Okay, but I will continue to call it “plassbo.” You can correct it in your book. “Plasseebo” is right, but my whole life I have called it “plassbo,” and it is better to stick to your own whether it is right or wrong. At least it is your own. Devaraj must be right, and I must be wrong about it, but I’m right in still calling it “plassbo” – not the name, but to give it the flavor of how I have behaved.
Right and wrong have never been my consideration. What I happen to like is right; and I don’t say that it is right for everybody. I’m not a fanatic, I’m just a madman. At the most…I cannot claim more than that.
What was I saying?
“You were talking about people coming to the tree as a kind of placebo for psychoanalysis, Bhagwan.”
Marriage is a placebo. It works, that’s the weird thing. Whether it is true or not does not matter. I am always for the result; what brings it about is immaterial. I am a pragmatist.
I told my grandmother, “Don’t be worried. I will hang these pants on the neem tree, and you can be certain of its effect.”
She said, “I know you and your strange ideas. Now the whole town will know whose pants these are. Even if the man were to come for his pants he could never come here again.”
Those pants were famous because he used them for special occasions. But what happened to the man? I even searched everywhere in the town, but naturally he was not to be found in the town because he was naked. So I thought, “Better wait; perhaps late at night he may come. He may have gone to the other side of the river.” That was the closest place where one would not be seen by anybody.
But the man never returned. That’s how my tutor disappeared. I still wonder what happened to him without his pants. I’m not very interested in him, but how did he manage without pants? And where did he go? Naturally certain ideas came to me. Perhaps he died of a heart attack – but still the body, without pants, would have been discovered. And even though he was dead, anybody who would have seen him would have laughed, because his pants were so famous. He was even called “Mister Pants.”
I don’t even remember his name. And he had so many pairs of pants. The story in the town was that he had three hundred sixty-five pairs, one for every day. I don’t think that is true, but gossip. But what happened to him?
I asked his family; they said, “We are waiting, but he has not been seen since that night.”
I said, “Strange….” To my Nani I said, “Certainly his disappearance sometimes makes even me suspect that perhaps ghosts exist. Because I was simply introducing him to the ghosts. And it is good that his pants should hang on the tree.”
My father became so angry that I could do such a nasty thing. I had never seen him so angry.