Some time ago, a friend called to inform me that a guy we both knew had died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage in the middle of a conversation in a Delhi 5-star restaurant. I had met this fellow during a party in north India and quickly turned my back on him. (Those of us who live for a reasonable amount of time in Manhattan are not easy to con with fake words and pretenses.) And besides, I knew this friend had been cheated by him in business and had even threatened to sue him. She mentioned that he had many enemies who were actually thrilled that he was gone. In his sixty years or so, despite movie star looks and excellent material resources, he had never grown beyond the juvenile delinquent stage; his agenda, pure and simple, was to have a good time at the expense of others. I don’t believe he had a single real friend, she ran on, except for that old boozer who lived in that rambling old mansion up on the hill, and who put up with his misbehavior and always forgave him his transgressions.
How terrible I thought, for a human to live to sixty years and to have people actually celebrating his sudden death. And then I thought of my darling friend in the USA who had also died recently in his late sixties, surrounded by those who adored him and admired his fine questing mind. With tears in my eyes, for I had grown to love him too, I recalled the meticulous effort he had invested in trying to teach men, in particular, how to move past the infatuation stage and into really love. He focused first on self-love, for the paradox is that men and women who do not value their own precious selves are incapable of deeply loving another. Why is learning to love even important for us? Because, in my opinion, and based on sincere study and practice, there is no other way to break free of the dreary cycle of samsara (relative reality) unless we blast open the invisible portal of our Spiritual Heart. Corny as it may sound to the cynic, the key to that portal is simply Love—not human fickle love, but the highest love that recognizes the Oneness of all beings.
The second man who had died, surrounded by grieving relatives and friends, had loved my writing and had generously promoted me to his circle of friends. Here are two different passages from my novels in the Moksha Trilogy that he had made it a point to tell me he deeply appreciated:
****** In a rare burst of trust, Takshak had long ago confirmed Inanna’s words: while his mother had always indulged him materially, he had said, she had grown bitter and hard after Shaardul had tossed her aside for Inanna. Kings were intended to raise fire with their tantrikas, Abhilasha had sullenly averred, not to fall crazily in love with the rutting whores. For sure, Ishvari thought now, shivering despite the afternoon sun filtering in, Abhilasha had set her devil’s mark on her son. Takshak was incapable of seeing a woman as fully human—what pleasure he gave stemmed solely from his massive ego. Love to him was no more than a ravening lust, something that flared and died. The idea of aging alongside a lover, of watching wrinkles line a beloved face, nauseated him—and so he had chosen to flit from flower to exotic flower, to sip the nectar of the new rather than to savor the mature wine that alone evokes bliss. (Whip of the Wild God: A Novel of Tantra in Ancient India). ******
And the second:
****** Why were so many men compelled to inflict suffering on the women they desired? Odati came to believe that, at least to the conventional male, what was referred to as ‘love’ was in fact infatuation. All it seemed to involve was being drawn by the color, smell, taste and touch of the packaging, conveniently forgetting the contents within—rich contents that demanded patience and effort to savor. Manjari claimed most men were disinclined to milk intimate relationships for more than an orgasm, the little death all beings craved—for, apart from the oblivion of sleep, the rough pleasure of mating seemed to provide them with the only remedy to the dull ache of samsara. Real love, Manjari added, did not change when circumstances changed, or when the inexorable passage of time destroyed the freshness of physical charms. A true lover was happiest when the object of his affection was evolving into light. However, this kind of partner, the old woman added drily, was as rare to find as a star in a noon sky.(Copper Moon Over Pataliputra – the final novel in the Moksha Trilogy, about to be published.) *******
What is love? A friend asked me yesterday. He loves Arunachala and visits here often, but claims to be too busy with worldly affairs to study the theoretical underpinnings of Advaita, which I personally feel are vital to Self-Investigation or the Direct Path (unless we have imbibed this wisdom in other lifetimes). Ironically, at some point we also have to jettison all we have learned as we enter the depths of the Spiritual Heart. I considered his question and then I said: for me, right now, it is that both Ramana Maharshi and Nisargadatta Maharaj stayed on after they were both free of desire and fear, just to reveal to us sure way to escape the tedious hell of mundane living. Sages dwell in a blissful state ordinary humans can only imagine—to listen with compassion to the often ridiculous questions posed by all sorts of people, and to give each one what was needed to move on (although Nisargadatta was known as the Hammer for his blunt ways and would ask those not prepared for the path of jnana to leave his presence, which is itself a tough teaching) would take immense love. Infatuation is purely egoic; love is cosmic.
Greetings from Arunachala, Shiva in the form of a hill of fire and light, who has no hesitation whipping the darkness out of us so we can melt into our true nature, which is cosmic love!