Devageet, I think you are being affected by something. You have to be unaffected. Right?
Otherwise who is going to write the notes? The writer has to be, at least, the writer.
These tears are for you, that's why they are on the right side. Ashu missed. A little one is coming on the left for her also. I cannot be too hard. Unfortunately I have only got two eyes, and there is Devaraj, for whom I will weep from both eyes together. He is of those few for whom I have been waiting, and not in vain. That is not my way. When I wait, it has to happen. If it does not happen, that only means that I was not really waiting, nothing else. Now, back to the story.
I never wanted to meet Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, the father of Indira Gandhi, for two reasons. I had told Masto, but he would not listen. He was just the right man for me. Pagal Baba had really chosen the right man for a wrong man. I have never been right in anybody's eyes, but Masto was. Except for me, nobody knew he was laughing like a child. But that was a private affair, and there were many private things which I have to make public now.
We argued for days whether I should go to see the first prime minister of India. I was as reluctant as ever. The moment you ask me to go anywhere, even to God's house, I will say, "We will think it over," or, "We could invite Him for tea."
We argued to no end, but he not only understood the arguments, but who was arguing, and he was more concerned with that.
He said, "You can say whatever you like, but," as he always said when he could not convince me with rational argument, "Pagal Baba has told me to do this, so now it is up to you."
I said, "If you say that Pagal Baba told you, then let it be so. If he was alive I would not leave him in peace so easily, but he is no more, and one does not argue with a dead man, particularly a loved one."
He used to laugh and say, "What happened to your argument?"
I said, "Now, you shut your mouth up. The moment you bring Pagal Baba in, a dead man out of his grave, just to win an argument.... And you have not won either, I have simply given up. Do what you have been arguing about with me for these last three days." But those arguments were tremendously beautiful, very minute, subtle and far reaching - but that is not the point, at least not for today... perhaps in some other circle.
The thing Masto was insisting upon was that I should see the prime minister because one never knows, perhaps someday I might need his help. "And," I added, "perhaps...." (RATTLING NOISE FROM THE AIR CONDITIONER) This is the devil I was telling you about, who types poor Devageet's notes during the night. Look, now he is typing directly. Even Ashu is laughing because she does not know what to do - perhaps nobody knows.
(NOISE STOPS) Great! I had to stop talking myself, that's why he has stopped. If I speak again, unless something is done, he will start again. (RATTLING NOISE AGAIN) This is too much! Typing during the night, in the dark, is okay....
What was I saying?
"That Masto insisted you should meet the prime minister because one never knows, you may need his help one day."
I said to Masto, "Please make a small addition to it, that perhaps someday the prime minister may need my help. I am willing to go, because if Baba told you, then it is not so much trouble as having to disappoint the poor old Baba. Okay. But Masto, have you got the guts to also make the addition?"
Although a little hesitantly, he rose to his full height and said, "Yes, one day, not only perhaps but certainly, he or somebody else who occupies that chair is going to need your help. Now come with me."
I was only twenty at that time, and I asked Masto, "Have you told Jawaharlal my age? He is old, and the prime minister of one of the biggest democracies in the world, and of course he must have thousands of things on his mind. Has he got time for a boy like me? I mean a boy who is not even conventional; I mean, from a convent?"
I was really unconventional. First, I used to wear wooden sandals, which were a nuisance everywhere. In fact, they were a good declaration that I was coming, coming closer; the louder the noise, the closer I was.
My headmaster used to say, "Do whatsoever you want to do. Go and eat the apple again" - he was a Christian that's why he said that - "or, if you want to, eat the snake too! But for God's sake don't use those wooden sandals!"
I said to him, "Show me your rule book, the one you show me every time I do anything wrong. Is there any mention of wooden sandals in it?"
He said, "My God! Who would have thought that a student would turn up wearing wooden sandals?
Of course there's no mention of it in my book."
I said, "Then you will have to inquire at the Ministry of Education, but until they pass a bill against using wooden sandals in school and let the whole world laugh at the foolishness of it, I'm not going to change. I am a very law-abiding person."
The headmaster said, "I know you are very law-abiding, at least in this matter you are. It is good that you don't insist that I should wear these wooden monsters too."
