And the last question:
OSHO, DO YOU EVER FEEL AT A LOSS WITH WORDS?
THE QUESTION IS FROM RISHI. Each time I utter a word, I feel at a loss -- because that which I want to say cannot be said. And that which has to be conveyed, cannot be conveyed. Then you will naturally ask, why do I go on speaking?
I am trying hard. Maybe today I have failed... tomorrow. Yesterday I failed... today. I go on speaking in different ways: maybe this way you have not heard; in some other way maybe it will be closer to you. This way somebody has heard; you have not heard. In another way maybe you will be able to hear it. But I am at a loss continuously. Words don't come easily -- because the message is wordless. I am not a priest; I am not trying to give you some dogma; I am not trying to explain some theory to you. Something has happened in me, something has happened to me -- I am trying to convey THAT. I am trying to commune with you.
Words are very awkward. They are very tiny and very small. They cannot contain that which I want them to contain. So EACH moment I am at a loss. People who don't have any experience are never at a loss; any word will do.
I have heard a beautiful story -- meditate over it:
A parish priest was having a few words with his Bishop, and in the course of conversation said, "It is alright for you, my lord, when you prepare a sermon you can deliver it to several churches in the diocese, but I have to give two new sermons every Sunday."
The Bishop replied, "You should be able to give a sermon on almost any subject at a moment's notice as I can."
"I will take you up on that," said the parson. "You come to my church next Sunday and I will put you to the test."
The bishop agreed and in due course went to the pulpit to find a card with the one word 'constipation' written on it -- that was the subject. Without hesitation, he started: "And Moses took two tablets and went out on to the mountainside."
A priest is never at a loss. He has so many scriptures available, he can always find something from his memory. I am continuously at a loss -- because what I want to say to you is not a subject matter: it is my subjectivity. What I WANT to say to you is my heart! it is not my mind. Unfortunately, I have to use the mind because there is no other way. Even to convey the heart one has to use the mind -- hence the absurdity of it. It is very irrational. It is trying to do the impossible! But there is no other way... I am helpless.
But if you ask: Am I ever at a loss for words? I am constantly. Each single word, and I hesitate: will it do? How can it do? Knowing it is not going to help, I go on using it. It is a necessary evil. Silence would be better, far better, but when I LOOK at you then I hesitate. If I become silent, it will be even more difficult for you to come closer to me. You cannot understand the words, how will you be able to understand the silence? And if you can understand silence, you will be able to hear that silence in my words too.
If I become silent, then at the most five percent of you will be around me. Those five percent can understand through the words too, because they are listening to my silence not to my words. So there is no problem for those five percent. But the other ninety-five percent who cannot understand words and cannot understand the silence contained in them will be simply lost. I will not be able to help them at all. Through my words, they at least go on hanging around.
In their hanging around there is a possibility that in some unguarded moment they may have a contact with me, some unguarded moment and in spite of themselves they may come closer to me, they may stumble upon me; some unguarded moment, and I may penetrate into their heart, something may be stirred. It is a perhaps, but it is worth going on.
That five percent will be helped either way, but this ninety-five percent will not be helped by silence. And that five percent also, if I had been silent from the very beginning, would not be here. That five percent shows the way, so that the ninety-five percent by and by will be ninety percent, eighty-five percent, eighty percent....
The day I feel at least fifty percent of people can understand silence, then words can be dropped. I am not very happy about them. Nobody ever was: neither was Lao Tzu, nor was Saraha, nor was Buddha -- nobody ever was. But they all had to use words, not because silence cannot be a communion -- silence can be a communion, but for that a very higher consciousness is needed.
Once it happened:
Two great mystics of India, Kabir and Farid, met, and for two days sat silently together. The disciples were very much frustrated: they wanted them to talk, they wanted them to talk so that they could hear something valuable. They were hoping, for months they were hoping, that Kabir and Farid would meet, and there would be a great showering, and they would enjoy it. But they were just sitting silently, and the disciples were dozing, yawning -- what to do? And what happened to these two people? -- because they were never silent before. Kabir was never silent with his disciples and neither was Farid silent with his disciples: they were continuously hammering on their disciples. "Why? What has happened? Have they gone dumb?'' But they could not say anything; it was not appropriate.
After two days, when Kabir and Farid hugged each other and said goodbye -- that too in silence -- and when the disciples were left with their Masters, they jumped upon their Masters. And the followers of Kabir said, "What went wrong? And for months we have been waiting for Farid to come, and he came, and you never spoke a single word. And we were waiting and waiting... we got tired! These two days have been hell!"
And Kabir laughed. He said, "But there was nothing to say -- he can understand silence. If I had said anything, he would have thought me ignorant -- because when silence is there and silence can say it, what is the use of words?"
And the followers of Farid asked Farid, "What happened? Why didn't you speak?"
Farid said, "Are you mad? Speaking with Kabir? We are exactly at the same space, so there is nothing to convey, nothing to say! The moment I looked into his eyes and he looked into my eyes, we recognized. The dialogue finished at the first moment!"
"Then for two days... what were you doing for two days?"
And Farid said, "We were just enjoying each other -- each other's space. We were guests to each other. We overlapped each other, we overflowed each other, we mingled with each other -- we danced, we sang. But it all happened in silence. When silence can speak, what is the need of language?"
I am continuously at a loss for words. Each word I utter very hesitatingly, knowing well that it is not going to suffice, it is not adequate. Nothing is ever adequate -- truth is so vast and words are so small.