, and it will have had some serious repercussions.

Probably they would have kick him out from the Commune forever, but he didn’t cared a bit, because he was considering the place dead and buried, and he wasn’t the type of person to entertain himself with some corpses or distant memories.

Once he arrived at home, he had a good shower, then he wore the white robe that Osho had donated to him twenty years before, and he placed himself in meditation with close eyes for a few hours.

After his long meditation, he got up very slowly, grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and wrote his little proclaim, which had to last no more then 45 seconds, because this was precisely the interval between the end of the music and the video-discourse to start.

He entered the Resort wearing Osho’s robe and went to sit near the musicians as planned.

They twinkled to him saying that they had placed some friends around him, in order to slow down the eventual arrival of the guards, which will certainly try to stop him, so to give him those 45 seconds that he needed to read his inspired little poem.

The function started regularly at 7p.m. with the musicians spreading their sweet music and the people around them swaying softly following its rhythm, and as soon they stopped playing and they had left the microphone on the floor, he grabbed it in a second and started to read very quietly and lovingly:










He managed miraculously to finish his reading, and just in the moment when he was uttering his very last word, two huge guards arrived, pushing and puffing amongst the friends trying to slow them down, they grabbed him under his arms like a bag of potatoes and carried him away.

While the guards were doing their dirty job, the people who had witness the whole scene were shouting:” Leave him alone…Bring him back, what are you doing?!”

It was useless, because the two gorillas lifted him for 50 meters ‘till the gate, where they throw him out without any compliments!

During the night there was an incredible traffic of messages, phone calls, visits from people who wanted to know what was going on, because they were all worrying for him, and he was quite happy to see all this solidarity showered on him, ‘till at dawn he managed finally to go to sleep.

To be continued...


The End of A Dream

April, 2011

After seven years (could it be the famous seven years itch?) that the Master had left the body, slowly slowly but inexorably the new christened “OSHO RESORT” (sic!) became just this: a luxurious resort for pained souls in search of a quick spiritual-fix.

Now the simple entrance (former ashramites like him excluded thanks God!) wasn’t of 50 rupees as in the time when Osho was alive, but of 500 rupees net, which means that the cost of the entrance only had raised ten times in ten years!

Since there was nothing in all India which had risen to such extent, we may be able to understand why he was more and more disgusted by the entire story.

Instead than new prayers or new chants, every day new rules were popping up and the place, beside to become more and more expensive, seemed to become even more and more “political”, because he had become full of little gangs trying to acquire more and more power, and they were always fighting amongst them.

The undisputed Boss of the most powerful gang, the one that was taking all the most important decisions (like to remove Osho’s portraits from everywhere) was one Michael O’Byrne, currently Jayesh, which had arrived to the Ranch – how strange coincidence! – just after the first visit of the FBI in the Commune!

In those days there was a rumor going on everywhere, whispering that this guy was a CIA agent and that he had been infiltrated there by his bosses to have a first look at the Ranch’s activities.

This guy had managed with a perfect strategy and refined seduction to get in no time very close to the Master, choosing after a few days to operate a very simple game, which consisted in seducing Hasya, Osho’s new Secretary and become her boy-friend…

Since she was living in the room attached to the one of the Master, he, as servant cavalier of the Secretary, ended up meeting Osho several times a day.

His escalation continued undisturbed even in Pune, where he dropped the mature Secretary to engage himself with Vivek, which had been Osho’s caretaker for the past thirty years.

He couldn’t ever believe that these events were casual, because this Jayesh was a really handsome and fascinating man, and anyone could have seen that he knew how to deal with women and how to manipulate them, hence what was his need to start a relationship with a woman much older than him, since he could have had nearly any of the young women at his disposal?

He had always the suspicion that there were some dirty design, a subtle plan behind this story and behind this strange fiancée-business, but after all it was none of his business and he stopped to think about it.

He could never imagine anyhow that the place or his rebirth and of his spiritual growth could ever lowered itself to such an extent, and he was totally disgusted by it, at the point that he was continuously talking with his friends about the degrade of the Commune, saying that it was necessary to do something to save the ashram that was from further degradation, but nobody seemed to give a shit about it and they would hardly respond to his desperate invocations, or at least this was is impression.

“Till one faithful day, he had just finished eating at the Resort- Canteen (sic!), when he was approached by the musicians which used to play in the evening during the darshan with the Master – in video of course -!

These musicians looked around as to make sure nobody was listening, then they told him abruptly:” We have heard that you want to shout the truth in Buddha Hall, one of these evening…” – then, without even waiting for his answer, they told him:

“There is no need for you to shout, because we have all decided to give you our microphone! Well, we are not going to put it in your hand, but if you sit near us, like you have been doing hundreds of times, once we finish playing we are going to leave the microphone on the floor near you, so you can take it and say clearly and loudly what you need to say, because moreover the guy at the mixer is in accordance with us, and he will not switch off the power as he usually does in that moment, hence the microphone will be still functioning!”

He hardly could believe his luck, and he asked them if they were joking or they wanted to tease him, but the musicians told him that they had never been more serious in their life, and that he had simply to inform them of when he would have liked to execute his performance…

“Why wasting time at all? I’m going to do it tonight itself!” – he proposed with all his enthusiasm: “Tonight is okay with you guys?”

The musicians agreed, hence all he had to do was going home to get ready for the big event.

 To be Continued…


Too Intimate To Be Told In First Person

March, 2011

“There are experiences which are not worth speaking about,

in the sense that either you know it,

or you don’t know it.

There are experiences that become simply trivialized,

 just talking about them,

for, they are mysteries, and they should remain in the mysterious. "

He was in London, as a correspondent and photo-reporter for a big Italian Rock Magazine. The year was 1971 and the musical scene was dominated by all sort of crap, “muzak”, he used to call it.

Stones, Pink Floyd, Cream were already “old legends”, and the new scene was exhibiting kids like “THE SLADE”, or the “T. REX “ of Marc Bolan fame, while the States were sending packages of “Humble Pies” in melted sugar, and Alice Coopers rolled on a python-snake.

There was a musical underground scene too, thank God; gravitating around places like The Marquee, The Roundhouse, The Rainbow… with Bands called “Hawkings”, “Incredible String Band”, “Quintessence”.

