One of India's greatest poets, Rabindranath Tagore, was often embarrassed by an elderly man, a friend of his grandfather. The old man often came to visit them, since he lived nearby, and never left without disturbing Rabindranath. Usually he knocked on his door and asked:
How is writing poetry going? Have you really come to know God? Do you really know what love is? Tell me, do you really know everything you talk about in your poems? Maybe you're just messing around with words? Any idiot can talk about love, about God, about the soul. I can see in your eyes that you haven’t experienced all this.
And Rabindranath had nothing to answer him. Moreover, the old man was right. When they met by chance at the market, the old man grabbed him by the sleeve and asked:
- Well, how is your God? Have you found Him or are you still writing poems about Him? Remember, writing about God and knowing God are not the same thing.
This man loved to confuse people. At poetry meetings, where everyone respected Rabindranath - and he was a Nobel Prize laureate - one was sure to meet this old man. On stage, in front of a crowd of poets and admirers of Rabindranath’s talent, he grabbed the poet by the collar and said:
“And yet this did not happen.” Why are you deceiving all these idiots? They are little idiots, and you are a big one; They are not known outside the country, but you are known all over the world. But this does not mean at all that you have come to know God.
Rabindranath wrote in his diary: “He simply harassed me; he had such penetrating eyes that it was impossible to lie to him. His very presence put you before a choice: either tell the truth or remain silent.”
And yet one day it happened... One day Rabindranath went for a morning walk. It was early morning, it had rained at night, and the sun was rising. The ocean shone gold, and small puddles remained on the street after the rain. In these puddles the sun was reflected with the same solemnity, with the same brilliance, with the same joy as in the ocean. Impressed by the spectacle, Rabindranath felt some change in himself. There is nothing important in the world, just as there is nothing secondary; everything in the world is one. For the first time in his life, he went to the old man's house, knocked on the door, looked into his eyes and said:
- What do you say now?
The old man replied:
- Well, there’s nothing to say here. It happened, I bless you.
Death is akin to love. Can you understand what love is by seeing one person loving another? What do you see? You see them hugging. But is love really about hugs? You see them holding hands, but is love really about clasped hands? What else can an outside observer learn about love? Any discovery of his will be absolutely useless. All these will be manifestations of love, but not love itself. Love can only be known by those who love.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru