I simply go on hitting, this side and that. Because you both happen to be on either side, naturally you get most of the hits. That has always been my way; those who are nearest to me have been hit the most, but they have also grown. They have become more integrated with each hit they absorbed. Either they ran away or they had to grow. Do or die. If you do – that’s what I mean by integration, or crystallization – only then do you live. Or else – remember the dog’s death – one dies; one is dying every moment.
The letter was beautiful in many senses. Gudia, later on give the letter back to him so that it can become a footnote in his notes, or a part of many appendices that are going to follow.
Pagal Baba again…this is what I call moving about in circles. He introduced me to not only these flutists but also to many other musicians. He was a musician of the musicians. Ordinarily the masses had no idea; only the great musicians knew that he could play music with anything.
I have seen him play with anything possible – just a stone, and he would start by striking it on his kamandalu. A kamandalu is a pot that Hindu sannyasins carry for water and food et cetera. He would hit on the kamandalu with just anything, but he had such a sense of music that even his kamandalu would become a sitar.
Just in the marketplace he would purchase a flute, meant only as a toy for children – you could have bought a dozen for just one rupee – and he would start playing. From that crude flute such notes would come out that even a musician would look at the whole thing with wide open eyes, shocked, thinking, “Is it possible?”
I have to tell you the name of that Southern flutist I mentioned at the beginning…otherwise it will remain on my chest, and I want to unburden myself totally before I leave, so that I can leave just as I had come – with nothing, not even a memory. That’s the whole purpose of these memoirs. The flutist’s name was Sachdeva, one of the most well-known Southern Indian flutists. I mentioned three flutists, all of them introduced to me by Pagal Baba. One man, Hari Prasad Chaurasia, from North India where they play a different kind of flute music; another from Bengal, Pannalal Ghosh – he again plays a different kind of flute, very male, very loud and overpowering. Sachdeva’s flute is almost silent, feminine, just the opposite of Pannalal Ghosh. I feel good that I have mentioned his name – now it is up to him what he makes out of it.
Devageet says in his letter, “Osho, I trust you….” I know – there is no question about it – otherwise why should I hit you so much? And remember, once I trust somebody I never mistrust them. It does not matter what that person does to me. My trust remains whatsoever that person does.
Trust is always unconditional. I know your love, and I trust you all, otherwise this work would not have been given to you. But remember, that does not mean that I will change in any way. Letter or no letter, P.S. or no P.P.S.; I am going to remain the same. Sometimes I will suddenly say, “Devageet, why are you giggling?” Right now you are giggling and I am not hitting you. Sometimes I will make you cry. That’s my work.