One day a Polack walks into a store and asks for some egg-ski, some milk-ski and bread-ski. The shopkeeper looks at him and says, “Are you Polish?”
“Yes,” replies the embarrassed Polack. “How did you know?”
“Simple,” says the shopkeeper, “you put ski on the end of all your words.”
The Polack walks out determined to improve his English. So for five years he goes to night school. When he is satisfied, he goes back to the market, walks into a store and says in an impeccable English accent, “My good man, please give me a dozen eggs, a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread.”
The shopkeeper looks at him and says, “Are you Polish?”
“My God!” exclaims the Polack. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Simple,” says the shopkeeper. “This is a hardware store.”
I have listened thirty or forty times to the discourse on the inescapable.
Each time I feel I’m grasping it, but it escapes me. This discourse is so huge that it is inescapable.
Osho, please elaborate on your discourse.
That which is the authentic, the truth, is always beyond the grasp of the mind.
If you can grasp only this much – that it is beyond the grasp of the mind – you have done more than is ordinarily possible for a human being. Mind is a very small thing and existence is tremendously big. Existence is so oceanic, so infinite, so eternal…And our minds are so small that it is not a wonder that whenever you come close to the truth, you feel that your heart has fallen into a certain harmony.
Your being has moved from its sleeping state into a certain awakening, but your mind remains in a very stunned and shocked state. The truth is beyond the mind, but not beyond the heart – the heart can grasp it. But this is the trouble: the heart cannot say anything about it. Yes, it can dance, it can sing, but it cannot use any language. Language is confined to the mind.
And as far as your being is concerned, which is deeper than the heart, it can have the full comprehension of the truth. But the very comprehension of the truth by your being makes it utterly silent. The very understanding makes your being filled with the feeling of the mysterious, the unknowable. The being cannot even do what the heart can do. It remains just as if it is no more. All has become silent, although the silence is very much alive. It is not the dead silence of a graveyard, it is the silence of the starry night – immensely alive.