Chapter 43

I was wondering yesterday how God created this world in six days. I was wondering, because I have not yet been able to even go beyond the second day of my primary school. And what a world He created! Perhaps He was a Jew, because only Jews have circulated the idea.

Hindus don't believe in a God, they believe in many gods. In fact, when they first conceived the idea, they counted exactly as many gods as there were Indians - at that time I mean. At that time too they were not a small population; thirty-three crores, that means three hundred and thirty million, or it may not be so. But it will give you some idea of the Hindus. They believed that each single individual had to have a god of his own. They were not dictatorial, very democratic, in fact too much so - I mean the previous Hindus.

Thousands of years have passed since they conceived the idea of a parallel divine world, with as many beings as there were on earth. And they did a great job. Even to count three hundred and thirty million gods... and you don't know the Hindu gods! They are everything that a human being can be - very cunning, mean, political, in every way exploitative. But somehow, somebody at least managed to have a census.

Hindus are not theistic in the western sense. They are pagans; but they are not pagans as Christians want to use the word. Pagan is a valuable word, it should not be allowed to be misused by the Christians, Jews and Mohammedans. These three religions are all basically Jewish; whatsoever they say, their foundations were laid down long before Jesus was born, and Mohammed was heard.

They are all Judaic.

Of course the God you have heard about is a Jew, He cannot be otherwise. That's where the secret lies. If He were a Hindu, He Himself would have fallen into three hundred and thirty million pieces,

what to say of creating a world? Even if there was already a world, these three hundred and thirty million gods would have been enough to destroy it.

The Hindu "God" - no such word can be used because there are only "gods" in Hinduism, not a God - is not a creator. He Himself is part of the universe. By He I mean the three hundred and thirty-three million gods. I have to use your word, "He," but Hindus always use "That." "That" is a big umbrella, you can hide as many gods in it as you want. Even the unwanted ones can have a little space at the back. It is almost like a circus tent - vast, big and capable of having every kind of god that can be imagined.

The Jew God really did a great job. Of course He was a good Jew, and He created the world in only six days. This whole mess is what Albert Einstein, another Jew, calls "the expanding universe."

It is expanding every second, becoming bigger and bigger, like a pregnant woman's belly, and of course faster than that. It is expanding at the same speed as light and that is the greatest speed yet conceived.

Perhaps someday we may discover more speedy things, but right now it still remains the highest as far as speed is concerned. The world is expanding with the speed of light, and it has been expanding forever. There is no beginning and no end, at least in the scientific approach.

But the Christians say it not only began, but was finished within six days. And of course Jews are there, and the Mohammedans are there, and they are all branches of the same nonsense. Perhaps just one idiot created the possibility for all three religions. Don't ask me his name; idiots, particularly perfect ones, don't have names, so nobody knows who created the idea of creating the world in six days. At the most it is just worth laughing at. But listen to a Christian priest or a rabbi, and see the seriousness with which they are talking about the genesis, the very beginning.

I was wondering only because I cannot even finish my story in six days. I'm only on the second day, and that too because I have left so much unsaid, thinking that it is not important, but who knows? - it may be. But if I start saying everything without choosing, then what about poor Devageet?

I can see that he will have so many notebooks he will go crazy looking at them. It will be as if he is standing by the side of the Empire State Building in New York looking at his own notebooks thinking, "Now who is going to read them?" And then I think of Devaraj who has to edit them. Whether anybody reads them or not, at least you will have one reader, that is Devaraj. Another, that is Ashu; she has to type them.

In the story of God's creation, there is no editor, no typist. He just created it in six days, and was so finished that nothing has been heard of Him since then. What happened to Him? Some think He has gone to Florida, where every retired person goes. Some think He is enjoying himself at Miami Beach... but this is all guesswork.

God does not exist at all. That's why existence is possible, otherwise He would have poked His nose in - and a Jewish nose is meant for that. Rather than thinking of God, it is better to forget Him, and forgive Him also; it is time. It may sound a little strange, to forget and forgive God, but only then do you begin: His death is your birth.

Only a madman, Friedrich Nietzsche, had the idea - but who listens to madmen? - particularly when they are talking real sense, then it is even more difficult to listen to them. Nobody ever took Nietzsche seriously, but I think his declaration was one of the greatest moments in the history of consciousness: "God is dead!" He had to declare it; not because God died - He had never been there, never been born in the first place, how could He be dead? Before you can be dead you have to suffer at least seventy years of so-called life. God has never been. It is good, because existence is enough unto itself. No outside agency is needed to create it.

