Glimpses of a Golden Childhood

352 Pages·2005·1.16 MB·English

Glimpses of a Golden Childhood
Talksgivenfrom1984
Miscellaneous
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1984inLaoTzuHouse,Rajneeshpuram,USA
It is a beautiful morning. Again and again the sun rises and it is always new. It never grows old.
Scientists say it is millions of years old; nonsense! Every day I see it. It is always new. Nothing
is old. But scientists are grave-diggers, that’s why I say they look so grave, serious. This morning,
again the miracle of existence. Each moment it is happening, but only very few, very, very few ever
encounterit.
The word encounter is really beautiful. To encounter the moment as it is; to see it as it is, without
adding, without deleting, without any editorial work, just to see it as it is, like a mirror.... The mirror
does not edit, thank God, otherwise no face in the world would be able to fit its requirements, not
eventhefaceofCleopatra. Nofaceatallwouldbeabletofitthemirror,forthesimplereasonthatifit
startscuttingyou,editingyou,addingtoyou,itwillstartdestroyingyou. Butnomirrorisdestructive.
Eventheugliestmirrorissobeautifulinitsundestructiveness. Itsimplyreflects.
Before coming into your Noah’s Ark, I was standing looking at the sunrise... so beautiful, at least
today – and who cares for tomorrow? Tomorrow never comes. Jesus says, ”Think not of the
morrow....”
Today it is so beautiful that for a moment I was reminded of the tremendous beauty of the sunrise
in the Himalayas. There, when the snow is surrounding you, and the trees are looking like brides,
as if they have flowered white flowers of snow, one does not care a bit about the so-called bigwigs,
theprimeministersandthepresidentsoftheworld,thekingsandqueens. Infactkingsandqueens
are going to exist only in playing cards, that’s where they belong. And the presidents and the prime
ministerswilltaketheplaceofthejokers. Theydon’tdeserveanythingmore.
Those mountain trees with their white flowers of snow... and whenever I saw the snow falling from
their leaves I was reminded of a tree from my childhood. That kind of tree is possible only here in
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India; it is called madhu malti – madhu means sweet, malti means the queen. I have never come
across any fragrance that is more beautiful and more penetrating – and you know that I am allergic
toperfume,soIimmediatelyknow. Iamverysensitivetoperfume.
Madhu malti is the most beautiful tree one can imagine. God must have created it on the seventh
day. Relieved of all the worries and hurries of the world, finished with everything, even men and
women, He must have created madhu malti on His day off, a holiday, a Sunday... just His old habit
ofcreating. Itisdifficulttogetridofoldhabits.
Madhumaltiflowerswiththousandsofflowersallatonce. Notoneflowerhereandthere,no,thatis
not the way of madhu malti, nor is it my way. Madhu malti flowers with a richness, with luxury, with
affluence–thousandsofflowers,somanythatyoucannotseetheleaves. Thewholetreebecomes
coveredwithwhiteflowers.
Snow-covered trees have always reminded me of madhu malti. Of course there is no perfume,
and it was good for me that snow has no perfume. It is unfortunate that I cannot hold the flowers
of madhu malti once again. The perfume is so strong it spreads for miles, and remember I am
not exaggerating. Just one single madhu malti tree is enough to fill the whole neighborhood with
immenseperfume.
I love the Himalayas. I wanted to die there. That is the most beautiful place to die – of course to
live too, but as far as dying is concerned, that is the ultimate place. It is where Lao Tzu died. In
the valleys of the Himalayas Buddha died, Jesus died, Moses died. No other mountains can claim
Moses,Jesus,LaoTzu,Buddha,Bodhidharma,Milarepa,Marpa,Tilopa,Naropa,andthousandsof
others.
SwitzerlandisbeautifulbutnothingcomparedtotheHimalayas. ItisconvenienttobeinSwitzerland
withallitsmodernfacilities. ItisveryinconvenientintheHimalayas. Itisstillwithoutanytechnology
at all – no roads, no electricity, no airplanes, no railroads, nothing at all. But then comes the
innocence. Oneistransportedtoanothertime,toanotherbeing,toanotherspace.
I wanted to die there; and this morning, standing and looking at the sunrise, I felt relieved, knowing
thatifIdiehere,particularlyonadayasbeautifulasthis,itisokay. AndIwillchoosetodieonaday
whenIfeelIampartoftheHimalayas. Deathformeisnotjustanend,afullstop. No,deathforme
isacelebration.
