Letting me in is finding yourself

Question 1:

Milarepa, there is no language of enlightenment. There cannot be by the very nature of the phenomenon. Enlightenment happens beyond mind and language is part of the mind.

Enlightenment is experienced in utter silence.

If you want to call silence a language, then of course enlightenment has a language which consists of silence, which consists of blissfulness, which consists of ecstasy, which consists of innocence.

But this is not the ordinary meaning of language. The ordinary meaning is that words have to be used as a vehicle to convey. Silence cannot be conveyed by words; neither can ecstasy or love or blissfulness. In fact, enlightenment can be seen, can be understood, can be felt, but cannot be heard and cannot be spoken.

I have told you the story: When Gautam Buddha became enlightened, he remained silent for seven days and the whole existence waited breathlessly to hear him, to hear his music, to hear his soundless song, his words coming from the land of the beyond - words of truth ... the whole existence was waiting. And those seven days looked like seven centuries.

The story is tremendously beautiful. Up to a certain point it is factual and beyond that it becomes mythological, but by mythological I do not mean it becomes a lie. There are a few truths which can only be expressed through myths. He attained enlightenment, that is a truth; he remained silent for seven days, that is a truth. That the whole existence waited to hear him is a truth, but only for those who had experienced something of enlightenment and who had experienced the waiting existence, not for everybody.

But still it can be understood that existence rejoices whenever somebody becomes enlightened - because it is a part of existence itself that is coming to its highest expression, a part of existence that is becoming an Everest, the highest peak. Naturally, it is existence"s crowning glory. It is the very longing of the whole: one day to become enlightened, one day to dispel all unconsciousness and flood the whole existence with consciousness and light ... destroy all misery and bring as many flowers of joy as possible.

Beyond this point it becomes pure mythology, but still it has its own significance and its own truth.

The gods in heaven became worried. One thing has to be understood: Buddhism does not believe in a God; neither does Jainism believe in a God, but they believe in gods. They are far more democratic in their concepts than Mohammedanism, Judaism or Christianity - these religions are more fascist.

One God, one religion, one holy scripture, one prophet - they are very monopolistic. But Buddhism has a totally different approach, far more democratic, far more human. It conceives millions of gods.

In fact, every being in existence has to become a god one day. When he becomes enlightened, he will be a god. There is no creator as such; the very idea is ugly. If God has created you, you are only puppets; you don't have an individuality of your own, your strings are in the hands of the puppeteer. And if God can create you, he can uncreate you any moment. Neither did he ask you when he created you, nor will he ask you when he destroys you. You are just a victim of a whimsical, dictatorial, fascist God.

According to Buddhism there is no God as a creator, and that brings dignity to every being. You are not puppets, you have an individuality and a freedom and a pride. Nobody can create you, nobody can destroy you; hence another concept has come out of it: nobody can save you except yourself.

In Christianity there is the idea of the savior; in Judaism there is the idea of the savior - if there is a God, he can send his messengers, prophets, messiahs to save you. Even liberating yourself is not within your hands. Even your liberation is going to be a sort of slavery - somebody else liberates you. And a liberation that comes from somebody else"s hands is not much of a liberation.

Freedom has to be achieved, not to be begged for. Freedom has to be snatched away, not to be prayed for. A freedom that is given to you as a gift out of compassion is not of much value. Hence, in Buddhism there is no savior either. But there are gods - those who have become enlightened before.

Because there is no creation, existence is eternal; it never began and it will never end. This has to be understood. Christianity says that God created the world exactly four thousand and four years before Jesus Christ was born. Now, this is a very simple logic, that anything that begins in time is bound to end in time someday. You cannot have only a beginning without an end. However far away the end may be, there is bound to be an end because there has been a beginning. Hence, in religions where God is a creator, existence cannot have the rejoicing of eternity, timelessness, deathlessness, immortality.

Since eternity, millions of people must have become enlightened; they are all gods. These gods became disturbed when seven days of silence passed after Gautam Buddha"s enlightenment, because it rarely happens that a human being becomes enlightened ... It is such a rare and unique phenomenon that the very soul of existence waits for it, longs for it, and thousands of years pass and then somebody becomes enlightened. And if Gautam Buddha is not going to speak, if he chooses to remain silent ... which is a natural possibility because silence is the only right language for enlightenment. The moment you try to bring it into language it becomes distorted. And the distortion happens on many levels.

