Joshu saw one monk and asked, 'Have I seen you before?'
The man said, 'No sir, there is no possibility. I have come for the first time, I am a stranger-you could not have seen me before.
Joshu said, 'Okay, then have a cup of tea.” Then he asked another monk, 'Have I seen you before?'
The monk said, 'Yes sir, you must have seen me. I have always been here; I am not a stranger.'
The monk must have been a disciple of Joshu's, and Joshu said, 'Okay, then have a cup of tea.'

The manager of the monastery was puzzled: with two different persons responding in different ways, two different answers were needed. But Joshu responded in the same way-to the stranger and to the friend, to one who has come for the first time and to one who has been here always. To the unknown and to the known, Joshu responded in the same way. He made no distinction, none at all. He didn't say, 'You are a stranger. Welcome! Have a cup of tea.' He didn't say to the other, 'You have always been here, so there is no need for a cup of tea.' Nor did he say, 'You have always been here so there is no need to respond.'

Familiarity creates boredom; you never receive the familiar. You never look at your wife. She has been with you for many, many years and you have completely forgotten that she exists. What is the face of your wife? Have you looked at her recently? You may have completely forgotten her face. If you close your eyes and meditate and remember, you may remember the face you looked on for the first time. But your wife has been a flux, a river, constantly changing. The face has changed; now she has become old. The river has been flowing and flowing, new bends have been reached; the body has changed. Have you looked at her recently? Your wife is so familiar there is no need to look. We look at something that is unfamiliar; we look at something that strikes us as strange. They say familiarity breeds contempt: it breeds boredom.

I have heard one anecdote:
Two businessmen, very rich, were relaxing on Miami Beach. They were lying down, taking a sunbath. One said, 'I can never understand what people see in Elizabeth Taylor, the actress. I don't understand what people see, why they become so mad about her. What is there? You take her eyes away, you take her hair away, you take her lips away, you take her figure away, and what is left, what have you got?'
The other man grunted, became sad and replied, 'My wife-that's what's left.'

That is what has become of your wife, of your husband-nothing is left. Because of familiarity, everything has disappeared. Your husband is a ghost; your wife is a ghost with no figure, with no lips, with no eyes-just an ugly phenomenon. This has not always been so. You fell in love with this woman once. That moment is there no longer; now you don't look at her at all. Husbands and wives avoid looking at each other. I have stayed with many families and watched husbands and wives avoid looking at each other. They have created many games to avoid looking; they are always uneasy when they are left alone. A guest is always welcome; both can look at the guest and avoid each other.

Joshu seems to be absolutely different, behaving in the same way with a stranger and a friend. The monk said, 'I have always been here sir, you know me well.' And Joshu said, 'Then have a cup of tea.' The manager couldn't understand. Managers are always stupid; to manage, a stupid mind is needed. And a manager can never be deeply meditative. It is difficult: he has to be mathematical, calculating; he has to see the world and arrange things accordingly. The manager became disturbed. What is this? What is happening? This looks illogical. It's okay to offer a cup of tea to a stranger but to this disciple who has always been here? So he asked, 'Why do you respond in the same way to different persons, to different questions?'

Joshu called loudly, 'Manager, are you here?'
The manager said, 'Yes sir, of course I am here.'
And Joshu said, 'Then have a cup of tea.'
This asking loudly, 'Manager, are you here?' is calling his presence, his awareness.