Category Archives: Music

One of the biggest faux pas I ever committed in Japan happened in Osaka after an event. It was evening and I was sitting around a table with some Japanese friends waiting to have dinner. I was feeling tired and a little spaced-out from the day’s activities when drinks arrived. I had been in Italy only a few days before and without thinking picked up my glass and said, “Cin-cin!”

The red faces and shocked looks all around indicated something had gone terribly wrong. Then someone leaned close to my ear and whispered ‘cin-cin’ means ‘prick’ in Japanese.

“Skål!” I quickly said.

Oops, wrong country again.

“Uh … Kampai!” I shouted.

Everyone laughed nervously and drained their glasses in one gulp. Very politely, of course.

In Japan, as with other modern cultures, celebration is simply ‘skål!’. You clink your glass of beer together with friends and hope for a better day tomorrow. A friend of mine who teaches English in Japan was sharing how beautiful and full of life the young children are who come to his school. Yet he observed how quickly the society seems to crush them, squeezing out all their joy of life.

I have heard Osho say most people in the world die around the age thirty. Maybe not physically, but spiritually. They just give up. And the rest of their life is a long, boring march to the grave. One can find many beautiful temples in Japan – perhaps once upon a time they provided shelter and inspiration to real meditators. But nowadays they are simply museums to a dead past. Within their aesthetic gates, you’ll find no music, no dancing, no singing. Only the silence of a graveyard. A kind of silence, yes. But there is no celebration in it. Things look beautiful on the outside but are very seriousness on the inside. Is this not the nature of the world we live in?

I have always puzzled why Osho made celebration the last stage of Dynamic Meditation. Why it doesn’t just end in silence like Kundalini or Nadabrahma. Is it because Osho realized not only is mankind incapable of silence, but has forgotten the language of celebration too? This koan unraveled during my most-recent tour in Japan.

One particular morning, I was participating in Dynamic Meditation with a group of enthusiastic Japanese. The fourth stage (silence) had gone very deep. Then, as the first notes of music heralding the fifth and final stage pierced the stillness, the roomful of meditators began to pulse with joy and dance. In that moment, I suddenly remembered how it was to be a child again: innocent, a clean slate — tabula rasa; how I came into this world before the society, the priests, my parents, my teachers all got hold of me. And in a flash, I had insight into the deeper meaning of kampai.

One can think of kampai like the last stage of Dynamic Meditation. As one progresses through the different stages, one reaches the fifth and final stage — kampai — via silence(stage four). In the silent stage we remember who we are again and from out of this silence, we become the small child we once were — dancing and singing in the sun and rain, our life worth living: full of magic, laughter and joy bubbling spontaneously from deep sources within. Once we know who we are, real celebration — the real kampai — begins.

Kampai is our birthright. Kampai is our empty cup — empty, yet full; overflowing with love and the wine of life. Sound Zen? Let’s just say, Kampai!

originally written for the VIHA Connection, May-June issue, 2000

6:30am, Colorado time. I roll out of bed and peek through the blinds. It’s been snowing all night. Everything outside looks like a winter wonderland. The sky is totally clear. Looks like it’s going to be what the locals call a bluebird powder day. In this neck of the woods that translates as the world’s best skiing conditions and certainly an experience not to be missed.

I’m not really into music for the sake of music. In fact, I have never really considered myself a musician as such. During the ten years I lived in the Commune, I loved all the work I did there. Each job had its own flavor and mirrored me in a different way. I was in the Commune to grow and discover myself, not necessarily to become a great musician.

Looking back, music feels no more special than any other job I ever did: whether sweeping the path outside Lao Tzu Gate, cleaning the public toilets, cooking, or operating a backhoe. Some may not have been the most glamorous jobs, but being near Osho had a way of transforming even the most mundane task into something miraculous.

In the Ranch era, we had a nightclub in Portland, Oregon called Zorba the Buddha where I played in a band every weekend for a year-and-a-half. It was a unique opportunity to explore the performance aspect of music and being a musician in a worldly sense; also a time when I burned through many of my ambitions and trips around music.

When Rajneeshpuram finished, I moved to Los Angeles and flexed my Ranch-learned skills as a bulldozer operator, leveling one hilltop after another in the Simi Valley. One day out of the blue, I received a phone call from Uruguay (of all places.I had to look at a map to see where it was!) and was invited to join Osho’s World Tour.

When I arrived in Uruguay, Osho was speaking twice a day in an intimate setting of about 20 people. It was like a dream-come-true to be with him in this context, listening to his words, drinking his silence. After four years in the Oregon desert, I felt like I had arrived at an oasis – in the ultimate sense! The thing I had longed for during those unrelenting hours of work at the Ranch was now a reality. My heart was screaming to tell all my friends and fellow travelers – come! – but Osho’s presence in Uruguay needed to be kept secret because of the sensitive political issues involved. It was the hardest secret I ever had to keep.

