Astrall
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(part 1)
Osho on His Enlightenment
I had been seeking the gates of enlightenment for as long as I can remember — since earliest childhood. This dream must have stayed with me from past lives, because there was not a single day when I was not engaged in this search. Of course, everyone around me thought I was peculiar. I never played with other children. I did not even speak to my peers. They seemed dim-witted to me. And indeed, they occupied themselves with astonishing foolishness. I never wanted to play football, volleyball, or hockey. Naturally, everyone thought I was strange. As for me, I too came to that conclusion. Growing up, I realized that it was actually not I who was strange, but our entire world.
The last year of my life at home, when I turned twenty-one, was a period of mental breakdowns and spiritual breakthroughs. Of course, all those who loved me — my parents, friends, and teachers — partially understood what was happening to me. But why was I so different from other children? Why did I sit for hours with my eyes closed? Why did I sit on the riverbank at night and gaze at the starry sky? Naturally, those who do not understand such things — and I do not particularly need them to understand — considered me insane.
I was hardly even noticed at home. Gradually, they stopped asking me anything. Everyone acted as if I were not there. And I liked that — thus I turned into nothing, into emptiness, into a complete absence of anything.
That year was remarkable. I enveloped myself in emptiness. I lost all connection with the outside world. If I was reminded that it was time to bathe, I went to bathe and sat in the water for hours. They had to knock on the door and shout, "Hey, come out! You've been sitting in there long enough for a month!" I ate when I was told it was time to eat. If no one reminded me, I could go several days without eating. No, I was not fasting; I did not even think about observing fasts or penances. I wanted only one thing: to go as deep within myself as possible. The gates were pulling me like a magnet, this force was irresistible. I was being sucked in, like into a "black hole."
Scientists say there are "black holes" in the universe. If a star comes near, the "hole" will pull it in. The gravitational force is such that it cannot be overcome, and the star perishes, completely disappearing into the "black hole." No one knows what happens on the other side. I think — and some physicist seems to have already found confirmation — that on the other side there is a "white hole." A hole cannot have just one end; it is always a passageway. I experienced this myself. Perhaps the entire universe is structured this way. A star dies. When it falls into a "black hole," we see the star disappear. But at the same time, new stars are born in the cosmos. Where do they come from? In what wombs do they mature? Simple arithmetic is enough to understand: these wombs are "black holes" — in them the old perishes and the new is born.
And I myself experienced this, though I am not a physicist. That year, an incredible force pulled me away, further and further from people. I became so detached from the world that I sometimes did not recognize my own father and mother. At times, I even forgot my own name. I tried with all my might to remember my name, but nothing came of it. Naturally, that year everyone became fully convinced that I had gone mad. But for me, this madness was meditation, and at the very peak of insanity, the gates finally opened... * * *
I was taken to a vaidya, an Ayurvedic doctor. Actually, I was taken to all sorts of doctors and healers, but only that vaidya said to my father: "He is not ill at all. You are wasting your time." Of course, I was still dragged from one specialist to another. They prescribed me various medicines, and I said to my father: "Why are you so worried? Nothing hurts me." But no one believed me; they said: "Be quiet. Just take the medicine; it won't do any harm, will it?" And I took it — what did I care?
Only that vaidya was perceptive, and his name was Pandit Bhagirath Prasad. The old man is dead now, but he was a remarkably perceptive person. He simply looked at me and immediately said: "The boy is not ill at all." And then he cried and confessed: "I myself have been striving for such a state for a long time. The boy is amazingly lucky. I will not achieve it in this life. There is no need to drag him to doctors. He has almost reached..." The old man's tears were tears of joy for me.
He was a seeker. In his quest, he had traveled the entire length and breadth of the country. His whole life was a series of searches and discoveries. He had a fairly good idea of what he was looking for. He became my patron; he protected me from other doctors. He told my father: "Leave him with me; I will take care of everything." He gave me no medicine, and when my father objected, he prescribed harmless sugar pills. He told me about it himself: "This is just sugar. Take them to calm your parents. They will do no harm. No good either, for that matter. No medicine can help here." * * *
When you first enter the world beyond the mind, it truly seems like madness: the "dark night of the soul," the insane darkness of the soul. This has been noted by all religions. For that same reason, all religions insist that before entering the world beyond the mind, one must find a Master — he will be there, he will help and support you. Your world will begin to fall apart, but the Master will encourage you and restore hope. He will help you understand the new. That is why a Master is needed — he helps you understand what cannot be understood by the intellect. He helps you express what cannot be said in words, to show the invisible. He is always there; he finds the means that will allow you to continue your path, otherwise you might get scared and stray from the road.
