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OSHO Online Library   »   The Books   »   YAA-HOO! The Mystic Rose
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Chapter 8: Our Longing Is for the Stars

I said, “Your name I will ask later on; first let me be satisfied. What is your father’s name?”

She said, “You are unnecessarily wounding me. I don’t know. My mother never told me my father’s name, she simply said that he was a very strange and very powerful man.”

I said, “My suspicion seems to be absolutely correct. Your father’s name is George Gurdjieff, I tell you.”

She said, “This is strange how can you know?”

I said, “Your face, your eyes, your color, the color of your hair, the color of your eyes.and I have never seen such a strong woman. You cannot be anybody else but Gurdjieff’s daughter.”

She started crying out of joy. She said, “Many have suspected, but I have never believed it. But when you say it, you are saying it with such authority that I am not ashamed. These tears are of joy that I had a father like George Gurdjieff.”

I said, “Not only you had a father like George Gurdjieff, you will have at least a dozen cousin-brothers and sisters all around the world!” Because he believed in sowing the seeds anywhere; he never bothered whether it is the time or not, the season or not. And he never bothered again to inquire what happened to the crops.

He was certainly a very strange man. But what he is saying is very ordinary. He was not well educated in fact, not educated at all. His father died when he was nine and he was part of a nomadic tribe in the Caucasus, in an uncivilized part of the Soviet Union. No schooling.whatever he learned was by experience. To write a single page used to take him months, because he was not articulate at all. He knew many languages because he had lived in many tribes so something from here, something from there, but everything was mixed in his mind.

To talk to him was a torture, because he would say such words.you could have never imagined that such words existed. Moreover, he used to make up words. And his way of writing will explain it to you. He would write something, and then each evening a disciple was chosen to read it and he would sit by the side and look at the faces of the disciples, their response. Nobody has written that way, he was unique in every way. And if he saw that there was no response, nothing was moving in their hearts; or if he saw that people were yawning and wanted to go to sleep and it would be late at night; just within hours it would be dawn he would ask if they had any suggestions to make.

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