Remembering the snow falling from the trees, just like flowers falling from madhu malti, a haiku
flashed....
Thewildgeese
Donotintendtomaketheirreflections.
Thewaterhasnomind
Toreceivetheirimages.
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Ahhh,sobeautiful. Wildgeesenotintendingtomaketheirreflections,andthewaternotintendingto
receivethemeither,andyetthereflectionisthere. Thatisthebeauty. Nobodyhasintended,andyet
itisthere–that’swhatIcallcommunion. Ihavealwayshatedcommunication. Tomecommunication
is ugly. You can see it happening between a wife and a husband, the boss and the servant; and so
onandsoforth. Itneverreallyhappens. Communionismyword.
I see Buddha Hall with all my people... just for a moment like a flash, so many moments of
communion. It is not just a gathering; it is not a church. People do not come to it formally. People
cometome,nottoit. WheneverthereisaMasterandadisciple–itmaybeonlytheMasterandjust
one disciple, that does not matter – communion happens. It is happening right now, and there are
only four of you. Perhaps with my eyes closed I can’t even count, and it is good; only then can one
remain in the world of the unaccountable... and tax-free too! If you can count, then taxation comes
in. Iamunaccountable,nobodyhasevertaxedme.
I was a professor in a university. When they wanted to raise my pay, I said no. The vice chancellor
couldnotbelieveit;hesaid,”Whynot?”
I said, ”Beyond what I am getting now I would have to pay taxes, and I hate taxation. I would
rather remain with the pay I am getting right now than get more and be bothered by the income tax
department.”Ineverwentbeyondthelimitwhichwasallowedtoremaintax-free.
I have never paid any income tax; in fact there is no income. I have been giving to the world, not
taking anything from the world. It is outcome, not income. I have given out of my heart and my
being.
Itisgoodthatflowersareallowedtobetax-free,otherwisetheywouldstopflowering. Itisgoodthat
snowisallowedtobetax-free,otherwiseitwouldnotsnow,believeme!
I must tell you that after the Russian revolution something happened to the Russian genius; Leo
Tolstoy,FyodorDostoevsky,Turgenev,MaximGorky–theyalldisappeared. YetinRussiatoday,the
writer,thenovelist,theartist,isthemosthighly-paidandhonoredperson. Sowhathappened? Why
don’t they create any more books like BROTHERS KARAMAZOV, ANNA KARENINA, FATHERS
AND SONS, THE MOTHER, or NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND? Why? I want to ask a
thousandtimes,why? WhathappenedtotheRussiangeniusforwritingnovels?
Idon’tthinkanyothercountrycouldcompetewithRussia. Ifyoucountonlytennovelsoftheworld,
just out of necessity you will have to include five Russian novels, leaving only five for the whole
remaining world. What happened tothis great genius? It died! Because flowers cannot be ordered,
there are no ten commandments for them. Flowers flower, you cannot order them to flower. Snow
falls – you cannot issue a commandment, you cannot make a date with it. That is impossible. And
thatissowiththeBuddhas. Theysaywhattheywanttosay,whentheywanttosayit. Theywillsay,
eventoasingleperson,somethingwhichthewholeworldwouldhavelikedtohear.
Now, you are here, perhaps only four. I say ”perhaps” because my mathematics are poor, and with
closed eyes... you can understand... and with tears in my eyes, not because only four are present
butforthisbeautifulmorning,forthesunrise.
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Thank God. He thinks of me; although He does not exist, still He thinks of me. I deny Him, and
yet He thinks of me. Great God. Existence seems to take care. But you do not know the ways of
existence;theyareunpredictable. Ihavealwayslovedtheunpredictable.
Mytearsareforthesunrise. Existencehastakencareofme.
Ihadnotasked.
Nordiditreply.
Butstillthecarehasbeentaken.
Thewildgeesedonotintendtocasttheirreflections.
Thewaterhasnointentiontoreflecttheirimages....
That’showIamspeaking. Idonotknowwhatthenextsentenceisgoingtobeorwhetheritisgoing
tobeatall. Suspenseisbeautiful.
I am reminded again of the small village where I was born. Why existence should have chosen that
smallvillageinthefirstplaceisunexplainable. Itisasitshouldbe. Thevillagewasbeautiful. Ihave
traveled far and wide but I have never come across that same beauty. One never comes again to
thesame. Thingscomeandgo,butitisneverthesame.
