“Taxi.” Sumeet shouted at a passing black-and-yellow Fiat, the trademark Mumbai taxi. The cab drove right past him.
“Stop.” He shook his fist. “Stupid fucking taxis.”
“Chill man, maybe that guy is done for the day.” His buddy Prakash said.
“Yeah, we’ll get another one.” Naveen agreed.
Sumeet scowled and muttered to himself. He pushed back his curly locks of hair, which he hadn’t cut or even combed for months. A few minutes later, they found a taxi.
“Man, I’m exhausted.” Prakash said, as he sunk into the back seat. Clean-shaven and with a military-length haircut, he was the shortest of the three. “These evening tution classes kill me.”
“Welcome to second semester Engineering.” Naveen said. The thinnest of the three, he ducked his six-foot tall frame into the front seat. “Life is gonna be like that now.” He toyed with the dial of his brand new Titan watch.
Sumeet, the most muscular of the three, bustled into the back seat, and slammed the door shut. “Napeansea Road.”
There was traffic in Bandra, even at eight in the evening. A cacophony of car horns complimented the smell of exhaust fumes. They stopped at a red light, next to an occupied rickshaw.
“Fuck you,” Sumeet yelled at the rickshaw, for no apparent reason.
“What happened?” Naveen asked.
“Fuck everyone.” Sumeet glared outside.
“What’s with him?” Naveen asked Prakash this time.
Prakash rolled his eyes. “You know, the usual.”
“Girl trouble?” Naveen said.
“You know that babe Priya?” Prakash said. “Our man has a crush on her.”
Naveen nodded. He removed his rectangular-framed spectacles and wiped them. “She is quite hot.”
“Priya is just a bitch.” Sumeet said.
“Ooooh, bahut yaarana lagta hai,” Prakash grinned. Naveen laughed.
“Shut up,” Sumeet growled. “She doesn’t return my calls. Did you see how she ignored me in class today?”
“Man, forget about her.” Prakash said. “She’s not worth it.”
“Fuck her.” Sumeet said. “Fuck them all.”
At the next signal, Sumeet again cursed at nearby cars.
“Take it easy.” Naveen said. “Why abuse random people?”
Sumeet ignored him. He turned to a green Fiat, which had a driver and one passenger. “Fuck you’ll, haraams.” He flipped his middle finger at them. “Bhen Chod”
Naveen shook his head. He rolled his window down for air, with his elbow sticking out. Their taxi drove on, and Sumeet abused away to his heart’s content. They were halfway home when Prakash turned around and looked behind. He did this a few times in quick succession. “You know what? That green Fiat our man abused is following us.”
“No way, man.” Naveen dismissed the notion. “That was ten minutes ago. They can’t have followed us all the way.”
“Yeah,” Sumeet said. “Why would they do that?”
“Look, I don’t know why and shit,” Prakash said. “All I know is that two cars behind us, I see a green Fiat that looks exactly same.”
Naveen craned his neck. “I don’t see it.”
Sumeet looked around. “Yeah, I don’t see it too.”
“Wait,” Sumeet paused. “Actually, maybe you’re right. I think it’s in the left lane.”
Naveen leaned outside. “What you guys talking about? Where is…”
A screech of tires on concrete cut him off. A Fiat pulled alongside them, green like a leaf. From the front seat, a pair of bloodshot red eyes stared at them, without blinking. The face had a thick beard and the shoulders were the widest that Sumeet had ever seen. The man looked like Sanjay Dutt’s gangster character in the movie Vaastav.
Sumeet felt his pulse rate increase. Naveen pulled himself inside the cab. His face had gone white. Prakash shrunk lower into the back seat.
“Stop the car ahead.” The red eyes never left them as the man said this. It was a command, not a request.
Their cabbie looked across at the green Fiat. Without a word, he pulled the taxi over.
In a flash, the back seat door of their taxi flung open. Outside stood Mr. Red Eyes. Sumeet felt black sandals strike his chest with full force.
“Aaarghhh.” Sumeet screamed. Mr. Red Eyes kicked him again.
“Who you calling bhen chod?” Mr. Red Eyes asked. He grabbed Sumeet’s t-shirt and hauled him outside. He brought his right hand up and slapped Sumeet’s face with the back of his palm. It was the best executed backhand Sumeet had seen in all his years of tennis, complete with back swing and follow through.
Sumeet tasted his own blood. His cheeks burned like a kitchen stove. He brought his hands together. “Please bhaiya, sorry.”
“Take him,” Mr. Red Eyes told the driver of the green Fiat. A stocky man with a twisted frown pushed Sumeet into the back seat of the Fiat.
All this while, Naveen had not moved a muscle. His limbs were frozen stiff as he watched the scene unfold. Mr. Red Eyes stood in front of him. A heavy hand smacked the right side of his face. Naveen yelped and held his face. It was the forehand slap this time.
“Please,” Naveen joined his hands in prayer. Mr. Red Eyes took no notice, caught Naveen’s t-shirt and jerked it upwards. His neck struck against the car door. His new watch hit the door handle, its dial smashed. Mr. Red Eyes did this again. And again.
Naveen moaned. “Please stop.” The searing pain in his neck was becoming unbearable. An open palm smacked his face. His glasses flew off, and hit the door. Naveen saw his frame broken into two pieces. One lens had come off, cracked.
“What you gesturing at us, ha?” Mr. Red Eyes told Naveen, sticking his elbow outward.
“I…I…I was just sitting,” Naveen stammered. Mr. Red Eyes slapped him again.
Naveen cried out. His eyes were on the verge of tears. “Please let me go, please, please.”
Mr. Red Eyes turned to Prakash, who cowered in the back seat, with his eyes were open wide and his jaw dropped down. He kicked Prakash in the shins.
“Owwww” Prakash reacted, clutching his foot. The black sandals thumped against his mid-riff. His face contorted in agony.
“Please stop, bhiaya.” Sumeet said, from the back seat of the green Fiat.
The Fiat driver glared at him. “Why did you’ll have to abuse like that?” He pointed at Mr. Red Eyes. “You pissed him off.”
“Please bhaiya, we are just kids.” Sumeet said.
The driver didn’t respond. His eyes had a glint of sympathy. Mr. Red Eyes slapped Prakash with a backhand, leaving him crouched on the floor.
The driver asked Sumeet, “How old are you’ll?”
“We are in first year of college,” Sumeet replied.
“How did you’ll college kids have such nerve? What is wrong with you’ll?” The driver shook his head.
“Sorry bhaiya, we didn’t know what we were doing.” Sumeet said. “We are small kids.” Sumeet touched his own face. A tooth of his had come loose. He watched his two friends get beaten for no fault of theirs. He felt a twinge of guilt. Damn that Priya. This was her fault.
“Please bhaiya,” Sumeet pleaded. “It will never happen again. We are very sorry.”
The driver looked at him with a penetrating gaze.
Mr. Red Eyes landed another blow, this time to Prakash’s thighs. Prakash didn’t have the energy to even scream. He remained down and waited, like a lamb to be slaughtered.
“Please bhaiya,” Sumeet persisted. “Please leave us, we are small kids.”
The driver looked at him, and at the faces of Prakash and Naveen.
“Ok, that’s enough.” He nudged his passenger, Mr. Red Eyes. But, Mr. Red Eyes brushed him off and planted a backhand slap on Naveen, who didn’t make a sound.
The driver held Mr. Red Eyes arms. “Ok, stop now. They are kids. You already hurt them enough.” His voice had an undertone of reproach.
Mr. Red Eyes glared back at the driver. He looked at the boys, and then at the driver again. He nodded. “Let’s go.”
Sumeet was shoved back into the cab. The green Fiat started up and disappeared as quickly as it had come.
The three friends sat in silence, as their taxi drove ahead. Prakash rubbed different parts of his body. Naveen bent down to retrieve his broken glasses.
“Are…Are you guys alright?” Sumeet managed to say.
“Do we look alright?” Naveen responded, not hiding his sarcasm.
“How’s your neck?” Sumeet gently touched Naveen’s neck. “I’m really sorry this happened.”
“Why the hell did you have to abuse strangers like that?” Naveen said.
“I don’t know,” Sumeet leaned back. “I don’t know what got into me. I was just frustrated. I’m really, really sorry.”
Naveen massaged his neck. “I think I’m just bruised. I’ll live.”
“You okay, Prakash?” Sumeet put a hand on his buddy’s shoulder.
“I…I guess so.” Prakash said.
“My glasses are smashed.” Naveen said. “Also my watch is cracked.”
“We’ll get it fixed tomorrow,” Sumeet said. He noticed that his own t-shirt was torn. “I’ll pay for everything.”
“No man, don’t worry.” Naveen waved him off.
“You’ll be fine.” Sumeet said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll all be fine.”
Sumeet couldn’t shake off the image of the bloodshot eyes. The moment he had seen those eyes, he had known they were in trouble.
They dropped Naveen off first. He lumbered out of the car. “I guess we should be thankful.”
“Thankful?” Sumeet asked.
“Yeah, we could have been killed. We got off easy.”
“Yup,” Sumeet agreed. “Take care, man. See you tomorrow.”
Their wounds healed, but Sumeet had nightmares about that night. In the years that followed, the three of them rarely spoke of the incident. But whenever Sumeet saw a green Fiat, a shiver went down his spine.
Why I Love To Write
Over the past two years, I have poured much of my time and energy into writing a novel. I have attended writing classes, workshops, and seminars. My bookshelf is crowded with books about the craft of writing, all of which I have read and absorbed. I have consistently set aside several hours each week to devote to the task of putting words on a page. I do all of this in my free time, when I am not doing my day job.
