Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #13

Before we enter the parable, a few things must be understood. First: where doubt exists, love becomes impossible. Doubt is poison. The very presence of doubt makes love vanish.

Where there is doubt, there is fear—not love. They are companions. With love, fear never exists; with love comes fearlessness. In fearlessness, there is no possibility of doubt—because when you are not afraid, what is there to doubt?

Doubt is a polite name for fear; then the name for fearlessness is trust. That is why a true atheist can never be fearless. And if a so‑called theist is fearful, know well he is not a theist at all—what has fear to do with trust? Where love is, neither doubt nor fear can be. If fear and doubt are there, understand that love cannot be.

I have heard: A young man was returning home by ship after his marriage abroad. A great storm arose; the ship seemed on the verge of sinking. People trembled with fear, fell to their knees, and began to pray. Those who had never taken the name of God began to shout “God! God!” The young bride began to cry and scream, but the young man sat quietly. She said, “You are not afraid? The ship may sink any moment and we could die at any time!” The young man drew his sword from its scabbard—a gleaming blade that could sever a neck in a moment—and rested it on her shoulder so that it touched her throat. The bride kept smiling. He said, “You are smiling? Not afraid?” She replied, “How could I be afraid when the sword is in your hand?” He sheathed the sword and said, “How can one be afraid when the sword is in God’s hand? The storm is in His hand. There is no fear of the storm; the fear is of distrust. If there is no love in your heart—even for me—then fear will arise. But if love is there, even with a sword on the neck it will feel like a flower. If doubt is there, even a flower on the neck will feel like a sword.”

Swords are not outside; flowers are not outside. They exist in your trust and in your doubt.

So first, understand this: love and doubt never meet. Whom you love, you cannot doubt. And whom you doubt, you will never be able to love.

Second: Doubt is a very useful servant—a very loyal servant. It is not useless; it has served life immensely. All of science is built upon doubt. Whatever benefits you reap from science are the blessings of doubt. Science stands upon doubt. And can you find a more faithful servant than science? Whether it is medicine, chemistry, physics, the invention of drugs or of atom bombs—everything has come through doubt. Doubt has lit your homes with electricity. Doubt has brought forth springs of water in deserts. Doubt has turned wastelands into green gardens. Whatever man possesses today is ninety‑nine percent because of doubt. So this “servant” is precious—faithful and old. He has delivered a great deal of utility. Hence, it is not easy to part company with him.

And once you develop trust in science, entry into religion becomes difficult—because the realm of religion requires trust, faith, confidence; while the realm of science requires doubt, skepticism, questions. The paths diverge.

The more momentum you gain in science, the more difficult movement becomes in religion. The more momentum in religion, the more difficult movement becomes in science. That is why in the East religion was born but science did not arise; in the West science was born, and the life of religion evaporated. There, God is a dead affair. There, temples and mosques are little more than ornaments and decorations; their consecrated life has been lost. People still pray there, but even behind their prayers, doubt lurks.

So understand the second point: if doubt were utterly futile, why would people practice it? It has validity—but within limits; and existence does not end at that limit. Existence is far vaster than that boundary. If you follow only doubt, you will remain confined within boundaries.

A servant has his value; but what value does a servant have before a beloved—no matter how loyal he is! That is why Nuri Bey’s wife asked rightly, “Is it on the word of a servant that you are doubting me, or has your own trust in me collapsed? And how could you take a servant’s word at all! Because to accept a servant’s word in such a matter means trust has already left. Otherwise you would have laughed and dismissed him—you would not even have listened.”

A servant has a limit; love has none. Science has limits; religion has none.

So use science—for matter—but do not, on its authority, destroy your love. After hearing science, do not declare, “There is no God.” That would be like slamming shut the doors of love on the servant’s say‑so.

Now let us read the story. You now have the key to unlock it.

“Nuri Bey was a resident of Albania—intelligent and respected.” Remember, whoever is intelligent holds in his hand a double‑edged sword. Intelligence can protect you from others; it can also become suicidal. The intelligent can become a Buddha—or a Nietzsche. Both edges are present.