But I was not going to talk about it. You see, each moment opens up so many ways, and you have to walk; whichever you choose you will repent, because who knows what was on the other paths that you have not chosen?

That's why nobody is happy in the world. There are hundreds of successful people, rich people, powerful people, but you don't find a crowd of happy people unless you meet my people. They are a different kind altogether.

Ordinarily everybody is going to be frustrated sooner or later. The more intelligent, the sooner; the more stupid, the later; and if utterly stupid, then never. Then he will die sitting on the merry-go-round, in Dinseyland.

How do you pronounce it, Ashu?

"Disneyland, Osho."

Disnay? Disney. Disney. Good. No woman can hide her feelings from me. A man can do that. I immediately became aware I had said something wrong. But you need not have worried about it. I am a wrong type of man. It is only rarely, by accident, that I will say something right; otherwise, I am always wise.

Now let us continue the story. This was a little diversion, and this is going to be a collection of thousands of diversions, because that's what life is....

Masto was not present to convince Indira Gandhi to work for me, but he tried his best with the first prime minister of India. Perhaps he did succeed, but only in convincing him that here is a man who should not in any way be in the political life of the country. Perhaps Jawaharlal was thinking for my sake, or for the country's sake; but he was not a cunning man, so the second cannot be the case.

I have seen him so I know. Not just seen, but really have felt in deep empathy, a deep harmony, synchronicity with him.

He was old. He had lived his life and succeeded, and was frustrated. That was enough for me not to want to succeed in any worldly sense, and I can say I have kept myself intact from any success.

In a strange way I have remained as if I have not been in the world at all.

Kabir has a beautiful song which describes what I am saying in a far more poetic way. He was a weaver, so of course his song is that of a weaver, remember.

He says, "Jhini jhini bini chadariya: I have prepared a beautiful cover for the night.... Jhini jhini bini chadariya, ramnam ras bhini: but I have not used it. I have not in any way made it second hand. It is as fresh at my death as it was at my birth."

And can you believe? - he sang the song and died. People were thinking he was singing the song to them - he was singing the song to existence itself. But those words were from a poor man, and yet so rich that even the whole of life had not been able to make a single scratch on him. And he has given back to existence what had been given to him by existence, exactly as it was given.

Many times I am surprised at how the body has grown old, but as far as I am concerned I don't feel old age or the aging process. Not even for a single moment have I felt different. I am the same, and so many things have happened but they have happened only on the periphery. So I can tell you what happened, but remember always, nothing has happened to me. I am just as innocent and as ignorant as I was before my birth.

The Zen people say, "Unless you know how you were, what was your face before you were born, you cannot understand us."

Naturally you will think, "These people are mad and they are trying to drive me mad too. Perhaps they are trying to convince me to look at my navel, or do something stupid like that."

And there are people who are doing things like that, and with great success, and have thousands of followers. To be with me is not to be on any trodden path. It is, in a strange way, not to be on any path at all... and then suddenly, you are home.

This happened to me, but around it thousands of other things also happened. And who knows who will trigger what? Look at Devageet; now something is triggered in him. Nobody knows, anything can start a process that can lead you to yourself. It is not far away, nor close by; it is just where you are. That's why sometimes the Buddhas have laughed, seeing the utter stupidity of all effort; the stupidity of all that they have been doing. But to see it they had to pass through many things.

What is the time?

"Seven minutes past ten, Osho."

Seven past ten?

"Yes."

Good.

Masto at our last meeting said many things; perhaps some of it may be helpful to somebody somewhere. He was about to leave, so he was saying everything that he wanted to say to me.

Of course, he had to be very, very brief. He used maxims. That was strange, because the man was a prolific orator - and using maxims?

He said, "You don't understand, I am in a hurry. Just listen, don't argue, because if we start arguing I will not be able to fulfill my promise to Pagal Baba."

Of course, when he said "Pagal Baba," he knew that name meant so much for me that I never argued against him. Then he could say even two plus two is five, and I would listen, not only listen

but believe, trust. "Two plus two is four" needs no trust; but "two plus two equals five" certainly needs a love that goes beyond arithmetic. If Baba had said it, then it must be so.

So I listened; these were his few words. They were not many, but very significant.

He said, "First, never enter into any organization."