Now, there is no one waiting in anticipation to read my story. The odds of being published for a first-time author are negligible. There isn’t a promise of any kind of reward at the end of this arduous journey that I have chosen to go on. So then, why would I do all of this? Am I some kind of nut? Did I fall on my head and lose my senses? Who, in their right mind, would spend hours and hours of their precious leisure time struggling to pen a coherent story that no one else might care about? Do I need psychiatric help? There are tons of other things that I can do with my time. Yet day after day, I find myself glued to the chair in front of my laptop, with my word document open and the cursor blinking expectantly.
I owe it to myself to answer the question of why I want to write. First and foremost, I write to communicate. I am a story-teller at heart. Ever since I was a child, I loved to tell stories, real or made-up, to friends, family or anyone would listen to me. Writing a novel is just an extension of that need to communicate with the world, to share my stories.
Writing is an extraordinary form of communication. It transcends time and space. I am sitting here writing this in Bellevue, USA on November 22nd, 2009. You might be reading it in another city, another country and at some time in the future. Didn’t we just communicate, transcending the barriers of time and space? I can write a story today about a horrific car accident in the snow and how the passengers heroically survived. This story might somehow be read five years later by a twenty-two year old in London, who had a similar accident soon after getting his driver’s license. He might relate to the story I’ve written. Now, I don’t know this person and he doesn’t know me. We are not even in the same year together, let alone the same room. Yet, we have connected with each other. Writing is a form of telepathy, a meeting of the minds. Writing is magic.
Another compelling reason for my passion to write is the simple joy of creation. When I write my story, I feel like I am playing God. I have built an imaginary world. I have put people in this world and I decide what happens in the lives of these people. I make them laugh. I make them cry. I make them scared. I make them endure ordeal after ordeal and watch them learn and grow as people. As I do this, I get a feeling of euphoria of creating something, where nothing previously existed. Like a mother giving birth to a child. A novel is a fictional world breathed into life by the author’s imagination. There is nothing that compares to the wonder of creation.
Finally, writing a novel serves as an un-paralleled vehicle for self-discovery. The underlying themes of the novel reflect the personality of the author. My life in the real world is mundane. I go to work, come back home, watch television, and hang out with friends on weekends. Nothing exceptional really happens. But, for the characters in my stories, all sorts of things happen. They have to survive a deadly flood, fight against a snarling dog, diffuse a bomb, jump into a moving train, dig themselves out from an underground hole, and so on. As I write these scenes, I experience the ordeals along with my characters. I see through their eyes, and feel with their heart. I laugh and cry with them. I feel their fear, joy and pain. Their reactions and emotions are indicative of my own state of mind. Writing these stories reveals to me, my fears and internal conflicts, my strengths and weaknesses, my likes and dislikes, my relationships to family and friends, my attitudes towards the world, my driving motivations and hopes for the future. Novel writing is sometimes like a free session with a psychiatrist to uncover the hidden secrets locked away in my subconscious mind. It is an effective way to truly understand what makes me tick.
I believe I have answered the question to my own satisfaction. These are enough reasons to write. Now, all days at the writing desk are not the same. On some days, writing is easy and the words flow onto the page like running water from an open tap. On other days, writing is hard, and getting any output is like trying to squeeze out the last bit of toothpaste from an empty tube. But above all, when I start creating my stories and get into the zone of writing, it is just bliss.
Now, there is no one waiting in anticipation to read my story. The odds of being published for a first-time author are negligible. There isn’t a promise of any kind of reward at the end of this arduous journey that I have chosen to go on. So then, why would I do all of this? Am I some kind of nut? Did I fall on my head and lose my senses? Who, in their right mind, would spend hours and hours of their precious leisure time struggling to pen a coherent story that no one else might care about? Do I need psychiatric help? There are tons of other things that I can do with my time. Yet day after day, I find myself glued to the chair in front of my laptop, with my word document open and the cursor blinking expectantly.
I owe it to myself to answer the question of why I want to write. First and foremost, I write to communicate. I am a story-teller at heart. Ever since I was a child, I loved to tell stories, real or made-up, to friends, family or anyone would listen to me. Writing a novel is just an extension of that need to communicate with the world, to share my stories.
Writing is an extraordinary form of communication. It transcends time and space. I am sitting here writing this in Bellevue, USA on November 22nd, 2009. You might be reading it in another city, another country and at some time in the future. Didn’t we just communicate, transcending the barriers of time and space? I can write a story today about a horrific car accident in the snow and how the passengers heroically survived. This story might somehow be read five years later by a twenty-two year old in London, who had a similar accident soon after getting his driver’s license. He might relate to the story I’ve written. Now, I don’t know this person and he doesn’t know me. We are not even in the same year together, let alone the same room. Yet, we have connected with each other. Writing is a form of telepathy, a meeting of the minds. Writing is magic.
Another compelling reason for my passion to write is the simple joy of creation. When I write my story, I feel like I am playing God. I have built an imaginary world. I have put people in this world and I decide what happens in the lives of these people. I make them laugh. I make them cry. I make them scared. I make them endure ordeal after ordeal and watch them learn and grow as people. As I do this, I get a feeling of euphoria of creating something, where nothing previously existed. Like a mother giving birth to a child. A novel is a fictional world breathed into life by the author’s imagination. There is nothing that compares to the wonder of creation.
Finally, writing a novel serves as an un-paralleled vehicle for self-discovery. The underlying themes of the novel reflect the personality of the author. My life in the real world is mundane. I go to work, come back home, watch television, and hang out with friends on weekends. Nothing exceptional really happens. But, for the characters in my stories, all sorts of things happen. They have to survive a deadly flood, fight against a snarling dog, diffuse a bomb, jump into a moving train, dig themselves out from an underground hole, and so on. As I write these scenes, I experience the ordeals along with my characters. I see through their eyes, and feel with their heart. I laugh and cry with them. I feel their fear, joy and pain. Their reactions and emotions are indicative of my own state of mind. Writing these stories reveals to me, my fears and internal conflicts, my strengths and weaknesses, my likes and dislikes, my relationships to family and friends, my attitudes towards the world, my driving motivations and hopes for the future. Novel writing is sometimes like a free session with a psychiatrist to uncover the hidden secrets locked away in my subconscious mind. It is an effective way to truly understand what makes me tick.
I believe I have answered the question to my own satisfaction. These are enough reasons to write. Now, all days at the writing desk are not the same. On some days, writing is easy and the words flow onto the page like running water from an open tap. On other days, writing is hard, and getting any output is like trying to squeeze out the last bit of toothpaste from an empty tube. But above all, when I start creating my stories and get into the zone of writing, it is just bliss.
Compassion
I jumped into the taxi, already running late for my interview. “180 Maiden Lane,” I barked to the driver. This was my second interview of the week in Manhattan and I was keen not to mess it up.
The man sitting behind the wheel turned around and smiled at me as he started the meter and pulled the car ahead. He had a thick white beard that covered a large part of his face and wrinkles on his forehead revealing his relative old age. He gave the impression of a man who had experienced much pain in his life. Yet his eyes were soft and kind, like a child.
There was bumper-to-bumper traffic in downtown Manhattan at eleven in the morning. I twitched in the back seat and shifted from one side to the other. The blaring siren of an approaching ambulance rose above all other sounds. It came from behind me. My taxi pulled over to clear space for the ambulance. I saw that many of the other cars still continued forward on the same road. This was not surprising. In New York, people are always in a rush and sometimes couldn’t be bothered to move aside in spite of the loud sirens.
I glanced at my watch. Only fifteen minutes left for the scheduled interview time, and we were still some distance away.
“Can we go ahead?” I told the driver. The sirens became louder as the ambulance approached. The cars that hadn’t got out of the way obstructed it’s path.
The driver looked at me, but made no attempt to move the car forward.
“Listen, I am very late for an interview.” I explained. “I really have to get moving fast.”
The cabbie continued to stare at me for a moment longer. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Meanwhile, the ambulance roared past us. My cabbie changed lanes and drove ahead.
In a quiet voice, the cabbie said. “What if your mother or brother were in a critical condition?”
“Ha? What?” I didn’t hear him properly.
“What if your mother had an accident and was losing blood. What if she had to get to the hospital quickly and every minute mattered in order to save her life. Then wouldn’t you want all the cars to get out of the way of that ambulance?” His voice was gentle, yet powerful and captured my full attention.
I took a moment to register the question. The image of my mother lying on a stretcher with blood-covered sheets and a glucose drip hanging above came vividly to me. “Yes, I would.”
“Then, what would you think of some twenty-five year old who had an important interview and told his cab driver to refuse to get out of the way? What if those extra seconds delay could cost your mother her life?”
With the scene still pictured in my mind, I responded with anger. “I would think he is an asshole. Who cares about some stupid interview when my mother could die?”
“Right,” The white beard nodded up and down slowly. “Right.”
I took a deep breath, shook away the image in my head and realized what I had just done.
“The person in that ambulance must be someone’s mother or brother or wife, wouldn’t you think?” The driver asked.
I nodded sheepishly. I shrunk back into my seat, despising myself for my self-centeredness and complete lack of concern for the other person’s suffering. My interview was the last thing on my mind, as I spent the rest of the journey in silent reflection.
Compassion is defined as the feeling of deep sympathy for another persons’ misfortune and a heartfelt desire to alleviate their suffering. It stems from a genuine concern for the welfare of others. All human beings no matter how smart or dumb, tall or short, good-looking or ugly, have the potential to be compassionate. It is at the core of our humanity.
