He said, “Nothing is the matter. It is just that for five days Osho had not told anybody that his chair was smelling, and I am responsible because I made it. I should have checked. I should have smelled every part of it. Now who will forgive me?”

Asheesh is no ordinary carpenter. He has a Ph.D. in engineering; he is as qualified as anyone can be. And there is nothing wrong with the chair; if something is wrong, it is wrong with me. When I heard of his tears, I remembered the many, many people who have loved and wept for me, for no reason at all…and I am not a very good man either.

If you divide the good guys from the bad guys, I am certainly going to stand with the bad guys. I will be the last to stand with Mahatma Gandhi, Mao Tse-tung, Karl Marx, Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King, and the list is endless. As far as bad guys are concerned, I am alone.

At least I cannot count anybody as bad: Adolf Hitler, Mussolini, Joseph Stalin. Certainly they did what they believed to be good. Maybe it was not, but that is not their fault. They were retarded, but not bad. I cannot count anybody as bad.

If I had to count anybody, then I only would remember people like Socrates, Jesus, Mansoor, Sarmad – people who were crucified, punished. But no, I cannot even count them either. They were different in their own ways.

People have tried to punish me, but have never succeeded. On the contrary, from Kantar Master to Morarji Desai, they have all gone down the drain, where they actually belonged in the first place.

But it is strange, I can simply say that from the very beginning I have really walked on a path of roses. They say, “Don’t believe it”…but what can I do? I have walked, and I have known. I have seen and experienced bliss every moment of my life.

The first man to call me “the Blessed One” was the last person I mentioned yesterday. That’s why I want to continue to talk about him this evening. Masta Baba…I will call him only Masto, because that’s the way he wanted me to call him. I always called him Masto, although reluctantly, and I told him to remember it. Also, Pagal Baba had said to me, “If he wants to be called Masto by you, just as I call him, then don’t create misery for him in any way. From the moment I die you will take my place for him.”

And that day Pagal Baba died, and I had to call him Masto. I was not more than twelve years old, and Masto was at least thirty-five, or maybe more. It is difficult for a twelve year-old boy to judge exactly, and thirty-five is a most deceptive age…the person could be thirty, or forty, it all depends on his genetics.

Now, that is a complicated affair. I have seen men who still have all their hair, still black, even at the age of sixty. It is not something to brag about; every woman has it. Those men are really meant to be women, that’s all. By mistake something went right. It is only a question of chemistry.