First, it becomes distorted when you drag it down from its height, from the peaks, to the dark valleys of the mind. The first distortion happens there. Almost ninety percent of its reality is lost.

Then you speak. The second distortion happens because what you can conceive in the deepest core of your heart is one thing; the moment you bring it into expression as words, that is another thing. You feel great love, but when you say to someone, "I love you," suddenly you realize the word "love" is too small to express what you are feeling. It seems really embarrassing to use it.

And the third distortion happens when it is heard by somebody else, because he has his own ideas, his own conditionings, his own thoughts, opinions, philosophies, ideologies, prejudices. He will immediately interpret it according to himself. By the time it reaches the person, it is no longer the same thing that had started from the highest peak of your consciousness. It has gone through so many changes that it is altogether something else. So it has happened many times that enlightened people have never spoken. Out of a hundred enlightened people, perhaps one may have chosen to speak.

Gautam Buddha was such a rare human being, so well-cultured, so articulate, that if he chose to remain silent, the world would miss a great opportunity. The gods came down, touched the feet of Gautam Buddha and asked him to speak. "The whole existence is waiting. The trees are waiting, the mountains are waiting, the valleys are waiting, the clouds are waiting, the stars are waiting. Don't frustrate everyone. Don't be so unkind, have some mercy and speak."

But Gautam Buddha had his own argument. He said, "I can understand your compassion, and I would like to speak. For seven days I have been wavering between the two, whether to speak or to not speak, and every argument goes for not speaking. I have not been able to find a single argument in favor of speaking. I am going to be misunderstood, so what is the point when you are going to be misunderstood? - which is absolutely certain. I am going to be condemned; nobody is going to listen to me the way the words of an enlightened man have to be listened to. Listening needs a certain training, a discipline, it is not just hearing.

"And even if somebody understands me, he is not going to take a single step, because every step is dangerous; it is walking on a razor"s edge. I am not against speaking, just I cannot see that there is any use, and I have found every argument against it."

The gods looked at each other. What Gautam Buddha was saying was right. They went aside to discuss what to do now. "We cannot say that what he is saying is wrong, but still we would like him to speak. Some way has to be found to convince him." They discussed for a long time and finally they came to a conclusion.

They came back to Gautam Buddha and they said, "We have found just one single, small argument.

It is very small in comparison to all the arguments that go against, but still we would like you to consider. Our argument is that you may be misunderstood by ninety-nine percent of the people, but you cannot say that you will be misunderstood by a hundred percent of the people. You have to give at least a little margin - just one percent. And that one percent is not small in this vast universe; that one percent is a big enough portion. Perhaps out of that one percent, very few will be able to follow the path.

"But even if one person in the whole universe becomes enlightened because of your speaking, it is worth it. Enlightenment is such a great experience that even if your whole life"s effort can make one person enlightened, you have done great. To ask for more is not right; this is more than enough.

And there are a few people - you must be aware, as we are aware - who are just on the borderline.

Just a little push, a little encouragement, a little hope and perhaps they will cross the boundary of ignorance, they will cross the boundary of bondage, they will come out of their prisons. You have to speak."

Gautam Buddha closed his eyes and thought for a few moments, and he said, "I cannot deny that much possibility. It is not much but I do understand that all my arguments, howsoever great, are small before the compassion. I will live for at least forty-two years, and if I can make a single individual enlightened I will feel immensely rewarded. I will speak. You can go back unburdened of your worry and concern." And he spoke continuously for forty-two years.

And certainly not one, but nearabout two dozen people became enlightened. But these two dozen people were the people who learned the art of listening, who learned the art of being silent. They did not become enlightened because of what Buddha was saying, they became enlightened because they could feel what Buddha was - his presence, his vibe, his silence, his depth, his height.

These two dozen people were not becoming enlightened just by listening to the words of Gautam Buddha. Those words helped: they helped them to be in the presence of Gautam Buddha, they helped them to understand the beauty ordinary words take when they are used by an enlightened person. Ordinary gestures become so graceful, ordinary eyes become so beautiful, with such depth and meaning. Just the way Buddha walks has a different quality to it, just the way he sleeps has a different significance to it. These were the people who tried to understand not what Gautam Buddha was saying, but what he was being. His being is the only authentic language.