Buddha and Nietzsche are both intelligent. But Buddha did not use thought for suicide. He never elevated thought above its place as a servant. Thought never became the deity enthroned in the temple. The capacity to be divine belongs to thoughtlessness.

Buddha used thought to arrive at thoughtlessness. He turned thought into a means to meditation, a ladder. And when the destination is reached, the ladder is forgotten. When the fish are caught, the net is thrown away. When we have crossed the river, who looks back at the boat? With the boat of thought he reached the shore of no‑thought. That is a right use. Thought never became the master; he remained the master.

Nietzsche used thought differently. Thought became the master; the sword turned dangerous and self‑destructive. Nietzsche had the very capacity that Gautama Buddha had—not a whit less. He too could have attained enlightenment under some tree. But the sword was misused—and a sword is dangerous. From thought he moved to more thought, and from that to yet more thought. The boat did not carry him to the shore; it began to whirl midstream. It circled in a vortex—a vicious circle arose. It seemed as if he were moving, yet he arrived nowhere. He died insane. Buddha also died—but liberated; Nietzsche died deranged.

The sword of thought has two edges: one can liberate you, the other can unhinge you.

This Nuri Bey was intelligent—“intelligent” says nothing about which way you will go; you can go either way—and he was respected.

Respect is dangerous too. And there are two kinds of respect. One is grounded in your inner dignity, in your inner light. The other depends on people’s opinions—“What do others say?”

Respect based on “what people say” is not inner; it has no real value. Such respect is always fearful—because people are unpredictable. Nothing changes as quickly as public opinion. It is like the wind—one thing in the morning, another at dusk. Yesterday’s heroes become dust today; today’s nobodies are tomorrow’s celebrated ones.

Respect that comes from outside has no worth. And the person whose respect is external will always tremble. Your greatest leaders fear their smallest followers, because those followers are their bricks; if a brick slips, the whole building falls. Your so‑called gurus fear their smallest disciples, for their reputation lies in those opinions; if those opinions change, their standing is gone. Respect that is in another’s hands cannot make you fearless; the reins are in someone else’s grip.

This man was in great danger—Nuri Bey. He was intelligent—he could become free or mad. And he was respected. The story does not tell what kind of respect it was. Ninety‑nine times out of a hundred it is outward; and when respect is outward, even a servant can become your master.

A servant could frighten him because he said, “Listen, master, that chest in the house is large enough to hide a man. And you have brought home a young wife. You are older, she is very young. There is danger. Your reputation will be at stake if even a whisper leaks out.”

A servant can scare you if your prestige is outer. And the person whose prestige is outer can never love—because love requires an inner base, roots within, and no one else should be your master.

It is very interesting: when you are not the master of your own thinking, others become your masters. And the day you become the master of your own thought, no one else remains your master.

In Maharashtra there is the temple of Vithoba. It stands upon a very sweet story. There is no other temple on earth with such a story. A devotee was massaging his old, ailing mother’s feet. He was not fulfilling a “duty,” nor doing it because it is “prestigious.” He was not serving his mother because people say, “If you don’t serve your mother, you will be disgraced.” His service arose from inner love; its roots were within. Krishna was pleased with this service and came to give him darshan. The devotee did not turn to look. He said to Krishna, “Wait. Until I finish serving my mother, meeting cannot happen.” Devotees may return from God’s court, but God had to return from a devotee’s court—this is a unique story.

The devotee said, “Now is not the time. If you are in a hurry, go; if you can wait….” A brick lay nearby; he slid it back and said, “Sit on this brick and rest.” Hence the image in the Vithoba temple stands upon a brick—that very brick. Krishna stood there the whole night—on that brick—waiting. Blessed is the love that even Krishna cannot budge; such love becomes otherworldly. That devotee has no need of God; for him, prayer is unnecessary—his love itself has become prayer.

