When the shadows come back to light

The world of Osho has gone through a few crises over the last decades, but the one unfolding right now reaches deeper than any other.

Within less than two months, snowballing at increasing speed, accusations of sexual abuses against senior and respected members of the Osho community are made public almost daily. Women are coming forward and telling their stories of being raped in Osho’s communes when they were children or young teenagers. The whole story is all over social media, and journalists ready to have another go at Osho will have the ease of their lives collecting information; they will undoubtedly decry him and his work once again.

Before I continue, allow me a few words about myself. I arrived in Pune in January 1993, 3 years after Osho left his body. I never met him alive, and I was never in “Pune One” or on “the Ranch”, where kids were around. When I arrived in Pune, there were no children in the Commune and teenagers were only allowed in for 2 hours a day. I indeed found it strange, but I accepted the explanation that “meditation isn’t for children.” With hindsight, I understand that if kids were not allowed, it was because of the abuses of the past which were carefully put under the carpet. I remember Osho’s remarks on monasteries not allowing women. “What kind of people are afraid to see women?” he commented “are they monsters or what?” Today I see that Osho’s Commune in the ’90s did not allow children into their premises because too many of them had been abused sexually in the ’80s. In Osho’s own garden, monsters were still around, and ghastly shadows had never been faced. I certainly felt uncomfortable with the “dirty old men” in the Commune who seemed to jump on young women as soon as they entered the gate. Unfortunately, many of those are still around.

A respected sannyasin who has been with Osho since the early ’80s told me a while ago, “Nirav, I only give workshops so I can get young women into my bed.”

I certainly noticed how therapists, famous bodyworkers, people with a name misused their fame and power to get sex. But all in all, Pune 2, as it was then called, was a safe and thriving place where I had the best time of my life for over ten years.

I am often asked if I ever regret having missed Osho physically. The answer is no. I have always been aware that true spiritual seekers are a rare species and that being around a master won’t help you wake up if waking up is not what you are after.

Back to here and now. Two months ago, I was informed that a well-known physiotherapist was asked to leave a prominent Osho Center where he was resident, because of alleged “repeated sexual misconduct”. Not only that, but from all the places in the world where he could have gone to try and resettle, he chose the little village in Corfu where I live.

I inquired deeper and soon found out that there was probably more at play here than met the eye- and for him to be asked to leave his home of residence, something serious must have happened. I became convinced that a major cover-up was taking place. I privately informed the local community because I feared for the safety of the hundreds of vulnerable young women who come here. My warning was met with, “Thanks for informing us, we will keep an eye on him, but there is no need to stir things.”

I remember the wrenching feeling in my belly. I knew that all kinds of institutions had the old habit of protecting repeated predatory sexual behaviour. Was that same old dirty game happening around Osho also? How deep was the rabbit hole?

Two days later, a young woman who lives in this village accused a well-known musician of raping her here five years back. That was the very first public exposure and the first tsunami in this community. The ripples of that first and courageous exposure went deep and large, and a few weeks later, other women started to speak and relate their stories of abuse.

As I write today, more and more Osho Sannyasins are being accused of rape and sexual abuse when they were with Osho in the ’80s. Under pressure, most of them are admitting their crimes and are trying to apologize.        Many more confessed that they had “relationships”, some of them for months or even years, with 12 or 13 old year girls, but feel that it was okay because those were willing relationships. It seems that some old folks will need more time to review what is “normal”. Consensual sex with a minor is never consensual. NEVER! It isn’t sex either- it is rape with a minor. And so, having a relationship with a 12-year-old when you are in your 30’s doesn’t make it okay. On the contrary.

I have spent the most significant chunk of my life looking inside, trying to uncover my shadows, and before writing this piece, I wanted to find out why I am getting so involved in this happening right now. I planned to end this article with something like, “this isn’t about them only; it is about you and me too!” I took time to reflect on the darker sides of my personality, to look at how I have at times been emotionally abusive in intimate relationships; I discovered that indeed on a deeper level of my psyche, I too have hated women for holding power over me and that a deep-seated urge to take revenge in passive-aggressive ways is there in the background. I feel grateful that I have come across the work on time and largely succeeded to live a life where I keep those shadows in front of me instead of letting them run the show from the depths of my unconscious. Fortunately, I never raped anyone, I never had sex with an underage woman, and I never had the slightest drive to experiment with any of that- and all in all, this unfolding had nothing to do with me!

So, where does this leave us?

The scandal in the world of Osho that is slowly coming to the surface today has been buried for over 40 years. What we see as I write those words is only the very tip of the iceberg. There are a few reasons for that. Firstly, only one in about eight children who is sexually abused reports it. Secondly, only very rarely does someone abuse children sexually only once. Finally, there are many reasons why victims do not come forward, and there is plenty of literature about it. Still, when it took 40 years for the first victim to gather the courage to speak up and name one perpetrator, how many more crimes did this one-person commit? How many more children were abused? And how many more pedophiles managed to get away?

You do not need a PhD in mathematics to understand the enormity we are dealing with here.

Not all, but many of the people with Osho during the old days had at least one toe in the pot. Some were predators themselves, some saw but looked the other way, some knew but chose to stay silent. Most are accomplices in different degrees, and many are shaking right now.

In the village where I live, where one of its resident has recently been accused (and he has publicly admitted) of raping and deflowering a woman in Osho’s Commune when she was 12 years old, the impatience and discomfort with what is happening now are tangible. Dozens of Osho sannyasins have chosen to retire here, and the majority stands behind their old buddy; they can’t wait to get to “business as usual” and feel it is time for those stories to disappear. Enough is enough.

“I am done listening to more of that,” said someone the other day. “I worked so hard at the Ranch, and I wasn’t around children. I had no idea this was happening; I am in total shock,” said another, and then to add, “well, we all knew, but, well, it was accepted.”

Another friend living here told me recently, “When I worked on the Ranch, I remember hearing therapists having sex in the next room. I always knew something was wrong, but I never said anything.”

Or, as I heard yesterday, “I know many of them who had teeny girlfriends, sometimes even younger. They are my friends, and I will always stand by them. It was a different time. It was okay then. I don’t even read those reports. Past is past. I don’t want to hear about it anymore”.

It appears that those who were vital in keeping the lid on decades of sexual abuse within the Osho community now feel that a few weeks of airtime is enough.

Why does it seem so difficult for Sannyasins to acknowledge and recognize the criminal activities happening in their own garden?

Why so much resistance to open up their own can of worms?

To the question of why I am getting so involved, I reply that “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

I can’t stay silent.