I said, "No. I am a very democratic man too, I never force anything on anybody. You could come naked, and I would not even ask, 'Sir, where are your pants?'"
He said, "What!"
I said, "I am just saying 'suppose,' the way you do when you come into class and say, 'Suppose, just suppose....' I'm not saying that you should actually come naked... you don't have the guts to actually do it."
(RATTLING NOISE AGAIN) Only Asheesh can help, because perhaps the devil may understand Italian, and no other language. That's good. What was I saying?
"You were telling the headmaster that he didn't have the guts to come without his pants."
"Yes," I said to him; "it's only a supposition, just the way you say to the class 'Suppose....' We never ask whether it is real or not, so don't ask me. Suppose you come without your pants; now I make some more additions, without a shirt, or even without your underwear...?"
He said, "You! Simply get out of here!"
I said, "I cannot, unless you tell me that I may use my wooden sandals. Wood is natural, and I am a non-violent man so I cannot use leather. So either I have to follow you, and use leather as you do - although you call yourself a brahmin, but with those shoes, with what face can you call yourself a brahmin? - or I have to use the wooden sandals."
He said, "Do whatsoever you want to do. Just go away as far as you can, as quickly as possible, because I may do something which I may repent my whole life."
I asked him, "Do you think you could kill me just because of my wooden sandals?"
He said, "No more questions, don't provoke me. But I must tell you that when I hear the sound" - because all the floors in the school were paved with stone - "I can hear you from anywhere in the building. In fact it is impossible not to hear you because you are continuously moving - I don't know why - and that noise just knocks me out of my senses."
I said, "That is your problem. I am going to use the sandals." And I used them until I left university.
For my whole life, from high school to university, I used wooden sandals. Anybody could have told you about me because I was the only person with wooden sandals. Everybody used to say, "You can hear him from miles away."
I loved those wooden sandals. As far as I was concerned I loved them because I used to go for long walks, for miles, in the morning and at night. And with a wooden sandal... I don't think any of you has the experience of wooden sandals, but it sounds as if somebody is walking behind you, and although you know it is only your sandals making the noise, who knows? Perhaps, maybe... or, why take a chance? Just have a look. One wants to look back to see who is following. It took me years to train myself not to do such a stupid thing, and even longer not to even think of doing such a stupid thing.
I told Masto, "I have always been reluctant, even about things which anybody else would agree to easily."
But to say yes came to me very late. I went on saying no, no, until all the nos turned into a YES - but I was not waiting for it.
Now, this has become a distraction. In fact, everything in this series is going to be a distraction of some sort, but I will try to come back again and again to the same point from where we were distracted.
I agreed. Masto and I went to the prime minister's house. I didn't know how many people respected Masto because I did not know much of the world anyway. I asked him on the way there, "Have you made an appointment?"
He laughed and didn't say anything. I thought to myself, "If he isn't worried, why should I be concerned? It is none of my business. I am only going with him."
But he needed no appointment; it became clear as we entered the gate. The policeman fell at his feet saying, "Masta Baba, you have not been for months, and we love to see you. Once in a while the prime minister needs your blessing."
Masto laughed but didn't say anything. We entered. The secretary touched his feet and said, "You should have just phoned and we would have sent you the prime minister's car. And who is this boy?"
Masto said, "I have brought this boy to be introduced only to Jawaharlal and to nobody else. And please remember, nothing about him is to be mentioned in any way."
Although he took every care, still my principle worked. I have told you the moment you create a friend, immediately you create an enemy. If you don't want the enemy then forget about the friends.
That is the way of the monk, Buddhist and Christian; forgetting all about relationship, friendship and everything, so that you don't create enemies. But to just not create enemies is not the purpose of life.
You will be surprised as I was, but not that day - only after many years.... That day it was not possible for me to recognize the man sitting in the secretary's office waiting for his appointment. I had not heard of him then, but he looked very arrogant. I thought he must be somebody powerful. I asked Masto, "Who is this man?"
Masto said, "Forget all about him; he is nothing of much value. He is Morarji Desai."
I said, "He is of no value?"