S. used to be particularly fond of the Quintessence, for they were the true heralds of what will become trendy later as “Fusion”, or more precisely “fusion between East & West”. The front-man was Raja Ram, a flute-player that he used to like very much, and truly thought he was a great musician.

One day, after some of the usual compliments , Raja looked at him and said simply. :

“If you think I’m a great flute –player, it is just because you know nothing about music, and even less about flute-players . Listen to some of this stuff, then we can talk again !”

S. was taken quite aback, after all he was himself, growing a reputation of a “music-critic”, and here is this guy with a handful of tapes for him to listen to.

When he returned home, he placed one cassette, at random, on the player.

It was a morning raga, executed by Bismillah Khan, a player of a lesser known form of flute called “shanay”. After a sweet & mellow intro, the tablas

started rolling, and suddenly S. was like “possessed”!

He had to start dancing, it was getting compulsive..

He heard his voice shouting imperatively :

“ I need “my stuff”, and right now !”

He looked around, and of course , it was not to be anywhere, so he literally started running towards the nearest music shop, where he bought a pair of “goggles”, then ran back home, fixed them around his ankles, then started dancing again, just like someone possessed by a raptus of some kind !

“That’s me.. that’s me…” he was repeating in a sort of inebriation – “it is me !”

At certain point he managed to look at himself, and he started observing the movements of his body, of his arms, the mudras that his hands were forming one after another, his feet, tapping the floor with it’s belts, in a perfect synchronicity with the tablas rhythm.

He wished he had a big mirror, to watch himself better, because all his movements were so elegant, so graceful, so divinely inspired…while he was repeating again –

 “it’s me, it’s me !”

But when ? – was his next question ?

“WHEN ? This is me for sure, but when !?”

Certainly not in this life, was the obvious conclusion.

The rest you can figure it out for yourself…

The fact remains that he had NEVER seen a performance of Indian Dance in his life, not even on TV or in some movie, for that matter, he had never met a living dancer , he had zero information about Indian dancing, yet his body knew so much about it, as if it had been dancing like this all his life.

Yes, but which life ? Sure not this one. And then ?

Then, when he came to India, five years later, he decided to resist the temptations both :

of attending some dance-school, or to investigate about what kind of dancer he was.

He had a friend at the ashram, a girl called Heena. She was a professional “kathak” dancer, and at that time she was giving morning classes in the auditorium of

the ashram. One day she asked him why he never went to any of her classes, since they were open to everybody, and for free:

“I see you always in Buddha Hall dancing, be it at “Sufi Dance” time, be it for the “Nataraj” meditation, for the “Heart- Dancing”, but I’ve never seen you at my classes !”

It was a deliberate choice, and he would even close his eyes, if he had to transit near the auditorium during her classes, but how could he explain it to her ?

So, he just took a few jumps and threw a few postures , along with a few mudras around her, in total spontaneity and a supreme effortlessness… till Heena asked in wonder :

“ But, you have studied kathak before? ! “ – more as matter of fact than as a question.

He smiled and went away, still dancing , with a renewed energy,

for now he just knew what kind of dancer he was (since many lives) !


A Legend Called Deeksha

February, 2011

Once I had finished my patient extraction and I had cooked it according to her wishes,

I decided to bring my risotto on the counter anyway, because by now it had become saturated with a nice taste of porcini, even if they had been all removed, and the risotto turned out to be just another of my success.

Once I arrived home, I decided immediately to write to Osho, to inform him about this whole story and I concluded my letter more or less in this way:

“I will fight ‘till the last onion, till the last bunch of garlic, ‘till the last tomato…but I will never allow anyone, not even Deeksha, to interfere with the preparation of my food for the Commune, because it is nothing but my little gift towards the place that I love!”

The answer of the Master came the same day, while I was waiting for it anxiously, because I was afraid that Osho would have told me the same words that he had been telling to everybody for the past ten years, which is “SURRENDER TO DEEKSHA!”

This was not going to be his answer, but something else came instead, much more brutal and unexpected, because that simple note was reading:


I left the kitchen for good, thinking secretly that Osho had sent me away from there because he was afraid that I may would end up in destroying that great toy called Deeksha!

Osho certainly knew my rebellious temper, and how tough I could be in these circumstances, and he knew also that I was perhaps the only man in the ashram

that could give some problem and some head-hake to his “AGENT IN THE KITCHEN” and in his infinite compassion he had decided to spare her from this pain and this affront!

Since that day a started to dedicate to my book at least ten hours a day, with the result that, instead of the six months planned, I managed to complete my book

in just six weeks!

When the book was finished and I had informed the Master, he send me a message telling me to go back immediately to Italy to find a publisher for it!

This decision left me speechless, because I had absolutely no desire to leave the ashram, and even less to go to Italy, and on top I was sure that I could have found a publisher even remaining in Pune, if I just would have informed all the friends I had in the editorial world…

I wanted to write to Osho telling him all that, but at the end I wrote only these simple words:

“I will go to Italy! I will go with broken heart, because all my being wants to stay here at your feet, but I have realized that if I am at your feet, the only thing I can do is to listen to your words and just go…”

The Master answered naturally in his own way, and asked his secretary to tell me that:

“Now there is no need for Sarjano to go to Italy anymore, because he has understood everything!”

Have you ever seen somebody dancing like a madman and simultaneously singing loudly with all his heart ?

If you were there you would have seen it, because this was exactly my reaction to his words!

After the book was published anyway, Osho asked that Sarjano should have his own Restaurant, where he could do anything he wanted, without dealing with any other boss than himself, and that’s how the “OSHO CAFE” came into existence, and you guys started to have that fabulous pizza!



A Legend Called Deeksha

January, 2011

One faithful day after working in the kitchen for a month, I was called by Osho’s secretary, who had a message for me from the Master. When I was in front of her, she told me simply that Osho had expressed the desire that I should write a book about my adventure as sannyasin!

I thought immediately that this guy had a certain taste, but how in hell had he found out that I was a writer? Did he have his informers, or was he reading people like an open book? I would never come to know it, but I started anyway to write the first pages of this book, because I thought that it was an excellent idea, given the fact that Pune ashram was on everybody’s lips, and that I could have easily found a publisher for it, perhaps without even moving away from the ashram!

I was usually writing in the night, just before going to sleep, and I managed to write a couple of pages each time. I calculated that with this rhythm it was going to take about six months before completing my book, but there was not hurry, and I could easily relax and continue with calm, without thinking of a timeline.