But you are frightened even by a servant. God is another matter. If the Lord of the universe were to knock at your door, could you gather courage? At a servant’s knock you tremble; if the Lord of the universe knocked and you slid a brick toward Him and said, “Wait—rest if you want. If you must go, go. But I am massaging my mother’s feet; until she falls asleep, there is no way to meet!”—could you do that?

Nuri Bey was respected, intelligent. He married a much younger woman. One evening, he returned home earlier than usual. His loyal servant said, “Your wife, my mistress, is behaving very suspiciously. In her room there is a large wooden chest, so big that a man could fit inside. Earlier it belonged to your grandmother and held a few herbs, but now there seems to be much more in it. I am your oldest servant, yet mistress does not allow even me to peep inside.”

Nuri Bey went to his wife’s room and found her sitting sadly beside a wooden chest. The situation was suspicious. The servant is loyal; there is no reason to expect lies. He is old, tested in many hours. He has always proved reliable. His word can be trusted. He says the situation is dubious. And the wife won’t let anyone look inside—so the situation becomes more suspicious. If there is nothing in the chest, why the insistence on not looking? And there she sits beside it, looking sad. Everything points to doubt.

Remember, if there were no situation of doubt and you had trust, that kind of “trust” would be worth two pennies. What value does a trust have that has no possibility of being broken? If there is no crack into which doubt could enter, and then you say you trust—what is its value? That trust is only the conclusion of doubt. Understand this well.

Many people’s “trust” is only the end product of doubt—doubt’s own calculation. You checked everything from all sides and found it alright, so you “trust.” But where is trust in that? It is doubt that persuaded you: “Yes, everything looks fine.” You doubted in every way, tested on every touchstone, examined every circumstance, peered into each window, and when doubt failed, finding no place to enter, then you accepted.

Therefore, in science there is nothing like trust; it cannot be. Science accepts a thing only when all examinations of doubt are exhausted. So science has no place for faith.

The Christian mystic Tertullian said: “God, I believe in You. There is no reason for belief. In fact, there are every reason for unbelief and none for belief. Yet I have faith in You.” Only then is faith, faith.

If “faith” arises by listening to and following doubt—if it is the conclusion of doubt—then it is worth two pennies. It will take you nowhere. When doubt suggests everything against, and doubt seems right, and still you believe—then there is a leap. It means you have dropped the mind, dropped doubt. This faith is by leaving doubt; it is not a link in the chain of doubt. You leap out of doubt. You say: “Be quiet! I will not consult you to be in trust.” A chain snaps in your life. Doubt remains on one side; you leap across like a snake slips out of its old skin. The sloughed skin lies behind; the snake moves on. Let doubt lie behind like that cast‑off skin; let it not be the basis of your mathematics, the foundation of your faith.

What is the value of a faith whose foundation is doubt? That is why science never calls its conclusions final; they are provisional. Until now, doubt has found nothing wrong, but who knows about tomorrow? Newton was once right, then was found wrong. Einstein was right, now is becoming questionable.

In science, nothing can be right forever because logic and doubt will always find new pathways. Doubt’s failure does not create faith; at best, a temporary working belief. Therefore, science says: there are no doctrines, only hypotheses. As long as doubt can find no entry, it stands; the moment doubt finds a door, it falls.

Whoever builds a palace of “faith” on doubt has built on sand; it can fall any time—like a child’s house of cards. A breath of wind can topple it; even your own breath or a small nudge can bring it down.

The situation before Nuri Bey was complete: doubt was clear; there was no visible reason for trust. The servant is faithful; he has never lied. He has served since his father’s and grandfather’s time—he is old. And we always trust the old more than the new. The wife is new, unfamiliar, from an unknown family and home. Who knows her past? What of her conduct? There is no evidence. The servant’s conduct is established; we know him—and what he has never done, why would he do now?

Logic believes in cause and effect: what has never happened, how will it happen today? What has always happened will happen today. But life is strange; what has never happened can happen, and what has always happened can fail to happen.

Life leaps; logic never leaps. In logic, there are no leaps—everything is connected.

