Once, in bygone times, there was a nobleman’s daughter—peerless in beauty. Not only in beauty; in character and virtue she had no equal. When she came of age, three young men—each outstanding in form and qualities—proposed marriage. Seeing that all three were equally qualified, the father left the choice to the girl herself. But for months she could not decide. In the meantime she fell ill and died. With deep grief the three young suitors buried their beloved.
One young man made his home at her grave. Another became a fakir and set out on the road. The third stayed on with the girl’s grief-stricken father.
Wandering, the fakir became a guest in the house of a man learned in mantra and tantra—an occult adept. As they sat for a meal together, a small child began to cry; he was the host’s grandson. The tantric picked the child up and threw him into the blazing furnace. The young man screamed, “Monster! I have seen all the sorrows of the world, but never a sorrow like this.”
The host said, “It only seems so to you because of ignorance.” He recited a mantra, waved a wand, and the child came laughing out of the fire. The young man memorized the mantra, took the wand, and went straight to his beloved’s grave. And in the blink of an eye his beloved stood before him, alive.
She went to her father’s house. All three young men pressed their claims, each forcefully. But the girl said, “The one who revived me was merciful. The one who served my father had the heart of a son. But the one who stayed at my grave—he was the lover. I will marry him.”
This story is a symbol, a parable. The Sufis have used it with open-hearted abandon. On the surface it appears simple; within, it is most extraordinary. Let us first grasp a few essentials, then we will enter the story.
First: the Sufis hold that there is no door to truth other than love. Only the lover arrives; the knower goes astray. For knowing is always on the surface; only love enters within. Knowledge belongs to the surface; the heart opens only through love. And if truth rested on the surface, science would have found it. Truth is in the depths. Whoever wishes to enter the heart of life, to reach the very center, cannot reach there by knowledge, only by love.
The key of knowledge opens many doors, but none of those doors leads to the inner sanctum. Only the key of love opens the door called the heart. And the Sufis say, God is the Supreme Heart. The world is His circumference; God is its center. If even in entering an ordinary person you cannot enter without love, how then will you enter that Supreme Heart without love?
Love, then, is the Sufis’ path. And because of this the Sufis imagined God in a way uniquely their own—a way no one else ever imagined. The Sufis alone on this earth see God as the Beloved, as the Lover-Girl. He is not male—where would a man find such a deep heart? God is the Beloved. God is a Beloved Woman and the devotee is the lover. Others have seen God as Father—Christians, Jews, Muslims. Others have seen God as the lover. Hindus have an ancient tradition of seeing God as the Lover—as Krishna; then the devotee becomes a gopi.
In Bengal there is a sect of devotees called the Sakhi Sampradaya. They too pursued a deep exploration of love. God is the Lover; they are His girlfriends. Therefore even men in the Sakhi Sampradaya take themselves to be women. On days of prayer and worship they wear women’s clothes. As one sleeps at night holding one’s beloved, they sleep holding an image of Krishna. But their conception is that Krishna is husband and they are the wife.
The Sufis alone took a great risk. They saw themselves as the lover, and God as the Beloved Woman.
There is more likelihood of truth in this, because a man’s mind circles around knowledge. A woman’s whole being circles around love. Even when a man loves, only a part of him becomes a lover. When a woman loves, her whole heart becomes love. The woman becomes love in her entirety. God cannot be fragmented. If He is the Lover, He will be like a woman—His love indivisible. A man’s love changes. A man’s mind is filled with waves, drawn and agitated by lofty attractions. A woman can remain absorbed in the worship of one alone. That is why women could become sati—chaste unto death; not a single man could. If her lover dies, the very essence of a woman’s life is lost. To seek that same essence in another man is unthinkable for her. And wherever women seek that essence in another man, there their womanliness withers. Their deep dignity is destroyed.
The Western woman is becoming shallow; her being is moving to the periphery. The full dignity of woman was discovered in the East. That unwavering devotion, that total surrender to one alone—such that if he dies, his death becomes my death. The lover’s life is my life; the lover’s death—my death!
A man cannot be sati. He is unruly. His grip is all of mind, of intellect. And intellect knows no single-pointed devotion. In intellect there is no bhakti, no reverence—only doubt. Even when a man loves he remains suspicious. Who knows if this is right or wrong? Who knows whether this woman is truly worthy to be the beloved? And this doubt follows him always.
Woman is faith. In the heart no ripple of doubt rises. Therefore the Sufis regarded God as feminine. He is pure heart, where no wave of thought stirs. He is pure love—and that love is raining down single-pointedly.
The devotee is male because there is doubt. Even in the deepest devotee, doubt remains—a compulsion! Our personality is fragmented, divided, in conflict. One part has faith; another lacks it. With one we create feeling; the other destroys it. The Sufis say, the devotee is like a man; God is like a woman. And the day the devotee dissolves completely in God, that day he too will have the heart of a woman.
So the heart of woman is the supreme door. Love is the path, not thought.
The religions of the world have found two paths. One is the path of meditation; the other is the path of love. Only two. Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali take meditation as the path. Therefore all three devise every means to cut off love. Because as long as you are entangled in love, how will you meditate? Meditation means the capacity to be alone. Meditation means pure feeling—solitude! I am, and no other. And I am content with myself. No restlessness, no pain, no longing, no desire to attain—not for wealth, not even for God; only then will meditation happen.
That is why Buddha and Mahavira say, God is not. And Patanjali says, He is not necessary. If one cannot manage without, fine, accept God—but He is not essential. For the yogi there is no need of God. For the yogi’s entire discipline is to be free of the other. Meditation means the effort to be free of the other. Therefore the meditator can never give place to love. If you go to Buddha or Mahavira and talk of love they will say, you are foolish.
Just yesterday I was reading the words of a great Western atheist, Epicurus. Epicurus is a non-believer; he accepts no God—very much like Buddha and Mahavira. He wrote something remarkable. He listed the characteristics of a wise man; among them is this: a wise man will never love. This is precisely correct. How can a knower love? Epicurus says, only the ignorant can fall in love; how can the wise fall? The wise may marry, but he cannot love. Because marriage is an institution, a practical, formal arrangement. A wife is needed—for service, for food, to manage a home. So the wise man may marry, for marriage has utility. But the wise man cannot fall in love. “A wise man cannot fall in love.” And Epicurus says, if the intelligent fall in love, then what is the difference between the intelligent and the unintelligent? It is the wise who coined the phrase “falling in love.” “Falling” in love—there is a fall in it; hence “falling.” It means you have fallen from your intelligence.
To the wise, the lover looks like a madman—and he is. Because he does not live by the intellect, he lives by the heart. The heart has no logic; it has feeling. Feeling is blind—or perhaps feeling has eyes the intellect cannot recognize.
So Buddha, Mahavira, and Patanjali all cut love, so that meditation can be complete. Hence their entire discipline is of dispassion. Love is attachment; it must be cut. It must be cut so completely that the other does not remain; only you remain. Not even the memory of the other should arise, not even a thought of the other. The day you are utterly alone, the whole world is lost and no other remains from whom your contentment draws any connection, no bridge to your happiness on which you depend in any way—the day you become perfectly free. And you can be perfectly free only when love is utterly cut. For love is a kind of dependence. In it the other is necessary. The other’s joy becomes the basis of your joy. If the other is unhappy, you become unhappy. Then how can a lover be a meditator?
One path, then, is of the meditators. Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali are its peaks.
The other path is of the lovers. And the lovers say, until the madness of love descends in your life, the intoxication of love arrives, how will your ego melt? The meditator insists: if you depend on the other, you are enslaved. The lover insists: if you strive to be utterly independent, how will your ego be dissolved? In the end only you will remain; that will be your pure ego. And the ego is the obstacle. Only in the alchemy of love does the ego melt. Only in the fire of love does the ego burn. The lovers say, why use the other for dependence? Use the other for surrender. It is not a question of leaning on the other; it is a question of losing yourself in the other. And when you are not, who will depend? Who will be enslaved?
Understand this a little. Both erase—but the meditator erases the other, the lover erases himself. The lover says, let only the other remain. A moment will come when I will not be. Then whose dependence? Whose bondage? Who will suffer? There are two now; one must remain. The meditator erases the other and saves himself; the lover erases himself and saves the other. The day one remains, that day truth is attained. For truth means one. Truth means non-duality.
Now this non-duality can be reached in two ways: either I dissolve, or you dissolve. Either you are not, or I am not. Both paths exist. In my vision both are true. From both sides people have arrived. The Sufis, the Krishna devotees, Meera, Chaitanya—these arrived by the path of love. And their heights are not at all lower than those of Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali—not an inch lower. When only one remains, there is no difference in what you call it. Shall we call it the Self? The meditator calls it the Self; the lover calls it God. Therefore meditators leave off the talk of God, because “God” introduces a second. Only the Self! Hence Mahavira says, Atma is Paramatma. And the lover says, Thou art I.
