41

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‌CHAPTER 41

1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, USA

Okay.

What was I telling you? I cannot remember it, remind me.

“We were talking about how Morarji Desai and Satyabhakta became your enemies, and the last thing you said was that Morarji Desai had something in his eyes that was slimy and slippery, which you remember.”

Good. It is better to not remember it. Perhaps that’s why I cannot remember. Otherwise my memory is not bad, at least nobody has told me that. Even those who don’t agree with me say that my memory is just impossible to believe. When I was moving around the country, I remembered thousands of people’s names, their faces; not only that, but when I met them again I immediately remembered where we had last met, what I had said to them, what they had said to me – it may have been ten or fifteen years before. Naturally the man would be astonished. It is good that at least my memory fails exactly where it should, at Morarji Desai, that is.

You cannot believe that even God makes caricatures. I have heard He made creatures, but caricatures? Specially made for cartoonists? Morarji is a walking cartoon. But I had not laughed at him; I was so full of the strange meeting between a boy and the prime minister, and the way they talked together. I still cannot believe that a prime minister could talk that way. He was almost just a listener, only asking questions so that the conversation would continue. It seemed he wanted it to continue forever because many times the door opened, and his personal secretary looked in. But Jawaharlal was really a good man; he had turned his chair away from the door. The personal secretary could only see his back.

Only later on did I understand, when Masto told me that this was the first time he had seen Jawaharlal put his chair this way. He said the personal secretary is meant to open the door to announce that the time for the visitor is now over, and another visitor is ready to enter.

But Jawaharlal was not bothered by anything in the world. It was as if all that he wanted to know about was vipassana. I was a little hesitant to tell him what vipassana is because of the situation. I will have to tell you the meaning of the word vipassana. It means “looking back.” Passan means “looking,” vipassana means “looking back.”

What I am doing at this moment is vipassana.

I was knocking Masto with my leg but he was sitting like a yogi. He was afraid I would do something like that, so he was prepared, in a way prepared for anything to happen. And I really hit him hard.

He said, “Aargh!”

Jawaharlal said, “What is the matter?” Masto said, “Nothing.”

I said, “He is lying.”

Masto said, “This is too much. You hit me, and you hit me so hard that I forget that I have to keep quiet, and not become a football in your hands, and now you are telling Jawaharlal that I am lying.”

I said, “Now he is not lying but telling you how you can forget, because vipassana means ‘not forgetting’.” And I said to Masto, “I am explaining vipassana to Jawaharlal so I hit you hard. Please excuse me, and don’t take it for granted that it was the last.”

Jawaharlal really laughed... he laughed so much that tears came to his eyes. That is always the quality of a real poet, not an ordinary one. You can buy ordinary poets, perhaps in the West they are a little more costly, otherwise a dollar-a-dozen will do. He was not a poet of that type – a dollar-a- dozen. He was really one of those few rare souls whom Buddha has called bodhisattvas. I will call him a bodhisattva.

I was, and still am, amazed how he could become the prime minister. But the first prime minister of India was of a totally different quality from any other prime minister who was to follow. He was not chosen by the crowd, he was not, in fact, a chosen candidate. He was Mahatma Gandhi’s choice.

Gandhi, whatsoever his faults, at least did one thing that even I can appreciate. This is the only thing, otherwise I am against Mahatma Gandhi, point by point. But why he had to choose Jawaharlal is another story, perhaps not meant to be part of my circle. What matters to me is that at least he must have been sensitive to a poetic person. He was certainly ascetic; yet with all his nonsense he was still sensible enough to choose Jawaharlal.

That’s how a poet became the prime minister. Otherwise there is no possibility for a poet to become a prime minister – unless a prime minister goes mad, and becomes a poet, but that will not be the same thing.

We talked of poetry. I had thought that he would talk of politics. Even Masto, who had known him for years, was astounded that he was talking about poetry and the meaning of the poetic experience. He looked at me as if I knew the answer.

I said, “Masto, you should know better, you have known Jawaharlal for years. I did not know him at all until just now. We are still only in the process of introducing ourselves. So don’t look with a questioning eye, although I understand your question: ‘What has happened to the politician? Has he gone mad?’ No, I say it to you, and to him also, that he is not a politician – perhaps by accident, but not by his intrinsic nature.”

