Nirbija recalls a special day: Enlightenment Day, 21 March 1978
There are people to whom I have never shown my gratitude, simply because – at the time – I did not understand what a gift they had given me. One of them was a sannyasin taxi driver in Bombay – today’s Mumbai. He made possible an encounter with Osho that changed my life.
In March 1978, I arrived in Poona after an overland journey of roughly two months – travelling from Munich to India via Turkey, Iran and Pakistan. My plan was to continue on to South India.
Already at the railway station I spotted the orange-clad sannyasins I had read about in a newspaper back home. “That’s not for me,” I thought at the time. Yet after just a week of sightseeing in the city, something drove me to ask a rickshaw driver to take me to the Rajneesh Ashram. I remember clearly the feeling of doing something I shouldn’t do.
At the ashram, I sceptically browsed through the books of Osho’s talks, displayed in a pavilion beside the main entrance. I was struck by how vivid and immediate his discourses were, and by how cheerful the many people in orange were. I myself was wearing a blue outfit, glad to have something that set me apart.
Before long, I was sitting in on the Master’s morning discourse, ostensibly to “gather information” – right at the back, at the very edge of the meditation hall, with the sannyasins in front of me, bowing reverently when Osho stepped onto the podium.
The morning song of exotic birds in the canopy of dense trees surrounding Buddha Hall became part of Osho’s discourse.
Something deep within me felt at home.
From then on, my mind rebelled day and night. My studies were behind me and I had the prospect of a career in television. Becoming Osho’s disciple would be the sure end of my burning ambitions! At the same time, the creativity I witnessed in the ashram and Osho’s electrifying vitality awakened in me a strong desire to become part of this community.
At that point, all talk among the sannyasins revolved around Osho’s enlightenment, to be celebrated with a great festival in just a few days – on 21 March. He would come out, and we would be able to file past him and touch his feet.
Well – I had never read anything about enlightenment, and I was certainly not ready for any such act of veneration. I decided, instead, to take a train to Bombay that day. Perhaps there would be a letter waiting for me at the German Consulate from my girlfriend in Munich.
With a third-class return ticket in my pocket, I set off on the morning of 21 March in a crowded compartment of the Deccan Queen Express bound for Bombay’s Victoria Station. My backpack with all my belongings was with me – along with the practised skill of squeezing in and gradually working my way to a seat. Once in Bombay, I checked into a cheap dormitory room, chained my rucksack to a water pipe and took a rickshaw to the Consulate.
I was disappointed – no mail had arrived for me. On my way out, my eye fell on a few German newspapers. Sure enough, there was an article about “Bhagwan” and the dangers of the “youth sect” that had formed around him. This set off yet another alarm in my head. Just as well I had taken my rucksack with me. I could simply continue travelling – perhaps to Auroville in South India, where a new town was being built, inspired by the teachings of Sri Aurobindo.
I felt homeless.
Bombay in 1978 was still a spacious metropolis. Cows wandered through the streets, the traffic was calm, and occasionally I could catch a breeze from the sea. As no rickshaw was in sight, I waved down a taxi to do a bit of sightseeing. That was unusual for me – I normally tried to save every penny.
My friendly driver was only a few years older than I was. He wore immaculate white, with lustrous, long, curly hair and a beard. Then I noticed his mala with the oval photo of Osho. I casually mentioned that I had also been to his ashram. He turned his head and looked at me intently while continuing to drive.
What happened next has stayed with me ever since.
“So, you know Osho?” he asked. “Do you know that today is his Enlightenment Day Celebration?”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s not for me,” I replied defensively.
“But this is the most important day to be with Osho. He will come out and we can touch his feet and receive his blessings.” His voice was intense, speaking to me with the authority of an older brother.
Suddenly I woke up from my confusion.
“You have to go back immediately!” he ordered. “You can still catch the afternoon train back to Pune.”
“But I’d have to get my rucksack first,” I protested.
“Where is your hostel?” he asked – and off we went. Minutes later I was rushing up the stairs of the dormitory, unlocking my rucksack and rushing back down. Then he sped towards Victoria Station, threading his way through the traffic with focused concentration.
“Now go, go, hurry up!” he shouted as we arrived.
I thanked him, said goodbye and grabbed my big rucksack. I vaguely remember that he did not even accept the fare.
A soft pink evening sky stretched over the ashram as I finally stood, freshly washed and dressed, with a crowd of sannyasins before the gate in Koregaon Park. Fragrant garlands of flowers adorned the buildings. The atmosphere was festive and joyful. My plans to travel on, my doubts – all of it had been blown away.
This was my home!
I joined the queue of sannyasins waiting to bow before Osho and receive the blessing of his presence – something I did not yet fully understand. But I floated happily in the stream of the celebrating sangha – the spiritual community gathered around a Buddha – until at last I stood before Osho.
He sat at ease in an upholstered chair, adorned with garlands. His bare feet were stretched out in front of him so that they could be touched lightly – symbolically. But I had noticed that most people before me, while bowing to the Master, simply touched the small cushion below his feet. This gesture of respect is very common throughout India.
Osho’s eyes were closed when I stood before him for a few seconds and bowed my stubborn head.
“Here I am, at your feet,” my heart cried out.
Only today can I put into words what that moment of surrender meant for my path to sannyas.
“The one who bows is the one who is bowed to,” says an ancient Buddhist saying. Perhaps in that moment I bowed, together with the Master, before my own highest human possibility.
It still took many weeks – after attending a group called Who Is In? – before I finally applied to take sannyas.
I never saw the sannyasin taxi driver in Bombay again. He had made clear to me the urgency of setting out on my path – and in doing so, he played an essential part in my becoming Osho’s sannyasin. For that, I am grateful to him beyond words.
One of my deepest wishes is that we Western sannyasins learn to cherish our Indian fellow travellers – for from them we can learn the ancient wisdom of what it means to be a disciple of a Master.
Translation from German by Osho News – the names of locations have been spelt the way they were at the time
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