Living in Osho’s house was an absolute delight. I could have lived like that for eternity – happily enjoying the discourses twice a day; my small job of keeping the downstairs of the house clean; the occasional tennis game or walk on the beach. Osho’s message to us was relax, enjoy, and do just enough work needed to keep things functioning smoothly. Wow!

One day Nivedano, Osho’s beloved drummer, showed up at the door, not only looking for his master but his girlfriend as well – Gyan, Osho’s seamstress. He was welcomed and quickly became a part of the household. Before long though, in his inimitable style, he began trying to organize some musical instruments for us to play on for the discourses. Something inside me said, “Oh no! The silence with Osho is just too precious. It has been so beautiful up to now. Why should we disturb it?” But Nivedano persisted, and before I knew it I was in a car speeding toward the nearby town to look for music shops.

Meanwhile, Osho had been inquiring from Vivek, his caretaker, whether I had brought a guitar with me. On hearing I hadn’t, he said it would be better if I got one; otherwise, I would make trouble by chasing the women and this would not be good for my health. Such a practical master!

After a whole day of running from shop to shop, I eventually found a guitar and Nivedano found his drum. That same evening, we played and sang as Osho walked in for the discourse. The way he danced with us, smiling and swinging his hips as only he knew how, created a strong contrast to the silent evenings we had been having up to then. As our singing and his dancing reached crescendo after crescendo, it began to dawn on me: The silence Osho speaks of is not the silence of a graveyard. It is a living silence. It is the silence of life – a life full of laughter, songs, dance, and all the ecstasies of the heart. This was big insight for me at the time and one I have never forgotten since.

I love to sing. Singing is one of the most beautiful mediums I know for expressing the language of the heart. Singing celebrates the festive dimension of life. When a man sings from his own sources of joy, he plugs into the very center of existence, the place from where the whole universe is singing its song. Words feel inadequate the closer one comes to this space. As a poet, a musician, I know very well Van Morrison’s ‘inarticulate speech of the heart’. Finding words to express something so vast, so inexplicable, so much bigger than oneself is a great challenge. Maybe that’s why when I am able to express and share something of my innermost being, I experience such tremendous fulfillment, a divine contentment.

It is said that in the life of a disciple, the master’s death is his last, and perhaps greatest, gift to his people. When the experience contained in the master is suddenly released from the body, it spreads all over existence. If a disciple is there and is sensitive to it, he will know intuitively what is happening in the master: He will feel it immediately. The moment Osho died, or left-the-body as they say in the East, I realized he was never a person, a body, a form as such, but just a pure presence, a consciousness, an emptiness.

This insight is particularly relevant to me now. Songs I once sang and directed to this flower of a man, I now sing and address to the whole universe: the sky, the mountains, the ocean, the trees, the stars. Not that I am singing to anyone in particular. In reality, I never was. I simply didn’t have the awareness to understand. I must have listened to Osho a million times say “Look! The chair is empty.” Yet from my point of view, seeing his beautiful form sitting there in front of me, seeing all that radiance with my own eyes – well, to my ears he might as well of been speaking in riddles because an enlightened consciousness shining through a body has to be one of the most beautiful things in life to behold. But an enlightened master is a koan, a divine paradox, and presents every disciple with the ultimate dilemma: How to let go?

Other events have helped crystalize my understanding of Osho in the context of my life and music. In 1989, Osho was still known to the world and his people as Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. During a remarkable series of discourses No Mind: Flowers of Eternity, Osho dropped his name and said that he had now become one with the vast ocean of existence and his old name was no more relevant, that if people needed to address him they could do so as Osho. He went on to explain how William James (a Western mystic) originally coined the word ‘osho’ when looking for a way to define the oceanic experience of enlightened consciousness. Also, in the Zen tradition, disciples use the word ‘osho’ as term of respect for the master. Although it has been some years since he left his body, I still use the word Osho when referring to him. But have also come to think of Osho more like a quality of meditation. In my understanding, enlightened consciousness has no particular name or form. Osho is to me meditation at its most refined.

When speaking about what transpires when I sing, words can be a little poor. Whether one sings Osho, Bhagwan, Beloved, Kabir, Jesus, God, or one’s girlfriend’s name is not the point. These days, the lyrics are even more absurd: ‘baby, baby’ seems to be the mantra of modern music. I don’t let myself get too serious about words in music. They are just something to play with. Music shouldn’t be a serious thing. The important thing as far as I’m concerned is: Who is singing? Who are you? And what is your quality of meditation?

