Madhuri’s letter to ‘a many few’, written in 1977.

(Osho answered a question of mine in discourse: I had asked, “I am in love and I feel like a moth dying into a flame. Should I somehow separate myself and become more alone and aware, or should I die into the flame?” Osho replied, “Die, Madhuri, die….If you suffer thirty hours for half an hour of love, it is worth….”)



Tonight my lover has darshan and I am in our roof-room eating dinner and feeling the pen loving the paper.

My nature seems more than ever erotic, more than ever, more than ever. During the morning lecture Osho’s energy rises me into a swoon of sensuality. The new thing is, feeling more and more joy in it – that somehow this is my path: melting. He said Die, die into the flame. The moth is to die into the flame, to not keep its individuality.

To my lover, this is a strange world, and he loves it that I am that. And I marvel that it is not his world.

I worship. I fall on the floor and worship when he comes in the room. When I wake up in the morning he is there and I am in such a wonder – he is there! God is in my bed! The king wakes beside me! His curly hair seems to hold every mystery the earth has ever known. All this, after a recent series of fights, during which I thought the thing would be to overcome my worship, outgrow it – I thought it was awful, that he would despise me for it – after the explosions, the It’s-all-over, the But-I-can’t-change, and the But-I-can’t-change! And the rage and jealousy and crying alone for days at work, at lunchtime, waiting waiting waiting for him – (so many times have I waited for a man’s step, on so many different stairs!)

(…And each man the vital man, each man the gentlemen, each man the pirate and the god.)
…I fell deeper into worship, and accepting, and we laughed and fell into days of lovemaking and meeting again.

Dusk has absorbed the day. Electric light glows. He is down there waiting for darshan to start, his energy falling deep inside himself, the awareness of his energies rising in waves on waves; my stranger, my friend, who is never mine. No matter how many times I wake with him, he is never mine. He always puts a pang in my heart when he goes by. He is always unreachable, un-final. Whenever he goes by I feel, I want that man! …And we might have moved deep in each other, surrendered to each other, been in bodysoulmeeting joy just an hour before; and because we have made love a thousand times and I have still not become him, I sometimes look at other men and think, half-consciously, Maybe he would satisfy, at least for moments. I could sup him, he looks delicious. And my lover looks at blondes with cat faces who eye him, power-eye him in Sufi dancing while he sings with his curly hair and rock-star body and Pan face with all its seriousness and heart worn in it, and he power-eyes them back and his genitals stir and he wants to crush them, scoop them to his mouth and bruise and take them. And he remembers me and feels sad and trapped, afraid of losing that frightening deep thing we share.

And we have both experimented and shrieked, and then rejected, and tried to overcome, and we have discussed, and connected more profoundly, and hated, and lain alone nights in trembling black. And still we choose again, again to wake up together. To live here. And watch the dreams break and mend and new ones form, never the ones you expected.

And he won’t let me tell him my dreams in the morning. “Just words,” he says. And I remember all my indulgent lovers who loved my dreams, and their old part-grey heads, and I shriek and pounce on his head and shake it by its youthful curls.

And he remains the best man in bed in the Universe. And I am still not whole.

And lately he confessed that he’s not total with me, and I yelled and mourned and then a light came inside: My totality is mine, my dying is mine. In the moment it seems most his, it is mine too. And a luxury came into me. And I can total all over him. And he is total with me – I can feel it now. In his own way which is always at an angle from my way, he is total. He only thinks he’s not because he is.

Now dinner is finished and his is hot in the big thermos and I stop writing and get up to wash the dishes, not knowing who this letter is to but wanting it to be to many, or at least a many few.

I think I will mend his robe and then go down and work in my office waiting for darshan to be out. He is in there now and Osho must have come out to sit and be. White blur of greatness and delight.

Text by Madhuri, 1977

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