As I mentioned above, I was not present in Pune 1 nor on the Ranch when most of those crimes happened, but I have been involved with Osho Sannyasins for the last 28 years. I know that all isn’t black or white and that there are many nuances to this story (which mainstream journalists will undoubtedly bypass). I was in three long-term relationships with women who became Osho disciple before reaching their teens. Although all of them carry their share of trauma from those days, they are all beautiful women living a deep and balanced life. I never felt that they had anything to envy from the repressed Christian conditioning I grew up with. Many of them still carry deep gratitude for Osho and remember their childhood as a beautiful and extraordinary time. Yes, most of them were sexually overexposed. Most of them did suffer from feeling abandoned in the Osho’s Boarding school. Many feel that they started their sex life far too early, often with men too old. One of them had a direct experience with one of those predators (who was later tortured and murdered, apparently by angry parents). She was 9 when he tried to abuse her. Still, she luckily had a strong sense of healthy boundaries at her young age and found the strength necessary to stand her ground and keep him at arm’s length.

But not all children and young teenagers had that strength, and not all were that lucky. As people started to speak up, this friend just found out that this man who tried to abuse her when she was 9 had violently raped (and deflowered) another 13-year-old girl in Pune 1.

Another woman who was raped by the headmaster of an Osho School when she was 11 related publicly on social media recently: “Today, many of us face issues of anxiety, addiction, mental illnesses, behavioural disorders, shut down, isolation, we’ve had some who have tried to commit suicide and some who have been institutionalised. We are still facing your actions everyday. And if it wasn’t for the bond we have with each other over the years, many of us might not be here.”

I do have a personal connection with Osho, which I will not discuss here. All I can say is that my identity as an Osho sannyasin has been shaken to the roots, to the point where I don’t know my name anymore. There are people and groups I have associated with for years, primarily out of habit and need to belong, and with whom I do NOT want to be associated any longer. I am facing my loss, my disillusion, another night of the soul. I welcome these pains and sorrows with an open heart. I have gone through a few dark nights in the past, and I always came out the other side more alive and more awake.

I hope that this exposing goes all the way, and I urge everyone to support the courageous steps taken by the victims.

This unfolding can have different outcomes. I am not Madame Soleil, but if the cover-up continues or if Osho was involved, it could well be the ultimate downfall of Osho’s legacy.

I hope that this rabbit hole will be followed until its very bottom. Until every child abuser in this community has been exposed and made accountable. Until every enabler has been made answerable. Until the King himself stands naked.

Then, and only then, may Osho have achieved in just a few decades what the Christian church hasn’t started to tackle in 2000 years.

Nirav

Magical encounters on Indian trains and buses, part 1 Manali to Delhi

For many years Manali was my second home after Pune. There in the Himalayas, I had found the spectacular Nature I so much loved, and also a community of like-minded friends with whom I could meditate daily.

The way up to Manali was a 16-hour bus ride from Delhi, and in the early days that was often a 24-hour trip as those buses had the infamous habit of breaking down at least once on the way.

For about a decade, I made the return trip once or twice a year, first on local buses, then on deluxe tourist coaches where the seats would recline, and later finally on the Volvo buses. Those would not only recline but were also more reliable and comfortable, although with experience I found out that the more modern suspensions would make me prone to motion sickness. After a few horrendous trips, however, where I would struggle with nausea for hours, starring at the road, wide awake in the middle of the night, I unexpectedly discovered that popping a quarter of a Valium would not only make me snooze but also cancel the motion sickness.

In more recent years, I would book 2 seats for myself, which meant that I would not take the risk of sitting next to an oversized smelly person. I would have a sense of privacy and some space to spread. Once past with the guilt, it was a great option and well worth the extra money.

One day, after a few months in the Himalayas, it was finally time to travel back to Delhi, and I found myself at the main bus stand in Manali village, ready for the long trip down to the megalopolis.

Making sure that my luggage was securely stored in the hold underneath the bus was always a bit stressful, but all looked good, and I climbed into the bus.

This time I had bought only one seat. When I had booked the ticket in the office some two weeks before, I had been told that buses were not very full at this time of year and I had decided to take the risk and save the money. I am very sensitive to space, and having someone sitting next to me for 16 hours is no small deal. I was very confident that the seat next to mine would be unoccupied and that I would be able to spread out without having to pay for it.

I recall those very long moments sitting by the window, in the 4th row on the right and side, watching people arrive, give their luggage to the boy who would store it underneath, and slowly, one by one, walk into the bus and look for their seat. The bus was gradually filling up, but so far no one had claimed the seat next to mine. I painfully held my breath.

With only one concern and one thing in my mind, I hardly noticed when an unusually gorgeous woman got out of a rickshaw, and with a beautiful relaxed smile gave her backpack to the storage boy and walked in. A couple of smelly looking locals had just passed by and to my relief made their way to the back of the bus.

A soft voice reached my ears “I think I am sitting next to you”. I literally jumped on my seat, quickly glanced at that figure about to sit next to me, starred at the window, and closed my eyes. I must have looked as upset as if the world was about to end. Indeed, what I had hoped was to be a 16-hour journey by myself, with a bit of privacy and space, had just with those few words turned into a hellish trip with someone right in my space. Sharing a rattling armrest with a stranger for a long evening, a full night and a whole morning, through the windy Himalayan roads, the horns, the fumes and the crazy Indian traffic was an experience I had promised myself never to have again.

Why hadn’t I bought two seats? I felt terrible, stupid, and really pissed off.

It is now just after 4 pm, it is a crisp November afternoon, and our bus slowly leaves the Manali bus stand on time. If all goes well we should reach our destination by nine the next morning.

The first part of the journey is rather uneventful as we move down along the Beas River towards Kullu. The road is busy at this time, and I am glued to my window. This part of the trip always brings up many memories and emotions; maybe because it is the very start of a long journey, perhaps because I just love those mountains so much, but the real reason is probably that every separation wrenches my belly somehow.

I try to relax. The woman next to me is tranquil actually; she is reading a book, which is something I find weird and I could never do on those winding mountain roads. I am pissed off still. Thoughts of spreading, of stretching my legs sideways, of putting my little bag on the seat next to mine and kind of resting on it, keep running through my head faster than monkeys would. But no, there won’t be any of that this time and my pillow is squashed underneath my seat. Not even space for my pillow, unbelievable! What an idiot I was, trying to save a few rupees. I could easily give her a nasty look, I am pretty good at that, but no, she won’t even get that. I ignore her… Well, I try.

We get through Kullu as the sun is setting.

The next day at noon, wrapped in a colourful Tibetan wool blanket, which has for wool only the name, we are zooming through the busy streets of Delhi. “We” meaning me and my next seat neighbour of the night, whose name I haven’t yet asked and about whom I know nothing but the inner fragrance. How our bodies had filled each other without actually touching, without exchanging a word nor really making eye contact is a mystery I can’t explain. All I know is that slowly and almost imperceptibly, hour after hour, a connection had happened and our body warmth had hooked with each other. Energy it is called!… Until that moment around midnight when suddenly, unexpectedly but unavoidably, as the bus was rolling down through the night she had taken my hand and gently squeezed it.

