The doctor said, “Nonsense. This was all acting. I do it with every heart patient – and it always works. They forget their heart attack and they start looking after me – a ninety-year-old man. Just give me my fees. Half the night has passed and I have to go home” – and he took his fee.
And Bernard Shaw said, “This is something. I used to think that I am a joker, but this doctor is a practical joker. He really treated me.” He tried his heart, it was perfectly okay – he had completely forgotten it. It was just a small pain that his mind had multiplied: his fear of heart attack, the idea of heart attack, the idea of death became magnified.
But the doctor was really good. He got Bernard Shaw up, got all the services, had a good drink, and finally took his fees and walked down the stairs. And Bernard Shaw simply looked completely mystified. “This man says that he has been doing this with every heart case, and he has always been successful. Just because of his age he manages beautifully. Anybody will forget….
“Any other doctor would start making it a complex phenomenon, with injections and medicines and rest, or a change of climate, or a twenty-four-hour nurse. But that man did it quick, fast, without any complexity.”
I have seen all kinds of cases concerned with the mind. All that they need is a very sympathetic, friendly, loving approach, and in every case a unique treatment – because whatever has been done to the man is ordinary, common. And slowly, slowly the patient starts feeling that he has been successful in defeating all kinds of doctors – allopathic, homeopathic, naturopathic, ayurvedic, acupuncturists, acupressurists – all kinds of people, and yet nobody can cure him. He starts having a certain ego about it, that his sickness is something very special. He wants it to be accepted as special; it is a substitute.
This has to be understood: everybody wants to be special, extraordinary – a great musician, a great dancer, a great poet – but everybody cannot manage. It needs a long, arduous discipline to become a great musician.
I know a great Indian musician, Vilayat Ali Khan, one of the best sitarists in the world. He used to practice from early morning, nearabout four o’clock, up to nine or ten o’clock – five to six hours every day. He was staying with me, and just sitting in the garden, I asked him, “Now you are world famous; what is the need to practice?”
He said, “You don’t know…if I don’t practice one day, I can see the difference. If I don’t practice two days, then those who understand music can see the difference. If I don’t practice three days, even those who don’t understand music can see the difference. It is such a subtle phenomenon that you have to continue to revive it, to live it, to go deeper and deeper into it. You cannot stop.”