Arthur Schopenhauer, a renowned German philosopher from the early nineteenth century posed an interesting question in his paper about the basis of morality. If the most basic human instinct is that of survival, if the primal urge is to stay alive, then how come we hear stories all the time of people who put their own lives at risk in order to save others? We hear such stories during wars, terrorist attacks, natural disasters like earthquakes and tsunamis. What makes people do such selfless acts?
Schopenhauer tells a story to illustrate this. In a small German town there was a hill with tall boulders on either side. A police car drove to the top of the hill. The cop who was driving saw a small boy standing on the edge, leaning forward as though he were about to jump. The cop immediately ran out from the car and grabbed the boy’s hand just as he jumped. The boy was airborne, falling down and the cop was falling with him. Yet the cop didn’t let go off the boy. Then, his partner who had been in the passenger seat, caught him by the feet and pulled them both up. This incident was all over the papers. When the first cop was interviewed, he was asked about why he caught the boy and held on to him, even though he knew he was falling with him.
The cop simply answered “I don’t know, but I just couldn’t let go. If I had let that little boy go, I couldn’t have lived a single day of the rest of my life.”
Schopenhauer asks How come? How is this possible? The boy was a stranger to the cop. He hadn’t seen him before in his life. Yet in that single instant of time, the cop forgot all about his own family, his duties, his aspirations for the future, and everything else. He was right there with the boy, about to willingly fall down the hill to certain death.
Schopenhauer’s answer is that it was the breakthrough of a metaphysical realization that the cop and the boy are one, and that their separateness is only an illusory effect. The truth that was spontaneously realized by that cop was that he and the boy were both part of the same life force, the same universal consciousness. They were like two living cells of the same living organism. Schopenhauer goes on to say that this form of compassion is the basis of human morality.
It is not enough to understand compassion as an abstract concept. It must be embedded in our consciousness and imbibed into our daily lives. This is not easy. The virtue of compassion takes time and practice to cultivate. We have to develop it like we would any other skill.
We can start with a simple exercise, which goes back to the lesson taught to me by the humble cabbie: Think about someone who you dearly love and cannot do without like a parent or a spouse. Now, imagine this person lying on a bed, suffering extreme physical pain. Their clothes are drenched in blood. Several of their bones are shattered. Their face is contorted as they scream in agony at the top of their lungs. Their body has convulsions and the screams get louder and louder.
How does this scene make you feel? Do you feel their grief? Don’t you want to do something, anything you can, to reduce their pain, even if it means that you have to share some of it? Imagine that you take away some of their pain, and it makes them feel better. Their pain is your pain. Experience the sense of lightness and joy that such empathy brings you. Now, repeat this exercise with your larger circle of friends and family, and then your acquaintances and people whom you have met even once. Next, extend this deep feeling of compassion that you experience to everyone in the whole world. After all, every human being wants to be happy and free from suffering.
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. All things are interconnected in ways that we cannot fully comprehend. Every thought, word or action that we direct towards others around us will be reflected back to us. Life is not a solo journey, and we are not separate, disjoint entities. We are all part of the same universal consciousness. The blood that courses through my veins comes from the same source as the blood that flows through yours. Your pain is my pain. Your bliss is my bliss. Whatever happens to you affects me in some mysterious, inexplicable way. Quoting Led Zeppelin in the classic song Stairway to Heaven “If you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last, when all are one and one is all.”
I’ve come to realize that happiness is synonymous with kindness. To be happy, we must first make others happy. Open up your heart and you will be able to make the world a better place. In all thoughts, word and acts, we must remember the Golden Rule: treat others the way we wish to be treated ourselves.
The man sitting behind the wheel turned around and smiled at me as he started the meter and pulled the car ahead. He had a thick white beard that covered a large part of his face and wrinkles on his forehead revealing his relative old age. He gave the impression of a man who had experienced much pain in his life. Yet his eyes were soft and kind, like a child.
There was bumper-to-bumper traffic in downtown Manhattan at eleven in the morning. I twitched in the back seat and shifted from one side to the other. The blaring siren of an approaching ambulance rose above all other sounds. It came from behind me. My taxi pulled over to clear space for the ambulance. I saw that many of the other cars still continued forward on the same road. This was not surprising. In New York, people are always in a rush and sometimes couldn’t be bothered to move aside in spite of the loud sirens.
I glanced at my watch. Only fifteen minutes left for the scheduled interview time, and we were still some distance away.
“Can we go ahead?” I told the driver. The sirens became louder as the ambulance approached. The cars that hadn’t got out of the way obstructed it’s path.
The driver looked at me, but made no attempt to move the car forward.
“Listen, I am very late for an interview.” I explained. “I really have to get moving fast.”
The cabbie continued to stare at me for a moment longer. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Meanwhile, the ambulance roared past us. My cabbie changed lanes and drove ahead.
In a quiet voice, the cabbie said. “What if your mother or brother were in a critical condition?”
“Ha? What?” I didn’t hear him properly.
“What if your mother had an accident and was losing blood. What if she had to get to the hospital quickly and every minute mattered in order to save her life. Then wouldn’t you want all the cars to get out of the way of that ambulance?” His voice was gentle, yet powerful and captured my full attention.
I took a moment to register the question. The image of my mother lying on a stretcher with blood-covered sheets and a glucose drip hanging above came vividly to me. “Yes, I would.”
“Then, what would you think of some twenty-five year old who had an important interview and told his cab driver to refuse to get out of the way? What if those extra seconds delay could cost your mother her life?”
With the scene still pictured in my mind, I responded with anger. “I would think he is an asshole. Who cares about some stupid interview when my mother could die?”
“Right,” The white beard nodded up and down slowly. “Right.”
I took a deep breath, shook away the image in my head and realized what I had just done.
“The person in that ambulance must be someone’s mother or brother or wife, wouldn’t you think?” The driver asked.
I nodded sheepishly. I shrunk back into my seat, despising myself for my self-centeredness and complete lack of concern for the other person’s suffering. My interview was the last thing on my mind, as I spent the rest of the journey in silent reflection.
Compassion is defined as the feeling of deep sympathy for another persons’ misfortune and a heartfelt desire to alleviate their suffering. It stems from a genuine concern for the welfare of others. All human beings no matter how smart or dumb, tall or short, good-looking or ugly, have the potential to be compassionate. It is at the core of our humanity.
Arthur Schopenhauer, a renowned German philosopher from the early nineteenth century posed an interesting question in his paper about the basis of morality. If the most basic human instinct is that of survival, if the primal urge is to stay alive, then how come we hear stories all the time of people who put their own lives at risk in order to save others? We hear such stories during wars, terrorist attacks, natural disasters like earthquakes and tsunamis. What makes people do such selfless acts?
Schopenhauer tells a story to illustrate this. In a small German town there was a hill with tall boulders on either side. A police car drove to the top of the hill. The cop who was driving saw a small boy standing on the edge, leaning forward as though he were about to jump. The cop immediately ran out from the car and grabbed the boy’s hand just as he jumped. The boy was airborne, falling down and the cop was falling with him. Yet the cop didn’t let go off the boy. Then, his partner who had been in the passenger seat, caught him by the feet and pulled them both up. This incident was all over the papers. When the first cop was interviewed, he was asked about why he caught the boy and held on to him, even though he knew he was falling with him.
The cop simply answered “I don’t know, but I just couldn’t let go. If I had let that little boy go, I couldn’t have lived a single day of the rest of my life.”
Schopenhauer asks How come? How is this possible? The boy was a stranger to the cop. He hadn’t seen him before in his life. Yet in that single instant of time, the cop forgot all about his own family, his duties, his aspirations for the future, and everything else. He was right there with the boy, about to willingly fall down the hill to certain death.
Schopenhauer’s answer is that it was the breakthrough of a metaphysical realization that the cop and the boy are one, and that their separateness is only an illusory effect. The truth that was spontaneously realized by that cop was that he and the boy were both part of the same life force, the same universal consciousness. They were like two living cells of the same living organism. Schopenhauer goes on to say that this form of compassion is the basis of human morality.
It is not enough to understand compassion as an abstract concept. It must be embedded in our consciousness and imbibed into our daily lives. This is not easy. The virtue of compassion takes time and practice to cultivate. We have to develop it like we would any other skill.
We can start with a simple exercise, which goes back to the lesson taught to me by the humble cabbie: Think about someone who you dearly love and cannot do without like a parent or a spouse. Now, imagine this person lying on a bed, suffering extreme physical pain. Their clothes are drenched in blood. Several of their bones are shattered. Their face is contorted as they scream in agony at the top of their lungs. Their body has convulsions and the screams get louder and louder.
How does this scene make you feel? Do you feel their grief? Don’t you want to do something, anything you can, to reduce their pain, even if it means that you have to share some of it? Imagine that you take away some of their pain, and it makes them feel better. Their pain is your pain. Experience the sense of lightness and joy that such empathy brings you. Now, repeat this exercise with your larger circle of friends and family, and then your acquaintances and people whom you have met even once. Next, extend this deep feeling of compassion that you experience to everyone in the whole world. After all, every human being wants to be happy and free from suffering.
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. All things are interconnected in ways that we cannot fully comprehend. Every thought, word or action that we direct towards others around us will be reflected back to us. Life is not a solo journey, and we are not separate, disjoint entities. We are all part of the same universal consciousness. The blood that courses through my veins comes from the same source as the blood that flows through yours. Your pain is my pain. Your bliss is my bliss. Whatever happens to you affects me in some mysterious, inexplicable way. Quoting Led Zeppelin in the classic song Stairway to Heaven “If you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last, when all are one and one is all.”
I’ve come to realize that happiness is synonymous with kindness. To be happy, we must first make others happy. Open up your heart and you will be able to make the world a better place. In all thoughts, word and acts, we must remember the Golden Rule: treat others the way we wish to be treated ourselves.