Nuri Bey asked his wife, “May I see what is in the chest?” She replied, “Are you asking because of a servant’s suspicion?” Then you have lost your masterhood; the servant has become the master. “Or are you asking because you yourself no longer trust me?” Does the doubt arise from within you or from outside?

This is worth pondering. Even your doubt is not your own—what poverty! It too is borrowed. If your faith is not your own, how can your doubt be? You are walking down the street; someone says something and doubt is born. You read some book and doubt arises. You overhear strangers speaking and doubt appears. Even your doubt is not authentic; it is not your own. And those whose doubt is not their own—will such people ever have their own faith? Everything is borrowed.

She struck the right point and asked rightly: “Are you asking because a servant is suspicious, or because you yourself have lost trust?” There is a difference. If you ask because of the servant’s suspicion, your doubt is worth only as much as a servant’s word is worth. If you ask from your own doubt, then it has weight—and I will answer accordingly. She is asking: tell me how to answer you; let me know how deep your doubt is.

Remember, not all doubts have the same depth. And on the depth of doubt depends how deep a response is called for—how deep your quest will be and how deep an answer you need.

Once, Sariputta asked Buddha: “Different people come, often with similar questions, yet your answers differ.” Buddha said: “It depends on the depth of their doubt. If someone is thirsty enough for only a palmful of water, what is the point in drowning him in the ocean? If the thirst itself is pretended, why show real water? If someone has merely wandered in out of curiosity, give him only a small answer. If someone comes with inquiry, give him a deeper answer. If someone comes with burning longing, give him the ultimate answer.”

It is foolish to give the answer meant for a seeker of liberation to a merely curious person—there will be no connection. Where a needle suffices, what is the use of a sword? Wielding a sword where a needle would do is madness.

The wife was right to ask. She wanted to know the origin of his doubt—whether it is his own; then she would answer accordingly. If it is the servant’s—borrowed, planted by household gossipers or passersby—then she would answer otherwise. How deep is this love!

Nuri Bey was a thinking man. What he answered is what a thinking person typically answers. He said, “Without going into these matters, is it not possible simply to open the chest?” A clever answer—he is evading. He does not answer the straight question: “Is it the servant’s doubt or yours?” Instead, he finds a lawyerly bypass: “Isn’t it possible to open it without going into these things?” She said, “No.” Because without going into these things, not even an inch of truth can be known. Those who want truth must go into all such matters.

Truth is not a lawyer’s hunt. You cannot escape. You cannot dodge questions. You cannot close your eyes to facts—however painful, however much suffering they may bring—facts must be faced; only then is there any path to truth. How will you peer into the chest? The chest is life.

Lawyers remain unacquainted with life because they are always thinking with cleverness. I have heard: A man was passing a cemetery. On a grave was written: “Here lies a great lawyer and an honest man.” The passerby said, “The grave is so small—how can two people fit in it?” For lawyer and honest man—these two cannot be in one person! And for two people, the grave is much too small!

A lawyer means the dishonesty of thought. Thought makes you dishonest. That is why we often see: the more educated, the more “thoughtful” people are, the more dishonest they become. In villagers you may find honesty; in urbane, well‑educated people, it is hard—because they misuse thought. Otherwise they would be even more honest—honesty not as naïveté or foolishness, but with depth. But thought has two uses; one is always dangerous, self‑destructive.

This Nuri Bey—thoughtful and respected—gave that kind of answer. Surely he must have felt the force of her gaze, the way her eyes entered him. She asked, “Is this doubt your own or was it planted by the servant?” Only then could any meaningful answer be given.

The deeper the question, the deeper the answer must be. Nuri Bey said: “Without going into these things, is it not possible simply to open the chest?” She said, “No.” “Is it locked?” he asked. He is now hinting: if you do not allow it, I might force it open. Thought always tries to break open life’s mysteries by force when they don’t open easily.

First he asked, “Can we not open it without all this?” She said, “No.” Immediately he asked, “Is it locked?” If not, he will open it—without her consent.

