You are challenging me, that “If you dare to repeat that I love you too much, I will start to laugh and say, ‘No, Osho, no!’ Again and again, ‘No, Osho!’”
You can laugh, and you can still say, “No, Osho, no.” But it will mean only “Yes, Osho, yes.” And I repeat again and again that you love me too much, Sarjano. Language is a very slippery matter.
I am reminded of a small incident. In a monastery, only one hour was given to the monks who lived in the monastery, to go out in the garden. But it was called one hour for praying in the open, under the sky. Two friends were very much troubled by one thing – both were smokers, and since they had entered the monastery they had not smoked: it was prohibited.
One of them said to the other, “Perhaps it is prohibited inside the monastery, but in the garden…? I think we should ask the abbot, the chief monk.” Both agreed, and the next day one came out angry, enraged, humiliated, insulted, because the abbot had refused absolutely. He had used the words, “absolutely no.” As he came out, he became even more furious, because he saw the other sitting under a tree smoking so joyfully. He could not believe it.
He said, “Have you asked, or are you smoking without asking?” He said, “I asked – -but why are you looking so red with anger?” He said, “This is strange: has he agreed?” The monk who was smoking said, “Yes – he said, ‘Yes, absolutely yes!’” The other man said, “This abbot seems to be crazy. To me he said, ‘No, absolutely no!’”
Still the other man went on laughing and he said, “Just cool down, sit down, and tell me what you have asked.” He said, “I have asked simply, ‘While outside in the garden, can I smoke?’ And he said, ‘No, absolutely no!’” The one who was smoking said, “Now things are clear. You asked a wrong question. I asked ‘Can I pray while smoking?’ He said, ‘Yes, absolutely yes!’”
Your no, Sarjano, is nothing but yes. You are not satisfied with too much, you want more. And now you cannot laugh, and you cannot say, “No, Osho no” – you will have to say, “Yes, Osho yes.”
Even when you were saying no, you were saying yes – you were just not alert why that no was arising in you.
In the discourses after you have danced with us and left the hall, something seems to linger in the air in this Mandir that is not unlike the fragrance of a rare flower, ephemeral, and yet so tangible to the senses. Sometimes the silence is so profound that were my eyes closed I would never know that you were physically no more among us. Would you please say something about this phenomenon?