The bus was asleep, but there on seats numbered 7 and 8 a magical dance was taking place, hands were so softly playing with each other, and powerful waves were shooting along my spine. Was it just energy, was it love, was it past life, was it plain sexuality, hormones, lust? Those questions were hovering over me. This was so enjoyable, so exciting and yet so incomprehensible.

Hours had gone by until all of a sudden just before 5 am, we heard a big noise at the very front and the bus precipitously stopped by the side of the road.

After about an hour of confusion during which the two drivers and the staff were assessing the situation, it was announced that our bus was broken.

The sun was now rising as we all got out to see what the situation was and where we were.

I had not slept all night and was in a bubble of energy with a person I had not truly seen nor heard the voice of. I stumbled outside and looked around. We were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by rice fields. We had obviously left the high mountains behind and taken a shortcut, and we were not yet on the long last stretch of highway to Delhi. Indians were discussing the options, and I quickly understood that our bus would indeed not start again today; something significant in the motor had given way, apparently the central belt.

I was completely blank, in the moment yet somewhere else, floating somehow.

The sun was now rising through the cold misty morning, and we were stranded, about 25 of us; mostly Indians including two young couples coming back from their Manali Honeymoon, a few elderly Tibetans, and a handful of foreigners, including me and… huh, well, my next seat neighbour. Here she is, coming out of the bus, a red woollen hat on. She looks stunning. For the first time, our eyes meet. No word is spoken. Again a tingle goes through my back, my heart feels bottomless. She walks softly towards me and just stands there. We actually all stand there. I guess most of us are in shock. I inquire. Delhi is at least 5 more hours’ drive, and we just need to hop on anything that is going in that direction.

The woman is right here next to me, and I suddenly feel awkward. Should I take her hand? Should I ask her name, or where she is from or where she is going? Nothing comes out of my mouth; it all seems so stupid, so irrelevant. Taking her hand here is also not an option. I just stand there, still, looking at the scene, everyone gathering their luggage and trying to figure out what to do next.

I am about to ask her something, ready to get surprised at what sounds will come out of my mouth, but just then there is a scratching noise. A bus has just stopped in front of ours. Some people rush to have a look, but most come back. It is a local bus on the way to Delhi, it will stop everywhere and take a long, a very long time, and the seats are plain wooden. The conductor hanging at the door calls towards us “Delhi, Delhi, Delhi…” I hesitate a moment, and then I suddenly feel the impulse to leave right now with whatever vehicle is first. I scream back “Wait, I come”. I put my pack on my back and start running towards the local bus. I stop midway, look back at the beautiful woman I just spent the night with, and for the first time speak to her “I am going on that bus. Do you want to come?” I don’t even know if she understands what I say and I have no clue where exactly she is heading. She could say yes, she could say no, but one thing is sure: in less than 20 seconds that local bus will be speeding off towards the highway to New Delhi and I will be on it!

“I am coming with you,” she says with soft self-confidence. I grab her bag, and we both run towards the bus and hop on it.

Now, this is a different kind of a bus than the luxury Volvo Tourist Coach we just spent the night in. The seats are wooden benches, three by two, windows don’t close, and it is indeed a very local crowd.

The bus is hardly full, and we manage to squeeze onto a larger wooden bench on the right-hand side somewhere in the middle. We keep our backpacks in the front near the driver; I will need to keep an eye on them, but at this point, life seems to be conspiring in my favour with an excellent plan, and I am in the mood to relax and to trust. I sit by the window which isn’t, in fact, a window; a cold misty wind is blowing in this early hour, but luckily I have my big blanket with me, and I wrap myself in it.

I look around at the crowd gathered here; we are the only foreigners and the only ones from our broken bus. Did I make the wrong choice? Should I have waited for a better, faster, more comfortable option? I don’t care. I feel my companion’s warmth, detect her smell, her inner fragrance. She had said “I come with you”, with such assurance. What is transpiring between us can’t be named. Energy is a word I always avoid whenever possible and too big a word for this. Love? How could this be love? I don’t yet know her name, have not looked into her eyes properly, have not exchanged a sentence, and I don’t even know where on planet Earth she lives and what she does… No! It is something else, something that rarely happens, but yes, something that India seems to be a breeding ground for. Magical encounters!

Time is passing, and our bus is now on the highway, speeding along. An older lady dressed in a gorgeous bright green and yellow Sari has just come in with a huge basket on her head filled with cucumbers. It looks so heavy. She puts it down in the corridor and sits next to us. My neighbour squeezes closer to me and makes space for the lady. We are now three on this bench. I look around, and again for a moment, our eyes meet. And merge. And melt into a bottomless space. The thought of saying something appears, but no, this is not an option. She reaches under my blanket and takes my hand. She is hot, burning hot. The squeeze is powerful, yet so incredibly soft. I close my eyes and do what I do best. Feel. And feel. By now, my shawl is covering us both in a way that looks casual and fitting the scene. We are melting into each other, our legs and hips are touching, our hands are locked. This magical dance that had started in the night is continuing. The seats are now hard and stiff, the night has given way to the morning sun, and a crowd of haggard-looking locals has replaced tourists and Tibetans. But this dance continues.

Just before noon and twenty hours after leaving Manali we are finally arriving in the imposing Kashmere Gate in Delhi, the largest and oldest such Interstate Bus Terminal in India. The same woman who had made me jump up in my seat and triggered a massive wave of anger and discomfort was now sharing my shawl and holding my hand.

Now what? Time to say something. A massive crowd of Indians is gathering, dozens of taxi and rickshaw drivers are pushing their way into the bus before it stops and before we can get out, everyone wanting to grab our bags and get us into their vehicle.

I manage a “where are you from? What’s your name? What are your plans for today? I am in Delhi for 3 days and have quite a lot of work to do; I will go to Paharganj and get a room there. ”

The bus is now coming to a full stop, and there is commotion again. That was just too many questions, and she can’t answer them all. “I have a flight back to Madrid in the middle of the night. I was planning to go directly to the airport and wait there. But I come with you.”

Oh! I had planned to work today, and I am on a tight schedule as I usually do in 3 days what I should need a week to do. This is the price I am used to paying for spending as little time as possible in Delhi, an excellent deal considering that working under pressure is something I enjoy. Now doing my work in only 2 days seems a crazy stretch. I try to think. I like challenges, but this feels impossible. “I am quite busy today” I reply, “but you can come with me, we can leave our luggage in my room and go out, do our own things, and then meet again for dinner before you leave for the airport. I know Pargarganj well and will show you around. ”

“Yes. I come with you” was her only reply.

I feel almost ridiculous to have told her all that. What does she care about my business, after all?

