Chapter 28

Okay. This noise that you are making is enough to make anybody say okay. Thank you. Now I can really say okay.

I was just listening again, not to Hari Prasad Chaurasia, but another flutist. In India the flute has two dimensions: one, the southern; the other, the northern. Hari Prasad Chaurasia was a northern flutist; I was listening to the polar opposite, the southern.

This man too was introduced to me by the same man, Pagal Baba. When he introduced me he said to the musician, "You may not understand why I'm introducing you to this boy; at least right now you will not understand, but perhaps one day, God willing, you may."

This man plays the same flute but in a totally different way. The southern flute is far more penetrating, piercing to be exact. It enters and stirs something in your very marrow. The northern flute is tremendously beautiful but a little flat - just as northern India is flat.

The man looked at me, puzzled. He thought for a moment, then said, "Baba, if you are introducing me to him then there must be something I cannot understand. That is my mediocrity, and I am immensely grateful that you are so loving to me that you not only introduce me to the present, but even to the future."

I have only heard him a few times because we never became directly connected - it remained via Pagal Baba. The flutist used to visit him. If by chance I was there, then of course he said hello to me. Baba always laughed and said, "Touch his feet, you fool! ' Hello' is not the way to greet this boy."

He did it reluctantly, and I could see his reluctance, that's why I am not mentioning his name. He is still alive and may feel offended, because it was not out of love for me that he touched my feet, but because Pagal Baba ordered him. He had to touch my feet.

I laughed and said, "Baba, can I hit this man?"

He said, "Of course."

And can you imagine it - as he was touching my feet, I slapped his face!

This reminds me of the letter Devageet wrote to me. I knew that he would cry and weep. I knew.

How did I know even before he had written to me? Even if he hadn't written to me I would have known. I know my people. I know those who love me, whether they say it or not. And what really touched me were his words - "You can hit me as much as you want, that does not hurt; what hurts is that when I am not giggling you say, ' Devageet, don't try to deceive me....' This hurts. It is the apparent injustice of it that hurts." This is the word he used. Gudia, I think these are the words - "apparent injustice." Am I right, Gudia?

"Yes, Osho."

Okay, because Gudia had to read the letter to me.

I have not read anything for years because the doctors said that if I read I will have to wear glasses, and I hate glasses. I cannot think of myself wearing glasses. I would rather close my eyes. I don't want to create any barrier, even that of transparent glass, between me and that which surrounds me. So I have to depend on someone to read for me.

The words "apparent injustice" exactly show his heart. He knows it is only apparent, but it certainly looks unjust when you are not giggling and suddenly I say, "Devageet, don't giggle!" Naturally he is taken aback; and poor Devageet is just taking his notes.

Again I am reminded of Pagal Baba, because I was talking about him this morning and I am going to continue. He used to say apparently meaningless sentences to people. Not only that, sometimes actually hitting them! Not like me, but literally, actually. I don't actually hit, not because I don't want to, just because I am absolutely lazy. Once or twice I have tried, then my hand hurt. I don't know whether the person learned anything or not, but my hand said, "Please don't try this trick again."

But Pagal Baba used to hit for no reason at all. Somebody may have been just sitting silently by his side, and he would give the person a good slap. The person had not done anything, he had not even said anything. Sometimes people would object that it was unjust, and say to Pagal Baba, "Baba, why did you hit him?"

He would laugh and say, "You know I am pagal, a madman." That was enough of an explanation as far as he was concerned. That explanation won't do for me... so mad that even the most intelligent cannot decipher what kind of madness this is. Pagal Baba was a simple madman; I am a multidimensional madman.

So, if sometimes you feel that it is apparently unjust, then remember the word "apparent." I cannot do anything unjust, particularly to those who love me. How can love be unjust? But "apparently,"

perhaps it has to be many times. One never knows the ways of people like me. I may be hitting Ashu and really aiming at Devaraj. It is a very complicated phenomenon. It cannot be computerized.

It is so complicated that I don't think any computer will become a Master. He will become everything else - an engineer, a doctor, a dentist, everything possible - and be more efficient than any human being can be. But there are only two things that a computer can't do: one is, he cannot be alive. He can hum with mechanical noise but he cannot be alive. He cannot know what life is.