After my events sometimes I’ll hear someone say: “Oh, I could really feel Osho tonight.” Perhaps they are feeling a mysterious thing that happens when they are being total in their energy, absorbed in their dance, their egos dissolved in singing and celebration. I call this phenomenon ‘Osho’ and it seems to happen when people’s energy goes really high, like an energetic boiling point, and they drop from their mind to the heart. From the heart, it is just a very short step to one’s being. Someone familiar with meditation will recognize this space in themselves. It is most-certainly an experience beyond words, but if one has to use a word for it, one could call it ‘Osho’.

New people sometimes ask me what was it like to be with Osho when he was in-the-body. Actually, I believe if you know the fragrance of your inner world, you know as much about Osho as anyone ever has or did. Osho is a timeless phenomenon. I’m speaking about Osho, not the man, but Osho as a refined quality of meditation. For example, in this moment now, if I close my eyes what I’m experiencing inside myself is qualitatively the same as what I experienced my very first time in Osho’s presence. Before I met Osho, I wasn’t aware I had a silent world inside me. I grew up in a western culture with no idea about meditation. Hence, I had no context for my first inner experiences around Osho. But, a master is a mirror for one’s inner world. Now I can see it was something that was there inside me all along. But I first had to develop a sensitivity to it, an awareness of it. This is why I meditate. It reminds me of who I am. And in this crazy world we live in, this is something very easy to forget. Straying too far from it, one is bound to suffer life and miss out on its many blessings.

If I see my inner being like an instrument, meditation helps keep the strings in tune. If I have learned anything from my years of playing music in Osho’s presence, it is how to disappear when I play. Music simply provides an excuse to disappear. There is no greater ecstasy as far as I am concerned. I think people get high when I play – not because of the words I sing or my musical expertise – but because of what is happening inside me when I’m playing, the space I go into when I’m singing, the ecstasy I experience when I close my eyes in meditation and sing from my center. The vibrations of meditation are highly contagious.

These days I rarely give concerts. What I love most are my weekend events. I travel with a band, a group of musicians who know the language of music and silence. We create music which supports meditation and the people doing it. The music keeps things fun and non-serious, and helps people dive deep inside themselves. It gives them courage to explore and be nourished by the spiritual dimension of their being. In this sense, music becomes a springboard for something bigger, something very mysterious, which happens in people when they meditate. If you ask me, music in the context of meditation is the real soul food.

I’ve had people ask if I see myself as some sort of missionary or vehicle. I just laugh. I have no interest in changing anyone or converting anybody to my way of seeing things; nor am I interested in pushing any political or spiritual agenda. I am not a missionary. I simply play music and meditate because I love to. I love to sing. I love to dance. I love to be around joyous people who know the value of meditation in their life. And I have discovered a simple truth: The more I share my songs, my music, and myself with others, the more I have of it. It’s the economy of the inner world: The more you give, whether it is love or whatever you have to share, the more riches you discover you have within. In this respect, my life feels abundant, full of love and more blessings than I can count. Existence has showered me with its greatest gift: An awareness of myself. And that’s something worth singing about.

from the Osho Times International, Volume 13, issue 3, 2000

Milarepa is best known throughout the international sannyas community as director of the Osho Institute of Music and Celebration. But moving right along with so many other changes within the Osho Commune these days, he recently accepted an invitation to run the three-day, monthly Meditation Intensive in March 2000. Rather than conducting the Intensive alone, Milarepa asked several fellow meditation leaders to join the program in order to “have as many flavors as possible in the weekend.”

“I wanted to enhance the meditations by making use of some people’s expertise in specialized areas,” he continued.

Milarepa also invited his many musician friends to provide live-music for some of the techniques. The younger participants found this particularly appealing. But the real break with convention was his idea to use recordings of Osho telling jokes. “I used them instead of quotes,” said Milarepa. “It took people by surprise and everyone seemed to agree: Having a good laugh was a great way to start and finish the meditations.”
Milarepa, accompanied by his international band One Sky will be leading meditation events all over the world this year.

printed in the The Osho Times International at Osho’s request, Pune, India, August 20, 1989

Beloved Osho,
A hat for you and a small poem I wrote after last night’s video.

This evening!
Silence descends on Buddha Hall
Like soft monsoon mist;
And from here I listen to
Your voice
The words
The gaps . . .

A crow calls,
And the bamboos creak.
“Who is giving these commentaries,” I ask?
The silence deepens
And ecstasy overwhelms me.
Again I ask, “Who is giving these commentaries?”

Then,
Your voice
The words
The gaps . . .

A crow calls
The bamboos creak

And no answer
Becomes my answer

I love you, Beloved Master.

In deepest gratitude, Swami Anand Milarepa

An enlightened master’s love radiates like the sun, its healing rays equally available to everyone irrespective of who they are, for there is no hierarchy in the eyes of existence. How warm one experiences the sun is directly proportional to how much one is prepared to open and expose himself to life.