There is a famous poem of Jalaluddin Rumi. A lover came and knocked at his Beloved’s door. From within a voice asked, “Who? Who is there?” He said, “I. Did you not recognize my knock? Did you not know the sound of my footsteps? I thought you would recognize me; even a gust of wind bearing me would give you news. I—your lover.”
But then no further voice came from within. Nor did the doors open. When the lover beat and begged, only this much news came from inside: as long as you are you, how can the door open? How can the door of love open for ‘I’? So when you are ready, then come back.
Many days came and went, many moons and stars passed; then, years later, the lover came again to her door. He knocked. From within, the same question! Love always asks the same, “Who?” He said, “Now only You are.” Then Rumi says, the door opened that day.
This is the essence of the Sufis. Two must vanish; one must be. But the processes are very different. The meditator must forget the other; the lover must forget himself. The meditator is like a killer; the lover like one who kills himself. The meditator cuts down the other and remains alone. The lover cuts down himself so that he may not remain—only the Beloved remains.
By both roads, people have arrived. People will always arrive by both. For me there is no preference, no choosing between them. I see no difference. Hence it is a joy for me to speak on Patanjali, and a joy to speak on the Sufis.
And when I speak to you, I do not ask you to choose a path. Know yourself. Recognize your own nature. Then go by whatever feels simple for you. What is simple is your path. You are not to choose among paths; you are to know yourself. If love is the stream of your life, then erase yourself and let God remain. If you find that love does not arise in your life; even if you strain, it sits down; the heart does not throb, feeling does not take hold; only thought runs, only logic grasps; faith does not deepen, only doubt deepens—then meditation is your path. And neither is higher or lower.
Now let us take up the story.
The story says there is a beautiful young woman. She has three lovers. One Beloved; three lovers.
First, understand this: God is one; the lovers are many. The infinity belongs to the lovers, not to the Beloved; the Beloved is one.
The story says the young woman is in great difficulty: whom to choose? All three are of equal qualities. Equally intelligent, handsome, healthy. From the side of qualities there is no way to weigh. All three love her. Had there been a lack or excess in qualities, choice would be easy. But they are equal in qualities.
This needs a little understanding. In truth, for love, qualities are not the question at all. Where qualities are the question, the intellect enters. The intellect thinks whose qualities are more, whose less. The intellect compares. It calculates. So it is not true that the three were equal in qualities; they cannot be. It only appears to the girl that they are equal in qualities. They cannot be; for two are never the same. A little arithmetic would have discovered that one had more qualities, one less. In this world, equal things do not exist. Two pebbles are not the same; how then can two persons be the same? But this is the intellect’s question. Intellect weighs and measures. Intellect means measurement. You can weigh—it only requires a finer scale.
But the heart does not think with the intellect. Therefore when thousands of lovers’ prayers are at God’s door, do not think, “I am more intelligent, so my prayer will be heard first; I am wealthier, so my voice will reach earlier; I am a great painter, sculptor, politician, so I will be allowed to stand at the head of the line.” No. Your qualities do not count. If you rely on qualities, this will be your very disqualification. Your heart will be tested. Your qualities do not count. Your talents do not count. Your exam papers and your degrees will be of no use. Only your heart will count.
The young woman saw all three as equal. A heart full of love does not think with the intellect. Therefore if your heart truly fills with love, you too will find comparison difficult.
For a mother with seven sons there is no distinction at all. One may be more intelligent, one a fool; one healthy, one ill; one handsome, one ugly—but the mother sees all seven alike. And if the question arises: save six and let one die—the mother will be in anguish; whom to let go? If she thinks with the intellect, the argument is clear: let the most useless go. The heart does not think like that; it has its own way.
To the young woman the three appeared equal. To love, all three will always appear equal. Love does not compare. And since this tale is essentially about God, devotees will appear equal to God. Their qualities make no difference. One devotee comes with the scholarship of Kashi, and another is a village simpleton—no difference. The scholar of Kashi cannot claim an advantage because of learning. He cannot say, “Along with devotion I have something extra, so I should be given first place.” No—the issue is not qualities. The issue is the feeling of the heart. But feeling is very difficult to weigh. Qualities can be weighed, examined; feeling cannot be weighed. Feeling is so subtle, so mysterious, that no scale can be made for it.
In the West psychologists have found ways to measure intelligence. In France there was a great thinker-psychologist, Binet; he devised the intelligence quotient—IQ. So intelligence can be measured; how much intelligence you have—there is a scale for it now. Average, below average, above average, gifted—it can be weighed; no problem. In fifteen minutes it can be known. But no way has yet been found to measure love. The intelligence quotient has been found; the love quotient has not. Intelligence can be scored; love cannot. How shall we measure whether love is, or is not, or how much? Questions can be asked of the intellect; it will answer, and from the answers we will know. No questions can be asked of love.
Love will be known only in a situation. Understand this a little. Love will be known only by an event. Love will be known only in a state that arises. Three persons love you, and you are drowning in a river—then it will be known which of the three risks his life, who jumps in, who comes to save you. A situation is needed. A living situation—only then will love be known. So the story is very clear.
The story says the girl could not decide whom to choose. All three appeared equal in qualities, and all three seemed to love. Only a situation could reveal the truth.
The Sufis chose death as the situation. The precise measure of love is taken only at the moment of death—not before. This is very strange. In life, love cannot be tested; in death it can. Because in life we can deceive. That is why the women who, for their lovers, died in flames gave news that love had been. While living, all wives tell their husbands, “Without you I cannot live; I will die.” That is not the question. Who dies? If it were a matter of words, every wife would say, “Without you I will die; without you I cannot live even a moment.” But no one dies. The husband dies; there is a little weeping; then life begins again. Wounds heal. New lovers are found.
Only death can be a test of love, because there is no event deeper than death. For the testing of love, nothing less will do.
Love is as deep as death.
Those who know say love and death are alike—deep synonyms. Both are the same, and their depths are equal. Love means an arrow pierces you to the center. In death, too, the arrow reaches the center. In death, body is taken away, the periphery is taken away; only you remain as center. And in love too, everything is taken away. Only you remain, your center remains. Your mere being remains; all else is taken.
So love goes as deep as death. Therefore only one prepared to die can be a lover. No lesser test will work. Everyone is ready to live. When one is ready to die, love appears. If there is no readiness to die, there is a counterfeit of love; then love becomes a business.
The story says the girl died suddenly. There was no other way. Only one method remained—to see what the lovers do after death. All three were deeply saddened; they wept, beat their breasts, were afflicted and forlorn. Life lost its meaning. One remained at the grave. Another took to serving the stricken father. The girl died and the father, old and bereft, sank into sorrow. The third became dispassionate, renounced, left home and became a fakir.
Whatever each did was loving. To serve the afflicted father—there was no relation with him, only that he was the father of the beloved. And the beloved had died—what relation remained? When one dies, our relationships are severed. The bridge has collapsed—what is there to do with this father? But he was in sorrow—the father of the dead beloved. One youth devoted himself to the father’s service.
For the second, life lost all meaning. When the beloved is dead, what remains to attain? He became a fakir, set out in search of God. The third seemed to lose sense altogether. There was nothing left to do or to seek. Even fakirhood seemed pointless. He made his home at the grave itself. The grave became his house.
All three behaved lovingly, but their loves appeared very different. Distinctions began. The situation exposed the heart; there was no other way to examine it. The one who stayed with the father—his love was like pity, compassion, sympathy. The situation uncovered the heart. But remember, pity and love are very different. A lover does not want pity; if you pity a lover, he is hurt. Pity is always bestowed on someone below you. Love is equal; it does not put anyone lower. Love sees the other as equal. Pity is extended to one beneath. In pity you go up; the recipient goes down. Pity is like alms. Love and pity are not synonyms.
Many have erred here. They take pity to be love. And because of this, the flower of love does not bloom in their lives. The husband pities the wife, but the wife is not fulfilled, because she wants love, not pity. Pity makes the other a beggar. Pity means you become rich, a donor; the other stands with a begging bowl. Pity is a great event of the ego. Love does not ask for pity. In pity you give to the other. In love also you give to the other—there seems a similarity. But in love you give because there is joy in giving. In pity you give because the other is unhappy. Pity is a duty.
The first youth who served the father was dutiful. A moral mind was working within. The beloved has died; one duty remains, which must be fulfilled.
Duty and love are stark opposites. If you serve your mother because it is your duty—because she is your mother—your mother will never be satisfied. Because the meaning is clear: it is a burden. Duty is always a burden; it is not love. A mother wants love. If you served because you felt joy in serving, that would be different. Service would be your delight. But you serve because the other is in pain, because it is necessary. A duty to be done. A moral mind is at work; the feeling of the heart is gone.
Pity and love are not synonyms.
Love is a rare phenomenon. Pity is an ordinary thing. Any decent man can pity—and should. But pity is lifeless. It is a bird that has died; you have stuffed it with straw and set it in the house—seen from afar it looks alive.
