It’s 10.30pm where I am, in Oz – and it’s the 19th January. Twenty two years ago on this same evening, some five hours earlier, I was sitting in the ashram gardens surrounded by mosquitos. I had not wanted to join the White Robe Celebrations that night. I had had a disturbing dream in the early hours of this day, from which I awoke in a sweat. I had dreamt that someone had killed Osho. That ‘they’ had killed him. The dream details are long gone. A river at night. A full moon. I watched the line of people being sniffed and entering the hall. I was very wired. Was it a full moon? I can’t remember. Something in the air. Besides mosquitos. All of a sudden there was an announcement that everyone should come into Buddha Hall. Amrito was going to … well, we all know what he said that evening. No doubt many of you were there. Hours passed – or was it eons. Down at the ghats – singing. The burning. The timelessless. The sense that this had happened before – that we were all here – before. The year 1990 meant nothing. It felt like 1290. Or 390.
A time out of joint – yet strangely – ‘here now’. Dawn broke over the river. The dawn of time. Red. Orange. Music, drumming, crying, laughing, singing. An ending – and yet a beginning. The gap. And my tears flowed. My god, the tears. Endless. I wasn’t celebrating and laughing and hugging. I was awash. I could have drowned the world. A few days later – emptied of tears – I danced for hours. Let the music never stop.