This particular poem taught me a valuable lesson. I wrote it in the monsoon season in India, during a time when Osho had been getting progressively weaker and weaker, coming out for the discourses less and less. Because he could not be with us so often, he suggested we start meeting each evening in Buddha Hall at 7 pm to watch videos of previous discourses. He said this would create an opportunity for us to meditate together and celebrate as a commune; that listening to his words would inspire us in his absence. This was the beginning of a meditation known as the White Robe Brotherhood.

During the rainy season in India the days are long. On this particular evening, it was still light when the video discourse ended. I had been lying down, listening to Osho’s words, the rain, and the small sounds all around me. I was in one of those magical spaces I’ve often experienced with Osho: my mind far away, yet something inside still present and alert. Like being asleep, but not. A poem had been composing itself, deep-down in my being, as if my unconscious mind was trying to give voice to something I was experiencing in meditation. When the discourse suddenly ended, the sound of people leaving the Hall startled me and disturbed my trance. The spell had broken and the poem vanished without a trace from the canvas of my mind.

I ran to my room and tried to write it down. I grasped for the words, but they were no longer there. In that moment, I experienced the angst of all creators. Sometimes a window opens for a brief instant, giving a glimpse into another dimension, another world. Then just as mysteriously, it closes again. I had heard Osho speak about it many times. His guidance was always: Don’t grasp and try to hold on. Just accept. It is the nature of things.

Remembering this, I let go. There was nothing more to do now other than move on and be grateful for the glimpse existence had provided me with. The poem, like a perfect dewdrop sparkling in the sun, had disappeared forever and I knew it. Something in me relaxed. Closing my eyes,
I began retracing my steps in the meditation. Only the metaphorical wetness of the grass of my mind indicated it had just been raining in my inner world. I could still sense the fragrance of the unknown lingering in the absence of the vanished poem. With only this faint fragrance to guide me, I started writing, knowing the poem I was composing would at the most be a faraway echo of the original.

I finished the poem. And because my experience had been so strong, I felt compelled to send it into Osho along with a beautiful hat to express my gratitude. The next day, I was told Osho wanted the poem and my accompanying letter published in the Osho Times. I took it as a confirmation of my insight. I lost a poem, but received a blessing: the Master’s love. His poetry.

originally written for VIHA Connection, December-January issue, 1999

While thinking about what to write for this article, a poem by Robert Frost came to mind:

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep

The Bravo America events take their name from an Osho discourse given in Uruguay. This year’s 1999 tour spanned ten weekends and about 11,000 miles of highway. I am always amazed how vast the United States is. All the event organizers chose beautiful, even magical, locations for their events. It was interesting to see how an aesthetic environment can be a support to meditation. Whether high up in the Berkshires pumping a lot of clean mountain air through one’s lungs in Dynamic Meditation, or simply having a quiet walk among the great redwoods of California – this tour proved meditating in nature is a powerful and transforming experience.

One of the most rewarding things about what I do is seeing the changes that happen in the participants over such a short space of time. Some have never heard about Osho before, some are new to meditation. Watching their faces, how they soften and begin to glow reflecting the miracle of self-discovery, always touches me and makes the long miles and all the work worth the effort.

And just as the participants dive deep into their inner world, so do we the musicians. The energy on a Bravo weekend typically moves in circles: sometimes with the musicians giving and the participants receiving, sometimes with the participants giving and the musicians receiving. Often the line separating meditators and musicians blurs, even disappears, and a tremendous melting happens, invariably followed by the deepest, most relaxing silence one can imagine. No Bravo event ends on a somber note: The shouts of Osho! Osho! Osho! linger long after all goodbyes are said.

This year we meditated a lot as a band. Dynamic Meditation helped keep the relating within the group clean and fresh. Living so intensely on the road together, traveling such long distances in a confined space – let’s just say touring in a band can be a real mirror! This year was no exception. The band was one of the most juicy, ongoing, existential groups anyone could wish for.

And a lot of fun. For instance, we visited some amazing places like Yosemite National Park where we celebrated Sureel, our drummer’s birthday while listening to every little sound in the night thinking it might be a hungry bear. Another occasion, we spent a night in Las Vegas and enjoyed a great Italian dinner in Caesar’s Palace.

The Florida event happened in a place called Spirit Springs, a tropical paradise with three freshwater springs on the property all interconnected by underground caves. One could swim through one and out another. What a delight it was to jump in those cold springs after working up a sweat in Nataraj!

 

Inspired by the U.S. Open, which was happening simultaneously to the tour, we had our own ongoing tennis tournament on the road. The wine always flowed when someone took a set off me (yes, it does happen sometimes). Even Yoko, Vatayana, and Shanta got into the swing of things!