I can see that still, small village. Just a few huts near a pond, and a few tall trees where I used
to play. There was no school in the village. That is of no great importance, because I remained
uneducated for almost nine years, and those are the most formative years. After that, even if you
try, you cannot be educated. So in a way I am still uneducated, although I hold many degrees. Any
uneducated man could have done it. And not any degree, but a first class master’s degree – that
too can be done by any fool. So many fools do it every year that it has no significance. What is
significant is that for my first years I remained without education. There was no school, no road, no
railway,nopostoffice. Whatablessing! Thatsmallvillagewasaworlduntoitself. Eveninmytimes
awayfromthatvillageIremainedinthatworld,uneducated.
I have read Ruskin’s famous book, UNTO THIS LAST, and when I was reading it I was thinking of
thatvillage. UNTOTHISLAST... thatvillageisstillunaltered. Noroadconnectsit,norailwaypasses
by,evennowafteralmostfiftyyears;nopostoffice,nopolicestation,nodoctor–infactnobodyfalls
ill in that village. It is so pure and so unpolluted. I have known people in that village who have not
seen a railway train, who wonder what it looks like, who have not even seen a bus or a car. They
haveneverleftthevillage. Theylivesoblissfullyandsilently.
My birthplace, Kuchwada, was a village with no railway line and no post office. It had small hills,
hillocks rather, but a beautiful lake, and a few huts, just straw huts. The only brick house was the
oneIwasbornin,andthattoowasnotmuchofabrickhouse. Itwasjustalittlehouse.
I can see it now, and can describe its every detail... but more than the house or the village, I
remember the people. I have come across millions of people, but the people of that village were
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more innocent than any, because they were very primitive. They knew nothing of the world. Not
even a single newspaper had ever entered that village. You can now understand why there was no
school,notevenaprimaryschool... whatablessing! Nomodernchildcanaffordit.
Iremaineduneducatedforthoseyearsandtheywerethemostbeautifulyears.
Yes, I must confess I had a private tutor. That first tutor was himself uneducated. He was not
teaching me, but trying to learn by teaching me. Perhaps he had heard the great saying, ”The best
waytolearnistoteach,”buthewasagoodman,nice,notlikeanastyschoolteacher. Tobeaschool
teacheronehastobenasty. Thatispartofthewholebusinessworld. Hewasnice–justbutterlike,
very soft. Let me confess, I used to hit him, but he would not hit me back. He would simply laugh
andsay,”Youareachild,youcanhitme. Iamanoldman,Icannothityouback. Whenyouareold
youwillunderstand.”That’swhathesaidtome,andyes,Iunderstand.
He was a nice villager with great insight. Sometimes villagers have insight which civilized people
lack. JustnowIamreminded....
Abeautifulwomancomestoabeach. Seeingnobodyaroundsheundresses. Justbeforeshesteps
into the ocean an old fellow stops her and says, ”Lady, I am the village policeman. It is prohibited
to swim in the ocean from this beach.” The woman looks puzzled and says, ”Then why did you not
prevent me from getting undressed?” The old man laughs and laughs, with tears in his eyes. He
says,”Undressingisnotprohibited,soIwaitedbehindatree!”
A beautiful villager... that type of people lived in the village – simple people. It was surrounded by
small hills and there was a small pond. Nobody could describe that pond except Basho. Even he
doesnotdescribethepond,hesimplysays,
Theancientpond
Frogjumpsin
Plop!
Is this a description? The pond is only mentioned, the frog too. No description of the pond or the
frog... andplop!
The village had an ancient pond, very ancient, and very ancient trees surrounding it; they were
perhapshundredsofyearsold. Andbeautifulrocksallaround... andcertainlythefrogsjumped;day
inanddayoutyoucouldhear”plop,”againandagain. Thesoundoffrogsjumpingreallyhelpedthe
prevailingsilence. Thatsoundmadethesilencericher,moremeaningful.
This is the beauty of Basho; he could describe something without actually describing it. He could
say something without even mentioning a word. ”Plop!” Now, is this a word? No word could do
justicetothesoundofafrogjumpingintotheancientpond,butBashodiditjustice.