I said, "Okay." And I have not entered into any organization. I have kept my promise. I am not even a part, I mean a member of neo-sannyas. I cannot be, because of a promise given to someone whom I loved. I can only be amongst you. But howsoever I hide myself, I am a foreigner, even amongst you; just because of a promise that I'm going to fulfill to the very end.

"Second," he said, "you should not speak against the establishment."

I said, "Listen Masto, this is your own, and not Pagal Baba's, and I am absolutely sure of that."

He laughed, and said, "Yes, this is mine. I was just trying to check whether you could sort out the wheat from the chaff."

I said, "Masto, there is no need to bother about that. You just tell me what you want to say because you said there is a very great hurry. I don't see the hurry, but if you say it - I love you too - I believe it.

You just tell me what is absolutely necessary, otherwise we can sit silently for as long as you allow."

He remained silent for a while, and then said, "Okay, it is better that we sit silently because you know what Baba has told me. He must have told you already."

I said, "I have known him so deeply that there is no need to tell me. Even if he came back I would say, 'Don't bother, just be with me.' So it is good that you decided, but keep to your promise."

He said, "What promise?"

I said, "It is just a simple promise: being silent with me as long as you want to be here."

He was there for six hours more, and he kept his promise. Not a single word passed through us, but much more than words can convey. The only thing that he said to me when he left for the station was, "Can I now say the last thing? - because I may not see you again." And he knew he was going forever.

I said, "Certainly."

He said, "Only this, that if you need any help from me you can always inform this address. If I am alive they will immediately tell me." And he gave me an address which I would not have believed had anything to do with Masto.

I said, "Masto!"

He said, "Don't ask, just inform this man."

"But," I said, "this man is Morarji Desai. I cannot inform him, and you know it."

He said, "I know it, but this is the only man who soon will be in power, and will be able to reach me anywhere in the Himalayas."

I said, "Do you think this is the man to succeed Jawaharlal?"

He said, "No. Another man should succeed him, but that man will not live long, and then Indira will succeed, and after that, this man. I'm giving you this address because these are the years when you will need me most, otherwise if Jawaharlal is there, or Indira is there...."

And between the two, Jawaharlal and Indira, there was another prime minister, a very beautiful man; very small as far as the body is concerned, but very great: Lalbahadur Shastri. But he was there only for a few months. It was strange, the moment he became prime minister he informed me that he wanted to see me saying, "Come to see me as soon as you can manage."

I reached Delhi because I knew Masto's hand must be there behind him. In fact I went to find the hand behind. I loved Masto so much I would have gone to hell - and New Delhi is a hell. But I went because the prime minister had called, and it was a good time to find out where Masto was, and whether he was alive or not.

But, as fate would have it, the date that he had given me.... He was due to arrive in New Delhi from Tashkent, in Soviet Russia, where he had been for a summit conference of India, Russia, and Pakistan, but only his dead body came. He had died in Tashkent. I had come all the way to Delhi to ask him about Masto; and he came, but dead.

I said, "This is really a joke, a practical joke."

Now I cannot ask, and this address of Morarji Desai that Masto gave me, he knew, and if he is alive he knows, that even if there is a need I will not ask Morarji Desai. I will not. Not that I am against his policies, his philosophy - that is superficial - I am against his very structure. He is not a man with whom I could have a dialogue, not even a discussion.

It had to happen a few times, just by the configuration of circumstances, but I was not the initiator, and I never approached him about Masto. I never asked, although I have met him in his own home, and there was absolute privacy, but somehow-how to say it - the very man is sickening; one feels like throwing up. And the feeling is so strong that although he had given me one hour, I left after two minutes. Even he was surprised. He asked, "Why?"

I said, "Forgive me. There is some urgency and I have to leave, and forever, because we may not see each other again."

He was shocked, because at that time he was just coming close to being the prime minister of the country, very close. But you know me: particularly if a person's very presence is sickening, I am the last person to stay there. Even my staying there for two minutes was just out of courtesy, because it would have been too discourteous just to enter the room, smell around a little, then take off.

But in fact that's what I did. Two minutes... just because he had been waiting for me and he was an old man, and certainly of political importance, which means nothing to me, but to him it meant too much. That's what repulsed me. He was too political.

I loved Jawaharlal because he never talked about politics. For three days continuously we met, without a single word about politics, and within just two minutes the first question Morarji Desai asked was, "What do you think about that woman, Indira Gandhi?" The way he said, "that woman"

was so ugly. I can still hear his voice..."that woman." I cannot believe that a man can use words in such an ugly way.