Meanwhile, I had found out that this Deeksha, who was the unopposed and tyrannical boss of the kitchen, was not a simple woman, but a living legend! Osho had spoken about her numerous times during his discourses, telling us that she was a Zen Master, and that he had placed her in charge of the kitchen to represent his right arm there, and most of all that everyone was supposed to surrender to her, and nobody was to fight her, or say no to Deeksha, neither argue with her on any point!

About Deeksha there were the most incredible stories around, like that time when she lined up all the males working in the kitchen, and asked them to remove their pants, because she wanted to see if they had any balls at all! All men obliged, because everybody was scared to death by Deeksha, and this story too ended up contributing to the legend that Osho had created.

The Master had the habit to send all those therapists, or intellectuals, or serious professionals who wanted to experience working in the ashram to Deeksha, telling them that working with Deeksha would be very good for their ego! That was probably true, because Deeksha could have shred the most solid and structured ego in the world to a rag, for she had an extraordinary talent for this job, and was spending her days hitting right and left, managing all the time to hit the person which needed it the most. But with me she was totally different, and she never tried to create any difficulties for me or to hit my ego; and not only that, any time there was some important guest in the ashram, a famous musician, or a filmmaker, or a dance star, she would always ask me to cook something special for them, frequently bringing out delicacies from her secret drawers, some of the presents that her admirers brought her from Italy, such as parmesan cheese, or French cheese, or some black olives, capers, and many other things, which made it very easy for me to prepare some authentic Chef-d’ouvre for our guests.

Once I had finished cooking, I was regularly invited to those little parties to be acquainted with the guests for whom I had cooked, and to receive my dose of compliments. Within  a few months I had the compliments of Hari Prasad Chaurasia, of Zakir Hussein, of Shiva Kumar Sharma, and other musicians of this caliber, and all in all my relationship with Deeksha was nothing but idyllic, until one day she decided that I was ready for one of those ‘special treatments’ for which she was infamous.

It happened that a few days before she had given me a huge packet of Porcini mushrooms, an absolute rarity in India, telling me to do whatsoever I wished with this delicacy, so on that day I had decided to make a gigantic Porcini risotto, that would certainly be a delight for everybody, including the kitchen staff, because I had decided to make it in such a quantity that some of it would be left for the workers, who certainly deserved it!

I had carefully mixed an immense risotto in a big 250 liter vat full to the brim, when Deeksha suddenly entered the kitchen, right in the moment when I had left for a pee, and the instant she saw this huge abandoned-looking pot, she stirred it with a big wooden spoon in order to find out what this stuff was, and since the vat was so full, she managed to spill some of my creation on the floor.

In that instant I came back and told her abruptly to be more alert, that with her unawareness she had managed to spill my risotto, and that it would have been better if she would stay completely out of it! Deeksha looked at me as if there was a worm in front of her, and then asked me what this stuff was all about.

“It is a risotto that I’ve made with the Porcini you gave me the other day, and I’ve made a full vat of it because I hope that there will be some left for our workers, since they deserve it!”

Deeksha gave me an icy look and then she said, ”Now you take a pinch, and you take ALL the porcini out from this vat, one by one, then you sauté them in a little butter and some onions for ten minutes, and finally you’ll bring them to my office, where I can eat them with my friends!”

In that moment I could have literally strangled her, but I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want any troubles, and on top of it, this was Osho’s message for everybody: “Just surrender to Deeksha!”…so for this time I surrendered, but I wouldn’t let this story end up in this way, not really!

To be continued...


A Legend Called Deeksha

December, 2010

At the end of the darshan in which Osho initiated me into sannyas, he asked me if I wanted to do some therapy group; an offer that I gently declined, telling him that I wanted to start working in the commune, that I was here to serve him, that I was not a parasitic type, and that all these therapies had already broken my balls!

Osho started laughing at the expression, ‘breaking my balls’, and told me that he understood me perfectly, and if I wanted to start working, I already had his blessings.

After one week that I had taken sannyas, I decided that since I was not doing any groups, I might as well start doing something or other, because I am that kind of type of person who likes to be useful wherever he goes, and especially in this place that had become already my home.

In those days, many of the Italian sannyasins had recognized me as being the guy who was cooking at all the big gatherings happening in Italy; from rock festivals to almost any other large event, I was there to cook for tens of thousands people, and this rumor reached even Deeksha, the big Italian mama in charge of the ashram kitchens.

One day she had someone invite me to her office, because she wanted to talk with me; once I was in front of her, she told me that she had heard a lot about me, and about the fact that I was cooking at all these large gatherings, so she wanted to ask me if I would like to cook for the commune.

“Well, for now I wouldn’t like to have a steady job,” I told her, “because I’m still doing a lot of meditations, and I also like to participate in all events in Buddha Hall, and all in all I have quite a busy day!”

“Listen, “ – she stopped me in her usual manner – “why don’t you make us something good one of these days, one of these things that you know best how to prepare, just to try you one time, then we’ll see…”

I thought that this was a fair deal, hence I left telling her that as soon I could get the ingredients to do what I had in mind, I would immediately inform her, and come to her kitchen to do it.

I had a friend in the ashram, an Italian guy who was shocked by the fact that with all these buffalos around, and all this buffalo milk available, there had never been anybody with the simple idea of making a good ‘buffalo mozzarella’! This guy was very serious about it, so much so that when he returned to Italy he went for one month to Sicily, just to learn on the spot from the local cheese makers how to make the beautiful mozzarella that he had eaten so many times.

In the end, he became so much of an expert that he could now do it by himself, and all he had to do was to bring from Italy the rennet and cultures necessary for this operation.

I finally went to this guy and asked him if he would be capable to give me 50 kilos of mozzarella for the next day, because I had in mind preparing at least 500 portions of melanzane alla parmigiana (eggplant parmesan)!

The Italian friend promised that he would hand over 50 kilos of mozzarella around noon the next day, so at this point all I had to do was to get one hundred kilos of eggplants, the same quantity of tomatoes, and a dozen bunches of basil, which I got from our own gardener.

Next morning, long before the mozzarella arrived, I was already in the kitchen to prepare the tomato sauce and to cut and deep-fry the eggplants, and when that white stuff promised by my friend arrived, I started the creation and setup of this little masterpiece, mixing eggplants with mozzarella and tomato sauce, and placing some basil leaves here and there…

At five p.m., when the canteen opened, there were on the counter ready to be eaten a little more than 500 portions of succulent ‘melanzane alla parmigiana’; finally I could go home to rest, because I was really tired, but also very satisfied about what I had just done.