Thought always seeks to break—force open—the mysteries of life. Science is a kind of violence. Religion also opens life’s mysteries—but by asking life itself. It is a dialogue. It persuades life to open its doors. Science breaks; if there is a lock and the key is not in hand, it brings out the hammer. No violence is greater than that of science. And therefore whatever is born of science increases violence. What is born of religion breeds nonviolence. Religion’s fundamental principle is nonviolence: do not break, persuade—persuade nature to open its doors by itself.

Science is a kind of rape; religion is love. The difference between rape and love is the difference between science and religion. A beautiful woman passes by; you can rape her. You need not seek her consent or her loving response. You can assault her, tear her clothes, strip her naked, rape her. The woman will not be there; your embrace will be with a corpse. But you might delude yourself that you have made love. Science is rape.

Religion also “makes love,” but does not assault the “woman.” It invites her; it courts her. Religion’s courtship is long. It coaxes, wins consent. One day, the woman opens the secret of her life, becomes naked by herself. But is the nakedness in love the same as the nakedness under rape? They are worlds apart. When a woman herself disrobes in a moment of love and opens all her secrets—and when you rip her clothes off—do you think the two nakednesses are alike?

Science behaves as rape; religion behaves as love. Religion also comes to know nature’s secrets—Lao Tzu knew, Buddha knew, Krishna knew. Newton knows, Einstein knows—but there is the difference of rape and love between their knowings; the very quality changes.

Immediately, thought asked—Nuri Bey said, “Is it locked?” He will use force if he can; if there is no lock, he wants to open it at once. His earlier request was false; it was superficial. He is ready to open it without asking.

She said, “Yes.” He asked, “Then where is the key?” She replied with something very rare—the deepest truth of life, hidden here so simply that you might miss it. She said, “Dismiss the servant, and I will give it to you.” She showed him the key as she spoke.

The whole existence says exactly this: dismiss doubt and here is the key. Remove the servant, and the doors are open. The key is not hidden; your doubt blurs your eyes so you cannot see it. The key has always been in the “wife’s” hand—right before you. Nature’s doors are not closed. But because of doubt your eyes are misty; you cannot see. All religions say, “Dismiss the servant and here is the key. Take it and open every lock.” But with doubt, you will not gain entry within. This temple is not for doubt.

How can the door of love, the door of faith, open if doubt is there? Where there is no trust, how will the heart open? You can break chests, but how will you break hearts? And if you break a heart to see what is inside, what will you find? Nothing—what was there is already gone in the breaking.

Some things are lost in the breaking. And what is lost in the breaking, science denies—because it never finds it. Science has but one method: break. If you break open the body, you will find bones, flesh, marrow, lungs—but not the heart. Lungs are one thing; the heart is another. The heart is something inner—like the deity enshrined within the temple, while the lungs are like the temple’s outer wall. When you break, you get the wall; the deity is lost.

Certain things are lost through analysis—because their being lies in their wholeness. You thought you could find faith by analysis; but analysis always means cutting—breaking—seeing what the parts are.

Science means dissection. What the surgeon does on the table, science does to all of nature: “Cut it open and see what is inside.” That is why science can never find life. The moment you break life up, it disappears. Here stands a tree, alive, green, swaying. Cut it into pieces and try to locate the living tree—you will not find it. You will find only death.

A man is alive; cut him open; you will find the skeleton; the soul is gone. This flower is beautiful. Analyze it; you will find chemicals, minerals, water, earth—but not the flower, nor its beauty anywhere.

Through analysis you can know only the dead. Through synthesis you know life. Science’s method is analysis; religion’s method is synthesis. Religion is the supreme synthesis—the ultimate. Beyond it there is nothing—because nothing remains outside it; there is nothing left to join.

Thus religion arrives at God; science arrives at the atom—inevitably. Their processes decide their destinations. Science, by dividing, reaches the minute, the ever smaller. By synthesis we reach the vast; by breaking, never the vast.