But millions heard him, became knowledgeable. And the day he died, the same day, thirty- two schools sprang up, thirty-two divisions amongst the disciples - because they differed in their interpretations of what Gautam Buddha had said. Every effort was made that they should gather together and compile whatever they had heard from Gautam Buddha, but all their efforts were failures. There are thirty-two versions, so different that one cannot believe how people can hear one person in so many ways.

Even today those thirty-two schools go on quarreling. For twenty-five centuries they have not been able to be reconciled with each other. In fact, they have gone farther and farther away from each other. Now they have become independent philosophies, proposing that "That is what Gautam Buddha has said and everybody else is wrong. This is the holy scripture. Others are just collections by people who don't understand."

It is one of the great problems, Milarepa, that you have raised: "What is the language of enlightenment?" The being of the enlightened person is his language. To be in contact with him, to drop all defenses, to open all the doors of your heart, to allow his love to reach to you, to allow his vibe to become your vibe ....

Slowly, slowly, if one is ready, unafraid, then the heart of the disciple starts dancing in the same tune as the master. Something is being transpired which nobody can see. Something has happened; something which has not been said has been heard. Something which is not possible to be brought into words, has been conveyed through silence - just through looking into your eyes, or just holding your hand, or just sitting by your side in silence.

But language as such ... there is none.

Grandpa Hymie Goldberg went to see his doctor. "What is the problem?" asked the physician.

"Well, doc," said Hymie, "it is like this: after the first I am very tired; after the second I feel all ill; after the third my heart begins to pound; after the fourth I break out in a cold sweat; after the fifth I am so exhausted I feel I could die."

"Incredible," said the doctor. "How old are you?"

"Seventy-six," replied Grandpa Hymie.

"Well, at seventy-six don't you think you should stop after the first?" said the physician.

"But doctor," said old Hymie, "how can I stop after the first floor, when I live on the fifth?"

Language is not much, even in ordinary life. Rather than giving understanding to each other, it gives many misunderstandings.

Two robbers broke into a bank in a small town. "All right," said the bigger man, "line up! We are gonna rob all the men and rape all the women."

"Wait a second," snapped his partner. "Let"s just grab the money and beat it."

"Shut up, and mind your own business," said a little old lady from the back. "The big fellow knows what he is doing."

Language is a very fragile instrument, but it works as far as ordinary life is concerned. It is utilitarian, but the moment you start moving towards the non-utilitarian existence, language starts failing you.

For example, in poetry language is not so clear as in prose. Prose is simple to understand. Poetry needs interpretation, and interpretations can be many.

The Hindu holy book SHRIMAD BHAGAVADGITA has one thousand interpretations. It is great poetry; and the poet takes every license with language. He is allowed; otherwise there would be no difference between prose and poetry. You cannot write a scientific treatise in the form of poetry, and you cannot write a love letter the way you solve a mathematical problem. The love letter has to be poetic; even though it is written in prose its essence is poetry.

Poetry has beauty, but becomes vague. It is difficult to catch hold of it - it becomes more and more elusive. The greater the poetry, the more elusive. You feel something, but you cannot exactly pinpoint what it is, where it is.

It happened .... A professor of literature at London University suddenly stopped when he was teaching about the poetry of a great English poet, Coleridge. Just in the middle of the poem he said, "Forgive me, I cannot be unjust to the poet. I can manage and you will not be able to detect it, but I cannot deceive myself: beyond these lines everything is vague, illusory. I don't understand, myself, exactly what he means. And fortunately, Coleridge lives in my neighborhood so it will not take much time; tomorrow I will come having asked him what he means by these words. So just forgive me for one day."

He must have been a very sincere and honest man; otherwise it is very easy to make up some meaning. And people must have been making up that meaning - other professors before him and after him.

He went that evening to Coleridge and he said, "Forgive me disturbing your peaceful evening, but I had to come because I cannot be insincere; neither can I be unjust to you. I have loved you, respected you. Each of your words is pure gold. But the mystery becomes too much here, in these lines, and I cannot figure out exactly what their meaning is. They seem to contain much, but perhaps too much for my mind to grasp. It will be a great kindness on your part if you can tell me what you mean by these statements."