Then there was the long, night drive through the desert on our way to Cleveland from Sedona, when a spaced-out driver came speeding down the wrong lane of the freeway directly at us! It’s an easy thing to do on those endless stretches of desert highway, especially at night when one is tired. People will exit off the road to get gas and take the wrong ramp getting back on. The truckers call them ghostriders. I just managed to get out of the way in the car I was driving but Mohan, who was following in the second car, had to swerve off the road to avoid a head-on collision. I followed the whole scenario in my rear-view mirror as he struggled to control his car and get back onto the highway. Yoko and I pulled off and waited until a pale Mohan and the others caught up. We all had a good laugh, thanked our lucky stars, opened some bottles of Starbuck’s coffee and a bag of Lay’s Classic chips, and were off again for we had many more miles to go that night before we’d finally sleep.

All the organizers did a wonderful job handling the risks and responsibilities of the events. Their care and loving efforts made it possible for so many people to come together in meditation and celebration. A big ‘thank you’ to all! What more to say? For me, Bravo America is about connecting with oneself and others through Osho’s meditations and music. Not a bad way to spend a weekend, wouldn’t you say?

Yosemite National Park: (l to r)Amlas, Mohan, Milarepa, Yoko, Sureel

Interview with Swami Anand Milarepa
Director of the Osho Institute of Music and Celebration
Osho Times International – Volume 4, Issue 2, January 16, 1991
Conducted by Swami Anand Subhuti

OTI: Milarepa, can you tell us about your relationship with Osho?

Milarepa: Although I had speaking darshans with Osho in the early days of sannyas, my relationship with him has never been a personal one. It was and still is an inner one, something deeply connected with the mysterious world of meditation. However, as I moved deeper into meditation, so did my relationship with Osho change and become more intimate.

OTI: Can you explain?

Milarepa: When I took sannyas in 1976, Osho was living in Pune, India. During these early years, I came and went from the ashram many times. When I was there I meditated, did groups, attended discourse, and finally at some point jumped into work. Osho seemed like god to me then representing something unreachable, unattainable. Most of the time in those days, I felt like I was standing in a deep valley looking at a far away Himalayan peak. I can see now this was more my own projection for my understanding since is: The master is only as far away as you are from yourself.

In the beginning, my mind and its strategies to avoid meditation were very strong. I spent a lot of time and energy circling around the periphery of the Commune, Osho, and myself. In spite of this, I knew without a doubt I had found what I had been searching for my whole life, perhaps lifetimes. I was groping in the dark, but I had seen a glimpse, a light, a possibility. By the end of Pune One (1980), I was working full-time in the Commune. And my disciplehood began to unfold and flower.

OTI: Osho has a fondness for you. When did this start becoming obvious?

Milarepa: In 1980, Osho left India for America. I, like many other sannyasins, moved to Oregon where work had begun on the ‘new commune’. Osho named it Rajneeshpuram. We knew it affectionately as The Ranch. This was a big shift for many people, a huge change in the atmosphere from our idyllic life in India as orange-robed meditators, where everything and everyone seemed so ‘spiritual’. I have a friend who still believes if Osho had never left India, we would all have been enlightened by now. I won’t comment on this. But I will say that cowboy hats and boots replaced our flowing robes and spiritual good looks. At least for the time being! In that central-Oregon desert where thousands would eventually come, work became our meditation. And I mean work with a capital W! Twelve-hour days were considered the minimum.

I had been at the Ranch about a year when we opened a nightclub in Portland, Oregon called Zorba the Buddha, where I played in a band every week for one-and-a-half years. One evening, just as I was finishing a sound-check, Garimo, one of the Ranch coordinators approached me and said, ” Milarepa, have you got a minute to sit down?”

I thought something terrible had happened or I had screwed up something.

“Your Master was talking about you last night,” Garimo said.

I was incredulous!

She continued: “Osho was speaking to some of us from Jesus Grove about relationship issues (it seemed many of the couples working around Sheela had been having a rocky time – including Sheela herself!). Osho used you and Shunyo (my girlfriend at the time) as an example of how he envisioned men and women should relate. He shared a story he had often told in discourse of a man and woman who lived at opposite ends of a lake. They were deeply in love but only met by chance when sometimes out rowing on the water. He said it was beautiful how Shunyo and I met like this couple. When we had the feeling to be together, we would meet and enjoy. And when we were apart, we were also happy and content in our aloneness.”

