Glimpses of the Master

an intimate journey with Osho

by Sw Dhyan Vishram

oona, January 1st, 1981.
It is a chill morning as I sit in Buddha Hall shortly before Osho arrives for discourse. All through Buddha Hall guards are watching attentively – there was an assault on Osho's life half a year earlier. But the guards are also watching for people who cough. It is known that anybody who coughs has to leave Buddha Hall – even in the middle of discourse.

Osho is due to arrive any minute. The hall is very silent now and I hear the quiet crunching of the gravel as Osho's car comes around Buddha Hall; nothing else, just this little crunching noise that deepens the silence even more.

Suddenly a tickling in my throat, and before I can swallow or suppress, a little cough escapes – not very loud, just a little scratching sound. But the guard next to me has heard. Already I feel his hand on my shoulder as he whispers, "You have to leave. Follow me!"

For a moment I am frozen in denial: it was such a little cough. But the hand on my shoulder cannot be denied and I certainly cannot argue right now. I have to get up. The guard guides me between the sitting people to the back of the hall and along to the exit.

Just then Osho enters. He must notice me, I think, and I feel utterly defeated, guilty, ashamed. I feel so disgraced that I do not look in His direction as the guard leaves me to walk through the exit on my own. Totally bewildered, I sit on one of the benches provided for the "coughers."

After a while, my mind's turmoil subsides and I am able to begin listening to Osho's words from the loudspeakers. Then out of my feelings of defeat and disgrace acceptance arises: yes, I have coughed and had to leave. Yes, I am sitting here on the benches of the "sinners." Yes, I am listening to Him.

No big deal. Just plain facts.

And with the acceptance of these facts just as they are, the disturbance and confusion disappear and serenity and silence emerge instead. In this silence, Osho's words reach deeper than ever before – for the first time, I am listening to Him.

What He says, I do not remember, but His words fall into the silence like a gentle soothing rain.

The Ranch, summer 1983.
All this summer I am working outside in the hot sun of Oregon. I love it! But I'm also tired in the evenings.

After a splendid supper in Magdalena cafeteria, my glass of beer and my shower, there is nothing much I want to do. So, I climb the small hill behind my tent. It is just three minutes to the top. Somebody has hauled a wooden armchair up there and I sit in it almost every evening. My view goes across the valley to Osho's Lao Tzu House. It is hidden between the trees, but the roof is visible, so I know where He is.

Nothing much is happening.

I am here sitting contentedly. I do not want to do anything but sit and watch: the fading light on the hills; the last glint of light on the metal roof of the garage where His Rolls Royces are parked; a car entering Lao Tzu Gate and leaving an hour or so later.

Sometimes the cry of a peacock drifts over to my hill. It is rumoured that the peacocks have become a bit of a nuisance lately. One of them was dancing in front of Osho's car as He was heading out for "drive-by," holding Him up while He waited patiently for the end of its display.

So beautiful are these summer evenings, the light still lingering in the sky, Lao Tzu sinking into the shadows, the first stars winking on, the coyotes howling in the hills. Everything in order, everything in balance. There is nowhere I'd rather be.

But something is happening while I'm sitting here quietly, something deep and almost hidden. On this deeper level, there is only the Master and I.

Osho, there across the valley in His house, sitting in His chair – and I, here on this hill, sitting in my chair. There is something utterly right about it. It is just as it is. And the rightness of it is deeply fulfilling and nourishing.

Nothing much is happening on these summer evenings and yet, everything is happening just rightly.

Poona, January 3rd, 1987.
Back in Pona in front of the original Lao Tzu Gate, it is long past midnight and I am dancing and singing with a small group of sannyasins.

Two days ago I took the train from Bombay where Osho had been giving discourses in the house of an Indian sannyasin after His world tour. But the house had been too small as more sannyasins were again arriving from the West. Then we got word that everybody should move to Poona, where He would arrive shortly thereafter.

Tonight He is expected to arrive. Since 10 pm, sannyasins have gathered before Lao Tzu Gate to await Him. But the time draws on. The traffic on the road from Bombay is such that the journey may take from four to six hours. Fortunately one sannyasin has brought a guitar and we are singing and dancing. Past midnight only a small group is left. I debate with myself about leaving but decide to stay.

Around 1:30 or 2 in the morning there is a sudden commotion at the entrance. His Mercedes pulls in and slowly rolls down towards Lao Tzu Gate. Everybody is crowding the car trying to get a glimpse. In front of the gate the car stops for a moment.

And there, visible through the window is Osho lying on the back seat of the car smiling innocently. Maybe He has been sleeping on the tedious road from Bombay. He is now just lying there looking up into our faces and greeting us with hands folded in Namaste. His figure is so small and fragile; His smile is almost shy. Then the gate opens, the car moves on and He is gone from our view.

That white-robed figure lying on the back seat of the car, smiling and raising His hands to us in greeting.

So gentle! So childlike! So strong!

Lao Tzu Garden, February 1987.
One day the head gardener asks me to work in secluded Lao Tzu Garden. She takes me through Lao Tzu Gate all the way to the end of the driveway and around the house where Osho lives. There, just about 20 feet from His window is a little oval cemented pond, quite deep, with a waterfall that needs to be emptied, cleaned and refilled.

When I arrive the gardener working there has already emptied about three feet of the water and it is getting tough now for only one man to scoop more water out of the pond. The best way is to brace the bare feet on the sloping side of the little pond and hand the full buckets up to the other guy. Finally the water is shallow enough that we can climb to the bottom which is six or seven feet down. With small buckets we clean out the last of the water and start brushing, and scraping slime and algae from the cement walls. After several rinses and more scooping of water the pond is cleaned and ready to be refilled.

As I stand there looking into the deep and empty holes, I have a sudden glimpse:

When the heart is empty, Buddha Nature is found.

In this empty heart, Osho is met.

The same day I write Osho a letter and at the end I say: "Osho, You are not my Master, You are my soul!" feeling a bit silly about the words "my soul" but I don't find better ones.

Three days later, I get a little note from Him, just a small piece of cream-coloured paper with the word "Blessings."

So here it is, and with Osho's Blessings:

We are Osho. Every one of us.

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