IamnotaBasho,andthatvillageneededaBasho. Perhapshewouldhavemadebeautifulsketches,
paintings, and haikus.... I have not done anything about that village – you will wonder why. I have
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not even visited it again. Once is enough. I never go to a place twice. For me number two does not
exist. I have left many villages, many towns, never to return again. Once gone, gone forever, that’s
my way; so I have not returned to that village. The villagers have sent messages to me to come at
leastoncemore. Itoldthem,throughamessenger,”Ihavebeenthereoncealready,twiceisnotmy
way.”
But the silence of that ancient pond stays with me – again I am reminded of the Himalayas... the
snow – so beautiful, so pure, so innocent. You can only see it through the eyes of a Bodhidharma,
a Jesus, or Basho. There is no other way to describe the snow; only the eyes of Buddhas reflect it.
Idiots can trample it, can make snowballs out of it, but only the eyes of the Buddhas can reflect it,
although...
Thewildgeese
Donotintendtocasttheirreflections.
Thewaterhasnomind
Toreflecttheirimages...
andstilltheimagehappens.
TheBuddhasdonotwanttoreflectthebeautyoftheworld,nordoestheworldinanywayintendto
bereflectedbytheBuddhas,butitisreflected. Nobodywills,butithappens,andwhenithappensit
is beautiful. When it is done, it is ordinary; when it is done, you are a technician. When it happens
youareaMaster.
Communicationisapartoftheworldofthetechnician–communionisthefragranceoftheworldof
theMaster.
Thisiscommunion. Iamnotspeakingaboutanythinginparticular....
Thewildgeeseandthewater....
GlimpsesofaGoldenChildhood 7 Osho
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1984inLaoTzuHouse,Rajneeshpuram,USA
Ijusthadagoldenexperience,thefeelingofadisciplesolovinglyworkingonhisMaster’sbody. I’m
stilloutofbreathbecauseofit. Anditalsoremindsmeofmygoldenchildhood.
Everybody talks of his golden childhood, but rarely, very rarely, is it true. Mostly it is a lie. But so
manypeoplearetellingthesameliethatnobodydetectsit. Evenpoetsgoonsingingsongsoftheir
golden childhood – Wordsworth for example, not a worthless fellow at all – but a golden childhood
isextremelyrare,forthesimplereason: wherecanyoufindit?
First, one has to choose one’s birth; that’s almost impossible. Unless you have died in a state
of meditation you cannot choose your birth; that choice only opens for the meditator. He dies
consciously,henceearnstherighttobebornconsciously.
I died consciously; not in fact died, but was killed. I would have died three days later but they could
not wait, not even for three days. People are in such a hurry. You will be surprised to know that the
man who killed me is now my sannyasin. He came to kill me again, not to take sannyas... but if
he sticks to his game, then I stick to mine. He himself confessed later, after seven years of being a
sannyasin. Hesaid,”Bhagwan,nowIcanconfesstoyouwithoutfear: inAhmedabadIhadcometo
killyou.”
Isaid,”MyGod,again!”
Hesaid,”Whatdoyoumeanby‘again’?”
Isaid,”That’sanothermatter,goon....”
He said, ”In Ahmedabad, seven years ago, I came to your meeting with a revolver. The hall was so
fullthattheorganizershadallowedpeopletositonthedais.”
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So this man, with a revolver to kill me, was allowed to sit at my side. What a chance! I said, ”Why
didyoumissyourchance?”
He said, ”I had never heard you before, I had only heard about you. When I heard you, I thought I
wouldrathercommitsuicidethankillyou. That’swhyIbecameasannyasin–that’smysuicide.”
Seven hundred years ago this man had really killed me; he poisoned me. Then too he was my
disciple... but without a Judas, it is very difficult to find a Jesus. I died consciously, hence I had the
greatopportunitytobebornconsciously. Ichosemymotherandmyfather.
Thousands of fools are making love around the earth, around the clock. Millions of unborn souls
are ready to enter into any womb, whatsoever. I waited seven hundred years for the right moment,
andIthankexistencethatIfoundit. Sevenhundredyearsarenothingcomparedtothemillionsand
millions of years ahead. Only seven hundred years – yes, I am saying only – and I chose a very
poorcouplebutaveryintimateone.
I don’t think my father ever looked at another woman with the same love he had for my mother. It
is also impossible to imagine – even for me, who can imagine all kinds of things – that my mother,
eveninherdreams,hadanotherman... impossible! Ihaveknownbothofthem;theyweresoclose,
so intimate, so fulfilled although so poor... poor yet rich. They were rich in their poverty because of
theirintimacy,richbecauseoftheirloveforeachother.