Masto said, "I mean, of any real value. He is just hocus-pocus. Of course he is a cabinet minister, and look at him, he is very angry because it is his time to be with the prime minister."
But Masto was known, and the prime minister called him first, and told Morarji Desai to wait. That was an insult, unintended on the part of Jawaharlal, but Morarji perhaps has not forgotten it even to this day. He may not remember the young boy, but he must be able to remember Masto. Masto was very impressive, in every way.
We went in, and it was not just for five minutes; it took us exactly one hour and thirty minutes. And Morarji Desai had to wait. Now, that was too much for him. It was his appointment, and somebody else, a sannyasin with a young boy entered before him... and then he had to wait for ninety minutes!
And for the first time in my life I was surprised, because I was not there to meet a poet, but a politician. I met a poet.
Jawaharlal was not a politician. Alas, he could not succeed in bringing his dreams to reality. But whether one says "alas" or "aha," a poet is always a failure. Even in his poetry he is a failure. To be a failure is his destiny, because he longs for the stars. He cannot be satisfied with the small, the finite. He wants to have the whole sky in his hands.
I was completely taken aback. Even Jawaharlal could see it, and he said, "What happened? The boy looks as if he has had a shock."
Masto, without even looking at me, said, "I know that boy. That's why I have brought him to you. In fact if it had been in my power, I would have taken you to him."
Now it was the turn for Jawaharlal to be taken aback... but he was a man of tremendous culture.
He looked at me again, so that he could measure the meaning of Masto's words. For a moment we looked into each other's eyes, and we both laughed. And his laughter was not that of an old man, it was still that of a child. He was immensely beautiful, and when I say this, I mean it, because I have seen thousands of beautiful people; but I can say without hesitation, that he was the most beautiful of them all, and not only in his body.
It is strange; we talked of poetry, and Morarji was waiting outside. We talked of meditation, and Morarji was waiting outside. I can still see the scene - he must have been fuming. In fact that day
decided and sealed our enmity. Not from my side, of course; I have nothing against him. All his concerns are just stupid, not worth being against. Yes, once in a while he is good to laugh at. That's what I have done with his name, and his urine therapy - drinking your own urine. He was in America preaching it. Nobody asks whether he drinks his own, or somebody else's, because when a person drinks urine he is already out of his senses, so that now he could drink anything - what to say of somebody else's urine. And he was teaching there, sermonizing.
That day he became an enemy to me, but on my part at least, it was unknowingly. It was just because he had to wait for one and a half hours. He must have come to know who I was from the secretary, perhaps asking, "Who is that boy? And why is he being introduced to the prime minister?
What is the purpose of it? And why is Masta Baba taking an interest in him?"
Of course, sitting there for one and a half hours you have to talk about something. I can understand it, but it was the most difficult thing for him to swallow - even him, who can swallow his own urine.
That's a great feat, but a greater thing to swallow than that was when he saw Jawaharlal come out to the porch just to say goodbye to this twenty-year-old boy.
At that moment he saw that it was not Masta Baba with whom the prime minister was speaking, but this strange, unknown boy with wooden sandals, making a noise all over the verandah - it was a beautiful marble verandah. And I had long hair and a strange robe that I had made myself, because my sannyasins who now make my clothes were not there yet. Nobody was there....
I had made a very simple, long robe, with just two holes for the hands to come out whenever they were needed, and could go in whenever you wanted them in. I had made it myself. There was nothing artful in it. All that had been needed was just to sew a piece of cloth on two sides, and to cut a small neck hole.
Masto liked it, so he had somebody make one for him too.
I told him, "You should have asked me."
He said, "No, that would be too much. I would not be able to use it, because I would rather preserve it."
We came out of the house which was later to become famous as "Trimurti." It is now a museum to the memory of Jawaharlal. Jawaharlal was really great, in the sense that he need not have come out to give a send-off to a young boy, and to then stand there and close the door of the car, and wait until the car had left.
And all this was watched by this poor fellow, Morarji Desai. He is a cartoon, but that cartoon became my enemy for my whole life. Although he could not harm me in any way, he tried his best, I must say.
What's the time?
"Eight twenty-one, Osho."
Ten minutes for me, then I have to go to work. My office starts after this.