Although I had been a sannyasin for six years, this was the first time I was aware Osho knew who I was, much less knew my name. There is a Zen story about a young man who comes to the master to be initiated into meditation. For seven years, he meditates and the master never so much as looks at him, as if the man doesn’t exist. Then one day the master walks by and looks at him. This look from the master stirs something deep inside the man, inspiring him to go deeper into meditation. Another seven years pass. One day the master catches the eye of the man and smiles setting the disciple’s heart on fire. Seven more years pass. Then one day the master walks by and utters the man’s name. The sound of his name on the master’s lips floods the man’s heart with ecstasy. Another seven years pass. One day the master, who has become old by now, walks by, touches his head, and the disciple experiences a silence not-of-this-world. Something of the beyond is transmitted through master’s touch. Tears flowing, he touches the feet of the master and the master says: “Your tears show me you have understood all there is to know. There is no need to continue being here. Go and live in the world as a madman, singing and playing on your instruments.” I love this story.

OTI: And did Osho mention you again?

Milarepa: About a year passed since my chat with Garimo. One day as I was finishing lunch, Nivedano, Osho’s beloved drummer, walked up and said: “Hey man! Did you hear? Last night your master was talking about you again!” (Osho had been speaking to a small group of people every night at his house for the past few months). I could see Nivedano was thrilled. IWhenever someone in the Commune got a little extra nod from Osho, it would spread to every heart like wildfire and everyone would enjoy by association. Such was the intimacy of the Commune. At first, I thought Nivedano was just teasing, but my heart told me otherwise. I knew something amazing in the life of a disciple was happening, again. The master had smiled at me.

Later that same evening, Shunyo, who had been present in the discourse, told me of how Osho had been joking about me having a big reputation with women, calling me a ‘Lord Byron type’. He said he was puzzled, though, because whenever he stopped his car in front of me “He could see the drum, but not the drummer.” I had been playing a drum at Osho’s drive-by – a highly celebrative daily event that happened each day after lunch where the entire Commune would line the road to greet him on his drive with wild singing and dancing.

OTI: How did you feel upon hearing what Osho had said?

Milarepa: Nothing short of ecstatic: like being loved deeper than I had ever been before; like being seen to the core by someone and showered completely with love. Soaking you! I have never felt the word ‘yes’ so deeply in my entire life.

OTI: Anything more from the Ranch times?

Milarepa: A few nights after this episode, Osho reported at the end of discourse he had heard a rumor I was going to England. When asked by someone what he thought he said, “All I can say is God save the Queen.” Osho certainly loved to tease me. But I always felt it came alongside a deeper meaning, as if he wanted to convey something immensely valuable to me.

OTI: In 1985, Osho left America and went to India, Nepal, and then on a World Tour. You caught up with him in Uruguay?

Milarepa: Yes. After the Ranch dissolved, I went to live and work in Los Angeles. Shunyo left the Ranch with Osho as part of His team of caretakers, so we were separated for some months during this time. In our six years together, although we were not always lovers we maintained a close friendship. I think we shared a mutual understanding that, in spite of the love we had for each other, ultimately we were sannyasins, fellow travelers, bound in spirit by a deeper love: Our love for the master.

One day in Los Angeles, I received an unexpected phone call from Dhyan Yogi, the person responsible for looking after the many practical things connected with Osho’s World Tour. He invited me to come to Uruguay where Osho was staying at the time. Often people ask me about these times in Uruguay, what it was like to be there. Have you ever read ‘Mojud: The Man with the Inexplicable Life’? This story is a good description of how I felt being there. In other words, incredible!

When I arrived, Osho had just started giving discourse twice a day in a small room in the house where he was staying. There were about twenty of us present. This was every sannyasin’s dream, such intimacy with the master. The whole situation was to say the least very inexplicable.

OTI: Did your disciple relationship with Osho continue in Uruguay?

Milarepa: You could say that! In Los Angeles, I had shaved my beard and dyed my hair black just for a change, to have some fun. When Shunyo and Avesh (Osho’s chauffeur) came to meet me at the airport, they drove straight past several times not recognizing me. That same evening in discourse, I was sitting in the back of the room, which was still closer than I’d ever been to Osho. I was totally absorbed in meditation when suddenly it was as if someone was shining a spotlight on me. I was wide-awake inside, red-alert. I started paying attention and tuning into what Osho was saying. He was talking about how ridiculous men look without a beard. And wouldn’t it be strange if your girlfriend decided to grow a moustache? Then reality dawned. Oh my god, he was onto me! Then he says something like: “Just look at Milarepa, sitting there in the back looking like a complete idiot. He has shaved his beard and lost all his grandeur.” It was Osho’s way of saying hello. By the way, I grew my beard back really fast.

OTI: Listening to the Uruguay discourses, it seems like you asked Osho many questions. Is that right?

Milarepa: I had never asked a discourse question until Uruguay. I had always assumed, I think like many others, I had no questions to ask. It felt more than enough just to be in the his presence. One day during a morning discourse, Maneesha ran out of questions. It was a light, but awkward moment. Osho sat for a minute, then smiled and said unless we had questions for him, there was no reason to speak. He said for us to take it as a game, to write questions even if they didn’t feel like our own, because someday someone might benefit from our asking. And to remember that our questions were creating the opportunity for him to be with us and to share his being. And that although the real transmission happens in silence, we still need the discourses to create a context for this.