Coleridge said, "You will have to forgive me because when I wrote them, two men knew the meaning of these lines. Now only one man knows."

The professor said, "Then there is no problem," because he thought that that one man could not be anybody else but Coleridge. Who bothers about the other man, whether he still has the understanding or not?

Coleridge said, "You don't understand. When I wrote these lines, God knew and I knew. Now I don't know, only God knows. If you meet him somewhere, ask him. And if you can find the meaning, please inform me, because whenever I come to this place I become puzzled myself. There is something, there is something great; but because it is great, mind falls short. It has come from beyond the mind."

And a poet is not capable of going beyond the mind. That is the difference between a poet and a mystic: the mystic can go beyond the mind; the poet once in a while finds himself, accidentally, beyond the mind, but it is not his will. It happens once in a while, but not according to his desire. When it happens, he catches as much as he can. He fills himself with the beauty, with the significance, with the joy, as much as he can - pours it into poetry. But it is beyond his willpower.

He cannot manage to open the door to the beyond whenever he wants; the breeze comes whenever it wants to come.

When Coleridge died, he left forty thousand poems unfinished. Because the door opened for a moment, he saw something, but by the time he managed to write it, the door had closed. It is almost like lightning - you see the whole place, just a glimpse, and then it is all darkness. You remember a few things, as if seen in a faraway dream. You can write, but it will remain incomplete.

His friends insisted continuously, "Coleridge, what you are doing is not right. Some poem needs only two lines more and it will be complete. And it is a great poem."

But he said always the same thing: "I have tried, but when I look, I can see my words are very ordinary. Although nobody will be able to detect it, I will always know. I cannot deceive myself.

These poems will remain incomplete until the beyond opens again, and fills my heart with the song that has left an incomplete impression, so that I can complete it."

He completed only seven poems. Only seven poems have made him one of the greatest poets of the world, for the simple reason that the quantity is not much but the quality is. You may have written seven thousand poems, it makes no difference - they will not come to the height of Coleridge. He is the only man in the whole history of literature who is thought to be a great poet only on the grounds of seven poems.

Rabindranath is thought to be a great poet. He has six thousand poems complete, of great grandeur.

Of course you can call him a great poet. But Coleridge"s greatness consists of a totally different dimension - his quality.

If this is the situation of the poet, you can understand the situation of the mystic. The poet simply goes just a few steps beyond the mind, and the mystic has gone forever beyond the mind. He lives beyond the mind; he never comes back to the mind. He cannot express his enlightenment in any language. Even if he speaks, he speaks as a device; he speaks to attract the seekers to feel his being, to feel his presence, to be overwhelmed by his fragrance. He is using language only as a trap, because you can understand only language.

But once you start falling in love with somebody, although in the beginning it is only his language, his poetry, his graceful assertions, his mysterious words ... slowly, slowly you come closer and closer.

Words are forgotten and the person becomes more and more important, his presence becomes more and more tangible. You can almost touch it. His silence slowly starts reaching within you, creating a communion - not a communication.

There is a story about a Sufi mystic, Jalaluddin Rumi, who has been loved by Sufis the most. He is the only Sufi mystic who has been called mevlana: master of masters. And he was certainly a master of masters.

A caravan was passing through the desert, and in a castle in the desert Jalaluddin Rumi had his campus, where seekers from all over the Middle East used to come to see him. The people in the caravan thought, "It is a good place for the night"s rest. We and our camels are all tired. And moreover, it is a good chance, just out of curiosity, to see what is happening with this madman, Jalaluddin Rumi, who attracts strange people from faraway countries. And we don't see any point in it. He looks to us a little mad, but they call him a master of masters." So just out of curiosity they stopped under the trees and went into the castle to see what was happening.

Jalaluddin was teaching. His teaching consisted of pure poetry; he would sing a song. They heard his songs - they looked like utterances of a madman: irrelevant, unconnected. Beautiful words, but saying nothing ... strange sentences. When you are hearing them you feel great; when later on you think about them you find nothing, your hands are empty. They left in the morning.

When they were returning they again stopped, just out of curiosity: "What is happening now?"

Jalaluddin was sitting with closed eyes, and all the disciples were sitting with closed eyes with him.

Nobody was saying anything and nobody was hearing anything.