The wife spoke rightly—this is what nature has always been saying: “Dismiss the servant and here is the key. I hand it to you.” There is not the slightest hesitation in giving the key. But if doubt remains, it is not to be given. Surely, Nuri Bey understood—he was thoughtful. In his wife’s eyes, in her manner and trust, a wave of trust must have moved within him too.

She is not hiding anything; the key is in plain sight. She is not refusing either. And her condition is just: where there is no cause for doubt, dismiss the one who caused it. As long as he remains, the key will not be given.

He dismissed the servant. Nuri Bey understood—the matter is simple and clear. He dismissed the servant, the wife handed over the key, and then, with a very sad heart, withdrew.

Two things: thought can understand—if you strive—that no‑thought is needed. Thought can understand that one must go beyond thought. This is thought’s inner capacity: it can see that doubt will not give the key—that faith is needed.

Nuri Bey could see that with doubt the door would not open; the key would not be received. So he dismissed the servant. But the wife withdrew in sadness—because he dismissed the servant only after doubts had arisen. Ah, if only the servant had never been believed in at all, she would have been delighted. She was sad.

Remember, the same event can occur in two different ways. If one day science, doubting and analyzing, reaches a point where it sees that doubt is futile and dismisses doubt from the laboratory—even then nature will open her secrets, but she will be sad. You will not hear Krishna’s flute in that revelation. You will not find the ecstasy of Buddha’s image. Truth will arrive, but it will come as a dry fact, without the flowering of samadhi—because you tested every avenue, tried every method.

What would have been the right stance? If Nuri Bey had dismissed the servant and refused to take the key—then the wife would have rejoiced. Trust would have returned. But he dismissed the servant and took the key. Taking the key shows that outwardly doubt went; inwardly it did not. Otherwise, what need of the key? The visible “servant” was not the point; the invisible “servant” within was the point.

Even if you remove doubt outwardly, it is not certain that inwardly it is gone. Doubt was inside; that is why he took the key. Otherwise, he would have tossed it back: “Keep it—your key is yours. What need have I?” End of the matter. But doubt was inside.

He dismissed the servant conditionally—to obtain the key. There is a hidden clause: the servant was removed to facilitate doubt’s inquiry.

Even when you discard doubt, if inwardly it remains, God is not pleased; love is not pleased. Samadhi will not flower. Even if you come to know truth, sadness will not lift.

And what will you do with a truth from which no dance springs? The Hindus said: sat‑chit‑ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss. They added ananda—bliss—because truth alone is dry. What will you do with it? Such truth can be found even if you lie unconscious. Then what use is that truth? The Hindu says: what will we do with such a truth? For them, truth must have two inseparable marks: you are conscious, awake—and you are dancing in bliss. Only then is truth worth attaining. Only if truth becomes sat‑chit‑ananda is it worth reaching. Anything less will not do.

The key came into the hand, but the wife withdrew in sadness; joy had departed. He could now open the chest and see. But Nuri Bey was a thoughtful man; he must have realized that there was no sweetness left in opening it.

The wife withdrew in sorrow; and Nuri Bey pondered for a long time. He did not open the chest. Finally, he summoned four servants. Without opening it, they carried the chest far away, buried it deep in the ground. Thereafter, the matter was never raised again.

This ending has several facets. First: even after much thinking he found that opening it was meaningless. If love is lost, it is lost. Opening the chest will not bring it back. If the wife is in love with someone else, she is. Opening will resolve nothing. We fail to see this even when we think.

What is not, is not. What is, is. What is not cannot be forced into being.

If you have begun to doubt your wife, what will you do? If love is not there, how will you bring it? Love is not a commodity you can buy in the market. Love cannot be produced by force—and wherever force is used, the possibilities of love’s birth end.

Where you coerce love, only acting can result. Ninety‑nine out of a hundred husbands and wives are acting—pretending to each other that love is there. But it is not. It cannot be—because there is coercion.

Love is a gift given freely. If you demand it by force, it is lost. You cannot beg it; you cannot rob it; you cannot exploit it. It is grace, given freely—if the other wants to give. If not, you cannot take it.