The Explosive Dinner
“Do we have any food to eat at home?” Marvin asked his apartment-mate Naveen, who was seated idly on the couch, reading a magazine. Without waiting for a reply, Marvin opened cupboard after cupboard in the kitchen, to search for edibles. Naveen watched his buddy with a bemused smile. It had been a year since the two of them had arrived in Philadelphia for their graduate studies at the University of Pennsylvania. They had been sharing that spacious two bedroom place in the University District ever since.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marvin asked.
“Always.” Naveen said.
“So, what do you plan to do about it?”
Naveen shrugged his shoulders, and flipped the pages of his magazine. Marvin frowned and continued his search.
“Ah, we have peas.” He proclaimed. “And we have potatoes too.”
"Nice,” Naveen said.
“Let’s cook something.” Marvin enthused. “We even have some onions.”
Naveen nodded, but made no attempt to rise from his comfortable position on the couch.
Marvin got into action mode, bringing out knives and pans. He put the peas in the microwave for thawing and then started to chop the onions.
“What are you just sitting there?” Marvin demanded. “C’mon and do some work.”
“My specialty is eating.” Naveen replied, tongue-in-cheek. “I’ll do a good job at that.”
“If you want to eat, get into the kitchen and work.”
“Fine, fine.” Naveen slowly got up and ambled into the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you boil the potatoes?”
Naveen obeyed and then stood by for further instructions. Marvin was cooking the onions, adding some spices, and cutting tomatoes, all at the same time. Naveen watched him and almost felt as though his apartment-mate had grown an extra pair of limbs.
“Can you get the pressure cooker?” Marvin said. Naveen handed him the bulky utensil that had been imported into their kitchen from India.
Marvin mixed together all the pieces of the food puzzle, such as the peas, potatoes, onions, spices, water, and so on, into the pressure cooker and simmered them for a while. He then shut the lid, put the stove on high heat and stepped back.
“Good job,” Naveen said. He went back to reading his magazine.
Marvin paced back and forth like a caged animal. From time to time, he would lift the top valve of the cooker to release some steam. He kept checking his watch. He tried to increase the heat on the stove, even though it was already on full.
“How much time will this thing take?” Marvin muttered. Naveen glanced up from his magazine, but didn’t offer any response. Marvin continued to stride about and toy with his watch.
“Relax,” Naveen said.
“Dude, I’m hungry.” Marvin said. “This damn thing is not getting done.”
“It’s going on releasing steam.” Marvin said, as the cooker let out a whistle and blew some more steam.
“Yeah, that’s how a pressure cooker works.” Naveen seated himself on the couch.
A few more minutes passed and Marvin hovered above the cooker with a clenched fist. He lifted the valve and let out the steam for an extended period.
“That’s it,” Marvin declared. “I’m done waiting. I’m opening it.”
“I don’t think you should…” Naveen began, but, he didn’t get a chance to complete his sentence.
As soon as Marvin pulled off the lid of the cooker, a loud explosion filled the room.
“Aaaarghhh,” Marvin screeched, clutching his left forearm. Naveen rushed into the kitchen. The sight before him was horrific. There were peas and potatoes everywhere he looked. The little pieces were on the floor, on the microwave, on the refrigerator, on the counters. The gravy had splattered all over the stove, countertops, and some had spilled to the floor.
“Frickin’ hell.” Marvin exclaimed.
“Are you alright?”
“No, I’m not alright. Do I look alright?”
“What happened?”
“I got burned by the frickin’ thing that exploded out of the cooker.”
“Our dinner, you mean?”
“Yea…Yeah,” Marvin stuttered. “Our dinner.”
Naveen was barely able to conceal a grin.
“Stop laughing.” Marvin commanded.
“C’mon, it’s funny, man.” Naveen said, smiling. “Just a look at this place. Didn’t you know not to open a pressure cooker before it releases all the steam?”
“Yeah, but it was just not getting done.”
Naveen handed Marvin some ice, who applied it his forearm, where he had the burn.
“Your arm doesn’t look so bad. You’ll be fine,” Naveen said. He looked around. “All that effort gone to waste. Now, let’s clean this place up.”
So, the two of them proceeded to wipe the gravy and clean away the peas and potatoes from all the tiny crevices that the pieces had managed to find a way into. It was a laborious task that took them nearly an hour before the mess was cleared up.
“Okay,” Naveen said, surveying the kitchen. “I think we got most of it. The place seems back to normal.”
“Yeah,” Marvin agreed. “But dude, I’m still hungry, what are we doing for dinner?”
Naveen doubled over to the floor, laughing.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marvin asked.
“Always.” Naveen said.
“So, what do you plan to do about it?”
Naveen shrugged his shoulders, and flipped the pages of his magazine. Marvin frowned and continued his search.
“Ah, we have peas.” He proclaimed. “And we have potatoes too.”
"Nice,” Naveen said.
“Let’s cook something.” Marvin enthused. “We even have some onions.”
Naveen nodded, but made no attempt to rise from his comfortable position on the couch.
Marvin got into action mode, bringing out knives and pans. He put the peas in the microwave for thawing and then started to chop the onions.
“What are you just sitting there?” Marvin demanded. “C’mon and do some work.”
“My specialty is eating.” Naveen replied, tongue-in-cheek. “I’ll do a good job at that.”
“If you want to eat, get into the kitchen and work.”
“Fine, fine.” Naveen slowly got up and ambled into the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you boil the potatoes?”
Naveen obeyed and then stood by for further instructions. Marvin was cooking the onions, adding some spices, and cutting tomatoes, all at the same time. Naveen watched him and almost felt as though his apartment-mate had grown an extra pair of limbs.
“Can you get the pressure cooker?” Marvin said. Naveen handed him the bulky utensil that had been imported into their kitchen from India.
Marvin mixed together all the pieces of the food puzzle, such as the peas, potatoes, onions, spices, water, and so on, into the pressure cooker and simmered them for a while. He then shut the lid, put the stove on high heat and stepped back.
“Good job,” Naveen said. He went back to reading his magazine.
Marvin paced back and forth like a caged animal. From time to time, he would lift the top valve of the cooker to release some steam. He kept checking his watch. He tried to increase the heat on the stove, even though it was already on full.
“How much time will this thing take?” Marvin muttered. Naveen glanced up from his magazine, but didn’t offer any response. Marvin continued to stride about and toy with his watch.
“Relax,” Naveen said.
“Dude, I’m hungry.” Marvin said. “This damn thing is not getting done.”
“It’s going on releasing steam.” Marvin said, as the cooker let out a whistle and blew some more steam.
“Yeah, that’s how a pressure cooker works.” Naveen seated himself on the couch.
A few more minutes passed and Marvin hovered above the cooker with a clenched fist. He lifted the valve and let out the steam for an extended period.
“That’s it,” Marvin declared. “I’m done waiting. I’m opening it.”
“I don’t think you should…” Naveen began, but, he didn’t get a chance to complete his sentence.
As soon as Marvin pulled off the lid of the cooker, a loud explosion filled the room.
“Aaaarghhh,” Marvin screeched, clutching his left forearm. Naveen rushed into the kitchen. The sight before him was horrific. There were peas and potatoes everywhere he looked. The little pieces were on the floor, on the microwave, on the refrigerator, on the counters. The gravy had splattered all over the stove, countertops, and some had spilled to the floor.
“Frickin’ hell.” Marvin exclaimed.
“Are you alright?”
“No, I’m not alright. Do I look alright?”
“What happened?”
“I got burned by the frickin’ thing that exploded out of the cooker.”
“Our dinner, you mean?”
“Yea…Yeah,” Marvin stuttered. “Our dinner.”
Naveen was barely able to conceal a grin.
“Stop laughing.” Marvin commanded.
“C’mon, it’s funny, man.” Naveen said, smiling. “Just a look at this place. Didn’t you know not to open a pressure cooker before it releases all the steam?”
“Yeah, but it was just not getting done.”
Naveen handed Marvin some ice, who applied it his forearm, where he had the burn.
“Your arm doesn’t look so bad. You’ll be fine,” Naveen said. He looked around. “All that effort gone to waste. Now, let’s clean this place up.”
So, the two of them proceeded to wipe the gravy and clean away the peas and potatoes from all the tiny crevices that the pieces had managed to find a way into. It was a laborious task that took them nearly an hour before the mess was cleared up.
“Okay,” Naveen said, surveying the kitchen. “I think we got most of it. The place seems back to normal.”
“Yeah,” Marvin agreed. “But dude, I’m still hungry, what are we doing for dinner?”
Naveen doubled over to the floor, laughing.
Point of View
The Sufi sage Mullah Nasuruddin was passing by a town marketplace when he saw a crowd of people gathered around two men, who were engaged in a heated quarrel. Each of them argued with an opposing view.
“Calm down.” Nasuruddin intervened in the dispute. “What’s the problem?”
One of the combatants told his side of the story.
“You’re right.” Nasuruddin said, after listening quietly.
“But, you haven’t heard my point.” The other man yelled.
Nasuruddin heard the second man out, and responded with equal certainty, “You’re right.”
“Wait a moment,” said a bystander who had been listening, “They can’t both be right.”
Nasuruddin looked at the bystander and nodded. “You’re right.”
Everyone is right from their point of view. People look at the same thing from different perspectives. One man’s meat is another man’s poison. If a coin is held in between two people seated directly across each other, one of them will see heads, the other will see tails. And they will both be right.
During one rainy day in the midst of the Mumbai monsoon, the compound of my building was covered with puddles and slush, and muddy water all over. I was seated on the steps of the building as I saw one of my friends, Ravi, approaching. He surveyed the scene with a look of disgust.