They said, "Now things have gone from bad to worse. Last time at least that madman was saying something which at least looked beautiful - without meaning. But now he is sitting with closed eyes, and all these idiots are sitting with closed eyes. Now there is nothing for us." So they went away.

On their second trip they again passed by the side of the castle, and they again stopped to see how much the madness had progressed. There was only Jalaluddin Rumi sitting, and nobody else.

They said, "So all those idiots are gone. This is strange - very strange progress of the disciples.

Where have they disappeared to? They have all left."

Seeing nobody there, they took courage, approached Jalaluddin, and asked him, "It is not good to disturb you, but we cannot resist our temptation to ask - what happened to your disciples?"

Jalaluddin looked at him - the man who was asking - and the crowd behind him, the whole caravan.

He said, "I have been watching you. The first time you stopped I was speaking to my disciples, just preparing them so that they can sit in silence with me. The next time you passed, they had become mature enough, they were sitting in silence with me.

"This time you have come, they have all gone to spread the message. They have ripened, they have arrived at the space they had been searching for. Now they have gone to catch hold of other mad people. I will have to begin again when new people come. I will talk, and when they are ready just to enjoy my presence in silence, then I will sit in silence with them. And when they have come so close that their heart and my heart have become one, I will send them to fetch other mad people who are in need of me."

Enlightenment has no language, Milarepa. But enlightenment finds ways, even without language, to convey the essential message. Even language can be used as a device, but it is not a communication of the experienced truth. That communication will happen only in communion.

Everything can be used, and different masters use different things. Jalaluddin Rumi used to dance, and his dance was so infectious that people would start dancing with him. And just by dancing with him, something would start transpiring.

Nanak traveled all over India and outside India - the only great Indian mystic who ever went outside India. And he had only one disciple with him in all these travels. He went to Sri Lanka, he went to Mecca and Medina in Saudi Arabia, far and wide - and he was walking. All that he used to do was just to sit under a tree and his disciple, Mardana, used to play on a certain musical instrument. He would play music and Nanak would sing a song. And there was such beauty in his song, and in the music of Mardana, that even people who did not understand their language would come there and sit close to them.

After the music was finished, Nanak would sit silently. And the people who had become enchanted with the music, without understanding - because it was not their language ... a few would leave, but a few would sit because now his silence had also become a tremendous magnetic force.

He was an uneducated man and he used only a villager"s language - Punjabi. But he managed to create an impact on almost half of Asia. Without any language, he managed to make disciples. I am reminded of a small but tremendously valuable incident.

Near Lahore there was a campus of Sufi mystics, very famous in those days - five hundred years ago. People used to come from far and wide to Lahore for that mystic gathering.

Nanak also reached there, and he was just taking a bath outside the campus when the chief Sufi heard that he was there. Neither he understood Nanak"s language, nor Nanak understood his language; but some way had to be found. He sent one of his disciples with a beautiful cup full of milk, so full that even one more drop of milk could not be contained in it. And he sent that cup of milk to Nanak.

Mardana could not understand: "What is the matter? What are we supposed to do? Is it a gift, is it a welcome?" Nanak laughed and he looked around, found a wildflower, and floated it in the milk. The wildflower was so light that it did not disturb the milk, and nothing came out of the cup. And he gave the signal to the man to take it back.

The man said, "This is strange. I could not understand why this milk has been sent, and now it has become even more mysterious: that strange fellow has put a wildflower in it." He asked the chief Sufi, his master, "Don't keep me in ignorance. Please tell me what the secret of all this is. What is going on?"

The chief mystic said, "I had sent that cup full of milk to tell Nanak, "Go on to somewhere else; this place is so full of mystics, there is no need of any more mysticism. It is too full, just like this cup. We cannot welcome you; it will be unnecessarily crowding the place. You go somewhere else." But that man has managed to float a flower in it. He is saying, "I will be just like this flower in your gathering.

I will not occupy any space, I will not be a disturbance in your gathering. I will be just a beautiful flower, floating over your gathering.""

The Sufi mystic came, touched the feet of Nanak and welcomed him - without language; nothing was said. Nanak remained their guest, every day singing his songs, and the Sufis were dancing, enjoying. And the day he left they were crying. Even the chief mystic was crying. They all came to give him a send-off. Not a single word of language was exchanged - they had no possibility of any communication. But a great communion happened.