The second is a corollary of the first: he cannot become a Master. To know life is to be a Master.

Just to be alive is one thing, everybody is. But to turn upon oneself, to one's own being, to see the see-er, or to know the knower - this is what I mean by turning upon oneself - then one becomes a Master. A computer cannot turn upon itself, that is not possible.

Devageet, your letter was beautiful, and you cried. I feel happy about it. Anything authentic is helpful on the way, and nothing can be as authentic as tears. Yes, there are professional weepers, but then they have to use tricks.

In India it happens when somebody dies - perhaps an old person nobody wanted and really everybody is happy, but nobody can show their happiness. Then the professional weepers are called in. particularly in big cities like Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, and New Delhi. They even have their own association. You just give them a call, tell them how many weepers you want, and they come - and they really weep. They can defeat any real weeper because they are technically trained people, and very efficient; and they know all the tricks. They use certain medicines, putting them just below the eyes, and that is enough for the tears to start flowing. And it is a very strange phenomenon: when tears start flowing the person suddenly feels sad.

In psychology there has been a long argument, yet undecided: "Which comes first... does a man run away because of fear, or does he feel fear because he runs away?" And there are contenders for both positions. "Fear creates running," is one position. "Running creates fear," the other position.

But in fact it is the same point; they are both together.

If you are sad, tears come. If tears come, for any reason, even chemical tears, let us call them artificial tears - then too, just because of an instinctive heritage, you will feel sad. I have seen these professional weepers really crying their hearts out, and you could not say that they are being deceitful; they may themselves be deceived.

Tears out of love are the most precious experience. You cried, I am happy... because you could have been angry, but you were not. You could have been annoyed, irritated, but you were not. You cried, that is as it should be. But remember, I will go on doing the same again and again; I have to do my work.

As a dentist you perfectly know how much it hurts, but still you have to do it. Not that you want to hurt, but you have anesthesia; you have certain gases; you can make a local part almost insensitive or you can make the whole person unconscious.

But I don't have anything. I have to do all my surgery without any anesthetics. Just opening somebody's stomach or brain, and without making the person unconscious, what would happen?

The pain would be too much; it would kill the person, or at least drive him mad. He would jump off the table, perhaps leaving his skull behind, and run home as fast as possible; or he may even kill the doctor. But this is how my work is. There is no possibility ever to do my work in any other way.

It has to be "apparently unjust." But you mentioned the word "apparent"; that's enough to satisfy me that although it hurts, you understand my love. Let me repeat again and again so that you do not forget: I will do it again and again!

You must have been really afraid, because you write a P.S. and a P.P.S. too, saying that, "I have never even dreamed that I would be so close to you, or that this work would be given to me. I love taking notes." And P.P.S., "Please don't stop this work, ever."

He must have become afraid that I may stop, thinking that it hurts him. It hurts Ashu too, although she has not written a letter - yet. But one day she will write, I predict, maybe tomorrow.

I simply go on hitting, this side and that. Because you both happen to be on either side, naturally you get most of the hits. That has always been my way; those who are nearest to me have been hit the most, but they have also grown. They have become more integrated with each hit they absorbed.

Either they ran away or they had to grow. Do or die. If you do - that's what I mean by integration, or crystallization - only then do you live. Or else - remember the dog's death - one dies; one is dying every moment.

The letter was beautiful in many senses. Gudia, later on give the letter back to him so that it can become a footnote in his notes, or a part of many appendices that are going to follow.

Pagal Baba again... this is what I call moving about in circles. He introduced me to not only these flutists but also to many other musicians. He was a musician of the musicians. Ordinarily the masses had no idea; only the great musicians knew that he could play music with anything.

I have seen him play with anything possible - just a stone, and he would start by striking it on his kamandalu. A kamandalu is a pot that Hindu sannyasins carry for water and food et cetera. He would hit on the kamandalu with just anything, but he had such a sense of music that even his kamandalu would become a sitar.