And Jawaharlal nodded and said, “At least one person in my life has said it exactly, as I was not able to formulate it clearly. It was vague. But now I know what has happened, it is an accident.”

“And,” I added, “a fatal one.” And we all laughed.

“But,” I said, “the accident has been fatal. But your poet is unharmed, and I don’t care about anything else. You can still see the stars as a child does.”

He said, “Again! Because I love to see the stars – but how did you come to know about it?”

I said, “I have nothing to do with it. I know what being a poet is, so I can describe you in every detail. So please, from this moment, don’t be astonished. Just take it easy.” And he certainly relaxed. Otherwise for a politician to relax is impossible.

In India, the mythology is that when an ordinary person dies, only one devil comes to take him, but when a politician dies, a crowd of devils have to come because he won’t relax, even in death. He won’t allow it. He has never allowed anything to happen of its own accord. He does not know the meaning of those simple words, “Let go.”

But this man Jawaharlal immediately relaxed. He said, “With you I can relax. And Masto has never been a source of tension to me, so he can also relax. I am not preventing him, unless being a swami, a sannyasin, a monk, prevents him.”

We all laughed. And this was not the last meeting, it was only the first. Masto and I had thought it was the last, but when we were departing, Jawaharlal said, “Can you come again tomorrow at this same time? And I will keep this fellow,” he said, pointing towards Morarji Desai, “away from here. Even his presence stinks, and you know of what. I am sorry, but I have to keep him in the cabinet because he has a certain political importance. And what does it matter if he drinks his own urine? It is not my business.” We laughed again, and departed.

That evening, he reminded us again on the phone, saying, “Don’t forget. I have canceled all my other appointments and I will be waiting for you both.”

We had no work to do at all. Masto had come just to make me acquainted with the prime minister, and that was done. Masto said, “If the prime minister wants it, we have to stay. We cannot say ‘No,’ that would not be helpful to your future.”

I said, “Don’t be worried about my future. Will it be helpful to Jawaharlal or not?”

Masto said, “You are impossible.” And he was right, but I came to know it too late, when it was difficult to change.

I have become so accustomed to being what I am that even in small things it is difficult for me to change. Gudia knows, she tries to teach me in every possible way not to splash water all over the bathroom. But can you teach me anything? I cannot stop. Not that I want to torture the girls, or that they have to be tortured twice every day, because I take two baths, so naturally they have to clean twice.

Of course Gudia thinks I can take a bath in such a way that they don’t have to remove water from everywhere. But finally she dropped the idea of teaching me. It is impossible for me to change. When I take my shower I enjoy it so much that I forget, and splash the water all over. And without splashing it I would have to remain controlled even in my bathroom.

Now look at Gudia: she is enjoying the idea because she knows exactly what I am saying. When I take a shower I really take a shower, and I splash not only the floor, but even the walls, and if you have to clean, then of course it is a problem for you. But if you clean with love, as my cleaners do, then it is better than psychoanalysis, and far better than transcendental meditation. I cannot now change anything.

Now, what Masto was talking about has happened. What was future then is now past. But I am the same, and I have remained the same. In fact to me, it seems that death happens not the moment when you stop breathing, but when you stop being yourself. I have never for any reason allowed any compromise.

We went the next day, and Jawaharlal had invited his son-in-law, Indira Gandhi’s husband. I wondered why he had not invited his daughter. Later on Masto said to me, “Indira takes care of Jawaharlal. His wife died young, and he has only one child, his daughter Indira, and she has been both a daughter and a son to him.”

In India, when the daughter marries she has to go to her husband’s house. She becomes part of another family. Indira never went. She simply refused. She said, “My mother is dead, and I cannot leave my father alone.”

This created the beginning of the end in their marriage. They remained husband and wife, but Indira was never part of Feroze Gandhi’s family. Even their two sons, Sanjaya and Raju, came to belong naturally, because of their mother, to her family.

Masto told me, “Jawaharlal cannot invite them together, they would start fighting then and there.” I said, “That’s strange. Even for one hour can’t they forget that they are husband and wife?”

Masto said, “It is impossible to forget, even for a single moment. To be a husband or a wife means a declaration of war.” Although people call it love, it is really a cold war. And it is better to have a hot war, particularly in a cold winter, than to have a cold war twenty-four hours a day. It even starts freezing your being.