Love is a bird flying in the sky—alive! Pity is a dead bird stuffed with straw. To the eye it may look even healthier than a living one—but inside there is no life.
One youth was conscientious; out of pity and compassion he began to serve.
The Sufi dervishes say pity will not take you to God. Pity is ethical; love is religious. So go and serve the poor; give land to the landless; massage the hands and feet of the sick. If this is duty, you have missed.
Christianity missed because of pity. Jesus emphasized “service.” But Jesus’ service was synonymous with love. The Christian missionary serves because service is a ladder to reach God. The poor are needed, the uneducated, the tribals, the hungry and naked—serve them. Because service is the way, through it you will arrive. The day the world is happy and no one remains to be served, that day the Christian missionary’s road to heaven is closed. Deep down, then, the missionary will not want the world to become happy.
A Hindu thinker, Karpatri, wrote a book on Ram-rajya and socialism. He offered this as the ultimate argument against socialism: if under socialism all are equal, charity becomes impossible. And without charity there is no liberation, says Hinduism. So Karpatri says, the existence of the poor is necessary. Who will receive charity? Who will give? If the scriptures say there is no liberation without charity, and if the arrangement for charity is cut off—if socialism comes—liberation is lost. So for Karpatri’s liberation, the poor must exist. The poor are a ladder on whose heads you step to reach liberation. What kind of service is this? What kind of charity? There is not the slightest love in it.
And if such service leads to liberation, the Sufis say, such liberation is false. Liberation comes through love. Love can be done in every condition. Pity cannot be done in every condition. For pity, the other’s poverty is necessary. Love can be toward the happy too; pity can only be toward the unhappy. Understand this.
If the youth who came to serve the father found the father playing the sitar in delight, he would object: “Your daughter has died and you are rejoicing!” The father would say, “Who dies and who lives?” and continue playing. Then the youth would leave. What service here? He is not unhappy!
Whenever you go to serve and you find the person is not unhappy, you return unhappy. You set out in search of the unhappy. Someone’s family member dies; you go to offer condolences. But if you find there that there is no question of sorrow, you return dejected—not only dejected but annoyed.
Chuang Tzu’s wife died. Chuang Tzu was a renowned sage. The emperor came to offer condolences. The emperor must have prepared himself. Whenever we go to condole, we rehearse what to say—because such a delicate moment; what if something wrong slips out! We prepare: what we will say, how we will say it. And condolence is the most awkward of moments. When someone dies and you must go, what a predicament—what to do! That is why people don’t go alone; they go in groups. The burden is shared. With small talk here and there you express sorrow and return.
The emperor came with a sad face. But here he saw the fakir Chuang Tzu sitting under a tree beating a small hand drum. The emperor felt hurt. When the drumming stopped, he looked at Chuang Tzu. He was cheerful, as always. The emperor said, “This is beyond the pale. Do not be sad—fine; but at least do not beat the drum. Don’t weep—fine; but this is no time to celebrate!”
Chuang Tzu said, “Either weep or celebrate. There is no place in between. Either the energy will become tears, or it will become laughter. There is no middle ground where you can stand.”
Have you known in life any place—between two? Either you are sad or you are happy; what is there between? And if you ever think you are in the middle, look closely—you are sad. No one ever stands in the middle. There is no such place. Either the energy flows toward joy or toward sorrow.
Chuang Tzu said, “There is no middle place. Either the drum will sound, or the tears will flow. And there is no need for tears; no one ever dies, no one is ever born. And this wife of mine gave me so much joy—if I cannot bid her farewell joyfully, what else can I do?”
The emperor returned without a word. He never came again to see Chuang Tzu. Because all that he had prepared was made a mess of.
You are in search of the unhappy, because you want the opportunity to serve, to pity. And pity gives such pleasure to the ego as cannot be measured. You wish for opportunities to pity someone. Therefore when someone pities you, you do not feel good. When pity rains down upon you, you feel pain inside, your ego is hurt. You too pray to God: give me some chance to pity this one in return. Therefore, if you hurt someone, they may forgive you; but the one you pity will never forgive you.
A rich man used to come to me. Very egotistical—a pure egoist. A decent man. It is good men who are pure egoists, not bad men. They hurt no one, harm no one. And as far as possible they help others. He asked me, “There is one thing I don’t understand. I have made all my relatives wealthy. I gave them as much as I could, more than I could. But not one is pleased with me. All are my enemies. Those I help become my enemies tomorrow or the day after.”
I said, “Of course. Give them a chance to pity as well—yet you never give it. You are manufacturing enemies, because pity can never be forgiven. And you are so privileged that you leave them no occasion ever to pity you in return. You can have no friend. They did not understand at first; gradually they did.”
To pity is to wound the other’s ego. Love cannot pity. Love may even be angry, but it cannot pity. Pity arises only when love has departed. Pity is ash. When love has burned out, ash remains.
The second youth renounced, became dispassionate. His love cannot have been very deep; it must have been shallow. Only then could death change everything. Where there had been attachment, dispassion came. If love had been deep, such a change would not have been so easy. He left, became a fakir. To us it may seem he was a great lover—he left everything! But if love is deep, it cannot even see that the beloved can die.
Love always sees the immortal.
He was not a lover; he was eager to enjoy this woman. When she died, the door of enjoyment closed—he grew bitter and desolate. His renunciation too is not real; it is born of bitterness, of dejection, of disappointment. Understand this difference well.
If your religion is born of the world’s frustration, your religion cannot be authentic. Has truth ever been born of despair? Has liberation ever come out of sorrow? The seed that grows from sorrow will bear sorrow in its fruit.
If your renunciation is born of experience of the world, that is different. If your renunciation is born of the world’s happiness—and that happiness hints that there is a greater bliss—and you go in search of God, that is altogether different. That is a constructive element.
“The world is sorrow, futile”—because of this you go in search of God. You are tired of the world. Your condition is like Aesop’s fox—after many leaps she could not reach the grapes, returned, and told her friends, “The grapes are sour.”
If the world is sour, how can God be very sweet? The world is sour only because you never tasted its fruit. And if you could not taste the fruit of the world, how will you taste the fruit of God? The fruits of the world were nearer; God requires an even longer leap. The grapes were close; had the fox tried a little more, she would have reached them.
What is there in this world that cannot be gained? A little effort is needed and it is attained. What you do not attain is only due to the shortness of your leap—nothing else. But the ego will not admit its leap is small. It finds a device: the grapes are sour—so why leap at all! All is vain.
You will meet many dejected people who say, “There is no joy in the world.” The reason is not that they have tasted the world’s fruit. The only reason is that they could not reach the fruit. The poor often say, “What is there in wealth?” The positionless say, “What is there in position?” “Great Alexanders came and went.” But look within: it is the result of jealousy. It is not experience.
Where jealousy cannot reach, it concludes, “The grapes are sour.”
This youth’s renunciation was born of sorrow. His fakirhood is not true. It is not prompted by experience. It is born of a disease. He is not keen on God; he has simply grown un-keen on the beloved because she died. He is running away from the dead beloved, not toward God. And there is a great difference.
Are you fleeing the world, or are you running toward God? These are two different things. If you flee the world, you will never reach God. Your attention remains fixed on the world. But if you run toward God, it is different. You are no escapist. You are a seeker.
This youth was an escapist. And a love that becomes escape was not real love. Only one situation could expose this.
The third youth remained. The beloved died; nothing remained—not even God. There was no one but the beloved. The world was lost, and God too—there was none to seek. As if the beloved herself was the ultimate. His attachment did not turn into dispassion. His attachment did not stand on its head. He was neither dejected nor sorrowful. The grave became his home. The beloved’s life was life; the beloved’s death became death. He had not loved the beloved only in life; he loved her whether living or dead. His love was complete. There was no condition in it. It was not, “as long as you are alive.” Your being—whether in the body or beyond it; whether form remains or vanishes; whether shape stays or dissolves.
He had nowhere left to go. The grave became his home. He began to love the grave. He passed the test. The situation could not alter him. Death made no difference.
Understand this: whatever is altered by death is not love. Whatever death can snatch away is worldly. Love is unworldly.
The Sufis say, death cannot kill love. Only one thing death cannot kill, and that is love. Therefore they say, love will take you to God. Wealth will not, for death will take wealth away. Intellect will not, for intellect remains on this side of death. Position and honor will not, for death wipes all clean. Only love will go, for death cannot wipe love.
Love is greater than death. Love is immortal.
This youth was a lover—in the sense the Sufis call a lover. His love was single-pointed. His love was unconditional. Your love…today the wife is beautiful, today the beloved has form—so there is love. Tomorrow the beloved grows old—your love is gone. Death is far off; even old age is far. Tomorrow the beloved falls ill, becomes crippled, disfigured, lame, blind—love is gone.