So, this is how I started asking questions. Every morning after discourse, I would take an hour to be alone and write. Very soon I realized what a unique opportunity it was to everyday expose myself and get Osho’s immediate feedback. Sometimes he would accept my questions, sometimes he would reject them. As the days went by, I began to feel him steering me deeper into uncharted waters of myself by the ones he chose, and equally important by the ones he rejected. Each new morning, as I would prepare fresh questions, I would say to myself, “OK, he chose this one yesterday and rejected that one. Hmm … so perhaps this is the direction I should take.” As the days went by, I felt he was leading me into the unknown, introducing me to new dimensions, previously unexplored areas, of my being, taking me always deeper and deeper into myself.

OTI: He liked to answer questions from you that were humorous, right?

Milarepa: Towards the end of our stay in Uruguay, Osho had started choosing questions of mine that had a humorous potential, ones he could use to make everyone – including himself! – laugh. In the first few weeks after I arrived, the tone of his discourses was quite serious: a lot of politics and talk about the world situation and so on. It provoked my mischievous side, so I would try to provoke him as well – and that divine smile of his – with my questions. Seeing him laugh would just melt my heart. I would ask him things like “Beloved Master, are you just pulling my big toe?”  and he would laugh and then proceed to give the most amazing answer, one that always seemed to perfectly suit the occasion. And at the same time find its mark in me! Many times I felt I was on the razor’s edge. I never quite knew which way the wind was going to blow when I asked a question. Sometimes I experienced him like a lion, playing with me, a small mouse. In the last few Uruguayan discourses, Osho was mostly saving my questions for the end. It was as if he wanted to end the discourse on a special note, leaving us all in an ambience of his choosing. I would invariably watch him disappear around the corner, chuckling to himself, leaving in his wake a room overflowing with laughter, love, and the fragrance of the divine.

OTI: Were you playing music in Uruguay?

Milarepa: Yes. Towards the end of our stay, Nivedano and I would play for the discourses as Osho entered the room and left. It added the dimension of celebration. Dancing with him, singing our hearts out, made everything seem complete and total.

OTI: Was it on the World Tour that Osho gave you the Institute of Music and Celebration and made you its director?

Milarepa: This happened after Uruguay when Osho was staying in Portugal. It was right before he returned to India and concluded his World Tour. We were all staying in a big house surrounded by a beautiful pine forest. It was a very secluded and silent place, so much so that you could hear pinecones bursting open in the heat. The governments of the world were really after him at this point, trying to limit his movements, trying to prevent him from settling anywhere, trying to keep him from being with his people. It is an understatement to say he was being harassed.

Shunyo and I were staying in the room right under Osho’s. One night as we were going to bed, about eleven o’clock, Amrito (Osho’s personal physician) knocked on our door. “Milarepa, I have a message for you from your master,” he said. “I was on my way out of Osho’s room, and as he was pulling up the blankets over his head to go to sleep, he seemed to suddenly remember something: ‘Oh, and give Milarepa the Osho Institute of Music and Celebration. And make him its director.’ ”

OTI: After Portugal did you return with Osho to India?

Milarepa: Not at first. I went to London with Shunyo. We stayed together there about a week, then she left for India and I followed on a week or so later.

OTI: And this was the end of the World Tour, right?

Milarepa: Yes, that’s right. Osho returned to India and stayed in Bombay for about three months. It was a transitional time. But Osho, never one to miss a beat, resumed the discourses a few days after arriving back in India. In his own country, he suddenly seemed safe from the international, political attempts to harass him. I think there was a collective sigh of relief from sannyasins all over the world because his people could finally be with him again. I must say, it felt great to be back in India. It was so much more relaxed than the West had been. I wrote one of my favorite songs during this time: Osho, We Your People. The words came to me while I was walking along Juhu Beach one evening – a balmy night under the stars, listening to the soft surf of the Arabian Sea. I hadn’t felt so happy and content in a long time.

OTI: And did this cat and mouse game with Osho continue in India?

Milarepa: Yes. In fact, more and more. When Osho left Uruguay, because it all happened very suddenly, there were a handful of pending discourse questions on Maneesha’s clipboard, and a few of them were mine. She planned to keep them safe for the future when, and if, the discourses ever resumed. A few months later, I was in England waiting for a flight to India, when I received a message from Shunyo (already in Bombay at this point) that Osho had answered one of my questions during the previous night’s discourse. On hearing this, I experienced a love that knows no boundaries, no time. I was in England, Osho was in India – both of us separated by oceans and continents – yet I understood time and distance made no difference in my connection with him. Days later, I arrived in Bombay and was soon at it again, writing fresh questions, and trying to provoke that divine smile. Touché!