“Yuck,” He exclaimed, as he gingerly took one step at a time, trying to avoid the puddles. He grimaced. “This is filthy muck. Everything gets so dirty in the monsoons in this country.”
A few minutes later, another friend, Karan came to the compound. He had a broad smile on his face.
“La la la la,” He hummed out loud as he hopped and skipped through the muddy water, unafraid to get his feet wet.
“Don’t you love the monsoon?” He grinned at me.
Two people, two ways of looking at things. Seven billions human beings, seven billion mental perceptions of the world.
This is something to think about the next time you get into an argument where you are convinced that you are right and the other person is wrong. Maybe, the other person is looking at the coin from a different angle. Maybe, from his angle, he is right. Or maybe, there is no right or wrong, just different points of view.
“Calm down.” Nasuruddin intervened in the dispute. “What’s the problem?”
One of the combatants told his side of the story.
“You’re right.” Nasuruddin said, after listening quietly.
“But, you haven’t heard my point.” The other man yelled.
Nasuruddin heard the second man out, and responded with equal certainty, “You’re right.”
“Wait a moment,” said a bystander who had been listening, “They can’t both be right.”
Nasuruddin looked at the bystander and nodded. “You’re right.”
Everyone is right from their point of view. People look at the same thing from different perspectives. One man’s meat is another man’s poison. If a coin is held in between two people seated directly across each other, one of them will see heads, the other will see tails. And they will both be right.
During one rainy day in the midst of the Mumbai monsoon, the compound of my building was covered with puddles and slush, and muddy water all over. I was seated on the steps of the building as I saw one of my friends, Ravi, approaching. He surveyed the scene with a look of disgust.
“Yuck,” He exclaimed, as he gingerly took one step at a time, trying to avoid the puddles. He grimaced. “This is filthy muck. Everything gets so dirty in the monsoons in this country.”
A few minutes later, another friend, Karan came to the compound. He had a broad smile on his face.
“La la la la,” He hummed out loud as he hopped and skipped through the muddy water, unafraid to get his feet wet.
“Don’t you love the monsoon?” He grinned at me.
Two people, two ways of looking at things. Seven billions human beings, seven billion mental perceptions of the world.
This is something to think about the next time you get into an argument where you are convinced that you are right and the other person is wrong. Maybe, the other person is looking at the coin from a different angle. Maybe, from his angle, he is right. Or maybe, there is no right or wrong, just different points of view.
Footrock
Tarragona, Spain.
The sky was clear and as blue as a swimming pool. The sun shone brightly, its rays illuminating every earthly object. The fifth day of our Euro trip was a perfect day for the beach. Soft, white sand stretched out for acres, ending at foot of gentle waves cascading from the vast, expansive ocean. The water was cool and clean. It sparkled in the sunlight.
My old college buddies and I had already had an adventurous trip so far. From football matches to drunken parties, from a backpacker’s hostel to foosball contests, we had a fair share of memories for five guys on what might have been our last bachelor trip before one of us got married.
Before reaching the beach, our lunch at a local restaurant had been another ordeal of communication, as we scanned through pages of a Spanish language survival book and hopelessly attempted to interpret the menu items. The hardest thing was getting something vegetariano. Despite our fast-improving Spanish skills, we could find no better food selection other than the usual Paiea, Tapas and Sangrias, all of which had become our staple diet for the duration of our stay in Spain.
Post lunch, we wasted no time in getting to the beach. The sand was adorned with colorful beach umbrellas, well spaced apart. Groups of people played frisbee, volleyball and various other games. We discovered that on beaches in Europe, the women don’t feel the need to wear a top. They were happy to put their assets on display. And we in turn, were equally happy to behold. After ambling along in sand for a while, taking in the variety of sights and sounds on offer, we finally settled on a spot where we spread out our beach towels and made camp.
“Let’s play.” Someone threw a football at me. The ball was brown like the rocks that lay by the side of the sand. I caught it and kicked it back.
We formed a wide circle and kicked the ball to each other. A few dudes, who had been standing by watching, approached us. They were visiting Spain from Saudi Arabia, and invited us to play a competitive game. We readily agreed. It was five of us against four of them.
Within minutes of kickoff, the Saudis ran through us with a series of rapid passes, before tapping into the goal. They yelled to each other in a language we couldn't understand. Our slight numerical advantage counted for nothing. They blazed past us again, and scored another one. It was 2-0 and time for us to regroup.
“We have to defend properly.” Prakash said. “We have to stop them.” He turned to me. “Naveen, you are on defense now. Mark that guy.” He gestured towards the tall, lanky Saudi who sported a goatee, and had scored the second goal. “Don’t let him get away from you.” Mr. Goatee grinned back at me, apparently cognizant of the fact that I had been assigned to mark him.
Play resumed and I stayed close to my target. If he moved left, I followed suit. If he moved right, I was there. I didn’t let him get more than a half-step away from me.
The ball was airborne and flew past to the left of where I was. I dashed towards it. Mr. Goatee was on my heels. But, I was determined to not let him pass me. With my eyes locked in laser focus on the ball, I stepped forward and swung my left foot towards the ball.
“Naveen…” I may have heard a warning cry. But it was too late. I had already made the kick.
Instead of striking a soft football, the side of my left foot connected with a solid brown rock. A bolt of pain darted through my leg.
“Aaaarghhh..” I screeched, clutching my foot and falling to the sand.
People gathered around me. I heard a cacophony of voices.
“What the hell happened?”
“Are you okay, man?”
“The guy just kicked a rock with full force.”
“A rock? Why would he do something so stupid?”
“I think he was going for the football.”
I heard muffled laughter. Blood oozed from the left side of my left foot. I blinked and took deep breaths. The foot was swelling up before my eyes.
“Dude, seriously, are you okay?” I made out Prakash’s voice asking me.
I gingerly touched my foot. I stood up and limped forward a couple of steps.
“Whoa dude, don’t go anywhere. Just stay there.” Prakash commanded. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up.” He emptied a couple of bottles of water on my leg to wash off the blood. The viscous red liquid trickled out from cuts in the foot.
“We need to get stuff from a pharmacy, like antiseptics and stuff.” Prakash said.
“Let me sit down a bit.” I grunted. “We’ll see then.”
So, I parked myself in the sand, with one hand on my foot. I stared at the wound, and didn’t say a word. Meanwhile, the Saudis were getting restless. They politely inquired if we would get on with the game.
“I can’t believe he kicked a rock.” Mr.Goatee shook his head. “Did he not see it?”
“This is foot ball, man.” He told me. “Not foot rock.”
“Yeah,” Prakash agreed. “What the hell were you thinking?”
I started to form a reply, and then stopped myself, thinking better off it. How could I possibly convince anyone that I was too focused on the ball, that I actually didn’t see the rock? Did it help my case that the ball and the rock were both brown? Probably not. A football and a rock aren’t objects that one generally confuses with each other.
They decided to continue playing while I sat there recuperating. It was now four on four. Few minutes later, I came to the conclusion that staring at the foot wasn’t actually healing it in any perceptible way.
I heaved myself up. “I’m going to find a pharmacy.”
The game paused, as my buddies turned to me.
“Are you sure you are up for it?” Suresh asked.
“There should be something back where those restaurants are.” Sohail chimed in.
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Prakash asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I need some money though.”
Sohail, who was our official accountant, handed me a wad of Euros.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Suresh asked again.
I wasn’t sure of that, but I wanted the gang to stay there and get a few goals back against the Saudis. So, I just smiled and nodded.
“If you are going there, can you get us a few bottles of water?” Sohail said casually.
I nodded, and went on my way. I had been demoted from key defender to water boy. My friends watched me hobble off. They seemed uncertain whether to continue playing or to follow me.
“I’ll see you’ll in a bit.” I said, trying to sound confident.
My foot held up remarkably well. I felt sure there were no broken bones. But it was swollen and bloody. It took me ten minutes to reach the restaurants. I stepped inside the first one, and surveyed the scene. There were several circular tables with fours chairs around them, but no occupants. The only customer was making a purchase at a counter.
“Muchas Gracias” Said a lady, after receiving a strawberry ice-cream.
The man behind the ice-cream counter looked like an Indian. I hadn’t expected to see any of my countrymen in the small town of Tarragona.
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I decided to stick to our standard conversation starter.
“Habla English?” I asked.
He beamed at me. “Habla Hindi?”
“Huh?” I was taken aback. He burst out laughing.
I smiled and recovered. “Ha, Hindi.” It was strange to be speaking Hindi to a Tarragona local, even if he was of Indian origin. I explained my dilemma to him, displaying the swollen foot as evidence. He sympathized and directed me to a pharmacy a few blocks away across the train tracks.
I thanked him, and trudged off. Now and again, I would check the status of the foot. I began to think of it as ‘the’ foot as though it was some defective equipment disassociated from me, like a torn shoe. But the throbbing pain reminded me that this was no shoe. It was very much a body part.
I saw a green plus sign up ahead, which I recognized as the global symbol for a pharmacy. As soon as it came into view, I saw that it had a shutter covering the entrance from top to bottom. I cursed aloud. Did the pharmacy also close for Siesta?
I ventured into the bar next door. A plump, middle-aged lady stood behind the counter, wearing a long apron. The bar had no customers, and she was busy cleaning the counter top. She took no notice of me standing there. I hobbled ahead and grimaced, partly from the pain, partly to catch her attention. But, the lady concentrated on her task.
I cleared my throat. “Habla English?”
She frowned, and gestured with her palm in the air. “Little.”