I have heard of a newlywed couple on their honeymoon. On the second or third day the wife asked, “Will you love me always? Even if I become ugly? Even if I grow old? If this beauty is gone?” The young man said, “Look, I took a vow to be with you in joy and in sorrow, but this particular topic never came up in church! The priest said, ‘In joy and in sorrow.’ I will stand by you in joy and sorrow—don’t bring up this topic. It never came up.”
Think in your heart: the one you love—will you love her even when she is ugly? The very thought will shake you. No, it may not be possible. Because you have loved the form, the body; you have not loved the person. When the form changes, what you loved is gone. This is a different person.
The youth stayed. The grave became his home. This is a sweet thing. Death became his dwelling. The beloved was not lost. As if she had not gone anywhere. As if the marriage had taken place. Only the body was gone, but the disembodied beloved remained—love flowed on, its current continued.
The one who had become a fakir one day met a tantric. And often those who become fakirs eventually meet a tantric.
By tantric I mean one who seeks not truth, but power. Therefore those who take sannyas should be careful not to fall in with one who seeks power. The ego always looks for a chance to stand up again.
He saw the tantric become angry at the child; he picked him up and threw him into the fire. The youth cried out: never had he seen such misery, such a terrible murderer! The child’s fault was only that he cried; why kill him? The tantric laughed, recited a mantra, and the child returned laughing.
All mantras pertain to form, not to the formless. Through mantra, form can be lost, form can be made. But form means the world—play, illusion.
As soon as he heard the mantra, the youth ran. He memorized it. He remembered his beloved. His relationship had been with life, not with death. Dispassion turned back into attachment. What can turn into dispassion can turn back into attachment any day—for you are only doing a headstand. Nothing has changed in you. Earlier you stood on your feet; now you stand on your head. As soon as he saw the child return from fire, he ran! Fakirhood was gone. It had never been real; it was born of bitterness. He had renounced because of the world’s sorrow.
Let someone appear who says there is no sorrow in the world; let him hand you a ladder to reach the grapes—and you will forget you ever said they were sour. You had never tasted them. You had returned without tasting, only consoling yourself. The mantra came—a ladder! He ran to the vine he had left saying, “sour grapes.” The beloved again became meaningful. Desire turned green again, lush. All fakirhood was washed away in a moment. He came, recited the mantra, the beloved arose alive.
The Sufis fashioned this story only to say that death provided the occasion to test love.
The young woman said, all three are good. The first has pity, compassion, civility, decency—but he is fit to be a son, not a husband.
Understand this well. The father loves the son; the son fulfills duty—because the stream of love does not flow backward, it flows forward.
I was a guest in a home—and I have experienced this in many homes, because everywhere the disease is the same. The aging householder told me, “We loved these boys so much; they do not even look at us.” I asked, “If they look at you, who will look at their boys? And did you love your father? What you did, they are doing. Your father must have died with the same complaint.” The man said, “How did you know?” There was nothing to know; it is simple arithmetic.
Love flows forward. What we call love in families is only biological. Life moves forward. The father will not be saved; the sons will. Life is concerned with saving the young, not the old. To pour love toward the father is waste—watering a dried tree. He is drying up. Water goes to the new sprout. Life is economical; nature is very economical. With minimal energy, maximal work; nothing to be wasted.
So the father loves the son; the son’s relation to the father is duty. Let him fulfill duty—that is enough. Enough indeed. Love cannot be. Let there be no enmity—that is much. Let there be no hatred—that is much.
Freud says in sons there is hatred toward the father; daughters hate the mother. There is truth in this. Those with whom we grow—life being what it is—we get many wounds through them. First, because they are powerful and we are weak. A child is born in your house; he is weak, you are strong. To raise him, to make him walk, to shape him—you must give countless commands. You must be strict. Each time he is hurt. Those hurts accumulate. The heap of wounds becomes hatred. It is enough if the son serves the father out of duty. Love is unlikely. Love would be like the Ganges flowing back to Gangotri—it cannot happen; it must flow to the sea.
So the young woman said, “He is fit to be a son. As a son should be, he is—but not fit to be a husband. As a husband he will fulfill duty, pity me, serve me. He is perfectly nice; everything will be well arranged. But the height of love, the wave, the samadhi—will not come from him. He will be a companion in sorrow; he cannot be a companion in joy.
“And love is companionship in joy. Love is where two celebrations meet; where the crest of two life-waves meet—this is the union on the peak.
“This is a union of duty on level ground. In sorrow he is useful; in joy he is of no use. With him there can be no love. There can be a relationship of duty—on level ground; he is efficient. His feeling is good, but not enough.”
“The second youth, who raised me up—ordinarily one would think he should be chosen, the one who gave life again. But,” she said, “he is like a father—because he gave birth. His interest is less in me, more in life. When there was death, he withdrew; now that there is life, he has come. He delights in giving birth. He has given me birth—he is like my father. But he cannot be a husband.”
“The husband is this third youth. He has no sense of duty, no sense of pity, no account of ethics. He has the madness of love. He never noticed any difference between my dying and my living. His love is deeper than death. The grave became his home—as if he remained with me. Death made not the slightest difference. Any love that is altered by death is not love.
“If I had to choose a father, I would choose the one who brought the mantra—the one who worked so hard to revive me. But his love is bound to life. He can be a companion in happiness, not in sorrow. He can walk with me in life, not in death. He will leave me alone at death. And if he will not go with me in death, his companionship in life is mere formality. Now attachment, now dispassion; later dispassion can return. He is changeable.
“Love is not so fickle. Love is a still feeling; a samadhi-like state where no ripple arises.
“I choose the third.”
Death became the test.
What does it mean? It means: in devotion to God, God will choose only the one who is unconditional. To God’s temple three types are going to worship. One: those who go out of duty. Because this is how it has always been…
I have heard: early one morning a shop was not yet open, and a man was calling to his son, “Are you up?” The boy said, “I’m up.” “Mixed chaff into the flour?” “Done, father.” “Put red pebbles in the chilies?” “Done, father.” “Mixed dung into the jaggery?” “Done, father. All done.” “Come, then—let’s stop by the temple.”
Is that a temple? Is that a life? There dung is mixed into jaggery. When all work is finished, “let’s stop by the temple.” It is a duty. A Sunday religion—on Sunday morning, stop by the church. A social ritual; a courtesy. A rule to be fulfilled; it has benefits, social prestige, utility. Such a one goes to the temple too—but his prayer never reaches God, because he has never prayed.
There is another who goes because he is fed up with the world—exhausted, unable to taste life. Not strong enough, not courageous enough. Deprived of life, or remained deprived. He too comes tired and broken. His prayer too cannot be heard. One who is not capable of experiencing the world—how will he experience truth? One who cannot fully enter even a dream—how will he enter the real? One who cannot understand the trivial—how will he understand the essential? That is a greater leap.
Such a man constantly says to God, “I accept You, but I do not accept Your world.” This acceptance is incomplete. If God is accepted, all is accepted—for all is His.
Acceptance can only be total; then His world is accepted. Even if He throws me into hell, that too is accepted. Even in hell, gratitude alone will arise in the devotee’s heart: “Thank you for giving me hell.” If gratitude arises only in hope of heaven, then it is our choice—we will say “thanks” in joy and complain in sorrow.
From a heart that raises complaint, prayer cannot be heard. Such a prayer is flattery. Behind the prayer, complaint is hidden. He is not a devotee. His faith is not whole. Such a one prays in the temple. He will have to go back. He will have to wander the world. His journey is incomplete. He must take birth again and again. He must know, from experience, whether the grapes are sour—or sweet. Mere consolation will not do. He must pass through worldly experience and ripen. As ripe fruit falls from the tree, so ripe experience becomes prayer—not before.
And the third—the lover—also comes to the temple, for whom life too is only there, whose death too is there. The temple is his home. Even when he goes out, he does not go outside the temple; the temple moves with him. The temple is the stream of his life; the tone of his every breath. Whatever comes—life or death—he has chosen the temple. His choice is complete. He will not leave it. His choice is unconditional.
I have heard that someone said to the Sufi fakir Junnaid, “You keep on praying; first be sure that God exists. Many people doubt.” Junnaid said, “What has God to do with it? I am concerned with prayer.” Even if it were proved God is not, Junnaid’s prayer would continue. “I am concerned with prayer.” And Junnaid said, “I tell you this: if my prayer is true, God will have to be. I do not pray because God is. The day my prayer becomes true, that day God will be.”
In the true devotee, prayer does not flow because of God; because of prayer, God is born. Love creates the beloved. Love is creative. There is no creative force in this world greater than love. Therefore love cannot accept death; for it does not happen.
If you love someone, he will not die; he cannot. The lover never dies. The lover does not know death. Love is immortal. And the Sufis say, love is the door.
This story is a story of prayer. Do not take it as a tale of ordinary love. The Sufis say there are two kinds of love. One worldly, the other unworldly. This points to unworldly love. Therefore the two lovers who were worldly in some way were left out. Only one was unworldly. The mark of the unworldly is this: across death too, unworldly love continues. It has no end.
