Naropa came from Pataliputra, of mixed-caste parentage. His father was a liquor seller, but when the time came to follow his father's profession, Naropa rejected it and went into the forest to become a wood gatherer. Even there his restless, seeking soul gave him no rest.One evening he chanced to hear tales of the great sage Tilopa. Then and there he decided that Tilopa was his guru and he would not rest until he had found him. The next day he traded a load of wood to a hunter for the yogin's traditional deerskin and set off toward Visnunagar in search of his master.
When he reached his destination he was dismayed to learn that the great sage had recently left and no one knew where he might be. Undaunted, Naropa set off on a journey that was to last for years and take him the length and breadth of India, as he followed every hint, every whisper of where Tilopa might be.
One day, when the dust sat heavy in the windless air, Naropa was on the road to nowhere in particular when he chanced to see a figure approaching in the hazy distance. For no discernible reason, his heart leaped in his throat. As if they had a mind of their own, his feet flew down the road toward the as yet unrecognizable figure.
But the closer he came the surer he grew. And finally, when he could make out the face and form of the other traveler, he knew. He had found Tilopa at last. He flew to the master's side, prostrated himself in the dust at his feet, then began dancing circles about him addressing him as "guru", and inquiring after his health.
Tilopa stopped still in the middle of the road, fixed Naropa with an angry stare and shouted: "Stop all this nonsense. I am not your guru. You are not my disciple. I have never seen you before and hope never to lay eyes on you again!" Then he thrashed Naropa soundly with his stout walking stick and told him to get out of his way.
But Naropa was neither surprised nor discouraged. Now that he had found the master he had sought for so many years, his faith was certainly not going to be shaken by a few blows. He simply set off for the nearest town to beg food for them both.
When he returned, Tilopa ate heartily without so much as a word of greeting and beat him soundly once again. Silent, Naropa contented himself with the leftover scraps, and once again walked around and around his guru in reverential circles.
For twelve long years he remained by Tilopa's side, begging food and serving him in all things. Not once did he receive a kind word. Not once did Tilopa acknowledge him as his pupil. And not once did Naropa's faith waver.
Toward the end of the twelfth year they chanced upon a village celebrating the wedding feast of a wealthy man's daughter. The generous host had provided the guests with eighty-four different types of curry. One of the dishes was a delicacy so rare and so exquisite that one taste would make you believe you had dined with the gods.
Naropa was given large helpings of all the curries, including the great delicacy. When he returned to Tilopa and spread out the feast, an amazing thing happened. For the first time in all the years Naropa had known him, Tilopa smiled. Then he helped himself to every morsel of the special dish. Licking his fingers, he handed Naropa his empty bowl, asking, "Where did you find this, my son? Please return and fetch me some more."
"'My son!' He called me 'my son!'" thought Naropa, happy as a Bodhisattva on the first level of the path. "For twelve years I have sat at my guru's feet without so much as being asked my name. And now he has called me 'my son!'" Floating in ecstasy, he returned to the wedding feast to ask for more of the special curry for his master.
But such was Tilopa's appetite that he sent his disciple back again and again. Each time, to Naropa's great relief, he was given more of the elegant dish. But when Tilopa sent him back yet a fifth time, Naropa was ashamed to show his face, and a great inner struggle raged within him. Finally, unable to face his guru's displeasure, he made up his mind to steal the entire pot.
Waiting for the right moment, he lingered on the fringes of the crowd, edging slowly toward the pot of curry. And as soon as all the guests and servants were preoccupied with some ceremonial occurrence, he abandoned his self-respect, snatched up the pot, hid it under his robes, and made his getaway.
Tilopa praised him for lowering himself to such a level of humiliation, further commending him for all his years of perseverance. Calling him "my diligent son," Tilopa then bestowed the initiation and blessing of Vajra Varahi upon him and gave him instruction in meditation.
Within six months Naropa gained mahamudra-siddhi, and a light began to flow from his being so intensely that it could be seen as far as a month's journey from his hermitage. His fame spread like wildfire, and devotees flocked to him from the four quarters of the world.
After years of tireless devotion to his countless disciples, he was assumed bodily into the Paradise of the Dakinis.
