Word of this particular meditation spreads quickly, and within a short time a small group starts meeting regularly, just to laugh. Years later, laughter will also be an important component of one of Osho’s “meditative therapies,” The Mystic Rose.
*
On one of those early darshan days, I ask if I might take notes of the conversations Osho is having with the many people who come and go. The interchanges are unique and so precious: to my ears everything Osho says is awesome. Yet this treasure trove of spontaneous wisdom, wit and compassion is lost to everyone else except we few lucky ones who happen to be present. Osho agrees to my suggestion, and so when I am not rubbing third eyes or laughing at the moon, I busily scribble notes into my trusty pad.
*
One evening I hear Osho say that soon thousands of people will be flooding in through the gates. When I moved into the ashram there had been perhaps a dozen people living in it, but over the next few years it undergoes a great transformation. Seekers, especially Westerners, arrive in increasing numbers. The addition of new property helps to accommodate many of us, the remaining living in apartments or beautiful bamboo huts in and around Koregaon Park.
Although we are all in Pune because of our love for Osho, as far as I can see there is no such thing as a “typical sannyasin.” For one thing, we come from so many and such diverse cultures and conditionings.
The South American Primal therapist, the social worker from Canada, the titled (“The Honorable”) Englishman just like a character from a PG Wodehouse novel; the teacher from Australia, the musician from America, and the actress from New Zealand; Veena, a model from South Africa; Devadasi from Denmark, Neeraj from Ethiopia, Geeta from Japan, Alok from China, Arup from Holland, Gopi from Paris, ex-nun Chintana from Ireland; the Italian count, the German prince and, of course, a constant stream of Indians from a multitude of different states and professions—our diversity says something about Osho’s eclecticism, his capacity to embrace, understand, and communicate across many, many different cultural idiosyncrasies.
Many of us live in and around the ashram for years on end; because of work or familial responsibilities, others come for some time and then return to their homes. In a discourse some years earlier, Osho anticipates this when he describes three categories of sannyasins:
One of them will consist of those who will take short-term sannyas, say for two or three months. They will meditate and go through some kind of spiritual discipline at some secluded place and then return to their old lives. The second category will be of those who will take sannyas but remain wherever they are. They will continue to be in their occupations as before, but they will now be actors and not doers, and they will also be witnesses to life and living.
The third category will consist of sannyasins who will go so deep into the bliss and ecstasy of sannyas that the question of their return to their old world will not arise. They will bear no such responsibilities as will make it necessary for them to be tied to their families; nobody will depend on them and no one will be hurt by their withdrawal from society. The last category of sannyasins will live in meditation and carry the message of meditation to those who are thirsty for it.
*
Among those arriving from the West are therapists of many different kinds, and some of them are invited to conduct their groups in the ashram. The first are Encounter, Primal Therapy, and Intensive Enlightenment, later this year to be joined by massage, Divine Healing, Arica, Aum, Vipassana, Tao, and Tathata. In addition, a regular feature of our nightlife is “music group,” held in Buddha Hall. It’s led by a German sannyasin, Anubhava. His voice is quite something—tender and at the same time, strong; passionate and also reverential. Beautiful to hear, wending its way over the trees to where a small group of us sits with Osho, the sound of many joyful voices, women’s and men’s, accompanied by an assortment of musical instruments led by Anubhava’s guitar.
*
1975 is an eventful year, one of the highlights being Osho’s father—fondly known by us as Dadaji—receiving sannyas. On the morning of October 19th around 5:00, while meditating Dadaji has, according to the family, a suspected heart attack. He speaking is garbled, but the family is able to decipher that he is also asking them to call Osho.
Osho enters and makes to touch his father’s feet, but Dadaji says, “Enough! Now no more. I will touch your feet.” He asks Osho to stand on the bed—a bit of a balancing act as Osho’s long white gown is quite narrow but he manages. Dadaji then bows down and touches Osho’s feet. Meanwhile Osho tells Laxmi to bring a mala because “Sannyas is happening to Dadaji.” Laxmi, having no extra mala with her, takes hers off and hands it to Osho. Dadaji lowers his head, Osho gently placing the mala around his neck and pronouncing, “He is now Swami Devateerth Bharti.” His father responds, “From now onward you are my master; I am your disciple. From now onward I will touch your feet.”
Pratiksha, one of Osho’s nieces, comments later, “I witnessed this grand event at the age of eleven. It is something phenomenal—a father taking sannyas from his own son.”
*
Hepatitis lays me low for six weeks. It is a novel experience to be playing the patient for the first time in my life! Normally constantly on the go, and that too, always in an accelerated mode, I enjoy being entirely without energy. Even the short trip from bed to the bathroom makes me almost faint with the exertion. An unaccustomed silence and serenity descend on me. Inevitably I lose weight and enjoy the rather ethereal air with which it imbues me. And to top it all off, nobody expects me to do anything other than be an obedient and docile patient. Sometimes I fantasize about my newly found serenity, imagining in some healthier future the admiring whispers of passers-by as they exclaim at my Madonna-like peace and evident purity.
In due course the sickness subsides, taking with it my Madonna fantasies. Energy restored, in September I return to darshan. Those of us who attend regularly include Vivek, Mukta, and Laxmi, Osho’s secretary. Before my absence a fourth person, Shiva (he whom I first met in London and who lent me an Osho book), is also attending: Laxmi had been attacked by an Indian recently and Osho had suggested that Shiva be present as protection for her.
While I have been away, he has moved his place closer to Osho. Has he been upgraded to be Osho’s bodyguard as well as or instead of Laxmi’s? Whatever his real role is, it is something of a standing joke—and I tease Shiva about it—that he uses his position to note all the attractive women on their arrival and makes a beeline for them after darshan!
On this, my first evening back, Osho calls me forward and asks how I am feeling: “Quite well now?” Yes, completely, I reply.
“So now you start recording the meetings here and create books,” Osho says. “You bring a tape recorder and make notes if you need to. And you tell Shiva what photographs you would like for the book; he will take them. ”Osho pauses, then: “You would like this work?”
As it dawns on me what Osho is offering—the opportunity to continue to be at darshan every night, and not only that, but to work with his words—I am speechless. I manage a nod and then burst into tears.
“Good, Maneesha!” he chuckles.
After a whispered, “Thank you, Osho,” I scoop up what remains of me from the floor, and float back to my place.
*
Only later do I realize that apart from handing me the most amazing job I could have imagined, in regard to Shiva Osho has demonstrated how a master works. It turns out that Shiva’s role of bodyguard to Osho has been a self-appointment; yet Osho does not make any comment on what he has done. Instead, he includes Shiva in a new project—that