Nuri Bey must have pondered much; he did not use the key. It was futile. He called four men; they buried the chest deep in the earth.

This is the state of thought. He had some glimmer, yet no glimmer. He still played a trick—the trick being: if there is a man inside, bury him. End the matter.

He did not open it—that much glimmer he had: opening it would bring no joy. The wife had turned sad; opening would worsen things. If he opened it and found no one, even then nothing would improve—because where the smell of doubt has entered, love withdraws. The wall would remain forever between them: that he took the key and wanted to open the chest. He doubted. The wife would remain sad; she could not be jubilant again—if he opened it.

But without opening, he could not rest; many nights he must have brooded. He must have thought of a thousand tricks: “I will open it so that she never knows it was opened.” But he could find no trick. Then thought devised a way: “Let’s settle it simply. It will remain clear to her that you did not open it. Your trust remains intact.”

But the trust is not complete—otherwise the key would have been returned, the chest left where it was, and the subject dropped. The trust is half. He also made an arrangement: “Bury it deep. If there is a man inside, he will be finished; if not, the trouble is over. The charge that I used the key to open it will not lie upon me; and if some enemy—her lover—was hiding there, I have disposed of him cheaply.”

The tale ends here; the Sufi says nothing more. Nuri Bey is thoughtful. Where there is such “thoughtfulness,” there is always wobbling—leaning now here, now there. A glimpse comes, then is lost. One step is on the path; the next goes astray. The boat rows half toward the west, then turns east.

He was given two or three chances of a glimpse. When she asked: “Is this doubt yours, or has the servant raised it?”—a direct question, calling for an authentic answer—he missed. He said, “Isn’t it possible to open the chest without going into these things?”

She gave him a second chance: “Dismiss the servant, and I will put the key in your hand.” Again he removed only the outer servant, not the inner doubt. Again he missed. He had half a glimpse—hence he dismissed the outer servant; otherwise he would not even have done that. He would have said, “He is faithful; how can I fire him? I can divorce you, but I won’t dismiss my loyal servant.” He had half a glimpse, but only half. The outer form was fulfilled; inside, doubt continued. He dismissed the servant to obtain the key—he let go of the outer doubt so the inner doubt could pursue its inquiry. Again he missed.

She handed him the key—but with sadness. That sadness clearly says: even if you come to know now, that knowing has no value. Knowledge that stands upon doubt brings sadness, not joy. Knowing that stands upon trust brings the supreme exhilaration.

Look at scientists: how much they know—yet there is no dance. Not a single scientist dances like a Baul, with ektara in hand, intoxicated with joy. Today there are multitudes of scientists—the largest professional class—and most prestigious. They are paid the most; they are most honored—because they are most dangerous. Power is in their hands—so much that scientists are beginning to think they might dethrone politicians and take their seats.

Scientists possess power, prestige, honor, wealth. But show me one scientist who dances like a Sufi—bliss‑intoxicated, owning nothing yet walking like the emperor of the universe. Show me one scientist who can sing and dance like Mira, with anklets ringing—there is not one.

You will find scientists sad, with drooping faces, as if life has dried up. They are getting facts, but their method is wrong; in that method, even if facts are gained, life slips away. They too become envious.

Bertrand Russell—a great thinker, a scientific mind—one of the twenty greatest of this century—wrote that the first time he saw island tribes dancing, he was filled with envy: all his achievements were worth two pennies. Let a Nobel Prize be given, hundreds of honors conferred—yet these half‑naked people, dancing all night under the moon among trees, filled him with envy.

Einstein on his deathbed was filled with a similar envy. He saw that life had slipped away. Someone asked Einstein: “If you were born again, what would you want to be?” He said, “I would not want to be Einstein. Better I would be a plumber.”

Such a great scientist—greater than any—would rather be a plumber! He no longer wanted to be a scientist. Perhaps he heard his plumber humming songs in the bathroom—songs Einstein could not sing. Perhaps he saw the plumber’s gait in the morning as he came to work, and his carefree joy when he slung his bag over his shoulder in the evening and returned home.