There were two ways of leaving the canteen, one going out from the back, without crossing the eating area, and another that was following a path parallel to the canteen. I chose to pass near the tables while leaving, because I was curious to see the people’s faces while savoring my little creation.

The scene in front of my eyes was simply incredible and overwhelming at the same time:

hundreds of people had a portion of these eggplants in front of them, and they were eating it with a pleasure and a satisfaction absolutely visible, feeding each other, letting out some big ooooohhhh’s of ecstasy, licking their mustaches, and to make it short, these eggplants were an unprecedented success!

The scene was so touching and so delightful that I simply couldn’t hold my tears, and while I was crying unseen in a corner, I decided that from now on I would cook every day, because I couldn’t deprive my friends of this libido they had just tasted, and I had already in mind a few more things that I could have prepared, something that nobody here had ever eaten before, with the exception perhaps of the Italians in the Commune.

I thought that all these people never had ‘gnocchi’ in their life, and certainly not our ‘polenta’, neither a real tomato sauce Neapolitan style like my mom used to make, neither homemade pasta, which I could have cooked easily for thousands of people, and finally I realized that I could do so many nice things, and slowly, slowly I was determined to do it all!

Meanwhile, I continued to practice three meditations a day in Buddha Hall, which were

the Kundalini Meditation because I liked the idea of shaking my sexual energy daily,

then I participated in the Music Group held in the night after darshan where I was dancing like a dervish, and finally a meditation that was offered every day from 10 to 11 a.m. and was called Sufi Dance, which was definitely my favorite of all.

This meditation was held by Ma Prem Aneeta, a woman who according to me was truly the Sufi wing of the Master, while the music was provided by Swami Prem Anubhava and Friends, and it was very pleasant and deliciously rhythmic. During this meditation we used to intone religious songs from every corner of the world, and also from any religious tradition possible, with the result that we would sing first a ‘Shri Ram’ chant, followed immediately by a Shalom allahem’ in the true Jewish tradition, and to end possibly singing Allah illah allahu’…

All these songs were accompanied by some dance steps that Aneeta showed the people while practicing them with Anubhava as an example, so that in the end everyone was singing and dancing at the same time. I used to lose myself completely in those movements and chants as if I knew them from some past life, because they were so familiar to me, and I was giving myself to this ecstasy in total abandon.

I was so regular and so passionate, that finally Aneeta began to recognize me, and even to indicate me as an example to the other participants, which means that every time people would start to slow down, the energy fading away, Aneeta would suddenly stop the meditation, then call me into the middle of Buddha Hall, asking everybody to simply imitate Sarjano: “Let him be your guide for five minutes, and just do exactly what he does, as if he were your leader!”

Too bad that during one of these ‘demonstrations’ my lungi slipped away, leaving me at the center of the hall totally naked, while everybody was looking at me and simultaneously at Aneeta, because they couldn’t understand if they had to imitate THIS too, and even before Aneeta realized what was going on, a few dozen of people had already removed their lungis and had started dancing completely naked!

“STOP, stop please!” screamed our leader, and then she invited someone to arrange my lungi in such a way that it would not fall down again, and the meditation continued amongst much laughter.

To be continued...


The Smoker’s Dignity

November, 2010

Many people have asked me why I have decided to offer an encounter-group to all of those who wants stop smoking, and this has been asked mostly by my closest friends and from those people that have been reading me since many years, for the simple reason that I have always been speaking against therapy, against the groups, and against the psychoanalysis.

We are not going to discuss here the reasons of my idiosyncrasy and of my refusals, because it will be sufficient to say (to provoke you as usual!) that the simple observation of a therapist proves unequivocally the failure of his therapy – or to tell you in crude words – if it hasn’t “CURE” him, how can it cure someone else?!

Therefore no therapy for me, thanks! – at the point that this process has been explained shortly like this:” NO THERAPY, NO BULLSHIT, JUST STOP SMOKING!”

The name of this group, “THE SMOKELESS FLAME” is a poetical metaphor often used by Osho to indicate the light of consciousness, which is like a flame without smoke, therefore undisturbed and transparent.

This is just a metaphor, sure, but it wants to indicate a fundamental freedom and dignity, which can be expressed such: you can do anything you wish, as long you do it with awareness, and when I say “anything” I really mean it, because for me everyone is free to poison himself as he wish – with cigarettes, with alcohol, with TV, with drugs, with coffee, with butter, with meat, with Coca Cola, - because in my humble opinion every substance is neutral, it doesn’t possess a morality or an intrinsic harmfulness, but it always depends from how you use it.

You must have heard already the banality (to often forgotten) that tobacco kills more than heroin, but the other banality, that you’ll never had suspected, is that the butter kills more

than any prohibited drug! – for it is a question, as usual, of awareness.

Since you must have understood by now that I privilege the path of the direct-experience rather than the “theoretical way”, I will tell you now about my experiences on this subject.

‘Till ten years ago a was a normal smoker, and I didn’t used to smoke too many cigarettes, neither I was posing myself any question about it, then one day I came across a book by JOHN CARR, that was posing basically only two questions, as obvious as eternally removed, to every smoker.

The first question was:” But, do I REALLY like to smoke?”

The author was asserting decisively that smoking is “disgusting” and that in reality we don’t like to inspire tobacco, but what we like is to repeat a certain gesture, trying to fill that vacuum that each of us knows in his own way.

Sometimes there can be also a tremendous need for nicotine – for the heaviest smokers –

but the reality is anyhow that we DON’T LIKE to smoke, and yet we have

self-hypnotized ourselves of the contrary, and with a stubborn insistence, like “I don’t want to stop it, because I like it too much!”

The other liar that we repeat constantly to ourselves is, according to this Carr, that

“to stop smoking for me is almost impossible, hence I don’t want even try, otherwise I may have to face a painful and frustrating failure!” – which is nothing but another form of self-hypnosis or a private brainwashing, assert our author.

What I found out by myself is that we repeat this song to ourselves so many times that we end up in believing that’s true!

Once I’ve finished to read this book, I didn’t decided to stop smoking, as the book was suggesting, but I decided simply to give a better look to these two categorical statements.