Enlightenment has no language, Milarepa, but enlightenment is capable of finding ways of conveying its rejoicings, its blissfulness, its truth, its love, its compassion ... all that is great in human experience - the highest peaks of consciousness.

Question 2:

Prabodh Nityo, you are not a hopeless case, but you can turn out to be - you can manage it. You are creating the situation. Just listen to your question: "I am experiencing that the more I find my inner child, the more you come into me." This is the very purpose of your being here, to allow me in.

But instead of rejoicing, you say, "When I feel that strongly I panic, slam the door, and rush into my strong, adult mind."

Something great comes to your door - something for which you are longing, something which has brought you here - but when it knocks on your door, you forget all about the fact that you have longed for this moment, perhaps for lives. You "panic, slam the door, and rush into your strong, adult mind." You tell yourself not to let me take you over.

This is just old habit.

This fear comes to everybody.

On the one hand, you want me to transform you. On the other hand, you are afraid of any change.

On the one hand, you want to pass through a revolution to become totally new and fresh. On the other hand, the grip of the old is too strong. So as long as your prayers are not heard, everything is okay.

Millions of people are going to the temples, to the churches, to the synagogues, to the mosques, to the gurudwaras, just for a single reason - because there is no God to hear their prayers. If their prayers were heard, nobody would go even close to the temples. Everybody would panic! - for the simple reason that to allow God or to allow the beyond to enter in you is to be possessed of something which is far bigger than you.

You are no longer in possession; you are possessed - possessed of such a tremendous force that unless you are ready to drop your ego, your personality, your separation, you are bound to feel in a terrible shock, scared, and do everything to prevent this overwhelming experience from happening.

"And sometimes," you say, "I think that letting you in and finding myself are synonymous." These must be the times when I am far away from you and there is no fear of being overtaken; when there is no fear that I will hear you; when there is no fear that I am so close that you have to close the doors and run away into your adult mind. But this is far truer ... this is what you have asked, you have been asking every moment to happen.

It is exactly the case. Letting me in is finding yourself. In the deepest core, you and I are not separate - nobody is. In the deepest center, we are all one. So whether you allow your own child, your own innocence, or you allow me in, it is the same, it is synonymous. The moments when you feel this are saner moments, but you feel this only when nothing is happening and you are well defended: the doors are closed, you have slammed everything shut, and you are perfectly protected by your adult mind. Then you start thinking again because your mind is not your contentment, your mind is not your peace, your mind is not your god. Your mind is your prison, and you are thinking you are very secure.

When I was in prison in America, in the first jail ... because they kept on moving me from one jail to another. In twelve days I had the great experience of being in five jails. Perhaps it is unprecedented - in twelve days, covering five jails! In the first jail, the man in charge was a beautiful old man, and he immediately fell in a kind of deep intimacy with me. He told me, "Here you are absolutely secure."

I said, "That"s absolutely true, in a jail certainly one is absolutely secure. Security and jails are synonymous. Outside there are all kinds of dangers - in jail nobody can rob you, nobody can murder you ... you are perfectly secure." I said, "You are right, but you don't follow your own advice."

He said, "What do you mean?"

I said, "In America, twenty percent of the presidents have been assassinated. This is the greatest record of assassination in the whole world. Out of five, one president is going to be assassinated."

He said, "I don't follow. What do you mean by bringing in these assassinations of the presidents?"

I said, "You should keep your presidents in jail instead of keeping me in jail. Ronald Reagan needs to be in jail; here he will be absolutely secure. As far as I am concerned, I have lived my whole life outside. And how long will you keep me in jail? You are keeping me in jail illegally, without any arrest warrant. You don't have any evidence of any crime against me. So just a few days" security will not help - again I will be outside.

"And I am of no importance to anybody. I am not a president of a country or a prime minister of a country; I am not a pope of any religion. I don't need any security. Your idea is great. You should suggest to the senate that every president, once he is chosen, should be immediately imprisoned.

This way you will save the twenty percent assassinations."

He said, "My God! You are really dangerous. I have heard that you are dangerous ... you are! What kind of ideas are you putting into my head? I"m just on the verge of retirement; don't disturb my life."

I said, "It was your idea. And why do you live outside the jail? It is dangerous outside. Just come in and be safe."