We jump into a rickshaw with our backpacks, wrap ourselves in my colourful Tibetan wool blanket, and zoom through the busy streets of Delhi towards Paharganj. Delhi is such an overload for the senses, such a mind-blowing festival of sounds, smells and colours, that not a word is spoken between us. I am flowing with the moment, this woman by my side, feeling so many feelings, and letting go into the chaos of this Incredible India I so much love and so much hate all at once.

Less than an hour later we finally arrive in the middle of Paharganj Main Bazaar where for 15 years I have produced and bought clothing for my wholesale business. Paharganj market starts across from the central, imposing New Delhi railways station. It is an impressive concentration of affordable hotels, lodges, restaurants, Dhabas and a wide variety of shops catering to domestic travellers, foreign tourists and business people, especially backpackers and low-budget travellers like myself. I know this bustling and unbelievably alive area like my pocket and had once figured out that put together I must have spent almost a year of my life on that street! Hare Krishna Guesthouse is one of my favourite budget places, and that’s where I get the Rickshaw to drop us.

It is now 2pm, and I have not had anything to eat since we had stopped for dinner in a small place somewhere on the winding mountain road between Kullu and Mandi. One over-spiced Dhal and two chapattis are all I had eaten, and I am now starving.

As we get out of the rickshaw, I quickly go over the day’s planned schedule. I have missed two appointments this morning, especially an important one with my very first supplier, Deepak, to look at new products and to check, collect and pack hundreds of dresses. Checking through the production before buying and sending it, is an unavoidable and extremely time-consuming part of doing business in India. At 2.30 I am supposed to meet Ravi in one of his Godown, a huge storage place the size of a building, in a back alley five minutes from here, where I will need a few hours to go through the 3000 scarves he has waiting for me, and choose the best 500, one by one. Then, before 7 pm, I will need to have the first five parcels packed and delivered to Santosh, my trusted man of many years. The next 2 days are equally full, and squeezing into tomorrow the tasks that I should have done this morning is a daunting solution. I do need to get moving.

I have done this Delhi gig dozen of times, I love the buzz, the craziness of it and the pressure I put myself in. I love it because I know it only lasts three days. I had a few times been delayed the way I am now, and I always managed to do what I had to do. But arriving in front of Hare Krishna Guest House wrapped in a shawl with a stranger is something I had never considered in my wildest dreams.

Why had I offered to come here with her? Why had I put myself in such an impossible situation? As I give the rickshaw driver a hundred- rupee note I go through the situation at the speed of light, trying to figure out a plan B, knowing that there is none, knowing that there is no Why either. This is plainly about letting go into the here and now, flowing with the new and the unknown, facing a challenge and remembering that situations like this one have happened before and are what a life worth living is made of.

One delightful part of Hare Krishna Guesthouse is the open restaurant on the ground floor near the reception, where before checking in, we can sit and have something to eat. I have it all sorted already. We will have a chai and food, I will get a single room where we will drop our luggage, and we will immediately go out again. On my way to Ravi, where I will arrive a bit late, I will show this lady a couple of places where she can hang out this afternoon, and we will make an appointment for 8 pm back here, so we can then have a relaxing dinner somewhere nearby before she leaves to the airport. I suddenly feel delighted to have sorted this mess somehow.

“Keep the change,” I say to our driver as I take my backpack and head the few meters to the entrance of Hare Krishna Guest House. The woman follows me. She seems so at ease, trusting, and appreciative. I feel her support and understanding; I sense her delight in this mysterious happening.

“I suggest we sit here and have something to eat,” I say. “Yes, great idea” she replies. The restaurant is spacious, and we sit at a big table on an ancient-looking shabby marron fake leather couch. A light-hearted Krishna song is playing, and it feels good to finally sit on something cushioned!

I am about to quickly explain the situation and the plan for today when our eyes meet and lock into each other. Time stops for a moment, a long moment until we are interrupted by the boy who checks to see what we want to eat.

“Order?” he asks. There is no answer. Our eyes are softly entering each other, there is nothing to say, and there is nowhere to go. The boy must have looked puzzled but leaves us alone. He is probably used to the eccentricity of foreign backpackers.

As I sit there facing this mysterious woman, I can feel my energy move down to my heart and my genitals. I can feel the fire burning through this body. All the plans I had made in my little head just a moment ago are disappearing like a train speeding off into the distance. I am suddenly left empty- and full at the same time. This connection feels so unknown, yet so intimate.

We just sit there across from each other for what seems an eternity. I recall the bus stand in Manali last night as I was so desperately hoping to be left alone. I remember her “I think I am sitting next to you” and how angry that made me. And then this long, very long journey through the night, the connection that had happened out of some kind of bizarre fairy-tale. And here we are now.

The boy comes again, reminding my stomach that I need to eat. “I’ll have your special breakfast,” I say.” Sorry sir, breakfast is finished!” I look up at the big purple clock on the wall in front of me, it is indeed 2.15 pm. “I will have a chai and your special Thali then”.  The boy seems pleased with my order. “And you Madam?” “Same for me” she replies.

I notice that it is getting late and that Ravi will already be waiting for me. My mind is busy again with the necessary schedule for today.

“I need to get moving very soon” I start, “with all this delay I am behind schedule, and I have to work this afternoon. I am running a wholesale business, and this just can’t be postponed”. She nods. “I suggest we keep our luggage in my room upstairs and meet later for dinner” I continue. “What time is your flight?”

She looks at ease, relaxed and trustful, and her smile is gorgeously open. Her flight is in the middle of the night, and I quickly figure out that she needs a taxi from here at 10 pm.

Our thalis are arriving. The food looks decent and generous. Rice, 3 chapattis, a good-looking dahl and 2 little bowls of curries, one with paneer. The salad I won’t touch, but the Kheer I will try. We eat in silence. I sip my chai while eating, a strange habit I got into in Calcutta years ago. Luckily it came unsweetened.

We look at each other. The urge to come closer is becoming more intense, maybe because of the food which is activating my blood flow, I don’t know. It feels good to eat. I want to squeeze her, to feel everything, to melt, to explore, to dive and disappear. Most of my long term relationships started with a connection far less intense than this one, I catch myself wondering. Where will this go? What if we like each other? What if everything else we discover is as awesome, magical and intimate as this? How often does such a meeting happen in a lifetime?

I notice the chattering in my mind, the warmth in my heart and the fire burning through my body. I feel a bottomless space opening up inside.

It is now time to get moving. I excuse myself and go and check at Reception. There is only one room left; it is a small room without a window, but with an attached bathroom. I usually would want to look at it first, but now there is no time for those kinds of details. I take it. “Yes, I am alone, single. No, she won’t stay here; she is a friend. Only keeping her luggage in my room for a few hours. Can you book a taxi to the airport for 10 pm? Ok, good. Please send the boy to bring our luggage up”. “Yes, Sir”. I quickly fill in the page in their entry book with my passport details, and up we go to the third floor; the marble stairs are incredibly steep, and the boy leads the way.

