Mullah Nasrudin got married to some other woman whom he had not loved. And people asked him, “Mullah, what is this? I know that you were in love with somebody else. Why didn’t you marry the girl whom you loved?”
He said, “Then how will I spend my evenings? All my longing will be gone. Then she becomes a nag in my head. She keeps nagging me all the time, pain in the neck. I would never make that mistake.”
However beautiful a woman one has married, a partner, however beautiful they are, their eyes go elsewhere, what is not with them, because the longing has disappeared. When longing disappears, love disappears. When you’re husband, wife and you spend all twenty-four hours together, morning till night, you get tired of the person. It’s quite but natural. Love dies very soon, within six months, one year. Then, just out of courtesy, each one says, “Oh, I love you very much.” There is no garden happening inside. A fountain is not arising. But outside, just not to hurt the other person, says, “Oh, you are beautiful. I love you very much, dear.” One doesn’t want to look into that. One doesn’t want to say it, because there is no longing. It has all disappeared.
In ancient Vedic times, there was a tradition. One month during the rainy season, the wives would be sent to their parent’s home. So in that one month, every husband would write letters. Poetry came out of the husbands and wives. That gap, that gap creates love. Longing creates love. Longing, that pain of separation, increases the love in you. That increases the prayerfulness in you.