After a few days I went by the ocean early morning, and at first lights of the dawn I took off my clothes and I jumped in the sea, starting to swim calmly, like embraced by the waves, letting myself to be carry away lying on my back, just to watch the sky changing its colors in this beautiful dawn.

After a while I went back to the shore and I lay on the sand to let the rising sun drying my body.

I remained there still and serene for a few instants of beauty, rest, silence, ‘till that restlessness that always follow me brings my hand to open my bag, from where it brings out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

This automatic gesture, repeated thousands of times with no attention, is this time observed carefully.

The fresh air of the dawn is the most delicious, the most clean and sweetest thing that I have breathe since months, and yet I see my hand bringing the cigarette to my lips, and I can see that IT IS NOT ME, IT IS THE HABIT!

My hands lights a match, my lips comes forward and my lungs aspirate a big gulp of smoke, and what I found in my mouth in that moment is simply DISGUSTING, even if for a second I’m catch by the beauty of memories…but I insist to stay in the present and to enjoy this moment of purity.

The smoke in my mouth is simply disgusting, there is nothing to do about it, and NOW I have experienced it fully.

My hand throws the cigarette on the sand. It will be my last one.

As you can see, I had controlled by myself those two information’s that I was talking about: the first is that we don’t like to smoke – it is true, I have discovered it with no doubt, and the second, which says that it is very difficult, if not impossible to stop, have showed to be totally risible, and I am the living prove of it, because I am a person totally indulgent towards the so called “pleasures of life”, and moreover I have never been capable of imposing on myself any discipline whatsoever, hence in this case the slogan

“IF SOMEONE LIKE ME DID IT, THEN ANYBODY CAN DO IT!” – is absolutely true and highly pragmatic.

Once I came back from the ocean, I started to talk about my little experience with various friends; all people that at least in some occasion had expressed their desire of stop smoking.

The sequel of excuses, rationalizations, plain insults of the kind:” We all have to die anyhow, and you too, in spite of all yours preaching!” – has pushed me to give a deeper look into the matter, ‘till I’ve realized that the cigarette is “THE PLACE” of hypocrisy par excellence!

The only point is: for how long can we continue?

For the dignity and for the respect that I carry for who is reading these lines, I want to declare with absolute certainty that any smokers (and I’m talking about you that are reading, not about your grand-pa’!) knows perfectly how things are, he knows that he is cheating himself, he knows that he has renounced to his dignity to give himself to some dependency, to a kind of slavery.

I insist that everyone knows that this habit, deep down never wanted and never loved, he is imposing him specific rhythms and life-rituals, preventing alas other more healthy rituals, like to have a good run in the morning, or going for a long walk, or swimming for hours, but it doesn’t matter to him, so he pretends, he avoids, he denied…anything just to hide to himself the reality of his conditioning.

And for how long can we still pretend of not seeing, to not be capable of accept our reality, which is just in front of our nose?

I’m telling you all this with the only purpose to make clear what have been my motivations, and why I’ve decided to go in search for the “Smokeless Flame”.

You have to know that every mysterious and dark area, and all “the places of the secret liars” and of the “RIMOTIONS”, like this one, have always attracted me, because I’m not a follower of any borrowed sociology, hence let me remind you just a few fragments of what you have decide to forget:

  1. To smoke the first cigarette is to declare oneself “adult”, or emancipated, or free from your parents, or smart, or cool etc…)
  2. In every “social place” the moment of rest, of interval, of pause during the work, is associated with the ritual of the cigarette, with all its variations, such as coffee & cigarette, bier & cig., breakfast and cig., and so on.
  3. The room where the meetings happens, is usually the one which smokes more, because it is the place of debating, of arguing, of the ego clashing with others ego’s, but all this won’t be enough to build the same trap, otherwise all the rituals of  “the minimum common denominator (cricket game, holy mass, soccer game, club, parties, etc…) from being an habit they will become compulsory.

No, the real trap that we have build on our own is “THE ESCAPE FROM THE PRESENT” – when the present jump on us, with all its caducity, its uncertainty, its unbearable lightness, its solitude and its total absence of guaranties, THEN we light a cigarette, but know well that if we have a coffee instead, or a “joint”, or a look at the newspaper, a little drink…it is just the same, because we give away our awareness to a dependency that we have created ourselves.

“DEPENDENCY”… Ugly word, isn’t it? Nobody wants to hear about it, nobody is ready to accept it, and yet we have renounced to our dignity of conscious being, to give ourselves to a myriad of micro-dependencies, but don’t name them, don’t recognize them either, and in fact we avoid carefully to do it.

There will be too many questions if we were doing it, such as… “but am I the master or am I a slave?”

We all know the answer to it, within the silence of our aloneness, when nobody is spying us, not even ourselves, but then we continue to deny, while recognizing the dependency is the first (and inevitable) step to be free from it.

We all have known some people chronically affected by alcoholisms, that don’t even know that they are dependent, but just try to tell them, if you can manage it!

Then there are the heroin maniacs, the coke-addicts, the opium consumers, or others cases similarly pathetic, which are all catalogued in the list of the “addictions”

and yet nobody accept to be DEPENDENT from smoking.

For how long can we repeat to ourselves this liar?

For how long can we renounce to our dignity?

Why do I say that the cigarette is “THE PLACE OF IPOCHRISY”, of the compromising and of the paradox?

Only because the stupid people don’t even pose themselves the question, they live like slaves and pretend to be cool, but more one is intelligent and love himself, more he sees what he is doing to his body and to his lungs, and more he is forced to find new articulated and deep rationalizations to keep on doing something that stupid!

Now I will have to tell you what this “retreat” is all about – yes, we are going to retreat from our rationalizations and we will start to remember and to respect our motivations – since WHY I want to do it I have just told you.

The process that we are going to face is so fragile and so powerful, so mysterious and so obvious, so actual and revolutionary and at the same time so eternal, that its better we don’t tell to anybody in advance, and I hope not even after, because it should remain a secret!

 I can only indicate you two metaphors that will reach straight to the heart of anyone ready to listen, and he will know that the time has come to tell himself the whole truth, while the others can keep on smoking happily with all my sympathy, because this retreat, “The Smokeless Flame”, is not for them.

The first metaphor can be found in the miracle of Canaan, in the famous episode that saw Jesus multiplying the bread and the fishes…meditate over it, and perhaps you’ll find the key.

