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Chapter 15: Kiss or Kill

In your state of mind it is bound to be either knowledge - then you are not a disciple, you can at the most be a student; or a feeling - then you are a disciple. When you become enlightened you become a devotee - the master is no more needed.

The master says, “If you meet me on the way, kill me,” but you cannot kill - there is no need! You can kiss, you cannot kill. From Buddha’s side it is perfectly okay. He says, “If you meet me on the way, kill me.”

But one of my sannyasins wrote to me, “Osho, I cannot kill you. When I will meet you on the way I am going to kiss you!” I can understand her standpoint also - that’s perfectly right. But in killing the same happens as in kissing. Why does Buddha say, “Kill me”? - so that there is not any more duality. The same can happen through kissing: there is no more duality, you become one. That’s what is needed: either kill or kiss!

In your state, it seems you are still living in the world of knowledge, otherwise this question would not have arisen. You are still a student, not a disciple.

A homosexual was walking down the street with his dog. A little kid started teasing him, “Homo, homo!”

The gay stopped and politely asked the little boy not to say such things. But the boy persisted, “Homo! Homo!”

“Look, kid, I am warning you - don’t say that!”

“Homo, homo!” came the reply.

“Hey, kid, one more time and I will put my dog onto you!”

“Homo, homo!”

“Okay, Rex, go get him!”

The dog stood up, and in a soft, furry voice said, “Woo-oof!”

Now the homo’s dog is bound to be a homo! Is this a way to call “woof” - so politely, so lovingly?

One sannyasin, to our dentist, Devageet: “I don’t know what is worse, having a baby or getting a tooth pulled.”

Devageet: “Make up your mind, ma. I’ve got to know which way to tilt the chair!”

Complaining of the distance between campus buildings, Velma, the veterinarian’s daughter, wrote home for money to buy a bicycle. But by the time the money arrived she had changed her mind and bought a monkey instead.

After a few weeks the animal began losing its hair. Hoping her father might know a cure, Velma wrote, “All the hair is falling off my monkey. What shall I do?”

Her father sent this telegram: “Sell the bicycle!”