“Pharmacy?” I asked pointing to the wall separating the bar and the pharmacy. “When opens?” She shook her head.
I wished I had brought the Spanish language book. “What time? Medicine place?” She just shrugged and continued to wipe the counter top.
Still, I didn’t give up the effort. I took one step back and pointed to my foot. “Injury…Medicine…” I was gesturing wildly now.
She leaned forward to look at the foot. She nodded. “Si.”
I sighed. “What time opens Medicine place?” I pointed to a clock hanging on the wall, inwardly appalled at my pathetic, broken English.
“Cinco” She replied.
“Cinco?” I repeated, looking at the clock again. Cinco meant five in Spanish. It was only four thirty. I decided it was not worth the effort to go back to the beach, so I eased myself onto a bar stool.
The lady scowled at me. She mumbled to herself in Spanish. I figured I should buy something to justify my presence in her bar. Then, I recalled my new role as the water boy.
“Water?” I asked, pointing to a bottle of mineral water.
“Si.” She replied, handing me the water.
“Cinco” I said. We would need one bottle for each of us, five in total.
“Si, Cinco” came the reply. She continued with her cleaning. I waited for the remaining bottles, but they didn’t seem forthcoming.
I tried again. “Cinco” I pointed to the water bottle in my hand.
“Si, Cinco” The lady frowned, pointing to the clock.
“No, no,” I said. “I know what time the pharmacy opens. I want Cinco bottles.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“Cinco, Cinco water.” I said. I shook my head in exasperation.
“Ok, Cuatro,” I said. “Cuatro water, please.” I would settle for four bottles.
She smiled, finally deciphering my code. She plunked down four bottle of water on the counter, and mumbled to herself.
“Gracias.” I exhaled heavily, and paid for them. I opened one bottle and took a few sips. The television set in the bar was turned off. There was nothing much to do. I examined the foot again. It was swollen, but stabilizing. I sat silently and waited.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” A voice called. I spun around to see Suresh standing behind me.
“You were supposed to go the pharmacy to get medicines,” Suresh grinned. “Not go to a bar to drink.”
“Can you stop thinking of alcohol for once in your life?” I rolled my eyes.
“Vodka, please.” Suresh, ignored me and addressed the bartender. She promptly fixed him a drink.
‘That, she understands.’ I muttered.
“What?” Suresh asked.
“Nothing.” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you, man. You were gone for so long.”
“The pharmacy is closed.”
“Yeah man, just have a bit of Vodka, and you’ll be fine.” Suresh offered me his drink.
“Vodka is not the answer to everything.”
“That’s what you think.” Suresh shot back. “It always works for me.”
“So, how did the rest the match go?” I asked.
“It was awesome, man.” Suresh replied. “After you left, we attacked with a vengeance. Especially, Prakash. He was like, on fire.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I was marking that goatee guy. I didn’t let him do anything, man.”
“So, who won? What was the final score?”
“We won,” Suresh beamed. “4-3”
“That’s great.” I clapped him on the back.
We sat there for a while longer, while Suresh finished his drink, and I waited for the clock to strike five. We stepped out of the bar at five, and I was delighted to find that the shutter had come up and the pharmacy was open.
“Habla English?” I asked immediately, going into the pharmacy.
“Yes,” The lady wearing a white lab coat smiled. “What can I help you with?”
Relieved to be able to communicate with ease, I showed her my foot, and bought bandages, ant-septic creams, cotton wool, scissors, and some other stuff. I paid for the supplies, and thanked her. We turned to leave.
“How did that happen by the way?” The lady pharmacist asked me.
“Well, I…we…umm…” I stuttered.
“We were playing football, and this dumbass kicked a rock instead of the ball.” Suresh said helpfully.
The pharmacist laughed. “Are you serious? Is that what happened?”
I shrugged, and made no comment.
“You actually kicked a rock? What were you thinking?” She asked.
“I wasn’t thinking, I guess.” I managed a smile.
“You are crazy, man.” Suresh said, as we exited. “Kicking a rock. You realize that we are going to make fun of you forever, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get used to it.” I replied.
Being a self-deprecating humorist, I have told this story to countless people since our Euro trip. Now, I’ve told the story to you.
I imagine after reading this, you will want to ask me ‘What were you thinking?’
And I still haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
The sky was clear and as blue as a swimming pool. The sun shone brightly, its rays illuminating every earthly object. The fifth day of our Euro trip was a perfect day for the beach. Soft, white sand stretched out for acres, ending at foot of gentle waves cascading from the vast, expansive ocean. The water was cool and clean. It sparkled in the sunlight.
My old college buddies and I had already had an adventurous trip so far. From football matches to drunken parties, from a backpacker’s hostel to foosball contests, we had a fair share of memories for five guys on what might have been our last bachelor trip before one of us got married.
Before reaching the beach, our lunch at a local restaurant had been another ordeal of communication, as we scanned through pages of a Spanish language survival book and hopelessly attempted to interpret the menu items. The hardest thing was getting something vegetariano. Despite our fast-improving Spanish skills, we could find no better food selection other than the usual Paiea, Tapas and Sangrias, all of which had become our staple diet for the duration of our stay in Spain.
Post lunch, we wasted no time in getting to the beach. The sand was adorned with colorful beach umbrellas, well spaced apart. Groups of people played frisbee, volleyball and various other games. We discovered that on beaches in Europe, the women don’t feel the need to wear a top. They were happy to put their assets on display. And we in turn, were equally happy to behold. After ambling along in sand for a while, taking in the variety of sights and sounds on offer, we finally settled on a spot where we spread out our beach towels and made camp.
“Let’s play.” Someone threw a football at me. The ball was brown like the rocks that lay by the side of the sand. I caught it and kicked it back.
We formed a wide circle and kicked the ball to each other. A few dudes, who had been standing by watching, approached us. They were visiting Spain from Saudi Arabia, and invited us to play a competitive game. We readily agreed. It was five of us against four of them.
Within minutes of kickoff, the Saudis ran through us with a series of rapid passes, before tapping into the goal. They yelled to each other in a language we couldn't understand. Our slight numerical advantage counted for nothing. They blazed past us again, and scored another one. It was 2-0 and time for us to regroup.
“We have to defend properly.” Prakash said. “We have to stop them.” He turned to me. “Naveen, you are on defense now. Mark that guy.” He gestured towards the tall, lanky Saudi who sported a goatee, and had scored the second goal. “Don’t let him get away from you.” Mr. Goatee grinned back at me, apparently cognizant of the fact that I had been assigned to mark him.
Play resumed and I stayed close to my target. If he moved left, I followed suit. If he moved right, I was there. I didn’t let him get more than a half-step away from me.
The ball was airborne and flew past to the left of where I was. I dashed towards it. Mr. Goatee was on my heels. But, I was determined to not let him pass me. With my eyes locked in laser focus on the ball, I stepped forward and swung my left foot towards the ball.
“Naveen…” I may have heard a warning cry. But it was too late. I had already made the kick.
Instead of striking a soft football, the side of my left foot connected with a solid brown rock. A bolt of pain darted through my leg.
“Aaaarghhh..” I screeched, clutching my foot and falling to the sand.
People gathered around me. I heard a cacophony of voices.
“What the hell happened?”
“Are you okay, man?”
“The guy just kicked a rock with full force.”
“A rock? Why would he do something so stupid?”
“I think he was going for the football.”
I heard muffled laughter. Blood oozed from the left side of my left foot. I blinked and took deep breaths. The foot was swelling up before my eyes.
“Dude, seriously, are you okay?” I made out Prakash’s voice asking me.
I gingerly touched my foot. I stood up and limped forward a couple of steps.
“Whoa dude, don’t go anywhere. Just stay there.” Prakash commanded. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up.” He emptied a couple of bottles of water on my leg to wash off the blood. The viscous red liquid trickled out from cuts in the foot.
“We need to get stuff from a pharmacy, like antiseptics and stuff.” Prakash said.
“Let me sit down a bit.” I grunted. “We’ll see then.”
So, I parked myself in the sand, with one hand on my foot. I stared at the wound, and didn’t say a word. Meanwhile, the Saudis were getting restless. They politely inquired if we would get on with the game.
“I can’t believe he kicked a rock.” Mr.Goatee shook his head. “Did he not see it?”
“This is foot ball, man.” He told me. “Not foot rock.”
“Yeah,” Prakash agreed. “What the hell were you thinking?”
I started to form a reply, and then stopped myself, thinking better off it. How could I possibly convince anyone that I was too focused on the ball, that I actually didn’t see the rock? Did it help my case that the ball and the rock were both brown? Probably not. A football and a rock aren’t objects that one generally confuses with each other.
They decided to continue playing while I sat there recuperating. It was now four on four. Few minutes later, I came to the conclusion that staring at the foot wasn’t actually healing it in any perceptible way.
I heaved myself up. “I’m going to find a pharmacy.”
The game paused, as my buddies turned to me.
“Are you sure you are up for it?” Suresh asked.
“There should be something back where those restaurants are.” Sohail chimed in.
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Prakash asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I need some money though.”
Sohail, who was our official accountant, handed me a wad of Euros.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Suresh asked again.
I wasn’t sure of that, but I wanted the gang to stay there and get a few goals back against the Saudis. So, I just smiled and nodded.
“If you are going there, can you get us a few bottles of water?” Sohail said casually.
I nodded, and went on my way. I had been demoted from key defender to water boy. My friends watched me hobble off. They seemed uncertain whether to continue playing or to follow me.
“I’ll see you’ll in a bit.” I said, trying to sound confident.