Osho's Commentary
Not only in beauty; in character and virtue she had no equal.
When she came of age, three young men—each outstanding in form and qualities—proposed marriage.
Seeing that all three were equally qualified, the father left the choice to the girl herself. But for months she could not decide. In the meantime she fell ill and died. With deep grief the three young suitors buried their beloved.
One young man made his home at her grave.
Another became a fakir and set out on the road.
The third stayed on with the girl’s grief-stricken father.
Wandering, the fakir became a guest in the house of a man learned in mantra and tantra—an occult adept.
As they sat for a meal together, a small child began to cry;
he was the host’s grandson. The tantric picked the child up and threw him into the blazing furnace.
The young man screamed, “Monster! I have seen all the sorrows of the world,
but never a sorrow like this.”
The host said, “It only seems so to you because of ignorance.”
He recited a mantra, waved a wand, and the child came laughing out of the fire.
The young man memorized the mantra, took the wand, and went straight to his beloved’s grave.
And in the blink of an eye his beloved stood before him, alive.
She went to her father’s house. All three young men pressed their claims, each forcefully. But the girl said, “The one who revived me was merciful.
The one who served my father had the heart of a son.
But the one who stayed at my grave—he was the lover. I will marry him.”
This story is a symbol, a parable. The Sufis have used it with open-hearted abandon. On the surface it appears simple; within, it is most extraordinary. Let us first grasp a few essentials, then we will enter the story.
First: the Sufis hold that there is no door to truth other than love. Only the lover arrives; the knower goes astray. For knowing is always on the surface; only love enters within. Knowledge belongs to the surface; the heart opens only through love. And if truth rested on the surface, science would have found it. Truth is in the depths. Whoever wishes to enter the heart of life, to reach the very center, cannot reach there by knowledge, only by love.
The key of knowledge opens many doors, but none of those doors leads to the inner sanctum. Only the key of love opens the door called the heart. And the Sufis say, God is the Supreme Heart. The world is His circumference; God is its center. If even in entering an ordinary person you cannot enter without love, how then will you enter that Supreme Heart without love?
Love, then, is the Sufis’ path. And because of this the Sufis imagined God in a way uniquely their own—a way no one else ever imagined. The Sufis alone on this earth see God as the Beloved, as the Lover-Girl. He is not male—where would a man find such a deep heart? God is the Beloved. God is a Beloved Woman and the devotee is the lover. Others have seen God as Father—Christians, Jews, Muslims. Others have seen God as the lover. Hindus have an ancient tradition of seeing God as the Lover—as Krishna; then the devotee becomes a gopi.
In Bengal there is a sect of devotees called the Sakhi Sampradaya. They too pursued a deep exploration of love. God is the Lover; they are His girlfriends. Therefore even men in the Sakhi Sampradaya take themselves to be women. On days of prayer and worship they wear women’s clothes. As one sleeps at night holding one’s beloved, they sleep holding an image of Krishna. But their conception is that Krishna is husband and they are the wife.
The Sufis alone took a great risk. They saw themselves as the lover, and God as the Beloved Woman.
There is more likelihood of truth in this, because a man’s mind circles around knowledge. A woman’s whole being circles around love. Even when a man loves, only a part of him becomes a lover. When a woman loves, her whole heart becomes love. The woman becomes love in her entirety. God cannot be fragmented. If He is the Lover, He will be like a woman—His love indivisible. A man’s love changes. A man’s mind is filled with waves, drawn and agitated by lofty attractions. A woman can remain absorbed in the worship of one alone. That is why women could become sati—chaste unto death; not a single man could. If her lover dies, the very essence of a woman’s life is lost. To seek that same essence in another man is unthinkable for her. And wherever women seek that essence in another man, there their womanliness withers. Their deep dignity is destroyed.
The Western woman is becoming shallow; her being is moving to the periphery. The full dignity of woman was discovered in the East. That unwavering devotion, that total surrender to one alone—such that if he dies, his death becomes my death. The lover’s life is my life; the lover’s death—my death!
A man cannot be sati. He is unruly. His grip is all of mind, of intellect. And intellect knows no single-pointed devotion. In intellect there is no bhakti, no reverence—only doubt. Even when a man loves he remains suspicious. Who knows if this is right or wrong? Who knows whether this woman is truly worthy to be the beloved? And this doubt follows him always.
Woman is faith. In the heart no ripple of doubt rises. Therefore the Sufis regarded God as feminine. He is pure heart, where no wave of thought stirs. He is pure love—and that love is raining down single-pointedly.
The devotee is male because there is doubt. Even in the deepest devotee, doubt remains—a compulsion! Our personality is fragmented, divided, in conflict. One part has faith; another lacks it. With one we create feeling; the other destroys it. The Sufis say, the devotee is like a man; God is like a woman.
And the day the devotee dissolves completely in God, that day he too will have the heart of a woman.
So the heart of woman is the supreme door. Love is the path, not thought.
The religions of the world have found two paths. One is the path of meditation; the other is the path of love. Only two. Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali take meditation as the path. Therefore all three devise every means to cut off love. Because as long as you are entangled in love, how will you meditate? Meditation means the capacity to be alone. Meditation means pure feeling—solitude! I am, and no other. And I am content with myself. No restlessness, no pain, no longing, no desire to attain—not for wealth, not even for God; only then will meditation happen.
That is why Buddha and Mahavira say, God is not. And Patanjali says, He is not necessary. If one cannot manage without, fine, accept God—but He is not essential. For the yogi there is no need of God. For the yogi’s entire discipline is to be free of the other. Meditation means the effort to be free of the other. Therefore the meditator can never give place to love. If you go to Buddha or Mahavira and talk of love they will say, you are foolish.
Just yesterday I was reading the words of a great Western atheist, Epicurus. Epicurus is a non-believer; he accepts no God—very much like Buddha and Mahavira. He wrote something remarkable. He listed the characteristics of a wise man; among them is this: a wise man will never love. This is precisely correct. How can a knower love? Epicurus says, only the ignorant can fall in love; how can the wise fall? The wise may marry, but he cannot love. Because marriage is an institution, a practical, formal arrangement. A wife is needed—for service, for food, to manage a home. So the wise man may marry, for marriage has utility. But the wise man cannot fall in love. “A wise man cannot fall in love.” And Epicurus says, if the intelligent fall in love, then what is the difference between the intelligent and the unintelligent? It is the wise who coined the phrase “falling in love.” “Falling” in love—there is a fall in it; hence “falling.” It means you have fallen from your intelligence.
To the wise, the lover looks like a madman—and he is. Because he does not live by the intellect, he lives by the heart. The heart has no logic; it has feeling. Feeling is blind—or perhaps feeling has eyes the intellect cannot recognize.
So Buddha, Mahavira, and Patanjali all cut love, so that meditation can be complete. Hence their entire discipline is of dispassion. Love is attachment; it must be cut. It must be cut so completely that the other does not remain; only you remain. Not even the memory of the other should arise, not even a thought of the other. The day you are utterly alone, the whole world is lost and no other remains from whom your contentment draws any connection, no bridge to your happiness on which you depend in any way—the day you become perfectly free. And you can be perfectly free only when love is utterly cut. For love is a kind of dependence. In it the other is necessary. The other’s joy becomes the basis of your joy. If the other is unhappy, you become unhappy. Then how can a lover be a meditator?
One path, then, is of the meditators. Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali are its peaks.
The other path is of the lovers. And the lovers say, until the madness of love descends in your life, the intoxication of love arrives, how will your ego melt? The meditator insists: if you depend on the other, you are enslaved. The lover insists: if you strive to be utterly independent, how will your ego be dissolved? In the end only you will remain; that will be your pure ego. And the ego is the obstacle. Only in the alchemy of love does the ego melt. Only in the fire of love does the ego burn. The lovers say, why use the other for dependence? Use the other for surrender. It is not a question of leaning on the other; it is a question of losing yourself in the other. And when you are not, who will depend? Who will be enslaved?
Understand this a little. Both erase—but the meditator erases the other, the lover erases himself. The lover says, let only the other remain. A moment will come when I will not be. Then whose dependence? Whose bondage? Who will suffer? There are two now; one must remain. The meditator erases the other and saves himself; the lover erases himself and saves the other. The day one remains, that day truth is attained. For truth means one. Truth means non-duality.
Now this non-duality can be reached in two ways: either I dissolve, or you dissolve. Either you are not, or I am not. Both paths exist. In my vision both are true. From both sides people have arrived. The Sufis, the Krishna devotees, Meera, Chaitanya—these arrived by the path of love. And their heights are not at all lower than those of Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali—not an inch lower. When only one remains, there is no difference in what you call it. Shall we call it the Self? The meditator calls it the Self; the lover calls it God. Therefore meditators leave off the talk of God, because “God” introduces a second. Only the Self! Hence Mahavira says, Atma is Paramatma. And the lover says, Thou art I.
There is a famous poem of Jalaluddin Rumi.