But remember, there is nowhere to run. If you stray from the path and rush into the thicket, you will be seized by a true obsession. The Sufis call such people *masta*, and in India they are known as mad *paramahamsas*. You cannot go back, because there is nothing there anymore. Going forward is also impossible; there is darkness all around. You are lost. That is why Buddha said: "Blessed is he who has found a Master."
I myself had no Master. I searched, but could not find one. It is not that I did not try — believe me, I searched for a very long time, but I did not find one. Finding a Master is difficult. It is very difficult to find a being who has ceased to exist. It is difficult to feel the presence of one who is almost absent. Seekers rarely find one who is merely a door to the Divine — an open door through which it is easy to pass. This is very, very difficult.
The Sikhs call their temples *gurdwara*, "the door of the Master." That is what a Master is — a door. Jesus often repeated: "I am the gate, I am the way, I am the truth. Follow me, pass through me. If you do not pass through me, you will attain nothing."
Yes, it sometimes happens that a person does not find a Master. If there is no Master, one must work without one, but such a journey is much more dangerous.
For an entire year I was in such a state that no one could have predicted how it would turn out. For an entire year I lived in such a way that I could barely sustain my life. Even such simple things were extremely difficult, because I had completely lost my appetite. Days passed, and I had no desire to eat at all. Days passed, and I even forgot to drink water. I forced myself to eat and drink. My body became so insensitive that I pinched myself to make sure I was still there. I hit my head against the wall, trying to understand if I still had a head. Only pain could briefly return the sensation of my body.
In the mornings and evenings, I ran. I would run five to eight miles at a stretch. Everyone thought I had gone crazy. Why run so much? Sixteen miles a day! But I did it only to feel myself, to feel that I still existed, so as not to lose connection with myself — I was simply waiting for my eyes to adjust to the newness that was being born within me.
I had to try very hard. I did not speak to anyone: my thoughts had become so incoherent that it was incredibly difficult for me even to construct a sentence. I could fall silent mid-word because I forgot what I was talking about. I could freeze in the middle of the road because I forgot where I was going. I could sit with a book, read fifty pages, and then suddenly ask myself: "What was I reading? I don't remember anything." My state was very strange...
There is a story. A patient bursts into a psychiatrist's office and screams: "Doctor, help me! I'm going crazy! I forget everything! I don't remember what happened a year ago or even yesterday. I'm going crazy!"
"Hmm," said the psychiatrist, "and when did you first notice this?"
"Notice what?" the patient asked, puzzled.
It was the same with me! It was hard for me even to finish a sentence. I sat locked in my room. I was silent, not uttering a single word, because saying anything would have meant admitting my madness. A whole year passed like this. I simply lay on the floor, stared at the ceiling, and counted first to a hundred, and then in reverse order, from a hundred to one. At least something remained — for instance, this ability to count in sequence. Everything else I had forgotten. It took me a whole year to come back to myself, to find some point of reference.
But it happened. It was a real miracle. However, it cost me great effort. No one helped me, no one told me where to go or what was happening to me. Moreover, they hindered me; everyone was against me — teachers, friends, and other well-wishers. Everyone was against me. But they could do nothing, except shame me or ask what it was I was doing.
The thing is, I was doing nothing! It was stronger than me. It was simply happening. Of course, I did do something: without knowing it myself, I knocked on the door — and it opened. I meditated for many years, simply sitting silently and doing nothing. And step by step, I transported myself into that space where you simply are, but do nothing. You simply are — pure presence, an inactive witness.
No, I did nothing. I simply lay, sat, walked — but there, in the depths, there was no one who does anything. I lost all ambitious dreams. I lost the desire to strive for anything, to achieve anything. I simply sank into myself. This was emptiness, and emptiness drives you mad. And yet it is the only path to God. Only he who is ready to go mad reaches God.......