My foot held up remarkably well. I felt sure there were no broken bones. But it was swollen and bloody. It took me ten minutes to reach the restaurants. I stepped inside the first one, and surveyed the scene. There were several circular tables with fours chairs around them, but no occupants. The only customer was making a purchase at a counter.
“Muchas Gracias” Said a lady, after receiving a strawberry ice-cream.
The man behind the ice-cream counter looked like an Indian. I hadn’t expected to see any of my countrymen in the small town of Tarragona.
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I decided to stick to our standard conversation starter.
“Habla English?” I asked.
He beamed at me. “Habla Hindi?”
“Huh?” I was taken aback. He burst out laughing.
I smiled and recovered. “Ha, Hindi.” It was strange to be speaking Hindi to a Tarragona local, even if he was of Indian origin. I explained my dilemma to him, displaying the swollen foot as evidence. He sympathized and directed me to a pharmacy a few blocks away across the train tracks.
I thanked him, and trudged off. Now and again, I would check the status of the foot. I began to think of it as ‘the’ foot as though it was some defective equipment disassociated from me, like a torn shoe. But the throbbing pain reminded me that this was no shoe. It was very much a body part.
I saw a green plus sign up ahead, which I recognized as the global symbol for a pharmacy. As soon as it came into view, I saw that it had a shutter covering the entrance from top to bottom. I cursed aloud. Did the pharmacy also close for Siesta?
I ventured into the bar next door. A plump, middle-aged lady stood behind the counter, wearing a long apron. The bar had no customers, and she was busy cleaning the counter top. She took no notice of me standing there. I hobbled ahead and grimaced, partly from the pain, partly to catch her attention. But, the lady concentrated on her task.
I cleared my throat. “Habla English?”
She frowned, and gestured with her palm in the air. “Little.”
“Pharmacy?” I asked pointing to the wall separating the bar and the pharmacy. “When opens?” She shook her head.
I wished I had brought the Spanish language book. “What time? Medicine place?” She just shrugged and continued to wipe the counter top.
Still, I didn’t give up the effort. I took one step back and pointed to my foot. “Injury…Medicine…” I was gesturing wildly now.
She leaned forward to look at the foot. She nodded. “Si.”
I sighed. “What time opens Medicine place?” I pointed to a clock hanging on the wall, inwardly appalled at my pathetic, broken English.
“Cinco” She replied.
“Cinco?” I repeated, looking at the clock again. Cinco meant five in Spanish. It was only four thirty. I decided it was not worth the effort to go back to the beach, so I eased myself onto a bar stool.
The lady scowled at me. She mumbled to herself in Spanish. I figured I should buy something to justify my presence in her bar. Then, I recalled my new role as the water boy.
“Water?” I asked, pointing to a bottle of mineral water.
“Si.” She replied, handing me the water.
“Cinco” I said. We would need one bottle for each of us, five in total.
“Si, Cinco” came the reply. She continued with her cleaning. I waited for the remaining bottles, but they didn’t seem forthcoming.
I tried again. “Cinco” I pointed to the water bottle in my hand.
“Si, Cinco” The lady frowned, pointing to the clock.
“No, no,” I said. “I know what time the pharmacy opens. I want Cinco bottles.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“Cinco, Cinco water.” I said. I shook my head in exasperation.
“Ok, Cuatro,” I said. “Cuatro water, please.” I would settle for four bottles.
She smiled, finally deciphering my code. She plunked down four bottle of water on the counter, and mumbled to herself.
“Gracias.” I exhaled heavily, and paid for them. I opened one bottle and took a few sips. The television set in the bar was turned off. There was nothing much to do. I examined the foot again. It was swollen, but stabilizing. I sat silently and waited.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” A voice called. I spun around to see Suresh standing behind me.
“You were supposed to go the pharmacy to get medicines,” Suresh grinned. “Not go to a bar to drink.”
“Can you stop thinking of alcohol for once in your life?” I rolled my eyes.
“Vodka, please.” Suresh, ignored me and addressed the bartender. She promptly fixed him a drink.
‘That, she understands.’ I muttered.
“What?” Suresh asked.
“Nothing.” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you, man. You were gone for so long.”
“The pharmacy is closed.”
“Yeah man, just have a bit of Vodka, and you’ll be fine.” Suresh offered me his drink.
“Vodka is not the answer to everything.”
“That’s what you think.” Suresh shot back. “It always works for me.”
“So, how did the rest the match go?” I asked.
“It was awesome, man.” Suresh replied. “After you left, we attacked with a vengeance. Especially, Prakash. He was like, on fire.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I was marking that goatee guy. I didn’t let him do anything, man.”
“So, who won? What was the final score?”
“We won,” Suresh beamed. “4-3”
“That’s great.” I clapped him on the back.
We sat there for a while longer, while Suresh finished his drink, and I waited for the clock to strike five. We stepped out of the bar at five, and I was delighted to find that the shutter had come up and the pharmacy was open.
“Habla English?” I asked immediately, going into the pharmacy.
“Yes,” The lady wearing a white lab coat smiled. “What can I help you with?”
Relieved to be able to communicate with ease, I showed her my foot, and bought bandages, ant-septic creams, cotton wool, scissors, and some other stuff. I paid for the supplies, and thanked her. We turned to leave.
“How did that happen by the way?” The lady pharmacist asked me.
“Well, I…we…umm…” I stuttered.
“We were playing football, and this dumbass kicked a rock instead of the ball.” Suresh said helpfully.
The pharmacist laughed. “Are you serious? Is that what happened?”
I shrugged, and made no comment.
“You actually kicked a rock? What were you thinking?” She asked.
“I wasn’t thinking, I guess.” I managed a smile.
“You are crazy, man.” Suresh said, as we exited. “Kicking a rock. You realize that we are going to make fun of you forever, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get used to it.” I replied.
Being a self-deprecating humorist, I have told this story to countless people since our Euro trip. Now, I’ve told the story to you.
I imagine after reading this, you will want to ask me ‘What were you thinking?’
And I still haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
Faith and Surrender
An old man and his son lived on a farm. They had only one horse to pull the plow. They were dependent on this horse for their source of income. One day, the horse ran away.
The neighbors sympathized with them. “That’s unfortunate. What bad luck.”
The old farmer replied. “Who knows if it is good luck or bad luck.”
A week later, the horse returned from the mountains and led five wild mares into their barn.
“That’s great news,” The neighbors enthused. “You have so many horses now.”
The farmer shrugged. “Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”
The next day, the son was trying to tame one of the wild horses, and he fell and broke his leg.
The neighbors offered condolences. “Very sorry for the poor boy.”
The farmer repeated again. “Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”
After a few days, the army came to all farms to enlist young men for war, but the farmer’s son was spared because of his injured leg.
“Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”
The story introduces the premise of this piece. William Shakespeare once said “There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” We humans do not have the knowledge or wisdom to know what is good or bad, wrong or right. It is not our place to make judgments. Ours is only to accept what is.
The flat tire that got you late for that important meeting may actually have saved you from a nasty accident at the next intersection. But having the accident, could have led you to meet this beautiful, intelligent nurse at the hospital, whom you would fall in love with. The point is that we do not know.
Renowned mythologist and writer, Joseph Campbell says that we are all in a free fall into the future. We have no idea where we are headed, and this uncertainty leads to stress. All we need to do to transform our hell into a paradise is to turn our fall into a voluntary act. Joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world and everything changes. It’s a simple but remarkable shift of perspective.
To illustrate this shift of perspective, say you go to a restaurant and order the orange juice that you heard was good. The waitress says that they are out of orange juice but they have carrot juice instead. You can respond in two ways: complain about the lack of orange juice and that fact that it should be there since it is on the menu; or accept this and cheerfully say okay, actually carrot juice sounds good.
It is obvious which of these two reactions will leave you happier. Even a single moment of resistance to the situation causes stress. It’s not worth it. True happiness doesn’t come from getting what we want but rather from wanting what we get. Once we develop the ability to want, accept and enjoy whatever we have, then everything will make us happy. To change our perspective in this way, we can remember two simple rules: Rule No.1: Don’t worry about the small stuff. Rule No 2: It’s all small stuff.
It is not the situation that matters, but how we react to it. Mental and emotional suffering stem from resistance to what is, and from attachment to beliefs of what should or shouldn’t be. The first step to liberation is to resign as general manager of the universe. Life is God’s novel, let God write it. Letting go in this way will bring a sense of freedom and lightness.
Sure, it’s fine to make some plans for the future. Like a college education, for example. But it’s best not to get too attached to our plans, because they have a way of changing. There is a saying that goes ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell God about your plans.’
Once we let go of all our beliefs, assumptions and expectations, we will experience a sense of peace. All the burdens we have carried over the years will disappear, safely handed off to a higher power. The quality of our lives is determined by the quality of every passing moment. We must embrace each moment, and make the best of whatever new wave of pleasure or pain, success or failure, triumph or disaster that the moment brings. Quoting Morpheus from The Matrix “What happened had to happen, and couldn’t have happened in any other way.” To have faith is to surrender to the will of the divine, cosmic force that will always be a mystery to us.
The neighbors sympathized with them. “That’s unfortunate. What bad luck.”
The old farmer replied. “Who knows if it is good luck or bad luck.”
A week later, the horse returned from the mountains and led five wild mares into their barn.
“That’s great news,” The neighbors enthused. “You have so many horses now.”
The farmer shrugged. “Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”
The next day, the son was trying to tame one of the wild horses, and he fell and broke his leg.
The neighbors offered condolences. “Very sorry for the poor boy.”
The farmer repeated again. “Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”
After a few days, the army came to all farms to enlist young men for war, but the farmer’s son was spared because of his injured leg.
“Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?”