I am now standing in front of room 305. It has obviously just been cleaned; the fan is running at full speed, and the marble floor is still wet. There is a small TV in front of a single bed, blasting some Hindi music. I get the boy to turn it off, I peep into the bathroom, which is basic but looks in working order. The room is indeed small and windowless, which is somewhat typical in this part of the city and not a bad idea considering the noise and pollution outside. I have had better rooms in this Guesthouse, but this will do for two nights.

It is now 3 pm, and if we go out now, I will still make it. I just need a few minutes to fill up my little backpack with the necessary paperwork, use the bathroom quickly and change my T-shirt.

I give the boy a 10 rupees note and close the door behind him as he leaves.

I look around. It is not a pretty room, that’s the least I can notice. Forget about romance. We just stand there. I have not lain flat since I got up from my bed in upper Manali two and a half days ago, and I wonder how tired I truly am. Getting moving and out of here as quickly as possible is the only sensible thing to do right now. “What’s your name?” I inquire. It sounds so weird, asking her name now, here, squeezed between this crappy little bed, our luggage on the floor, the bathroom and the door. We have shared more intimacy, it seems to me, than many couples have in fifty years of marriage, and we know each other’s fragrance at a depth few ever reach in a lifetime. We have experienced the essence of that stuff called love; we have looked, even if for a brief moment only, into the abyss of the other’s eyes. We have felt the bottomless call of our own hearts. “Maria,” she says softly. “Maria?” I must have looked surprised because she smiles back and comes closer. “And your name? “My name is Nirav” I reply, “it is a long story.” We exchange a few formalities, all of which sounds deadly boring and irrelevant. We don’t have time anyway for any of that. We need to go out and mix with the buzzing and colourful life of the market below. A full-on afternoon is waiting outside.

We both catch and stop our unnecessary chattering at the exact same moment. We simultaneously make a half-step forward, still gazing into each other, until that momentum pulls us where, like magnets, we hook into a single field of energy, become glued as one, and finally hug each other.

During all those hours spent together the idea of hugging, Maria had hardly crossed my mind, and I never entertained a picture of how it could be.

In the community where I lived for many years, hugging was part of life. It is an art I had become very good at. A meaningful hug requires the ability to be grounded and fully present, in the body and in the heart, to feel and stay connected inside, to remain alert, open and sensitive, and to say yes to whatever appears. It is the art of moving in and down.

That first hug with Maria in this rather hideous windowless room is unlike anything I have ever experienced. Hugging Maria sends electric waves spinning through my whole body. I feel myself bursting open; I sense an infinite number of connections coming together inside. It is so extraordinary. At some point, my appreciation of time switches off as we let go into a dance of energy beyond our doing. A dance beyond time and space, a dance of two energies melting into what is called lovemaking.

We surrender to the momentum. Maria is so utterly and completely present and connected within herself.

We let go into the timeless, into that space beyond the mind, flirting with that which never dies. We relinquish ourselves into this opportunity to taste the unknowable in the very most beautiful way I know. Everything around us disappears. Time becomes synonymous with here and now.

We are lying on the bed, naked, entangled in each other when a loud and awful sound echoes in the room. The phone is ringing! I laboriously grab the handle. “Good evening Sir, your taxi is waiting.”

Maria and I look at each other, speechless and stupefied. Taxi? Now? How could this be?

It was about 3 pm when we entered this room and yes, I remember ordering a taxi but for 10 pm tonight! Maria reaches to her bag and pulls out her watch. “Nirav, it is ten past ten. I will need to go.”

I rub my eyes, not able to fathom what had been happening. This windowless room has let the sun set and the night take over without warning.

Maria gets up without a word, takes a quick shower, and dresses while I sit on the bed, completely stunned. We look into each other’s eyes and hug for the last time. I then take her backpack, which is still unopened on the floor, and off we walk down the stairs.

The taxi driver come rushing towards us, puts the luggage in the back of his little green Maruti, and already he is ready to go. “Very late Madam, let’s hurry”. I open the left door at the back of the car, and Maria gets in. I reluctantly close the door behind her. I can feel Maria’s heart screaming in the silence of the space we had shared.

She goes with the flow and leaves through the night. I never hear from her again.