The second metaphor is a small story narrated by Osho, a story so powerful for me that it has originated the whole group.

A man (but it could be as well a woman) had won to a lottery a free trip in Paradise and one to the Hell, and naturally he was very curious, so he decided to visit first the Hell.

The place was really not like he could have imagine, but it was a beautiful and rich palace, surrounded by an immense garden of incredible beauty.

He entered in the first saloon and he was even more bewildered, because there were marble statues all over, fountains and long, silent corridors leading to the dining-room, a huge saloon more beautiful than anything he ever saw before, with at the center a table covered with everything one can dream of, the most exotic and delicious food, the most refined wines, crystal glasses, golden forks, and all in all our visitor couldn’t believe to his eyes.

“Ah, and this will be the Hell!” – he said to his guide in astonishment.

“Go a little closer, and you will understand…” – was the answer.

So our friend walked towards the table, about thirty meters of marble finely decorated, full of the best delicacies you can have in the world, and he saw that in front of all this abundance, the guests were sitting rigid and frozen, with the forks suspended in the air, the elbow curved in two, and the total incapacity of moving it, because everybody had their arms blocked by a paralysis! 

“This is horrible!” – whispered incredulous our visitor – “that’s what Hell is: to be in front of a table covered with everything one can desire…and be incapable even of touching it! And for eternity, on top…this is really terrible!” – and in fact he escaped immediately and asked to be taken to visit the Paradise.

The huge and luxurious garden that he saw there was were similar to the first, and the rich, marble palace was similar to the one he saw in Paradise too, and the corridors seemed the same, and the painting on the walls, the brocades…everything was so similar, he started realizing with a sense of anguish.

The dining-room too looked so much familiar, and when he saw the same table full of food like in the first one, he started trembling for the fear and for the horror of it.

He went close hesitantly to the table, to discover with an anguish beyond any imagination that EVERYTHING was the same, and even in Paradise the guests were suffering of the same paralysis to their elbow, and therefore nobody was capable of grabbing the food, neither bringing it to his mouth…”Oh noooooo! This is not possible – tell me that it is not true! The Paradise and the Hell are the same identical thing!”

“Go a little closer” – was again the answer.

The visitor advanced, up to the guest’s shoulders, until he could see that there was a little difference, a very tiny difference, but it was making the whole difference, it was changing the situation completely…

The guests were suffering of the same paralysis to their elbows, but they had discovered that, even if it was impossible to bring the food to their mouth, because the elbow would not bend, it was possible however to feed the person near them, and in this way everyone was nourishing someone else and from someone he would be nourished, and that’s how they were living in Paradise, where love is caring and sharing.

Here the story ends, and your meditation starts…meditate please, meditate, and you’ll may find the key for this retreat!

Sarjano is looking for a place to offer his group



My Spaghetti Days With Osho

October, 2010

Introduction: For more than twenty years I wanted to write this book, a book about the ineffable and mysterious relationship that exist between a disciple and his Master, but after having started several times, I have always dropped the whole idea and forgot my noble intentions, and for a very simple reason, and that is the inadequacy and the poverty of our language.

Let’s say the truth about this: it is very difficult to communicate with a written language, much more than with an oral transmission, because when you say it talking you have the help of your expression, the tonality of your voice, the movement of your hands, that laughter that you can have between a sentence and the next, while writing is

a “cold medium”, as acutely pointed by Marshall Mc Luhan and fully subscribed by Osho, my Master.

You can look for yourself: when you have an extraordinary experience, out of the blue, don’t you say usually that “I have become speechless”, or “I had no words…?”

And you don’t need even to go that faraway, because you just have to think at the first time you have kissed someone in his mouth…have you later told it to everybody, or have you started to explain to your partner how beautiful it was?

No, because normally we have no words to describe the experiences that have touched us deeply, and we don’t even try to find them!

I would have loved to narrate my twenty years with an Enlightened Master, but the whole thing was a little embarrassing, to say the least, because I didn’t really knew which language to use, which metaphors, which literary artifices.

At certain point I had adventured myself in a sumptuous “PHENOMENOLOGY OF THE ENLIGHTENMENT”, just to make happy all those second hands intellectuals that I used to hang out with before meeting Osho, but then I simply gave up, because it was not reaching anywhere, and  it was not capable of explaining deeply what I was trying to convey.

I have tried even with “the mystical language”, comparing the Master to a light on the path, to a silent oracle, to a modern Jesus Christ – but much more articulated- defining him “far better than Buddha itself!”, but they were all terms that were making me laughing, therefore you can imagine how much they will make the readers laughing!

I have tried in every possible way - and even impossible – to narrate this event, to communicate in which way a Master WORKS on his disciple – and how this person defend himself – but I have always failed, I admit it openly and with no shame, ‘till one day I said to myself: “and what about if we let the Master itself telling the whole story?”

The Master in fact during all these years have done nothing but seducing me, hitting me, flattering me, caressing me, giving me some heavy slap – metaphorically speaking – just to lift me up a minute later, maybe just in order to hit me again with another Zen stick, followed inevitably by another caress, a kiss, a twinkle of his eyes, that another hit…and all this for twenty years and more!

I decided then to collect all the answers that the Master has giving to me during our relationship, and even those discourses when he suddenly would bring out my name, just to give my a pat on the head, or to hit me again with one of his fatidic hammering, and offering all this to you.

I’m presenting then his words on a bamboo leaves plate, hoping that this will help you to understand much better than I could write myself what this “exemplary relationship” between Master and disciple is made of and how it works.

I call it “exemplary” because, in spite of my effort to put myself down, an ancient modesty, and a healthy realism, I had to realize at the end that my relationship with Osho has been quite ”special”, hence exemplary.

I had always refused the idea that my Master could possibly love one of his disciple more than he would love any other one, because I was perceiving him as pure love, indiscriminate, choice less, and most of all total towards all and everyone, and yet Bhagwan seemed truly to have a special affair with this Sarjano, and he was showing towards this crazy Italian an inexplicable sympathy and an even more inexplicable perseverance in hitting him.