Osho on His Enlightenment
I had been seeking the gates of enlightenment for as long as I can remember — since earliest childhood. This dream must have stayed with me from past lives, because there was not a single day when I was not engaged in this search. Of course, everyone around me thought I was peculiar. I never played with other children. I did not even speak to my peers. They seemed dim-witted to me. And indeed, they occupied themselves with astonishing foolishness. I never wanted to play football, volleyball, or hockey. Naturally, everyone thought I was strange. As for me, I too came to that conclusion. Growing up, I realized that it was actually not I who was strange, but our entire world.
The last year of my life at home, when I turned twenty-one, was a period of mental breakdowns and spiritual breakthroughs. Of course, all those who loved me — my parents, friends, and teachers — partially understood what was happening to me. But why was I so different from other children? Why did I sit for hours with my eyes closed? Why did I sit on the riverbank at night and gaze at the starry sky? Naturally, those who do not understand such things — and I do not particularly need them to understand — considered me insane.
I was hardly even noticed at home. Gradually, they stopped asking me anything. Everyone acted as if I were not there. And I liked that — thus I turned into nothing, into emptiness, into a complete absence of anything.
That year was remarkable. I enveloped myself in emptiness. I lost all connection with the outside world. If I was reminded that it was time to bathe, I went to bathe and sat in the water for hours. They had to knock on the door and shout, "Hey, come out! You've been sitting in there long enough for a month!" I ate when I was told it was time to eat. If no one reminded me, I could go several days without eating. No, I was not fasting; I did not even think about observing fasts or penances. I wanted only one thing: to go as deep within myself as possible. The gates were pulling me like a magnet, this force was irresistible. I was being sucked in, like into a "black hole."
Scientists say there are "black holes" in the universe. If a star comes near, the "hole" will pull it in. The gravitational force is such that it cannot be overcome, and the star perishes, completely disappearing into the "black hole." No one knows what happens on the other side. I think — and some physicist seems to have already found confirmation — that on the other side there is a "white hole." A hole cannot have just one end; it is always a passageway. I experienced this myself. Perhaps the entire universe is structured this way. A star dies. When it falls into a "black hole," we see the star disappear. But at the same time, new stars are born in the cosmos. Where do they come from? In what wombs do they mature? Simple arithmetic is enough to understand: these wombs are "black holes" — in them the old perishes and the new is born.
And I myself experienced this, though I am not a physicist. That year, an incredible force pulled me away, further and further from people. I became so detached from the world that I sometimes did not recognize my own father and mother. At times, I even forgot my own name. I tried with all my might to remember my name, but nothing came of it. Naturally, that year everyone became fully convinced that I had gone mad. But for me, this madness was meditation, and at the very peak of insanity, the gates finally opened... * * *
I was taken to a vaidya, an Ayurvedic doctor. Actually, I was taken to all sorts of doctors and healers, but only that vaidya said to my father: "He is not ill at all. You are wasting your time." Of course, I was still dragged from one specialist to another. They prescribed me various medicines, and I said to my father: "Why are you so worried? Nothing hurts me." But no one believed me; they said: "Be quiet. Just take the medicine; it won't do any harm, will it?" And I took it — what did I care?
Only that vaidya was perceptive, and his name was Pandit Bhagirath Prasad. The old man is dead now, but he was a remarkably perceptive person. He simply looked at me and immediately said: "The boy is not ill at all." And then he cried and confessed: "I myself have been striving for such a state for a long time. The boy is amazingly lucky. I will not achieve it in this life. There is no need to drag him to doctors. He has almost reached..." The old man's tears were tears of joy for me.
He was a seeker. In his quest, he had traveled the entire length and breadth of the country. His whole life was a series of searches and discoveries. He had a fairly good idea of what he was looking for. He became my patron; he protected me from other doctors. He told my father: "Leave him with me; I will take care of everything." He gave me no medicine, and when my father objected, he prescribed harmless sugar pills. He told me about it himself: "This is just sugar. Take them to calm your parents. They will do no harm. No good either, for that matter. No medicine can help here." * * *
When you first enter the world beyond the mind, it truly seems like madness: the "dark night of the soul," the insane darkness of the soul. This has been noted by all religions. For that same reason, all religions insist that before entering the world beyond the mind, one must find a Master — he will be there, he will help and support you. Your world will begin to fall apart, but the Master will encourage you and restore hope. He will help you understand the new. That is why a Master is needed — he helps you understand what cannot be understood by the intellect. He helps you express what cannot be said in words, to show the invisible. He is always there; he finds the means that will allow you to continue your path, otherwise you might get scared and stray from the road.
