closed, and very quietly makes some sounds; she seems ill at ease. Then we all join in; apparently this is very relaxing for the mind, creating a sense of great serenity.
When the meditation is finalized, this stage (each stage is fifteen minutes long) is preceded by you sitting quietly while music plays. In the third stage you stand and, still talking in this unknown language, you let your body move softly, in an unstructured and spontaneous way. This is known as Latihan, a practice from the Subud tradition. The final stage is of lying down and just being still and silent.
*
One evening Osho creates a role-play around a sannyasin who has told him of the conflict he feels with his parents. Osho instructs a male sannyasin to be father and, “Maneesha, you be the mother, he chuckles, a real Jewish mother!” I can’t recall exactly what we do, but our combined performance provokes a lot of amusement and the now-less-conflicted sannyasin returns laughing to his place.
On another occasion Osho asks me to go down the steps of the darshan porch into the large, pot-plant-lined parking area. “Dance!” is the simple instruction, and I begin waltzing around, keeping in rhythm by humming the tune of “Plaisir d’amour.” Adoring dancing and not shy of the spotlight, I would have happily pranced about for hours. But after a few moments Osho calls me back to the upper porch. “Now move as if you are doing T’ai Chi.” That I’ve never done, though I understand the basic principle of moving very slowly and consciously, with the delicate movements of a flamingo. So I begin my version of T’ai Chi: within moments a lovely, calming feeling settles inside me.
Having called me back, Osho asks which form of movement I feel best doing. I like them both for different reasons, I reply. Perhaps the less structured form of dance serves best whatever purpose Osho has in mind for us: from that evening (we are now in August 1975) the Nataraj Meditation is born. The first stage is forty minutes of spontaneous dancing, “losing oneself in the dance,” followed by twenty minutes lying down, still and silent, and finishing with five minutes of dancing.
In the same month Nadabrahma comes into being. Sitting upright and cross-legged, you hum for thirty minutes. In the next stage, with palms uppermost you move your hands—very, very slowly—in an outward, circular motion, for seven and a half minutes; then, palms now facing downward you make inward-turning circles for a further seven and a half minutes. In the last stage you are still and silent.
Though I don’t immediately feel the effect of the hand-moving stage, the humming stage feels beautiful. On the evening that Osho introduces this meditation, he suggests that I experiment with the hand-moving stage, sometimes having the palm downward, sometimes upward. I’m then to let him know at the end of a week’s experimentation if I feel any difference between the two….
The most memorable happening in darshan for me is the night on which Osho introduces us to a very serious meditation indeed! I have no idea what is in store when at one point he instructs me to go down to the lower porch and stand facing the garden (so I am at right angles to him and the watching group). I am to put my feet slightly apart, with my hands on my hips. Thus positioned, I turn my head toward Osho, some yards away, and wait for the next instruction.
“Good. Now, start laughing.”
Laugh? Just like that? I look up at the moon and silently tell it, “Osho says to me to laugh!” Impassively the moon gazes back at me. “I can’t!” I protest silently. “You can’t just laugh for no reason—that’s crazy!” It is, and I start laughing at the lunacy of Osho’s instruction. Then I realize that is just what I am meant to do, and that makes me laugh even more. Osho is chuckling now and the entire group has joined in too. Finally, smiling broadly Osho says, “Good, Maneesha! Come back!”
Word of this particular meditation spreads quickly, and within a short time a small group starts meeting regularly, just to laugh. Years later, laughter will also be an important component of one of Osho’s “meditative therapies,” The Mystic Rose.
*
On one of those early darshan days, I ask if I might take notes of the conversations Osho is having with the many people who come and go. The interchanges are unique and so precious: to my ears everything Osho says is awesome. Yet this treasure trove of spontaneous wisdom, wit and compassion is lost to everyone else except we few lucky ones who happen to be present. Osho agrees to my suggestion, and so when I am not rubbing third eyes or laughing at the moon, I busily scribble notes into my trusty pad.
*
One evening I hear Osho say that soon thousands of people will be flooding in through the gates. When I moved into the ashram there had been perhaps a dozen people living in it, but over the next few years it undergoes a great transformation. Seekers, especially Westerners, arrive in increasing numbers. The addition of new property helps to accommodate many of us, the remaining living in apartments or beautiful bamboo huts in and around Koregaon Park.
Although we are all in Pune because of our love for Osho, as far as I can see there is no such thing as a “typical sannyasin.” For one thing, we come from so many and such diverse cultures and conditionings.
The South American Primal therapist, the social worker from Canada, the titled (“The Honorable”) Englishman just like a character from a PG Wodehouse novel; the teacher from Australia, the musician from America, and the actress from New Zealand; Veena, a model from South Africa; Devadasi from Denmark, Neeraj from Ethiopia, Geeta from Japan, Alok from China, Arup from Holland, Gopi from Paris, ex-nun Chintana from Ireland; the Italian count, the German prince and, of course, a constant stream of Indians from a multitude of different states and professions—our diversity says something about Osho’s eclecticism, his capacity to embrace, understand, and communicate across many, many different cultural idiosyncrasies.
Many of us live in and around the ashram for years on end; because of work or familial responsibilities, others come for some time and then return to their homes. In a discourse some years earlier, Osho anticipates this when he describes three categories of sannyasins:
One of them will consist of those who will take short-term sannyas, say for two or three months. They will meditate and go through some kind of spiritual discipline at some secluded place and then return to their old lives. The second category will be of those who will take sannyas but remain wherever they are. They will continue to be in their occupations as before, but they will now be actors and not doers, and they will also be witnesses to life and living.
The third category will consist of sannyasins who will go so deep into the bliss and ecstasy of sannyas that the question of their return to their old world will not arise. They will bear no such responsibilities as will make it necessary for them to be tied to their families; nobody will depend on them and no one will be hurt by their withdrawal from society. The last category of sannyasins will live in meditation and carry the message of meditation to those who are thirsty for it.
*
Among those arriving from the West are therapists of many different kinds, and some of them are invited to conduct their groups in the ashram. The first are Encounter, Primal Therapy, and Intensive Enlightenment, later this year to be joined by massage, Divine Healing, Arica, Aum, Vipassana, Tao, and Tathata. In addition, a regular feature of our nightlife is “music group,” held in Buddha Hall. It’s led by a German sannyasin, Anubhava. His voice is quite something—tender and at the same time, strong; passionate and also reverential. Beautiful to hear, wending its way over the trees to where a small group of us sits with Osho, the sound of many joyful voices, women’s and men’s, accompanied by an assortment of musical instruments led by Anubhava’s guitar.
*
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