Sometimes I would say to myself that probably I was remembering him his childhood, perhaps he had some friend resembling to me, or he was himself very similar to me, because we have both grown up – even if in different circumstances – without a solid father figure to break our balls and teach us all those bullshits that usually the fathers teach to their children, and moreover we both used to spend our days by the river – which were two different rivers, but we all know anyway that it is always THE SAME river – and we swim in those dangerous waters, or we jumped in the river from some trees,

or we were chasing the snakes to place them in our pocket and scare our friends later, on the way home…

There were many points in common about our childhood, and even for what our adolescence is concerned, from the enchantment of the river, to a premature passion for philosophy and for the great questions of life, and in fact at the age of twelve I was reading “THE NAUSEE” of Jean Paul Sartre, while Bhagwan was reading the scriptures of Buddha and the chants of Mahavira… to each of us his own way of searching, but the fact remained that both of us had started to search for their inner truth quite early, actually VERY early!

Perhaps, as the Master had repeated many times, we have been together in some past life too, but what matter is that this turbulent Italian has been the person to which the Master has spoken more often in all his holy career – amongst his disciple – and he was not only the one that had posed the bigger number of questions, but even the one that got more answers!

I would have loved to publish the words of the Master towards his disciple just like this, with no comment, one after the other, but some close friends has beg me to narrate at least briefly, in my own way, what was happening to me and to the Commune during the days when Bhagwan was addressing me those words, so I surrendered to it and I did just that.

I have kept the narration in third person, and for two reasons, first because I feel much better in this way and secondly because I want to be simply a witness, which is someone that just watch and then tells you what he has seen!

Beside the joke (and who is joking!?), what I’m trying to say is that after all I’ve decided to limit to the max my personal story, and to report only the most significant moments of it, hence I must have forgotten many people which were very dear to me, just to let the Master itself to speak more, with his infinite simplicity and his infinite love.

His style of expression has been represented here as faithful that is possible, with all it’s repetitions, all it’s reiterations, because I certainly do not wish to get another stick from him!

Once, during my job of translator of his book from English to Italian, I had started to cut a little here and there, to erase all his repetitions, the most redundant sentences, and even modifying lightly – but only for the peace of the reader – his statement more hazardous!

Bhagwan got to know it - I can’t even imagine how – and he slammed me openly saying that Sarjano was trying to make his words more”digestible”!

Someone has helped me to track that discourse, which was given sometimes in 1980, and I’m giving you the most salient parts, so that you can have a little taste on how things were functioning in this place!

“Just the other day I have received a note from Arup, one of my secretary, that was informing me that Sarjano, which is translating since a while my books into italian, has started to change something here and there, while doing his job, erasing a few words or adding some words of his liking.

Naturally he is just trying to make a good job, and with all the good intentions possible, because he is trying to make my discourses more logical, more intellectual, more sophisticated, while I’m a little wild type of man!

He wants to trim me here and there…You look at my beard, if Sarjano is allowed he will trim it like Nikolai Lenin, but then it will not be MY beard.

He is trying to make it more appealing, there is no doubt about his intentions, but these are the intentions which have always destroyed.

When he was told my message, that he has to do exactly as it is “Don’t try to improve upon it, leave it as it is, raw, wild, illogical, paradoxical, contradictory, repetitive, whatsoever it is, leave it as it is!”

It must be so difficult for him that he said “Then I will not translate, I would rather like cleaning work!”

You see how the mind works?

He is not ready to listen to me, he would rather like cleaning work, otherwise he has to be allowed to interpolate, to change, and to color things according to HIS idea…

Now, whatsoever you will do, you will do wrong, because what I am saying is from a totally different plane, and what you will be doing will be a totally different effort, it won’t belong to MY dimension.

It may be scholarly, but I am not a scholar, it may be knowledgeable, but I am not a knowledgeable person.

Knowledgeable people have their own ways, just small things they will do…

For example, I had said that Saraha is the founder of Tibetan Buddhism.

Now, no scholar will say it so decisively, only a madman, because you have to give proofs, you have to give footnotes, and you have to make a big appendix in which you have to give proofs, and I never give any proofs, I never give any footnotes, I never give you any sources from where… I know only one source – the Akashic Records!

So, just to make it more appealing, more digestible, he had changed it just a little, not much, that “Saraha can be said to be the founder of Tibetan Tantra, of Tibetan Buddhism… CAN BE SAID! Now this is a scholarly way, a legal way, but it destroys the whole beauty of it, it destroys its whole certainty, its decisiveness, its hammer-like quality, and hammers are not supposed to be digestible, Sarjano, it is not spaghetti!

He is a good cook, and makes beautiful spaghetti, and I don’t know much about spaghetti, but I know that Saraha is the founder of Tibetan Buddhism, and I will not give any proof about it, I don’t believe in proofs, I simply KNOW!

I know Saraha, it is a personal friendship with him, and even if the historians prove something else, I won’t listen, I won’t pay any attention to them, because I KNOW Saraha!”

This is just a little taste of what is awaiting for you later, beside to be a good excuse in order to justify the repetitions of my Master!

Try to understand this simple thing: when he was speaking to his disciples, he was not reading a written discourse, neither was he thinking about the posterity that one day would have read his words, but he was just chatting with a few thousands of friends that had come to listening him, hence it’s natural that his elocutions are repetitive and fragmented by long pauses and infinite repetitions, because – I repeat it – his intention was not to make a nice book, but to manage to communicate to some thick-heads like ours his simple truth!

I hope that this will help you in understanding a little better the journey…the journey towards oneself I mean, the journey to come back home, in the eternity that has originated us, and where, that we like it or not, we will all come back one day, each of us with it’s own timing of course!

To find a living Master can be of immense value for your growth, but you don’t have to worry about finding a Master, because it is not the disciple to choose the Master…

(and how can he – with which criteria?) but is rather the Master to choose his disciples, it will be sufficient then that you prepare yourself, and get ready to start your inner journey.

It will be useless that for this purpose you start searching for Osho, because it is dead and buried long ago, and he is alive only in the heart of his true disciples.

For the rest, the organization which carries his name is in the hands nowadays of a little group of common delinquents, which are destroying unopposed his entire heritage – but these miserable people can even step on everything, or even cancel the name of Osho from the earth, but they will never be capable to cancel Osho from my soul, and that’s enough, more than enough!

And for those who are deaf to the call, I have here a little invocation,

written by Ronald D. Laing as for the conclusion of his famous book

“THE POLITIC OF EXPERIENCE”. I want to offer it to you with all my heart:






Have a good trip, my fellow traveler!