A lover came and knocked at his Beloved’s door.
From within a voice asked, “Who? Who is there?”
He said, “I. Did you not recognize my knock? Did you not know the sound of my footsteps? I thought you would recognize me; even a gust of wind bearing me would give you news. I—your lover.”
But then no further voice came from within. Nor did the doors open. When the lover beat and begged, only this much news came from inside: as long as you are you, how can the door open? How can the door of love open for ‘I’? So when you are ready, then come back.
Many days came and went, many moons and stars passed; then, years later, the lover came again to her door. He knocked.
From within, the same question! Love always asks the same, “Who?”
He said, “Now only You are.”
Then Rumi says, the door opened that day.
This is the essence of the Sufis. Two must vanish; one must be. But the processes are very different. The meditator must forget the other; the lover must forget himself. The meditator is like a killer; the lover like one who kills himself. The meditator cuts down the other and remains alone. The lover cuts down himself so that he may not remain—only the Beloved remains.
By both roads, people have arrived. People will always arrive by both. For me there is no preference, no choosing between them. I see no difference. Hence it is a joy for me to speak on Patanjali, and a joy to speak on the Sufis.
And when I speak to you, I do not ask you to choose a path. Know yourself. Recognize your own nature. Then go by whatever feels simple for you. What is simple is your path. You are not to choose among paths; you are to know yourself. If love is the stream of your life, then erase yourself and let God remain. If you find that love does not arise in your life; even if you strain, it sits down; the heart does not throb, feeling does not take hold; only thought runs, only logic grasps; faith does not deepen, only doubt deepens—then meditation is your path. And neither is higher or lower.
Now let us take up the story.
The story says there is a beautiful young woman. She has three lovers. One Beloved; three lovers.
First, understand this: God is one; the lovers are many. The infinity belongs to the lovers, not to the Beloved; the Beloved is one.
The story says the young woman is in great difficulty: whom to choose? All three are of equal qualities. Equally intelligent, handsome, healthy. From the side of qualities there is no way to weigh. All three love her. Had there been a lack or excess in qualities, choice would be easy. But they are equal in qualities.
This needs a little understanding. In truth, for love, qualities are not the question at all. Where qualities are the question, the intellect enters.
The intellect thinks whose qualities are more, whose less. The intellect compares. It calculates. So it is not true that the three were equal in qualities; they cannot be. It only appears to the girl that they are equal in qualities. They cannot be; for two are never the same. A little arithmetic would have discovered that one had more qualities, one less. In this world, equal things do not exist. Two pebbles are not the same; how then can two persons be the same? But this is the intellect’s question. Intellect weighs and measures. Intellect means measurement. You can weigh—it only requires a finer scale.
But the heart does not think with the intellect. Therefore when thousands of lovers’ prayers are at God’s door, do not think, “I am more intelligent, so my prayer will be heard first; I am wealthier, so my voice will reach earlier; I am a great painter, sculptor, politician, so I will be allowed to stand at the head of the line.” No. Your qualities do not count. If you rely on qualities, this will be your very disqualification. Your heart will be tested. Your qualities do not count. Your talents do not count. Your exam papers and your degrees will be of no use. Only your heart will count.
The young woman saw all three as equal. A heart full of love does not think with the intellect. Therefore if your heart truly fills with love, you too will find comparison difficult.
For a mother with seven sons there is no distinction at all. One may be more intelligent, one a fool; one healthy, one ill; one handsome, one ugly—but the mother sees all seven alike. And if the question arises: save six and let one die—the mother will be in anguish; whom to let go? If she thinks with the intellect, the argument is clear: let the most useless go. The heart does not think like that; it has its own way.
To the young woman the three appeared equal. To love, all three will always appear equal. Love does not compare. And since this tale is essentially about God, devotees will appear equal to God. Their qualities make no difference. One devotee comes with the scholarship of Kashi, and another is a village simpleton—no difference. The scholar of Kashi cannot claim an advantage because of learning. He cannot say, “Along with devotion I have something extra, so I should be given first place.” No—the issue is not qualities. The issue is the feeling of the heart. But feeling is very difficult to weigh. Qualities can be weighed, examined; feeling cannot be weighed. Feeling is so subtle, so mysterious, that no scale can be made for it.
In the West psychologists have found ways to measure intelligence. In France there was a great thinker-psychologist, Binet; he devised the intelligence quotient—IQ. So intelligence can be measured; how much intelligence you have—there is a scale for it now. Average, below average, above average, gifted—it can be weighed; no problem. In fifteen minutes it can be known. But no way has yet been found to measure love. The intelligence quotient has been found; the love quotient has not. Intelligence can be scored; love cannot. How shall we measure whether love is, or is not, or how much? Questions can be asked of the intellect; it will answer, and from the answers we will know. No questions can be asked of love.
Love will be known only in a situation. Understand this a little. Love will be known only by an event. Love will be known only in a state that arises. Three persons love you, and you are drowning in a river—then it will be known which of the three risks his life, who jumps in, who comes to save you. A situation is needed. A living situation—only then will love be known. So the story is very clear.
The story says the girl could not decide whom to choose. All three appeared equal in qualities, and all three seemed to love. Only a situation could reveal the truth.
The Sufis chose death as the situation. The precise measure of love is taken only at the moment of death—not before. This is very strange. In life, love cannot be tested; in death it can. Because in life we can deceive. That is why the women who, for their lovers, died in flames gave news that love had been. While living, all wives tell their husbands, “Without you I cannot live; I will die.” That is not the question. Who dies? If it were a matter of words, every wife would say, “Without you I will die; without you I cannot live even a moment.” But no one dies. The husband dies; there is a little weeping; then life begins again. Wounds heal. New lovers are found.
Only death can be a test of love, because there is no event deeper than death. For the testing of love, nothing less will do.
Love is as deep as death.
Those who know say love and death are alike—deep synonyms. Both are the same, and their depths are equal. Love means an arrow pierces you to the center. In death, too, the arrow reaches the center. In death, body is taken away, the periphery is taken away; only you remain as center. And in love too, everything is taken away. Only you remain, your center remains. Your mere being remains; all else is taken.
So love goes as deep as death. Therefore only one prepared to die can be a lover. No lesser test will work. Everyone is ready to live. When one is ready to die, love appears. If there is no readiness to die, there is a counterfeit of love; then love becomes a business.
The story says the girl died suddenly. There was no other way. Only one method remained—to see what the lovers do after death. All three were deeply saddened; they wept, beat their breasts, were afflicted and forlorn. Life lost its meaning. One remained at the grave. Another took to serving the stricken father. The girl died and the father, old and bereft, sank into sorrow. The third became dispassionate, renounced, left home and became a fakir.
Whatever each did was loving. To serve the afflicted father—there was no relation with him, only that he was the father of the beloved. And the beloved had died—what relation remained? When one dies, our relationships are severed. The bridge has collapsed—what is there to do with this father? But he was in sorrow—the father of the dead beloved. One youth devoted himself to the father’s service.
For the second, life lost all meaning. When the beloved is dead, what remains to attain? He became a fakir, set out in search of God. The third seemed to lose sense altogether. There was nothing left to do or to seek. Even fakirhood seemed pointless. He made his home at the grave itself. The grave became his house.
All three behaved lovingly, but their loves appeared very different. Distinctions began. The situation exposed the heart; there was no other way to examine it. The one who stayed with the father—his love was like pity, compassion, sympathy. The situation uncovered the heart. But remember, pity and love are very different. A lover does not want pity; if you pity a lover, he is hurt. Pity is always bestowed on someone below you. Love is equal; it does not put anyone lower. Love sees the other as equal. Pity is extended to one beneath. In pity you go up; the recipient goes down. Pity is like alms. Love and pity are not synonyms.
Many have erred here. They take pity to be love. And because of this, the flower of love does not bloom in their lives. The husband pities the wife, but the wife is not fulfilled, because she wants love, not pity. Pity makes the other a beggar. Pity means you become rich, a donor; the other stands with a begging bowl. Pity is a great event of the ego. Love does not ask for pity. In pity you give to the other. In love also you give to the other—there seems a similarity. But in love you give because there is joy in giving. In pity you give because the other is unhappy. Pity is a duty.
The first youth who served the father was dutiful. A moral mind was working within. The beloved has died; one duty remains, which must be fulfilled.
Duty and love are stark opposites. If you serve your mother because it is your duty—because she is your mother—your mother will never be satisfied. Because the meaning is clear: it is a burden. Duty is always a burden; it is not love. A mother wants love. If you served because you felt joy in serving, that would be different. Service would be your delight. But you serve because the other is in pain, because it is necessary. A duty to be done. A moral mind is at work; the feeling of the heart is gone.
Pity and love are not synonyms.
Love is a rare phenomenon. Pity is an ordinary thing. Any decent man can pity—and should. But pity is lifeless. It is a bird that has died; you have stuffed it with straw and set it in the house—seen from afar it looks alive.