Leaving New Delhi in times of inner emergency

Less than three weeks ago, after an amazing two months in India, I found myself in Rishikesh. For a long time, I had dismissed the pandemic that was to come and also didn’t anticipate the fear that would take over the whole world. But since a few days already, the fear of being stuck in India without medical, without food, sick and dying was creeping into my system. Anxiety set in. Shocking world news were appearing at an increasingly fast rate. India had first cancelled all the visas so no foreigner could come in, and then countries one by one were closing their borders; more and more flights were being cancelled, and as I finally just bought a ticket to go to Denmark I received a message that the country just ordered national lock-down and that the community where I was going had to close. Shock set in. Words like “national lock-down” were so foreign to me that I struggled to understand what it meant.
I had two clear options: either stay in India or go back to France. A choice between having my soul or my body nourished. A choice between feeling safe or feeling alive and thriving. A choice between isolation or the magic and incredible richness of human connections that were still happening for me in Rishikesh at this point.
Although my friends in France and Europe sent me the same clear message to stay in India and that life in France was far worse, my gut feeling was clear. Taking care of my nervous system, of my anxiety, of my inner child was a priority – and going back to France was the only option that would make me relax right now.
It took me two days to act on this and to follow my guts- and I almost waited too long. A fight between my male and my female, between my rational and my intuitive parts, was taking place in my inner world. Luckily I have learned to listen to those two, to have them talk and listen to each other, and to give my feminine side the space she needs. Not doing so always had a price I am not ready to pay anymore!
One night at 2.30, I woke up with cold sweat. I turned on my phone. Breaking news affecting me was appearing a few times during the day and night at this point. The French President had just finished his talk to the Nation and announced national lock-down from tomorrow noon!
More cold sweat. What did that mean?
I turned on my laptop and checked for flights. There was one leaving Delhi tonight and arriving in Paris the next morning at seven after a stop in Dubai. 230 euros! I hesitated. That meant packing, organizing a taxi to Delhi for the 7 hours journey. That also meant organizing how to get to my hometown 250 km away in Normandy once I land in Paris. Would I spend hours at the airport? Would I be quarantined? What did it all mean? I usually take a train, and in an emergency, I ask my Dad to come and pick me up (which happened twice only during my long crazy Indian life). I check online. The 16 trains to my hometown are cancelled from now on, and no one is allowed to drive.
Anxiety gives place to panic. I get my credit card, but I remember that I lost my French sim and that buying a ticket would require entering the security code sent to that now unreachable number. I am fucked. And arriving in Paris without a working phone sounds even freakier. Kiosks to buy a temporary one would be closed. I am upset at myself for losing that little thing, and yesterday I spent 2 hours checking every piece of luggage in my room and had come to the conclusion that it’s lost for good. I do have another credit card, but there again, I usually need my French number to verify. But sometimes not. Okay, I try. I walk up and down the room. I have not slept in 2 days, and my heart is beating loud. I see that I am freaked out. And yet I have to act. It is quiet; the monkeys are still asleep. It is now 3 am. I tap myself on the face, yes, here I am. I look at the screen on my laptop and review the flight details. Leaving tonight! Should I or should I not? Will I manage to bring myself to Delhi?
I review the basics involved. I am so foggy. But I have to act. Now. So many details involved. It is just too much. My intuition is that there is a 30 % chance that this flight will go, 70 % that it will be cancelled. I am already thinking of that option and what it would mean, being stuck in Delhi, finding a place to stay, being on my own. But 30 % is a good chance. I watch my fingers entering the details. I look for my passport and enter the numbers. I review the screen again, struggling to keep my eyes open. Yes, it is a flight from Delhi to Paris, arriving tomorrow. I double-check if the month and year are right. They are. Then the Credit card numbers. Now I just need to push Enter. Probably it won’t go through. But maybe it will.
I get up, I am in the most unconformable state I know. Will I make it? I mean, will I die here? I get back to the laptop, and my finger just pushes “Enter”. I hold whatever is left of my breath.
“Your transaction is successful. Have a nice flight.”
I scratch my eyes. A mix of delight and more panic looming. It is now 3.45.
I lie down. Theoretically, it would make sense to sleep for a few hours. I will need to be strong, and I have a long, long unknown journey ahead.
Sleeping is a good idea, but an opinion only.
At 8 am, I am in a state of complete panic. Now I have a ticket, but still so much to organize. I need help!
I remember the breaking news in the middle of the night, and the French presidents saying that flights from abroad would be interrupted from now on and that stranded French Nationals should contact their nearest consulate to organize their return.
Calling the French embassy in Delhi is something I did once in my life, and just the idea brings up a tidal wave of memories, of traumas, of an incredible life journey that continues to this day.
It is early, but I dial the number. I imagine the switchboard saturated with calls, and I expect an answering machine. But to my surprise, a soft voice answers, and a lady on the other end asks for my name, my situation, my phone number. I feel taken care of. I explain what I just did, a flight tonight, no phone when I arrive in Paris, no train, how will I get home, I am in a panic, exhausted, have not slept in 2 days, I am freaked out. I burst in tears. She listens, reassures me, tells me about her situation that she is from Bordeaux and also will face the same issue at some point when she goes back if she does. No one knows. I did the right thing she assures me, and that flight I just booked will likely go she checks, if not I should call her back. She looks at options with me and assures me that once in Paris I will relax and I will find a solution. I am amazed that she stays with me on the line for so long, holding my hand somehow. Half an hour passes. Aren’t there thousands other people wanting to talk to her for support? Do I sound that freaked out?
As we are about to part, I say “You know, last time I called the Embassy in Delhi it was in 1989, and you know what? You saved my life! I have been doing overtime since then. “
Now let me go back some 30 years.
It is 18.15 on the corner of the Paharganj main Bazar just opposite the imposing New Delhi Train Station. It is rush hour, and the market is buzzing with millions of people. In less than 30 minutes, my train will depart and take me to the City of Agra, just a few hours away from here. My pack on my back and my drum around one shoulder. I am waiting while my friend is collecting some pictures from the photo shop.
As I am looking over the crowd gathered there, here she comes, smiling. Yeah! The pictures are ready! As I try and ask if the pictures look good, something feels weird, really, really weird!
Only half of my mouth is moving. I am suddenly paralyzed on one side of the body!
Here, in the midst of the New Delhi’s madness, stoned, with all my possessions in a little backpack, and a train in now 25 minutes! This is absolutely surreal!
We were in December 1989, and I was not travelling alone anymore. I had met Shelley 2 months before on the southernmost point of Crete where I was living naked under a Tree. We had fallen in love, and she was now following me on my well-known hippie trail around India. We had just walked around the Annapurna Sanctuary for four weeks in Nepal and were now going to zoom around India for six months. But first I was going to show her the magnificent Taj Mahal!
How stoned, unconscious and fearing nothing we must have been that evening is still beyond my imagination. I clearly just had a major incident in my brain-possibly a stroke.
But we made it to the station and got into our train! I was stubborn, and changing plans was against my philosophy. The train ride was intense. We were both 23, we had long dreadlocks, we looked wild, and we were wild! With only half my body moving the other passengers thought that I was completely drunk. The train was packed, but somehow someone gave me a berth, and I could lie down.
We arrived in Agra late that evening, and after the usual struggle with rickshaw drivers, we finally managed to find a cheap guest house.
Two weeks later we were still in Agra. I was now lying on the bed of a local hospital, under the drip. I had been misdiagnosed since days, no one knew what my problem was, and all the antibiotics I was taking didn’t help at all. I had just spent 24 hours in Coma a few days back, and my condition was obviously severe and getting worse. But somehow we didn’t realize and trusted that life would take care. We were doing our thing and were moving along.
The Agra hospital had certainly no intention to have a foreigner die on their premises, and so before sunset, they brought me to the Agra train station and put a little paper in my pocket where was scribbled “Apollo Hospital Delhi.”
The train to Delhi took forever, but finally at 2 am we got a rickshaw to drop us in India’s largest hospital with our dirty backpacks. By then, I surely looked sick and like a skeleton, but the emergency room seemed like hell, filled with blood and screams and people looking far more impressive than I did. Someone’s head had a hole in it. Someone’s leg was on a table next to his stretcher. A doctor finally had a quick look at me and told me that I was okay. He gave me another antibiotic pill, and off we were again on the streets of Delhi.
It was now 3 am on a Sunday, and this was going to be my last day in this body.
After a few hours’ sleep, we are waking up somewhere in Carol Bag in a much fancier hotel than I was used to. There is carpet on the floor. We got scammed by the rickshaw driver as we left the hospital in the middle of the night. But this is all irrelevant at this point.
It is around 8 am, and Shelley goes down to the reception and calls the French Embassy. It is early, and it is Sunday, and yet she can smell that this is very soon all over for me.
Less than an hour later a young French doctor arrives in the embassy’s car. He is shocked. I have been in this condition for more than two weeks, without a diagnosis and proper treatment. This is the first time that someone looks at me since I became suddenly paralyzed on the street. He takes his time, and I feel hope and trust again. I am in good hands. We will do tests he explains, but first, he has to guess right and act now. Results would come too late.
His first hunch is that I am suffering from Infectious Mononucleosis and that an Oedema had developed in my brain, explaining the Coma and the paralysis. He is right, and this will save my life. I look so unlike anything he ever saw that he also suspects that I could have at least Aids and another tropical disease as well, but luckily he will be wrong on that one. He injects me with a good dose of cortisone, pays the hotel bill, gets us into his little car and off we are through the busy streets of Delhi to the reputable East-West clinic.
I am given a room there, and my girlfriend can stay with me. It will take a week to get all the tests done and get the pressure in my brain down to a point where travelling by air can be an option.
Finally, one evening at around 7 pm, the van from the embassy arrives at the clinic and four officials from the French embassy knock on the door. They have organized tickets to Paris, and we are leaving now on a direct Air France flight. There is a chance that my brain doesn’t cope with the flight and so the doctor has to sit next to me.
And so on a freezing morning just before Christmas 1989 I landed in Paris, walked through the airport corridors with my doctor on one side and Shelley on the other, got picked up by my Dad, and was brought straight through Normandy to the emergency room of my hometown Hospital. That same afternoon, on the 18th floor, I slid into the tunnel of an MRI scanner.
This chapter of my life isn’t easy to write, because as exciting and interesting as it may sound, I do need to omit the juiciest parts.
I was 23 at the time, and I just had my first significant encounter with death. I came very close. Most significantly, it marked the end of my hippy life as I had intensely known it. I never touched drugs again, and I instead would soon discover meditation. Out of this, I would soon meet Osho and be absolutely ready and open for what He was about to propose.
As I left the hospital on Christmas 1989, I was prescribed a year of convalescence; but instead, after six days at home with my parents, I bought a ticket to western Africa. I would spend the next two years living naked in caves on the Island of Gomera and in Senegal. Life was easy, wild, and completely in touch with nature. I had a beautiful girlfriend, and we then moved on slowly all the way to New Zealand.
What had happened in Delhi had shaken me to the core. What was I after? What was I running from? What did I long for? I was aware that I was now doing extra time, that another chance was given, and that sooner or later death could take me back, and this time keep me.
Those years travelling in the wild were a time of convalescence; indeed, a time of chilling out and of transition. Those were golden days, recklessly living a freedom somehow long gone, and I was getting ready for a new adventure, an inner one this time. I was getting ready to open up, to feel, and to say Yes and slowly but surely tap into a source of infinite possibilities.

