“Oh my God, there is no one home…”

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A second excerpt from Chintan’s book Mastering Madness; “And there he was, slowly entering stage left, dressed in a simple white robe.”

Chintan receiving sannyas

Magically, the money and the opportunity for a five-month stay materialized and in November of 1977 I found myself at the feet of the Master. I’ve read many descriptions by other disciples of their encounters and impressions of Osho. Some were clumsy, some were sugary-sweet, some were beautifully written, all, in my opinion, fell short of the actual experience, and now here I am with my limited command of the language, less than genius IQ, and thirty years removed from the event, challenging myself to describe the indescribable.

I love Osho. How can I be objective?

My first encounter with him occurred two days after landing in India. A morning discourse was happening at 8am. I awoke at 5am, showered, dressed in an orange robe, and walked a mile to the ashram in the very dark, dusty, polluted Poona morning. Paying seven rupees ($.60) for a daytime pass, I entered the ashram and navigated my way to Buddha Hall to participate in the 6am Dynamic Meditation. I was still jet-lagging and had not meditated for over a week and was very anxious to scream out the mountain of stress I was carrying. It was the first time I had done the Dynamic in such a large group.

In the dim light I estimated at least two hundred orange-clad humans. When the second stage (catharsis) came, I was lost in the sound of two hundred cries for sanity. By the time the fifth stage of dance ended, there were two hundred bright-eyed beings opening to the dawn.

Tea and toast at the cafeteria and then a hurried walk back to Buddha Hall to queue up for Osho’s discourse. I was disappointed to learn that for the month of November the discourses would be delivered in Hindi, his native tongue. About two thousand people, mostly orange-clad disciples, but a fair number of local seekers, silently filed into the hall and settled in, cross-legged on the floor, facing a raised platform which contained a single ornate chair, an electric fan and a microphone stand. We waited in silence for the sound of his car slowly making its way from his residence to the entrance of the raised platform.

Up to that moment, I had only a very short involvement with the world of Osho. I had meditated, read the books and listened appreciatively to many of the taped discourses. I was already hooked. I had already experienced the healing of the meditations, but I was still a skeptic. My mind was there to check out this guy and see if he was authentic. I was hoping he was real, much like I had hoped Reverend Hero was real, and Reverend Waters was real, but I was intellectually and emotionally prepared to be disappointed.

Silence!

Two thousand people, and not a sound.

And there he was, slowly entering stage left, dressed in a simple white robe. With hands pressed together in the namaste greeting, he walked slowly to the center, and then almost imperceptively scanned his audience. For me, it was a timeless experience as I witnessed the slowest, smoothest movement of a human I had ever seen. It took forever for him to move his gaze from right to left. With the greeting ended, he turned, walked to his chair, and sat down.

I realized I had not breathed in quite a while and as I took in a rapid gulp, I began to cry. How strange! What is this about? What just happened? Why are tears streaming down my face? He hasn’t uttered any word, or performed any miracle, and yet something inside me has been deeply touched. I looked around at the others, most of them looking lovingly up at the Master, some with broad smiles, some almost laughing, and a few, like me, gently crying.

I was to experience five straight months where nothing made sense, and I would soon become accustomed to daily wonders, but this was very new and created much mental turmoil.

I sat for one and a half hours listening to his melodic voice and understood only two or three words, but it was okay. The experience of watching him was enough. His exit was as slow and smooth as his entrance. I smiled throughout the day and danced throughout the night.

The next day was an exact replica of the preceding one, with one major addition. As a new arrival I was invited to attend Darshan with Osho, a relatively intimate happening each evening at 7pm on the large garden patio outside his residence. There were about fifty of us, comprised of new arrivals, those about to depart, and graduating members of one of the ashram’s many therapy groups.

Being one of the people who would be given the opportunity to speak with Osho, I was escorted to a front row seat. The patio was very comfortable, white, marbled, inviting, and surrounded by lush vegetation. Seated immediately outside the door to his residence, flanking a chair similar to the one used in morning discourse, were a small gathering of intimate disciples, which consisted of his secretary, three musicians, two mediums and a large, ferocious-looking bodyguard.

Osho entered in silence, namasted, and took his seat. One by one, we chosen ones were called forward by his secretary, Ma Yoga Laxmi, to sit at his feet. When my name was called, I went forward, my mind loaded with some very intelligent and vitally important questions regarding the nature of existence.

He smiled. I smiled.

He spoke: “Something to say to me?”

I replied: “I have nothing to say.”

Inwardly my ego was screaming, “You fool. You travel 2,000 miles. You give up all hope of ever being respected by friends and family. You are two feet from a Jesus, a Buddha, and you have nothing to say? IDIOT!”

The problem was that all the energy I possessed seemed to have dropped into my heart and my guts. My mind was empty. Well, not completely empty. There was one thought as I stared into the largest eyes I’ve ever encountered, and the thought was, “Oh my God, there is no one home. There is no person behind those eyes.”

I was to have many close encounters with Osho over the next eight years and each time I would look into those eyes, searching for the ego, looking for fear, anger, judgment, envy, greed, maybe a little lust or uncertainty, something that would put him in the category of human, but all I ever saw was love, laughter and drunkenness. He was a self-described drunkard, drunk on the divine.

Back to Friday, November 25, 1977. I sat there thinking I had blown my chance to have him speak directly to me, but he surprised me by motioning me forward and requested that I close my eyes. He then made physical contact, placed a hand under my chin, and stared at a spot above my eyes. When I heard him say, “Good, come back,” I opened my eyes, held back the tears, and listened to him give a ten-minute talk, in which he spoke to the essence of my being, and gave me my own special meditation to do.

For the next five months I would participate in numerous therapy groups and meditations, dance, make love, cry, laugh, lose twenty pounds of American privileged-class fat and spend hours sitting at the feet of a Buddha, drinking in the wisdom of the ages. He spoke on every major religion, every field of psychotherapy, and every philosopher from Socrates to Nietzsche, sprinkled with outrageous jokes designed to shock and obliterate every cherished, borrowed belief.

mastering madness coverMastering Madness
by David Hill (Chintan)
Phenomenal Publishing, 2016
Available as paperback and Kindle from amazon.com* – amazon.co.uk* – amazon.de* – amazon.in

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  • Intense breathing, then kee-tar-sisFirst encounter with Dynamic Meditation in New York City, April 1977. An excerpt from chapter 13 of Chintan’s book Mastering Madness
  • Have a little courageA day with Chintan in an encounter group, in late 70’s Poona (March 2017)
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Chintan

Chintan (David Hill) is a writer, and author of Mastering Madness.

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