But remember, there is nowhere to run. If you stray from the path and rush into the thicket, you will be seized by a true obsession. The Sufis call such people *masta*, and in India they are known as mad *paramahamsas*. You cannot go back, because there is nothing there anymore. Going forward is also impossible; there is darkness all around. You are lost. That is why Buddha said: "Blessed is he who has found a Master."
I myself had no Master. I searched, but could not find one. It is not that I did not try — believe me, I searched for a very long time, but I did not find one. Finding a Master is difficult. It is very difficult to find a being who has ceased to exist. It is difficult to feel the presence of one who is almost absent. Seekers rarely find one who is merely a door to the Divine — an open door through which it is easy to pass. This is very, very difficult.
The Sikhs call their temples *gurdwara*, "the door of the Master." That is what a Master is — a door. Jesus often repeated: "I am the gate, I am the way, I am the truth. Follow me, pass through me. If you do not pass through me, you will attain nothing."
Yes, it sometimes happens that a person does not find a Master. If there is no Master, one must work without one, but such a journey is much more dangerous.
For an entire year I was in such a state that no one could have predicted how it would turn out. For an entire year I lived in such a way that I could barely sustain my life. Even such simple things were extremely difficult, because I had completely lost my appetite. Days passed, and I had no desire to eat at all. Days passed, and I even forgot to drink water. I forced myself to eat and drink. My body became so insensitive that I pinched myself to make sure I was still there. I hit my head against the wall, trying to understand if I still had a head. Only pain could briefly return the sensation of my body.
In the mornings and evenings, I ran. I would run five to eight miles at a stretch. Everyone thought I had gone crazy. Why run so much? Sixteen miles a day! But I did it only to feel myself, to feel that I still existed, so as not to lose connection with myself — I was simply waiting for my eyes to adjust to the newness that was being born within me.
I had to try very hard. I did not speak to anyone: my thoughts had become so incoherent that it was incredibly difficult for me even to construct a sentence. I could fall silent mid-word because I forgot what I was talking about. I could freeze in the middle of the road because I forgot where I was going. I could sit with a book, read fifty pages, and then suddenly ask myself: "What was I reading? I don't remember anything." My state was very strange...
There is a story. A patient bursts into a psychiatrist's office and screams: "Doctor, help me! I'm going crazy! I forget everything! I don't remember what happened a year ago or even yesterday. I'm going crazy!"
"Hmm," said the psychiatrist, "and when did you first notice this?"
"Notice what?" the patient asked, puzzled.
It was the same with me! It was hard for me even to finish a sentence. I sat locked in my room. I was silent, not uttering a single word, because saying anything would have meant admitting my madness. A whole year passed like this. I simply lay on the floor, stared at the ceiling, and counted first to a hundred, and then in reverse order, from a hundred to one. At least something remained — for instance, this ability to count in sequence. Everything else I had forgotten. It took me a whole year to come back to myself, to find some point of reference.
But it happened. It was a real miracle. However, it cost me great effort. No one helped me, no one told me where to go or what was happening to me. Moreover, they hindered me; everyone was against me — teachers, friends, and other well-wishers. Everyone was against me. But they could do nothing, except shame me or ask what it was I was doing.
The thing is, I was doing nothing! It was stronger than me. It was simply happening. Of course, I did do something: without knowing it myself, I knocked on the door — and it opened. I meditated for many years, simply sitting silently and doing nothing. And step by step, I transported myself into that space where you simply are, but do nothing. You simply are — pure presence, an inactive witness.
No, I did nothing. I simply lay, sat, walked — but there, in the depths, there was no one who does anything. I lost all ambitious dreams. I lost the desire to strive for anything, to achieve anything. I simply sank into myself. This was emptiness, and emptiness drives you mad. And yet it is the only path to God. Only he who is ready to go mad reaches God.......