Just in the marketplace he would purchase a flute, meant only as a toy for children - you could have bought a dozen for just one rupee - and he would start playing. From that crude flute such notes would come out that even a musician would look at the whole thing with wide open eyes, shocked, thinking, "Is it possible?"

I have to tell you the name of that southern flutist I mentioned at the beginning... otherwise it will remain on my chest, and I want to unburden myself totally before I leave, so that I can leave just as I had come - with nothing, not even a memory. That's the whole purpose of these memoirs.

The flutist's name was Sachdeva, one of the most well-known southern Indian flutists. I mentioned three flutists, all of them introduced to me by Pagal Baba. One man, Hari Prasad Chaurasia, from north India where they play a different kind of flute music; another from Bengal, Pannalal Ghosh - he again plays a different kind of flute, very male, very loud and overpowering. Sachdeva's flute is almost silent, feminine, just the opposite of Pannalal Ghosh. I feel good that I have mentioned his name - now it is up to him what he makes out of it.

Devageet says in his letter, "Osho, I trust you...." I know - there is no question about it - otherwise why should I hit you so much? And remember, once I trust somebody I never mistrust them. It does not matter what that person does to me. My trust remains whatsoever that person does.

Trust is always unconditional. I know your love, and I trust you all, otherwise this work would not have been given to you. But remember, that does not mean that I will change in any way. Letter or no letter, P.S. or no P.P.S.; I am going to remain the same. Sometimes I will suddenly say, "Devageet, why are you giggling?" Right now you are giggling and I am not hitting you. Sometimes I will make you cry. That's my work.

You know your work; I know my work - and it's far more difficult. It is not only drilling, it is drilling without anesthesia, not even a painkiller. It is not only drilling in the teeth, it is drilling into your very being. It hurts, really hurts. Forgive me, but never ask me to change my strategies... and in your letter you have not asked either. I am just saying it for the benefit of the others present.

Ashu, tomorrow I will wait for your letter. Let's see what happens. Then Devageet will really giggle!

I AM SITTING HERE IN THE NOAH'S ARK WEEPING AND WONDERING WHAT TO DO.

WHEN YOU ARE HERE, AND I AM EMPTY OF EVERYTHING EXCEPT YOUR WORDS AND PRESENCE POURING THROUGH ME; IT IS THE GREATEST FULFILLMENT I HAVE KNOWN.

THEN YOU HIT - FROM NOWHERE! YOU TELL ME I AM GIGGLING... WHEN, FOR EXAMPLE, THIS MORNING I SUPPRESSED A SNEEZE. OTHER DAYS SIGHS ESCAPE MY LIPS.... WHAT TO DO? I SIGH WHEN YOU ARE CLOSE... AGAIN YOU TELL ME I AM GIGGLING. WHEN YOU ACCUSE ME OF DECEIVING YOU BY PRETENDING NOT TO WRITE YOUR NOTES, IT IS TOO MUCH.

I LOVE WRITING THESE NOTES BEYOND ANY OTHER THING IN MY LIFE. THE WRITING OF THEM IS A PLEASURE, A GIFT BEYOND ANY POSSIBILITY MY MIND MAY HAVE CONCEIVED.

YOU HAVE CALLED ME A FOOL - AND THAT IS OBVIOUSLY SO - PERHAPS NEVER MORE THAN NOW, BUT I AM YOUR FOOL THROUGH AND THROUGH. I HAVE NEVER CHEATED YOU, BETRAYED YOU, NEVER GIGGLED OR WHISPERED TO DECEIVE YOU, AND ALWAYS GIVE YOU THE MAXIMUM.... AND THE PAIN FROM THE HIT IS NOT FROM THE BLOW BUT AT THE APPARENT INJUSTICE OF IT.

BELOVED OSHO, I AM YOUR FOOL AND NEVER MORE THAN AT THIS MOMENT.

I LOVE YOU, DEVAGEET BELOVED OSHO, P.S. THANK YOU FOR DESTROYING ME, IT SEEMS TO ALLOW ME TO LOVE YOU EVEN MORE DEEPLY.

DEVAGEET P.P.S. PLEASE, PLEASE KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK... FOREVER.