-Swami Svatantra Sarjano


After having heard for hundreds of time how much Osho hated spaghetti, one day, after his last declaration on the subject, I decided to write him a letter, to which he regularly responded.

My letter was saying:

“Beloved Master,

I have heard you saying that you hate Madonna, the singer, and then you hate lipstick, and this morning you said again that you hate spaghetti too!

Don’t you think you hate too many things for an enlightened being?”

The Master answer:


I don’t hate anything! It is just an expression to emphasize how stupid certain great phenomena from the West are , like this poor Madonna for example, or like this horrible lipstick that girls are wearing in millions all around the world, and why? Lips are as beautiful as they are, and what is the need to cover them with animal fat?

About your spaghetti, I must to tell you that it’s not their fault; it is just that they came to me with the wrong vehicle, that’s all.

In my early days I had a woman disciple which was an Italian, and she wanted absolutely that I taste this famous spaghetti, so one day she did it for me.

First she used this poor Indian spaghetti, that are made in such a way that they become like glue after three minutes you boil them, plus she put tons of garlic in her sauce, when everybody knows how much I hate garlic, and finally she was always wearing some heavy and disgusting perfume, that was so intense that her spaghetti had absorbed the smell of that perfume too! 

When she brought me her Italian delicacy, I told her that I eat always alone, for it is like my meditation, so she left the plate and went…and I could throw immediately all her spaghetti in the toilette and flush it! But, as I was telling you, it’s not the spaghetti’s fault, it is simply because they came to me with the wrong vehicle...”

After the discourse was over, I couldn’t wait a single minute, and I rushed in search of a pen and some paper in order to write him a small note, that I send immediately to him.

The note reads:

“Beloved Master,

this existence, that according to your teaching always provide, has found not one, but TWO right vehicle for the spaghetti to come to you in the proper way!

This is to tell you that Sarjano and Kuteer are ABSOLUTELY DETERMINED to prepare for you this evening a juicy plate of spaghetti, so that finally they can receive your blessings too! Get ready to welcome them as they deserve, and ENJOY!”

I had decided to involve Kuteer in this operation without even warning him, and when I went to tell him that we were going to cook spaghetti for Osho, he thought I was joking, but then he saw Vivek, that had come just in search of us two, for warning us:

“No garlic, please, not at all, and not even mushrooms…and…”

“And… and I know very well what I am doing, you don’t have to worry!” – I interrupt her abruptly, and then I grabbed Kuteer to bring him on the operational table.

We had a little pasta-machine in those days, that beside spaghetti could make different kind of pasta-shape too, so we decided for a little format called “CANNOLICCHI”, which is like a kind of little cylinders no more that three centimeters long, with a hole inside, just to avoid even the memories of those ancient spaghetti that he had met in those disgraceful circumstances.

As for our lovely sauce, we used a little ghee to fry slowly and tenderly some onions, so finely chopped to become invisible, to which we add some fresh home made tomato-pure’ and just a few leaves  of basil also finely chopped, and that’s was it.

Our little masterpiece was ready and fragrant at 6 p.m., and it was quickly introduced to the Master, hoping for his blessings, after all these years of teasing, condemnation, hatred.

Vivek and Shunyo  had come at Lao Tzu gate to collect our creation, and they brought it immediately to him, and they finally got his blessings!

The whole story got even a quotation the very next morning during his discourse! (can’t find the quote, sorry –n.d.r.)

The report of Vivek and Shunyo after they left Osho,s  room half an hour later was clear and adamant: “Osho just told us to come to you and tell you how much he liked your pasta!”

I was a bit incredulous, hence I asked for more details about this fabulous meeting between the Master and the “cannolicchi”, but the two girls had no answer, and they looked quite embarrassed, on top.

As you may know, it is very, very difficult to hide something from me, for no matter how much you try to hide it – even to yourself- I can simply SMELL it, whatever it is!

I can even teach you how you can smell truths and liars for yourself, but are you ready for it? It just needs the nose of a great cook, that’s it! Then it is quite simple, and all you have to do is just “tune in” with the person in front of you and see what is there!

“Tell him that I will believe him only when he asks me for another plate!” – I told her adamantly, to which she started laughing, but at the same time I could see that she was looking a little embarrassed too, so I told her:

“Vivek, it is very difficult to lay to me, because what has happened in his room last evening is written on your face!”

“Yes…” - she said – “and what has happened, according to you?”

“I will narrate you the whole scene and I will know from your faces if I saw the real movie or if I’m just dreaming and projecting my own fantasies, get it?!

And with that I started my narration, and like a consumed actor I proposed emphatically:

“Ladies & Gentlemen, visualize this!”

Osho is sitting quietly in his room, minding his own absence of mind, and you are just so excited about the whole story, that you have already decided to bring him Sarjano,s creation together, while normally is either one of you entering his room, no need for both…but this time none of you wanted to miss this remarkable meeting between East and West, so there you go, “ KNOCK KNOCK…Osho, Sarjano’s spaghetti have arrived!”

Osho open his eyes, look at the plate that you have placed under his nose for quite sometime, than he take with his finger a solitary “cannolicchio” and he place it slowly in his mouth, then he start to chew it even more slowly, with closed eyes, to feel better its consistency and its fragrance, and finally he open his eyes and says:

“Tell Sarjano that I liked his spaghetti very much!” – and so said he closed his eyes again, and went back to his Samadhi, while you remained there steering at my plate of pasta, not knowing what to do next.

Osho opens his eyes for a minute and sees you in bewildered contemplation of the food in front of you, then he smiles and ask you: “Do you like this stuff? – more as a matter of fact than as a question, to which your eyes answer with no words, just shining!

Osho laughs and says:” You can have it, please, make yourself happy.”

And that’s how both of you rushed back to the kitchen and devoured the whole lot, moaning and giggling all along, RIGHT?”

Laughter was the answer, and a little surprise too:”Oh God, tell us the truth, were you hiding under his bed, meanwhile?”

“Sure I was hiding somewhere…c’mon, if I were in that room I would have told him that there is no way I can believe in what he said, until and unless he doesn’t ask me for MORE pasta, nothing less, just like you two would like to do now, yes!”

The two girls just couldn’t stop laughing, and that was their answer!


Home | ContactAbout Site MapOsho Centres | Other Links | Trademark | Copyleft / Privacy Policy