Love is a bird flying in the sky—alive! Pity is a dead bird stuffed with straw. To the eye it may look even healthier than a living one—but inside there is no life.
One youth was conscientious; out of pity and compassion he began to serve.
The Sufi dervishes say pity will not take you to God. Pity is ethical; love is religious. So go and serve the poor; give land to the landless; massage the hands and feet of the sick. If this is duty, you have missed.
Christianity missed because of pity. Jesus emphasized “service.” But Jesus’ service was synonymous with love. The Christian missionary serves because service is a ladder to reach God. The poor are needed, the uneducated, the tribals, the hungry and naked—serve them. Because service is the way, through it you will arrive. The day the world is happy and no one remains to be served, that day the Christian missionary’s road to heaven is closed. Deep down, then, the missionary will not want the world to become happy.
A Hindu thinker, Karpatri, wrote a book on Ram-rajya and socialism. He offered this as the ultimate argument against socialism: if under socialism all are equal, charity becomes impossible. And without charity there is no liberation, says Hinduism. So Karpatri says, the existence of the poor is necessary. Who will receive charity? Who will give? If the scriptures say there is no liberation without charity, and if the arrangement for charity is cut off—if socialism comes—liberation is lost. So for Karpatri’s liberation, the poor must exist. The poor are a ladder on whose heads you step to reach liberation. What kind of service is this? What kind of charity? There is not the slightest love in it.
And if such service leads to liberation, the Sufis say, such liberation is false. Liberation comes through love. Love can be done in every condition. Pity cannot be done in every condition. For pity, the other’s poverty is necessary. Love can be toward the happy too; pity can only be toward the unhappy. Understand this.
If the youth who came to serve the father found the father playing the sitar in delight, he would object: “Your daughter has died and you are rejoicing!” The father would say, “Who dies and who lives?” and continue playing. Then the youth would leave. What service here? He is not unhappy!
Whenever you go to serve and you find the person is not unhappy, you return unhappy. You set out in search of the unhappy. Someone’s family member dies; you go to offer condolences. But if you find there that there is no question of sorrow, you return dejected—not only dejected but annoyed.
Chuang Tzu’s wife died. Chuang Tzu was a renowned sage. The emperor came to offer condolences. The emperor must have prepared himself.
Whenever we go to condole, we rehearse what to say—because such a delicate moment; what if something wrong slips out! We prepare: what we will say, how we will say it. And condolence is the most awkward of moments. When someone dies and you must go, what a predicament—what to do! That is why people don’t go alone; they go in groups. The burden is shared. With small talk here and there you express sorrow and return.
The emperor came with a sad face. But here he saw the fakir Chuang Tzu sitting under a tree beating a small hand drum. The emperor felt hurt. When the drumming stopped, he looked at Chuang Tzu. He was cheerful, as always. The emperor said, “This is beyond the pale. Do not be sad—fine; but at least do not beat the drum. Don’t weep—fine; but this is no time to celebrate!”
Chuang Tzu said, “Either weep or celebrate. There is no place in between. Either the energy will become tears, or it will become laughter. There is no middle ground where you can stand.”
Have you known in life any place—between two? Either you are sad or you are happy; what is there between? And if you ever think you are in the middle, look closely—you are sad. No one ever stands in the middle. There is no such place. Either the energy flows toward joy or toward sorrow.
Chuang Tzu said, “There is no middle place. Either the drum will sound, or the tears will flow. And there is no need for tears; no one ever dies, no one is ever born. And this wife of mine gave me so much joy—if I cannot bid her farewell joyfully, what else can I do?”
The emperor returned without a word. He never came again to see Chuang Tzu. Because all that he had prepared was made a mess of.
You are in search of the unhappy, because you want the opportunity to serve, to pity. And pity gives such pleasure to the ego as cannot be measured. You wish for opportunities to pity someone. Therefore when someone pities you, you do not feel good. When pity rains down upon you, you feel pain inside, your ego is hurt. You too pray to God: give me some chance to pity this one in return. Therefore, if you hurt someone, they may forgive you; but the one you pity will never forgive you.
A rich man used to come to me. Very egotistical—a pure egoist. A decent man. It is good men who are pure egoists, not bad men. They hurt no one, harm no one. And as far as possible they help others. He asked me, “There is one thing I don’t understand. I have made all my relatives wealthy. I gave them as much as I could, more than I could. But not one is pleased with me. All are my enemies. Those I help become my enemies tomorrow or the day after.”
I said, “Of course. Give them a chance to pity as well—yet you never give it. You are manufacturing enemies, because pity can never be forgiven. And you are so privileged that you leave them no occasion ever to pity you in return. You can have no friend. They did not understand at first; gradually they did.”
To pity is to wound the other’s ego. Love cannot pity. Love may even be angry, but it cannot pity. Pity arises only when love has departed. Pity is ash. When love has burned out, ash remains.
The second youth renounced, became dispassionate. His love cannot have been very deep; it must have been shallow. Only then could death change everything. Where there had been attachment, dispassion came. If love had been deep, such a change would not have been so easy. He left, became a fakir. To us it may seem he was a great lover—he left everything! But if love is deep, it cannot even see that the beloved can die.
Love always sees the immortal.
He was not a lover; he was eager to enjoy this woman. When she died, the door of enjoyment closed—he grew bitter and desolate. His renunciation too is not real; it is born of bitterness, of dejection, of disappointment. Understand this difference well.
If your religion is born of the world’s frustration, your religion cannot be authentic. Has truth ever been born of despair? Has liberation ever come out of sorrow? The seed that grows from sorrow will bear sorrow in its fruit.
If your renunciation is born of experience of the world, that is different. If your renunciation is born of the world’s happiness—and that happiness hints that there is a greater bliss—and you go in search of God, that is altogether different. That is a constructive element.
“The world is sorrow, futile”—because of this you go in search of God. You are tired of the world. Your condition is like Aesop’s fox—after many leaps she could not reach the grapes, returned, and told her friends, “The grapes are sour.”
If the world is sour, how can God be very sweet? The world is sour only because you never tasted its fruit. And if you could not taste the fruit of the world, how will you taste the fruit of God? The fruits of the world were nearer; God requires an even longer leap. The grapes were close; had the fox tried a little more, she would have reached them.
What is there in this world that cannot be gained? A little effort is needed and it is attained. What you do not attain is only due to the shortness of your leap—nothing else. But the ego will not admit its leap is small. It finds a device: the grapes are sour—so why leap at all! All is vain.
You will meet many dejected people who say, “There is no joy in the world.” The reason is not that they have tasted the world’s fruit. The only reason is that they could not reach the fruit. The poor often say, “What is there in wealth?” The positionless say, “What is there in position?” “Great Alexanders came and went.” But look within: it is the result of jealousy. It is not experience.
Where jealousy cannot reach, it concludes, “The grapes are sour.”
This youth’s renunciation was born of sorrow. His fakirhood is not true. It is not prompted by experience. It is born of a disease. He is not keen on God; he has simply grown un-keen on the beloved because she died. He is running away from the dead beloved, not toward God. And there is a great difference.
Are you fleeing the world, or are you running toward God? These are two different things. If you flee the world, you will never reach God. Your attention remains fixed on the world. But if you run toward God, it is different. You are no escapist. You are a seeker.
This youth was an escapist. And a love that becomes escape was not real love. Only one situation could expose this.
The third youth remained. The beloved died; nothing remained—not even God. There was no one but the beloved. The world was lost, and God too—there was none to seek. As if the beloved herself was the ultimate. His attachment did not turn into dispassion. His attachment did not stand on its head. He was neither dejected nor sorrowful. The grave became his home. The beloved’s life was life; the beloved’s death became death. He had not loved the beloved only in life; he loved her whether living or dead. His love was complete. There was no condition in it. It was not, “as long as you are alive.” Your being—whether in the body or beyond it; whether form remains or vanishes; whether shape stays or dissolves.
He had nowhere left to go. The grave became his home. He began to love the grave. He passed the test. The situation could not alter him. Death made no difference.
Understand this: whatever is altered by death is not love. Whatever death can snatch away is worldly. Love is unworldly.
The Sufis say, death cannot kill love. Only one thing death cannot kill, and that is love. Therefore they say, love will take you to God. Wealth will not, for death will take wealth away. Intellect will not, for intellect remains on this side of death. Position and honor will not, for death wipes all clean. Only love will go, for death cannot wipe love.
Love is greater than death. Love is immortal.
This youth was a lover—in the sense the Sufis call a lover. His love was single-pointed. His love was unconditional. Your love…today the wife is beautiful, today the beloved has form—so there is love. Tomorrow the beloved grows old—your love is gone. Death is far off; even old age is far. Tomorrow the beloved falls ill, becomes crippled, disfigured, lame, blind—love is gone.