Meditation

For almost 30 years MEDITATION has certainly been the one word running continuously through my daily life. Combined I must have spent a few years “in meditation”. Satori groups, meditation retreats, 10 days Vipassana courses, 5 and 7 weeks retreats in complete silence and isolation, and the daily routine of at least 3 hours of different meditation techniques. Meeting Osho I discovered active meditations. His famous “dynamic meditation” became my favourite one, and for years I woke up at 5.30 every morning to be in the hall ready to breathe, jump, cathart, dance and fall into the centre of the cyclone in utter silence. Dynamic meditation was a simple formula for a great day ahead.

After 20 years in Pune following that incredible and juicy regimen I one morning found myself in Mumbai at the feet of Ramesh Balsekar. He told me something I had never heard before and that would change my life forever. There was according to Him no need to meditate, but if you felt to, just taking a few minutes in the evening looking back at your day and investigating one event that you obviously did was enough. “Dissect that event and find out if you REALLY did it”. That was a puzzling proposition, but that investigation again and again, every single time showed the same result: I was not the doer of any action, not even that one. Actions happen through this body mind organism. There is no doer whatsoever.

For years afterwards that specific investigation did run inside like an undercurrent until one day I realized that the understanding had settled without any doubt and that the inquiry had dropped by itself.

Today I would simply say that Meditation is remembrance. Remembering who I am. Osho’s last word is SAMASATI. So is Buddha’s. “Remember who you are”.

Meditation techniques are a way to bring that remembrance to the light. Meeting Osho has been the greatest blessing in my life and meditating in His garden under his guidance was fun, juicy and the gap between the outer and the inner was bridged every single time.

I still enjoy sitting in silence with closed eyes. I still enjoy active meditations. In the same way I enjoy cooking, painting, walking, making love, having a talk with a friend. Whenever I remember who I am I am in meditation.

Most of the time I am in my centre, connected, present and enjoying the play of life. Sometimes I am identified with this body mind organism and believe I am the doer of those actions and thoughts and emotions. Now I know the way, I know the space, I know the knack. I could say that I know who I am…and yet I do go astray once in a while, and I am okay with it. The idea that staying in my centre is a greater thing, deeper and more holy is also falling apart. In fact all the ideas of who I am and who I should be are all falling apart. Something is happening which is beyond all my ideas, beyond any doing, beyond any description, and that something looks more and more like nothing.

I have been a spiritual seeker since as long as I remember. Finding out who I am was the single most important drive inside. Meditation was the motor, the main tool.

Today as the seeker is dying and the seeking is giving way to something beyond doing, meditation is also changing. I don’t quite understand what is happening and I am okay with it. Trying to understand is not important. Accepting the new unfolding is clearly all I need to let go into.

This new happening isn’t always comfortable. I often feel pregnant with something I don’t comprehend, something I can’t push nor do anything about, something that by nature I absolutely cannot name.

I am washing some dishes in the communal kitchen this morning and my friend asks me if I could write something on meditation, and I go “yes, of course”. I know that words will come in spite of me and that whatever comes will be perfect. There is complete trust. And here I am and words are flowing. Meditation is presence, meditation is spontaneity, meditation is life running through this organism called “Nirav”, through this laptop and through the birds singing in the garden. Meditation is love, meditation is freedom, meditation is easy…as easy as the wind moving through the autumn leaves.

Meditation is no mind, meditation is openness, meditation is all there is.

Meditation is remembrance.

Samasati.

 

 

When I lost my balance

Nirav shares a recent event in his life where he had to overcome an unexpected challenge and find his way back to the present. A help was this quote, “Be the person who breaks the cycle. Vow to be better than what broke you – to heal instead of becoming bitter, so you can act from your heart, not your pain.”

full article on :

When I lost my balance

Tribute to Meera, part 1

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Few people have influenced the course of my life the way Meera did. 

As I look up and around right now, I see my walls full of amazing paintings, filled with leaves and trees and mysteries; filled with the taste of the unknowable. So much beauty and love and movement and silence in every stroke, so much depth, so much of the divine shining through. How I became the painter that I am today is a story that started in 2000 in Osho’s commune in Pune, India.

I was a bodyworker then. I was working in the Commune giving individual sessions, and I had spent basically every day of the last decade in bodywork and therapy trainings. Meera was a unique character in the commune, she was obviously full of Osho and she was around every winter leading her creativity workshops and trainings. I had often stopped by to watch her incredible demos in the Multiversity Plaza, and I had been to many of her exhibitions which she organized every year at the end of the season.  But really painting was never my thing and to be honest I had never held a paint brush!