He said, "It is very difficult to argue with you. The whole idea is wrong, but you are convincing."

I said, "It is your idea. You told me, "You are very secure here - rest, don't be disturbed; nobody can disturb you." I have just been extending your idea to its logical end. If you follow your own advice, don't go home."

He really fell in love with me. For three days I was in his jail - I was in the hospital part of the jail.

The nurses told me, "You have changed the whole climate here, because this man, who is in charge of the jail, used to come once in six months or once a year to visit this section. Now that you are here, he comes at least six times a day to meet you. He cannot sit in his office." He used to take me to his office also ..."Just come, have a cup of tea in my office and we will discuss something."

I said, "Listen, if the government comes to know, you will be in trouble."

He said, "I don't care because I"m going to be retired soon."

And the world news media wanted to interview me in the jail. He said, "This is unprecedented, but I will allow the world press conference." And he allowed it ... in the jail were one hundred journalists:

television people, radio people, newspaper people, magazine people, cable television people.

And he said, "I"m going to be retired. They can retire me a little earlier at the most. What else can they do? And there is no prohibition in the jail code saying that no press conference can be held inside the jail. So there is no problem."

I said, "That"s perfectly good."

He enjoyed the press conference so much, and whatever I said to the press people. His whole staff was there to listen: the doctor, the nurses, everybody was there. And from the next day on they started bringing their families to see me. I said, "What?" And their children started bringing their autograph books!

The nurses could not find anything for me to sign, but in the newspapers there were many pictures of me, so they started bringing cuttings of photographs from the newspapers: "We will remember that once you have been here for three days. This will be our memory ... the most cherished memory. In these three days this place has not been a jail at all."

The nurses were coming even on the day which was their day off. They said, "We will lose that day, but you may go any moment and we don't want to miss any time."

You are worried about security, safety; that if I take you over, or I become your very center, then what is the guarantee of your security and your safety? You are already living in a prison. If I can come within you, I can pull you out of your prison - even from the outside. That"s what I am trying to do:

to pull you out of your old mind.

You are not a hopeless case, Prabodh Nityo, but if you go on doing this, then it becomes impossible for me to help you in any way. If you panic, if you slam the door and rush into the strong, adult mind behind a protective wall, then you are doing a schizophrenic act: on the one hand you are asking me to come and transform you, and on the other hand when I come to you, you close the door.

Decide any way - whichever suits you. If your old mind is a great joy to you, there is no need for me to disturb you; be satisfied with your old mind. But it cannot be the case. If the old mind was right, you would not have been here. You are here in search of something new, in search of something unknown, in search of an alchemical change. Now gather courage. And it is a question only of a single moment.

Stop slamming doors, and stop running into a defense. I cannot destroy you, I can only destroy that which is not you. I can discover and help you to discover your authentic being. But you are in an absolute misunderstanding.

On his wedding night, the preacher returned to the bedroom from brushing his teeth and found his newlywed lying in bed stark naked, on her back, with her legs spread invitingly.

"Praise the Lord!" cried the preacher. "I expected to find a good Christian girl like you on her knees beside the bed."

"Well, all right," blushed the bride, "but that way it always gives me hiccups."

Just people are such ... Their minds are conditioned in such a way. The poor preacher is thinking of prayer, but the girl is thinking of something else.

Henry Ford died, and before going to heaven was interviewed by God. Asked about his achievements on the earth, Henry Ford boasted, "My model-T Ford is one of the greatest achievements of all time. Incidentally, what do you think about it?"

God smiled and said, "It was not a bad invention." And he asked Henry what he thought about his greatest creation - woman.

"Not bad," said Henry. "But if you ask me, the inlet valve is a bit too near the exhaust."

A Henry Ford is a Henry Ford; he understands only one language. Your old mind understands only one thing: how to protect yourself. But life belongs to those who drop all defense measures, because every defense measure is a mistrust in existence.

Life belongs to those who trust existence. Then there is no need for any defense. Then this is your home ... all these stars and all these oceans and all these mountains are part of your home. This whole existence is your very life"s source. There is no need to fear, and there is no need to close yourself in dark cells in a deep mistrust.

Mistrust is almost death.

Trust is the only life that I know of.

Okay Maneesha?

Yes, Osho.