Tooba

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore. You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days. Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God. But let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

We pay our storytellers. But my stories are free and your presents are much too dear. I was beginning to like your things. And I was beginning to like living without them

phir sabā sāya-e-shāḳh-e-gul ke tale koī qissa sunātī rahī raat bhar jo na aayā use koī zanjīr-e-dar har sadā par bulātī rahī raat bhar ek ummīd se dil bahaltā rahā ik tamannā satātī rahī raat bhar

Remember that you and I made this journey together to a place where there was nowhere left to go

She has the gift of accepting her life.

Blessed is this day, for I have met Shams of Tabriz. # So when Shams asked me this question, it was not simply a comparison that he was after. He wanted me consider how far I was willing to go to efface my personality in order to be absorbed in God. There was a second hidden question within his first question. How about you, great preacher? he was asking me. Of the seven stages, which stage are you at? And do you think you have the heart to go further, till the very end? Tell me, how big is your cup?

I  saw my life branching out like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and a husband and children, and another fig was famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor and another fig was Eee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and  another fig was Contantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic Lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch was this fig tree, starving to death, just because I could not make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and everyone of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go back, and, one by one, the plopped to the ground on my feet.