We were again surprised when he invited us the third day. We had been thinking of leaving, and he had not said anything the second day. The morning of the third day, Jawaharlal phoned. He had a private number which was not listed in the directory. Only a few people, those who were very close, could call him on that number.

I asked Masto, “He called us himself; can’t he just tell his secretary to call us?”

Masto said, “No, this is his private number; even the secretary has no knowledge that he is inviting us. The secretary will come to know only when we reach the porch.”

And that third day Jawaharlal introduced me to Indira Gandhi. He simply said to her, “Don’t ask who he is, because right now he is no one, but someday he could be really somebody.”

I know he was wrong; I’m still no one, and I am going to remain no one to the very end. To be a no one is so tremendously blissful; one gets really spaced. I must be one of the most spaced-out people in the world. But still, try to be no one, it is far out – just faaar out.

But nobody wants to be no one, nobody, nothing, and naturally that’s why Jawaharlal was saying to Indira, “Now he is no one, but I can predict one day he certainly will be someone.”

Jawaharlal, you are dead, but I am sorry to say I could not fulfill your prediction. It failed, fortunately.

And that started my friendship with Indira. She already had a high post, and soon became the president of the ruling party in India, and then a minister in Jawaharlal’s cabinet, and finally prime minister. Indira is the only woman I have known who could manage these idiots – the politicians – and she managed well.

How she managed it I cannot say. Perhaps she had learned all their faults while she was a nobody, just a caretaker for old Jawaharlal. But she knew their faults so well that they are afraid of her, trembling. Even Jawaharlal could not throw this perfect idiot, Morarji Desai, out of his cabinet.

I told this to Indira, in a later meeting. It may come sometime, or may not, so better that I mention it right now. These circles are not dependable. I told her in our last meeting, that was years after Jawaharlal had died... it must have been somewhere around 1968. She told me, “What you are saying is absolutely right, and I would like to do it, but what to do with people like Morarji? They are in my cabinet, and they are the majority. Although they belong to my party, they would not be able to understand if I try to implement anything you are saying. I agree, but I feel helpless.”

I said, “Why don’t you throw out this fellow? Who is preventing you? And if you cannot throw him out, then resign, because it does not suit a person of your caliber to work with these fools. Put them right – that is right side up, because they are doing shirshasana, standing on their heads. Either put them right or resign, but do something.”

I have always liked Indira Gandhi. I still like her, although she is not doing anything to help my work – but that’s another matter. I liked her from the moment she told me, rather whispered in my ear, although there was nobody to hear, but who knows? – politicians are careful people.

She whispered, “I will do something or other.”

I could not figure out, at that moment, what she meant – “something or other”? But after seven days I read in the newspaper that Morarji Desai had been suddenly thrown out. I was far away, perhaps thousands of miles.

He had just returned from a tour of his constituency to visit the prime minister, and this was his welcome. A rather strange welcome... I should say a “well-go.” Can I make a word “well-go”? Then they are giving a good well-go. That will be exactly what people do... who welcomes?

But I was not surprised. In fact, every day I was looking in the newspapers to see what was happening because I had to figure out her meaning-“something or other” – but she did something. She did the right thing. This man had been the most obstructive, obscurantist, orthodox, and whatnot, and anything wrong that you can think of.

What is the time, Devageet? “Ten twenty-four, Osho.”

Ten minutes for me. This is good but it can be improved. Unless you come to your perfection today I am going to be a hard taskmaster. Go for perfection. Don’t ask for continuation; perfection is the word. Although it is not heard, but still perfection is the word, heard or unheard.

Yes, unless I know that you have come to your ultimate capacity I am not going to stop. So be quick! Good.

The moment I say good, you become afraid. I immediately see your fear and trembling. That’s why, once in a while I have to address Ashu, saying, “Don’t be bothered about Devageet’s fear, just be a simple woman, without knowledge, and go to the heights. Let poor Devageet run behind.” He will try hard. I can see him running to get ahead of you, that’s why I laugh. Who can be behind one’s own assistant?

Don’t be worried, today at twelve the world is going to stop anyway. So Ashu, be quick! Before the world ends at least let me have my lunch.

Good. Stop.

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