OTI: And then Osho returned to Pune. This seems to be the time the music really took off – both for you and the Commune.

Milarepa: Pune Two as it is called was a peak in this sense. Osho resumed the discourses a few days after returning to the ashram and I had a strong feeling there should be music for them. I had already seen in Uruguay how well it complemented the meetings, providing a joyous backdrop to the things he was speaking about. So I asked through his secretary what he would like to have happen and he sent the message that yes, he wanted music for the discourses, Indian in the morning and Western in the evening, and that I should coordinate both. And so began the Osho Institute of Music and Celebration.

Everything expanded quickly as the months went by. People began arriving by droves from all corners of the world. We started recording music from the discourses and making tapes to sell in the Commune’s bookshop. We also organized many creative things for Buddha Hall like variety shows, music groups, dance and art performances.

OTI: Yes, those tapes you mention are loved and listened to by many people. Do you have a favorite?

Milarepa: No. I love them all. Each one represents to me a certain phase of the music. For instance, the music from Yes To The Riverhappened during the period when Osho moved the discourses from Chuang Tzu Auditorium to the newly-constructed Buddha Hall. Although the album features recordings from both venues, the overall feeling reflects a freshness, an innocence, that was prevalent in the Commune at this time. I think it comes across in the music. It’s something very tangible. Each of these albums is like a mirror, reflecting specific spiritual dimensions in time: of the Commune, life with Osho, the atmosphere of the discourses, and most importantly: my own process.

OTI: And how was it playing music in Osho’s presence?

Milarepa: Well, if you are a musician, in my opinion there is no greater experience than to play for one’s master. It is the highest calling. Expressing one’s creativity in the service of meditation, you help create a special space where hearts can open and people can receive the many blessings. For a musician, a creator, this is ultimately fulfilling.

OTI: Did Osho ever comment on the music?

Milarepa: Very rarely. I have always felt Osho’s one hundred percent trust in me regarding the music. His silence and love say more than any words. Osho knows my heart.  And he knows the hearts of everyone of his musicians, of each of his people in fact. He knows our love arises from very deep feelings of gratitude. He knows we only want to do our best, to give our best to him, all that we are capable of, as this is ourjoy.

OTI: And did your playfulness with Osho continue through your questions during this time in Pune Two?

Milarepa: I like to think I have matured since those intimate times in Uruguay. So when Pune Two came along, I sometimes thought I had some real questions to ask. Serious questions! (laughing) And yes, to answer your question. There was still a lot of playfulness, laughter and humor. From both sides. Osho would do mischievous things like sign my name to someone else’s question. Or take my question and sign it with someone else’s name! Sometimes he would laugh just hearing my name read. At other times, he would appear stern and administer a ‘hit’. I could never predict what he was going to do, nor how he would react. Want some advice? Never try to second-guess the master.

OTI: And the Commune continued to flourish during this time?

Milarepa: Yes. By late 1989, the Commune was flowering again in all dimensions. Like a rainbow. The ecstasy of celebration was rising higher everyday as, in retrospect, the master was preparing to leave his body. The intensity in fact was often overwhelming. I remember sometimes feeling inadequate with just my guitar and songs to offer and expressed this in a question Osho answered on Enlightenment Day, March 21, 1987. He seemed surprised and responded that the offerings of the heart are more valuable than any mundane thing the world has to offer

and that I should understand this.
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OTI: How do you experience different phases in Osho’s Work?

Milarepa: Life with Osho to me is like a river: always moving, always changing course, always unpredictable. As I see it, Pune One was a catharsis phase: a cleansing of our collective unconscious, helped along by the groups and therapies. It was as if Osho was creating a foundation to what would follow. Work came more and more into focus as the Commune, the sangha, grew and flowered.

This phase reached a peak at Rajneeshpuram. When the Ranch finished, there was a big dispersion of energy like a ripe seedpod bursting. The Commune dissolved and his people moved back into the world while he moved from country to country harassed by every government. But Osho had a knack for transforming negative situations and making something beautiful out of them. Hence, many positive things came out the phase he called his World Tour. Ultimately, this phase manifested with him returning to India, where the Commune again flourished reaching yet another peak, the one we know as Pune Two.

Although work was, and still is, considered an important part of Osho’s vision, in the last years of his life, he began to emphasize creativity as a way of expressing and sharing the fruits of our meditation. His discourses took on more and more the flavor of Zen and it was clear he wanted each of us to become our own individual, not dependent on anybody else. Including him! Nor dependent on anything, even the Commune.

Taking care of the music around Osho for me has been about allowing things to expand and flow with him, so that the music reflects as clearly as possible his vision and the things we are continually learning by being with him. In this way, music has became my meditation.