Fortunately, I never saw my mother and father fighting. I say ”fortunately” because it is very difficult
tofindahusbandandwifenotfighting. WhentheyhavetimeforloveonlyGodknows,ormaybeHe
doesn’t know either; after all, He has to take care of His own wife... particularly the Hindu God. At
least the Christian God is in a happier state of affairs: He has no wife at all, no woman at all, what
to say of a wife? Because a woman is more dangerous than a wife. A wife, you can tolerate, but a
woman... you are a fool again! You cannot tolerate a woman, she ”attracts” you; a wife ”distracts”
you.
LookatmyEnglish! Putitininvertedcommassonobodymisunderstandsme–althoughwhatsoever
youdoeveryoneisgoingtomisunderstandme. Buttry,putitininvertedcommas: thewife”distracts,”
thewoman”attracts.”
I have never seen my father and mother fight, not even nagging. People talk about miracles; I have
seen a miracle: my mother did not nag my father. It is a miracle, because for centuries woman has
been bossed so much by man that she has learned underhand practices – she nags. Nagging is
violenceindisguise,maskedviolence. Ineversawmymotherandfatherinanyfightingsituation.
I was worried about my mother when my father died. I could not believe that she would be able
to survive. They had loved each other so much, they had almost become one. She survived only
becauseshealsolovesme.
I have been continuously worried about her. I wanted her to be near me, just so that she can die in
utterfulfillment. NowIknow. Ihaveseenher,Ihaveseenintoher,andIcansaytoyou–andthrough
you it will one day reach the world – she has become enlightened. I was her last attachment. Now
thereisnothingleftforhertobeattachedto. Sheisanenlightenedwoman–uneducated,simple,not
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even knowing what enlightenment is. That’s the beauty! One can be enlightened without knowing
what enlightenment is, and vice versa: one can know everything about enlightenment and remain
unenlightened.
Ichosethiscouple,justsimplevillagers. Icouldhavechosenkingsandqueens. Itwasinmyhands.
All kinds of wombs were available, but I am a man of very simple tastes: I am always satisfied with
thebest. Thecouplewaspoor,verypoor. Youwillnotbeabletounderstandthatmyfatherhadonly
seven hundred rupees; that means seventy dollars. That was all he possessed, yet I chose him to
bemyfather. Hehadarichnesswhicheyescannotsee,aroyaltywhichisinvisible.
Many of you have seen him and must have felt the beauty of the man. He was simple, very simple,
you could even call him just a villager, but immeasurably rich – not in the worldly way, but if there is
another-worldlyway....
Seventy dollars, that was his sole possession. I would not have known it. I came to know only later
on when his business was going bankrupt... and he was very happy! I asked him, ”Dadda...” I used
tocallhimthat;”dadda”meansfather...”Dadda,soonyouaregoingtobebankrupt,andstillyouare
happy. Whatisthematter? Aretherumorsfalse?”
He said, ”No, the rumors are absolutely true. Bankruptcy is bound to happen, but I am happy
because I have saved seven hundred rupees. That’s what I started with; and I will show you the
place.”
Then he showed me the place where he had hidden the seven hundred rupees and said, ”Don’t
be worried. I started with only seven hundred; nothing else belongs to us – let it go to hell. What
belongs to us is hidden here, in this place, and I have shown it to you. You are my eldest son,
rememberthisplace.”
This I know... I have not said anything to anybody about that place, and I am not going to either,
because although he was generous in showing me his secret, I am neither his son, nor is he my
father. He is himself, I am myself. ”Father and son” is just a formality. Those seven hundred rupees
are still hidden somewhere under the earth, and will remain there unless found accidentally by
someone. Itoldhim,”Althoughyouhaveshownmetheplace,Ihavenotseenit.”
Hesaid,”Whatdoyoumean?”
I said, ”It is simple. I don’t see it, and I don’t want to see it. I don’t belong to any heritage, big or
small,richorpoor.”
But from his side he was a loving father. As far as my side is concerned, I am not a loving son –
excuseme.
He was a loving father; when I left my university post, only he was worried, nobody else. None of
my friends were worried. Who cares? – in fact, many of my friends were happy that I had vacated
the chair; now they could have it. They rushed. Only my father was worried. I told him, ”There is no
needtoworry.”
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