I have heard of a newlywed couple on their honeymoon. On the second or third day the wife asked, “Will you love me always? Even if I become ugly? Even if I grow old? If this beauty is gone?” The young man said, “Look, I took a vow to be with you in joy and in sorrow, but this particular topic never came up in church! The priest said, ‘In joy and in sorrow.’ I will stand by you in joy and sorrow—don’t bring up this topic. It never came up.”
Think in your heart: the one you love—will you love her even when she is ugly? The very thought will shake you. No, it may not be possible. Because you have loved the form, the body; you have not loved the person. When the form changes, what you loved is gone. This is a different person.
The youth stayed. The grave became his home. This is a sweet thing. Death became his dwelling. The beloved was not lost. As if she had not gone anywhere. As if the marriage had taken place. Only the body was gone, but the disembodied beloved remained—love flowed on, its current continued.
The one who had become a fakir one day met a tantric. And often those who become fakirs eventually meet a tantric.
By tantric I mean one who seeks not truth, but power.
Therefore those who take sannyas should be careful not to fall in with one who seeks power. The ego always looks for a chance to stand up again.
He saw the tantric become angry at the child; he picked him up and threw him into the fire. The youth cried out: never had he seen such misery, such a terrible murderer! The child’s fault was only that he cried; why kill him? The tantric laughed, recited a mantra, and the child returned laughing.
All mantras pertain to form, not to the formless. Through mantra, form can be lost, form can be made. But form means the world—play, illusion.
As soon as he heard the mantra, the youth ran. He memorized it. He remembered his beloved. His relationship had been with life, not with death. Dispassion turned back into attachment. What can turn into dispassion can turn back into attachment any day—for you are only doing a headstand. Nothing has changed in you. Earlier you stood on your feet; now you stand on your head. As soon as he saw the child return from fire, he ran! Fakirhood was gone. It had never been real; it was born of bitterness. He had renounced because of the world’s sorrow.
Let someone appear who says there is no sorrow in the world; let him hand you a ladder to reach the grapes—and you will forget you ever said they were sour. You had never tasted them. You had returned without tasting, only consoling yourself. The mantra came—a ladder! He ran to the vine he had left saying, “sour grapes.” The beloved again became meaningful. Desire turned green again, lush. All fakirhood was washed away in a moment. He came, recited the mantra, the beloved arose alive.
The Sufis fashioned this story only to say that death provided the occasion to test love.
The young woman said, all three are good. The first has pity, compassion, civility, decency—but he is fit to be a son, not a husband.
Understand this well. The father loves the son; the son fulfills duty—because the stream of love does not flow backward, it flows forward.
I was a guest in a home—and I have experienced this in many homes, because everywhere the disease is the same. The aging householder told me, “We loved these boys so much; they do not even look at us.” I asked, “If they look at you, who will look at their boys? And did you love your father? What you did, they are doing. Your father must have died with the same complaint.” The man said, “How did you know?” There was nothing to know; it is simple arithmetic.
Love flows forward. What we call love in families is only biological. Life moves forward. The father will not be saved; the sons will. Life is concerned with saving the young, not the old. To pour love toward the father is waste—watering a dried tree. He is drying up. Water goes to the new sprout. Life is economical; nature is very economical. With minimal energy, maximal work; nothing to be wasted.
So the father loves the son; the son’s relation to the father is duty. Let him fulfill duty—that is enough. Enough indeed. Love cannot be. Let there be no enmity—that is much. Let there be no hatred—that is much.
Freud says in sons there is hatred toward the father; daughters hate the mother. There is truth in this. Those with whom we grow—life being what it is—we get many wounds through them. First, because they are powerful and we are weak. A child is born in your house; he is weak, you are strong. To raise him, to make him walk, to shape him—you must give countless commands. You must be strict. Each time he is hurt. Those hurts accumulate. The heap of wounds becomes hatred. It is enough if the son serves the father out of duty. Love is unlikely. Love would be like the Ganges flowing back to Gangotri—it cannot happen; it must flow to the sea.
So the young woman said, “He is fit to be a son. As a son should be, he is—but not fit to be a husband. As a husband he will fulfill duty, pity me, serve me. He is perfectly nice; everything will be well arranged. But the height of love, the wave, the samadhi—will not come from him. He will be a companion in sorrow; he cannot be a companion in joy.
“And love is companionship in joy. Love is where two celebrations meet; where the crest of two life-waves meet—this is the union on the peak.
“This is a union of duty on level ground. In sorrow he is useful; in joy he is of no use. With him there can be no love. There can be a relationship of duty—on level ground; he is efficient. His feeling is good, but not enough.”
“The second youth, who raised me up—ordinarily one would think he should be chosen, the one who gave life again. But,” she said, “he is like a father—because he gave birth. His interest is less in me, more in life. When there was death, he withdrew; now that there is life, he has come. He delights in giving birth. He has given me birth—he is like my father. But he cannot be a husband.”
“The husband is this third youth. He has no sense of duty, no sense of pity, no account of ethics. He has the madness of love. He never noticed any difference between my dying and my living. His love is deeper than death. The grave became his home—as if he remained with me. Death made not the slightest difference. Any love that is altered by death is not love.
“If I had to choose a father, I would choose the one who brought the mantra—the one who worked so hard to revive me. But his love is bound to life. He can be a companion in happiness, not in sorrow. He can walk with me in life, not in death. He will leave me alone at death. And if he will not go with me in death, his companionship in life is mere formality. Now attachment, now dispassion; later dispassion can return. He is changeable.
“Love is not so fickle. Love is a still feeling; a samadhi-like state where no ripple arises.
“I choose the third.”
Death became the test.
What does it mean? It means: in devotion to God, God will choose only the one who is unconditional. To God’s temple three types are going to worship. One: those who go out of duty. Because this is how it has always been…
I have heard: early one morning a shop was not yet open, and a man was calling to his son, “Are you up?”
The boy said, “I’m up.”
“Mixed chaff into the flour?”
“Done, father.”
“Put red pebbles in the chilies?”
“Done, father.”
“Mixed dung into the jaggery?”
“Done, father. All done.”
“Come, then—let’s stop by the temple.”
Is that a temple? Is that a life? There dung is mixed into jaggery. When all work is finished, “let’s stop by the temple.” It is a duty. A Sunday religion—on Sunday morning, stop by the church. A social ritual; a courtesy. A rule to be fulfilled; it has benefits, social prestige, utility. Such a one goes to the temple too—but his prayer never reaches God, because he has never prayed.
There is another who goes because he is fed up with the world—exhausted, unable to taste life. Not strong enough, not courageous enough. Deprived of life, or remained deprived. He too comes tired and broken. His prayer too cannot be heard. One who is not capable of experiencing the world—how will he experience truth? One who cannot fully enter even a dream—how will he enter the real? One who cannot understand the trivial—how will he understand the essential? That is a greater leap.
Such a man constantly says to God, “I accept You, but I do not accept Your world.” This acceptance is incomplete. If God is accepted, all is accepted—for all is His.
Acceptance can only be total; then His world is accepted. Even if He throws me into hell, that too is accepted. Even in hell, gratitude alone will arise in the devotee’s heart: “Thank you for giving me hell.” If gratitude arises only in hope of heaven, then it is our choice—we will say “thanks” in joy and complain in sorrow.
From a heart that raises complaint, prayer cannot be heard. Such a prayer is flattery. Behind the prayer, complaint is hidden. He is not a devotee. His faith is not whole. Such a one prays in the temple. He will have to go back. He will have to wander the world. His journey is incomplete. He must take birth again and again. He must know, from experience, whether the grapes are sour—or sweet. Mere consolation will not do. He must pass through worldly experience and ripen. As ripe fruit falls from the tree, so ripe experience becomes prayer—not before.
And the third—the lover—also comes to the temple, for whom life too is only there, whose death too is there. The temple is his home. Even when he goes out, he does not go outside the temple; the temple moves with him. The temple is the stream of his life; the tone of his every breath. Whatever comes—life or death—he has chosen the temple. His choice is complete. He will not leave it. His choice is unconditional.
I have heard that someone said to the Sufi fakir Junnaid, “You keep on praying; first be sure that God exists. Many people doubt.” Junnaid said, “What has God to do with it? I am concerned with prayer.” Even if it were proved God is not, Junnaid’s prayer would continue.
“I am concerned with prayer.” And Junnaid said, “I tell you this: if my prayer is true, God will have to be. I do not pray because God is. The day my prayer becomes true, that day God will be.”
In the true devotee, prayer does not flow because of God; because of prayer, God is born.
Love creates the beloved. Love is creative. There is no creative force in this world greater than love. Therefore love cannot accept death; for it does not happen.
If you love someone, he will not die; he cannot. The lover never dies. The lover does not know death. Love is immortal.
And the Sufis say, love is the door.
This story is a story of prayer. Do not take it as a tale of ordinary love. The Sufis say there are two kinds of love. One worldly, the other unworldly. This points to unworldly love. Therefore the two lovers who were worldly in some way were left out. Only one was unworldly. The mark of the unworldly is this: across death too, unworldly love continues. It has no end.
Enough for today.