At Rajneeshpuram in 1983 something from the beyond entered into me. Since then I have not been the same person anymore. My old goals and desires have faded away. Things which were meaningful to me before, have lost their importance.
But when I talk to people about meditation, silence, and what keeps us away from it, a great new energy and clearness starts rising in me. Every cell of my body becomes alive. I myself become a listener to what is said through me, and I feel grateful and very loving towards the people with whom I can share.
Beloved master, have I become a flute, an instrument for the beyond? Or is my ego playing a horrible joke on me? Please comment.
It certainly has changed your life. You have become a flute to the divine – because if it was a projection of the ego, the ego would not have allowed you to ask the question. And the ego never becomes a vehicle, a medium, a flute. It is not a hollow bamboo. The ego is very solid, does not allow itself to be used by higher forces. It can exist only in the very mundane world. To allow the higher forces means you are entering into the sacred, going beyond the mundane. The ego cannot go outside the mundane world. And its very fabric is to praise itself, to brag about itself even when it is not valid.
For example, poetry descends in you but the ego grabs it and proclaims to the whole world, “I have written it.” No great poetry has been written by any ego; nothing great can come out of it. The great comes only when the ego gives way, when it is not obstructing, when it is absent, on leave.
It is said about Rabindranath that whenever he wrote, he would close his door and inform the house that unless he opens the door, nobody is allowed even to knock on it. It was a big family. Rabindranath’s grandfather was given the title of raja by the British government, although he was not a king – but he was so rich and he had so much land that he could have purchased a few maharajas. His family was very big; almost one hundred members were living in the palace.
And it was a very strange family. Rabindranath has written in his memoirs, “We have seen strangers coming into the family as guests and then never leaving. And my grandfather was such that he would say, ‘It does not matter. He must be some distant relative. Perhaps we have forgotten, he has forgotten, but destiny has brought us together. Let him live here.’”
So the family went on growing. Anybody could come and say, “I am related to you, a far off, distant relation.” And he was received not only as a guest, but once he entered the house it was against the culture to ask him, “When are you going to leave?” It was not asked.
It is not the culture of Mumbai. In Mumbai, the first thing people ask is, “When are you going to leave?” You have not even settled in the chair, your luggage is still in the taxi, and they are asking when you are going to leave – because tickets have to be advance-booked.
Those were different days, and a different kind of people. So nobody ever asked when you were going to leave. And why should one leave? Living in the palace of a king, living like kings, every need was fulfilled.