One day in November 2000, Meera was about to start her yearly two and half months painting training in Pune, and one of her participant had requested a French translator. I was finding myself in a gap then; I was going through a heartbreak and was getting tired of giving so many sessions. I was still very involved in the commune but sensed a wind of change. I approached Meera and we had a little chat. She explained that she never takes someone on the staff who hasn’t first participated in at least one of her groups, and that maybe I could do that. I replied that I had never painted and was not that interested, and clearly if I seemed to have unlimited money for heavy therapy and inquiry groups, I was not ready to spend a cent on something like a creativity workshop.

I remember that moment when she paused and looked so deeply into my eyes that time simply stopped. It seemed that she was seeing something I had no clue about, something like a hidden diamond I could not even dream of considering. I had often experienced this feeling of being seen so deeply and so totally, but right now it was something different. Meera was looking at something beyond my depths, something beyond everything I think I am, contemplating a potential I had no mean to comprehend.

Meera took my hand and broke the silence:  “Wao… yes, come and join, this participant will only do the first part, it lasts two weeks, and it is Primal Painting! You will like it. Come. I will make an exception.”

We never talked again about this very first meeting. So much had transpired, so much had been said, and yet…all what remained was a mystery that left me deeply shaken.

 

( part 2 …)

Creativity

Creativity has nothing to do with you. Creativity is the very heartbeat of the universe; it is that which is prior to all your ideas of what is right and what is wrong, what is beautiful and what is ugly. Creativity is what was bubbling before you came in, what remains when you are not, and what will be here long after you are gone. Creativity it the stuff that fuels every breath you take, every feeling and thought going through you, everything that happens within and without. Creativity is the beyond in action, every moment and forever. The starry night in a movement beyond the speed of light, or that magic in your heart, it is what keeps you not just alive but thriving. What this universe is about we have not the fraction of a clue. Creativity is the unknowable manifesting itself.

Teaching creativity is a contradiction in terms, and the concept of getting somewhere on the path of creativity is a fallacy. There is no path and nowhere to go. Some advertise “meditative art” but art is always meditative, because art only happens when you have disappeared. Anything else isn’t art. It is vomiting, and the modern art galleries all over the world are full of just that.

What I want to convey and share through painting is my experience of the divine, what I want you to maybe get a glimpse of is the space beyond who you think you are, what I can maybe point to is the magic of existence throbbing through your every breath

A taste of the beyond, the slightest disengaging with the illusion of being someone at all, and creativity shines in a million rainbows.

Forms and shapes appear and reveal the ever-present mystery of life and death. Explosions of lights and colours are bound to destroy your false identifications and bring forth the ecstatic nature of who you really are.

Tribute to Meera, part 8

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Meera always told me that having zero background as a painter and having never been to art school was a gift in disguise. She said that so many people coming to her were so loaded with ideas and concepts, had too much baggage, and that she spent so much time trying to free them from their knowledge. In that sense I was free already.

Today when I look at my paintings I recognize that, and I am in awe every single time. Meera taught us very little techniques, almost nothing really. And yet I see beauty all around right now, I see mystery and depth, I see the wild cyclone in movement and I feel the centre of it. I see both my aching and my silent heart, the joy and the pain, this whispering longing taking me to the unknown…

As years are passing and I am slowly collecting knowledge, I can see how right she was. Looking at paintings I did in her trainings when I knew nothing, I often stop in amazement at a certain freedom I had then. Many times I realise that today I would not be able to paint with that magenta next to that bright pink, or to suddenly enter a heavy stroke of black ink in the middle of a beautiful light flowery painting. Staying in touch and alive with that innocence and that freedom is a constant challenge. That freedom has a beauty of its own and the taste of the divine.

 Painting with Meera in Osho’s garden, listening to Him and meditating every day, was a happening hard to describe. Osho’s presence is tangible in every word Meera utters, in every move she does, in every painting she creates.  Osho’s vision is the connection between Meera and me.

( Part 9 coming soon )

Tribute to Meera, part 7

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After the first season helping in Meera’s caravan I finally got in touch with the creative fire within and I just wanted to paint. Meera had been right and now she wanted me to keep going wild into unchartered places. When I told her that I now just wanted to paint, had no juice for helping, and would rather explore on my own outside the training, she offered me to come in the group and do as I wanted. I could even have a corner in the room, and as long as I was around she was happy.

And so, I spent the last few winters in the painting training, doing as I please, knowing no limit and no boundary. I was officially part of the staff, but I refused to work and help, and would immediately leave if pushed. Meera wanted me in there and so kept widening the exceptional status I had. I was certainly the source of much admiration, but also envy and jealousy. Clearly I isolated myself and became a freak. During the days off there was so much work for the staff, so much to prepare, but as my friends were busy from morning to night gluing paper, mixing colours, cleaning and deep cleaning, I would just sit there on the roof under the trees and paint all day long, forgetting to eat, only having two or three breaks a day to meditate in the Buddha Hall.

We were painting on Krishna roof those days, an amazing open space in the heart of the commune, under magnificent ancient trees with amazing greeneries all around. During the evening meditation, when everything stops and everyone gathers together to meditate with Osho, I again had a special permission to stay on the roof and paint if I wanted; and sometimes I would miss the evening meditation and paint till midnight, alone in that huge space, with all the lights on and music playing.

Those are the days when my creativity took off. I was intense and prolific.

Meera could see that I was flowering and she kept supporting me. She was obviously aware that this situation was not right, that my entitlement was an issue, and my dramas out of place. Over the years she asked her closest friends many times “Should I kick out Nirav?” No matter the feedback she always chose love over fear. She always chose Yes over No. She always focussed on the light and the expression of creativity. Against what made sense and what was right from a therapeutic standpoint she always kept my potential in sight and did whatever was needed to support it.

 

( part 8 …)

Tribute to Meera, part 6

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My journey with Meera had just started. A glimpse at me had in a way been enough for her to see my unexplored potential, and very soon she was reconfirmed in her intuition. She gave me everything, let me do all I wanted, didn’t set limits and kept showering me with her love. She took me in the staff for five years continuously, and invited me to her trainings abroad.

The problem was that not only I didn’t believe in my potential as an artist, but receiving so much unconditional love was not possible for me. The more she gave the more I pushed her away. Those five years were intense, extraordinary in many ways, and also extremely painful. I frequently exploded into intense emotional dramas, freaked out in the middle of the groups, challenged her and pushed her to her edge. As her book “ReAwakening of Art” was about to be published, I forced her to remove my name from it. Obviously my name would have appeared in a beautiful way, and this is one of the most painful things I ever did. My name was removed and the book was published.

Today a dedicated copy is by my bedside table, and whenever I try and read Meera’s words to me on the cover, my eyes instantly fill with tears.

Maybe this Tribute is also an effort to complete something between us and ease the pain in my heart.

( part 7 …)