Einstein envying a plumber! Then surely something is wrong. He who is said to have known the greatest truths—who examined the largest number of facts—seems to have had the “wife” hand him the key and then withdraw. The beloved, for whom all the effort was made, stepped away in sadness.

Before scientists, God steps aside—that is the trouble. The key comes into the hand, but the treasure for which it was meant recedes.

What value has a truth from which no fountain of bliss breaks forth? Those who know say: seek bliss; why do you talk of truth? When bliss is found, truth will be there. The reverse is not necessary: truth may be found, bliss may not—and then the entire search is futile.

There was a moment to throw the key away and embrace the wife, to let the chest remain and never mention it again. But how could a “thoughtful,” “respected” man do that? The opportunity was missed.

He thought and thought; even through thinking he understood enough to know that using the key and opening the chest would set an infinite distance between him and his wife—one that could never be bridged. And the chest might be empty! What if there was nothing there? And for an empty chest he would have lost his wife and love. So he did not open it. But thought failed again; it played one more trick.

He had the chest taken far away and buried deep. Doubt would still remain: “Who knows what was there?”—but the nuisance was removed, whatever it might have been.

The story ends here; Sufis do not wish to say more. But do you think love returned? Impossible. The doubt is so deep that love cannot return. In truth, the doubt is no longer doubt—it has become faith in doubt itself.

If you remain long with doubt, a calamity occurs: doubt itself becomes your faith. You begin to trust doubt without doubt.

For this man, doubt ceased to be doubt. Thinking and thinking, he concluded: “There is a man inside”—hence he had it buried. Who buries chests? Men are buried. He used the chest as a coffin!

Thinking and thinking, his doubt must have solidified into certainty—so solid that he did not even think it proper to open it. Now there was nothing to open; better to bury it. From the wife’s sadness he concluded the doubt was confirmed: “Someone must be inside; otherwise why would she be sad?”

This is the trouble with thought: it has its logical chain. Seeing her sadness, it did not occur to him that she was sad because he had doubted—because trust had broken, love had become foul. The freshness was gone. The days of unquestioned love would never return. Innocence had been lost; the mind was guilty. This did not occur to him. He saw in her sadness a confirmation: “She is sad because she gave the key; now the exposure will happen. We will open the chest; her lover will emerge.” Thinking and thinking, he converted doubt into faith.

Faith is man’s nature; if you stay too long with doubt, you will place your faith in it.

Atheists are those who have placed their faith in doubt. “There is no God”—this becomes their article of faith. They are ready to fight for it. If there is no God, what is there to fight about? Yet they draw swords for what “does not exist.” Why write scriptures to prove that what does not exist, does not exist? Why struggle so hard to explain the non‑existent? Because it has become their faith. They are as faith‑ridden as religious people—only, the religious have faith that God is; the atheists have faith that God is not. God’s non‑being pursues them; their nights are restless; their minds churn with the thought “There is no God.”

I have heard: God said to the Sufi Junayd in a dream, “What do you wish to become: a theist or an atheist?” Junayd replied, “Make me an atheist—for theists sometimes forget You, but I have never seen an atheist forget You. And if Your remembrance alone opens Your door, make me an atheist—because that way I will remember You more.” A witty man, Junayd—what he said is right: a theist may forget; an atheist never does. He remains occupied twenty‑four hours saying “no, no, no.” If the gate opens through remembrance, better to be an atheist!

Nuri Bey, thinking and thinking, must have been crushed under his own thought. Doubt became his faith. He became certain there was a man inside; therefore opening was not proper—burying was proper.

Do not remain too long with doubt; do not think too much, or you will forget that it is doubt; it will become your faith.

And do not take this story as a mere story.

The Sufis have a rule: they say there are two kinds of love—worldly love and otherworldly love; ishq of this world and ishq of the beyond. They say: if you understand the stories of the love of this world, they become the keys to the love of the other world. That is the secret of this tale.

It is a story of worldly love; if you understand it, your understanding becomes the key to the love of the beyond.

Enough for today.