The story introduces the premise of this piece. William Shakespeare once said “There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” We humans do not have the knowledge or wisdom to know what is good or bad, wrong or right. It is not our place to make judgments. Ours is only to accept what is.
The flat tire that got you late for that important meeting may actually have saved you from a nasty accident at the next intersection. But having the accident, could have led you to meet this beautiful, intelligent nurse at the hospital, whom you would fall in love with. The point is that we do not know.
Renowned mythologist and writer, Joseph Campbell says that we are all in a free fall into the future. We have no idea where we are headed, and this uncertainty leads to stress. All we need to do to transform our hell into a paradise is to turn our fall into a voluntary act. Joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world and everything changes. It’s a simple but remarkable shift of perspective.
To illustrate this shift of perspective, say you go to a restaurant and order the orange juice that you heard was good. The waitress says that they are out of orange juice but they have carrot juice instead. You can respond in two ways: complain about the lack of orange juice and that fact that it should be there since it is on the menu; or accept this and cheerfully say okay, actually carrot juice sounds good.
It is obvious which of these two reactions will leave you happier. Even a single moment of resistance to the situation causes stress. It’s not worth it. True happiness doesn’t come from getting what we want but rather from wanting what we get. Once we develop the ability to want, accept and enjoy whatever we have, then everything will make us happy. To change our perspective in this way, we can remember two simple rules: Rule No.1: Don’t worry about the small stuff. Rule No 2: It’s all small stuff.
It is not the situation that matters, but how we react to it. Mental and emotional suffering stem from resistance to what is, and from attachment to beliefs of what should or shouldn’t be. The first step to liberation is to resign as general manager of the universe. Life is God’s novel, let God write it. Letting go in this way will bring a sense of freedom and lightness.
Sure, it’s fine to make some plans for the future. Like a college education, for example. But it’s best not to get too attached to our plans, because they have a way of changing. There is a saying that goes ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell God about your plans.’
Once we let go of all our beliefs, assumptions and expectations, we will experience a sense of peace. All the burdens we have carried over the years will disappear, safely handed off to a higher power. The quality of our lives is determined by the quality of every passing moment. We must embrace each moment, and make the best of whatever new wave of pleasure or pain, success or failure, triumph or disaster that the moment brings. Quoting Morpheus from The Matrix “What happened had to happen, and couldn’t have happened in any other way.” To have faith is to surrender to the will of the divine, cosmic force that will always be a mystery to us.
The Illusion of Happyness
Happiness. Everyone wants to be happy, don’t they? But what is happiness really? Do we know what it is that we are after? Is it some kind of feeling? Or a thought?
Even the most articulate people aren’t able to define happiness effectively. All we can say is that it is a state of mind that we experience sometimes. We can’t always explain it, but when we experience it, we know that we are happy.
Recently, I heard the same thought about happiness being expressed by a Harvard psychologist, a comedian and a Buddhist monk.
Let me start with the Harvard psychologist, Dan Gilbert. He is a bespectacled academic who spoke in terms of data and averages. He explained about synthetic happiness, which is our psychological system’s way of reconciling ourselves to not getting what we want and ‘real’ happiness, which is what we feel when we get exactly what we want. His theory, which he substantiated with plenty of experimental data, is that both these types of happiness are the same. The most notable example was people who won a million dollars in a lottery and people who suffered an accident and became paraplegic i.e. lost movement in all four limbs. Research showed that six months after the incident, both these sets of people had the same level of happiness. Dr. Gilbert claimed that whether we win or lose, succeed or fail, it basically makes no difference because we can synthesize our happiness just as well. Another great example of synthesizing happiness is of Moreese Bickham, who spent thirty-seven years in Louisiana state prison for a crime he did not commit. After being released at age seventy-eight, he said ‘I don’t have one minute’s regret. It was a glorious experience.’ Dr. Gilbert gave several such examples and concluded that human beings believe happiness is something they are to go after and find, while in fact it is something they can synthesize anytime they want.
Next the comedian, the one and only Jerry Seinfeld, whose stand-up act I was lucky enough to attend live. He pointed out in his own jovial style that when something sucks and something is great, they are actually not that different. When we are enjoying a delicious ice-cream and it falls to the floor, this sucks a lot. We look up and say ‘Great. That’s just great.’ Seinfeld said that when he was single, he used to look at all those married men wheeling their strollers with babies who crap all the time and he thought such a life must surely suck. Later, he became one of those married and wheeled his baby son and changed his diapers, and thought it was all so great. When you are dating a person who digs their nose, you feel that the person sucks and you’ll never go out with them again. When you are married to a person who digs their nose, you say that your spouse is a great person and has a heart of gold. People have an uncanny ability of finding a way to be happy.
The Buddhist monk, Matthieu Ricard, who appears in public just how one would imagine a Buddhist monk to look like: completely bald, calm, smiling face and dressed in red and yellow robes. He said that people tend to chase after things they believe to be happiness, but it turns out to be a mirage. People say ‘I will be happy when I get that job’ or ‘I will be happy when I win that prize’ and so on. But when they get these things, it is just a fleeting moment. Much like the water that we think we see in a mirage that disappears when we get there. He asserted that happiness is an inner state of well-being that is not contingent on time, place, or any external object or any person. He elaborated on the value of meditation and mind training that can help you bring your mind to be joyful, irrespective of the situation or people around you. Every one of us can train our minds to be in a state of perpetual bliss.
Listening to these three quite different people who delivered what was essentially the same message in diverse ways, I asked myself this question: Can we really be happy whenever we want to? Let’s see what we know about happiness. It is a state of mind. So it is our mind, after all, and we should be able to control it. Just we like we control our hands and legs. Then surely, we can make up our minds to be happy.
So, whenever you are feeling annoyed, angry, dejected or hurt by the situation you find yourself in or by the people around you, stop and realize this simple fact. With each passing moment, you can continue to be annoyed, angry, dejected or hurt. Or you can forget all of that and simply decide to feel happy. The choice is always yours.
Even the most articulate people aren’t able to define happiness effectively. All we can say is that it is a state of mind that we experience sometimes. We can’t always explain it, but when we experience it, we know that we are happy.
Recently, I heard the same thought about happiness being expressed by a Harvard psychologist, a comedian and a Buddhist monk.
Let me start with the Harvard psychologist, Dan Gilbert. He is a bespectacled academic who spoke in terms of data and averages. He explained about synthetic happiness, which is our psychological system’s way of reconciling ourselves to not getting what we want and ‘real’ happiness, which is what we feel when we get exactly what we want. His theory, which he substantiated with plenty of experimental data, is that both these types of happiness are the same. The most notable example was people who won a million dollars in a lottery and people who suffered an accident and became paraplegic i.e. lost movement in all four limbs. Research showed that six months after the incident, both these sets of people had the same level of happiness. Dr. Gilbert claimed that whether we win or lose, succeed or fail, it basically makes no difference because we can synthesize our happiness just as well. Another great example of synthesizing happiness is of Moreese Bickham, who spent thirty-seven years in Louisiana state prison for a crime he did not commit. After being released at age seventy-eight, he said ‘I don’t have one minute’s regret. It was a glorious experience.’ Dr. Gilbert gave several such examples and concluded that human beings believe happiness is something they are to go after and find, while in fact it is something they can synthesize anytime they want.
Next the comedian, the one and only Jerry Seinfeld, whose stand-up act I was lucky enough to attend live. He pointed out in his own jovial style that when something sucks and something is great, they are actually not that different. When we are enjoying a delicious ice-cream and it falls to the floor, this sucks a lot. We look up and say ‘Great. That’s just great.’ Seinfeld said that when he was single, he used to look at all those married men wheeling their strollers with babies who crap all the time and he thought such a life must surely suck. Later, he became one of those married and wheeled his baby son and changed his diapers, and thought it was all so great. When you are dating a person who digs their nose, you feel that the person sucks and you’ll never go out with them again. When you are married to a person who digs their nose, you say that your spouse is a great person and has a heart of gold. People have an uncanny ability of finding a way to be happy.
The Buddhist monk, Matthieu Ricard, who appears in public just how one would imagine a Buddhist monk to look like: completely bald, calm, smiling face and dressed in red and yellow robes. He said that people tend to chase after things they believe to be happiness, but it turns out to be a mirage. People say ‘I will be happy when I get that job’ or ‘I will be happy when I win that prize’ and so on. But when they get these things, it is just a fleeting moment. Much like the water that we think we see in a mirage that disappears when we get there. He asserted that happiness is an inner state of well-being that is not contingent on time, place, or any external object or any person. He elaborated on the value of meditation and mind training that can help you bring your mind to be joyful, irrespective of the situation or people around you. Every one of us can train our minds to be in a state of perpetual bliss.
Listening to these three quite different people who delivered what was essentially the same message in diverse ways, I asked myself this question: Can we really be happy whenever we want to? Let’s see what we know about happiness. It is a state of mind. So it is our mind, after all, and we should be able to control it. Just we like we control our hands and legs. Then surely, we can make up our minds to be happy.
So, whenever you are feeling annoyed, angry, dejected or hurt by the situation you find yourself in or by the people around you, stop and realize this simple fact. With each passing moment, you can continue to be annoyed, angry, dejected or hurt. Or you can forget all of that and simply decide to feel happy. The choice is always yours.
The Hershey's Trap
“We have a rat here,” Marvin announced, as he entered the apartment. His roommate Naveen walked in after him. They were Master’s students at University of Pennsylvania. Their rented apartment was a spacious two-bedroom place in West Philadelphia.
“Yeah, I know.” Naveen said.
“There is a rat living inside our apartment.” Marvin said, with greater emphasis.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it a few times. So, what’s your point?”
“What do you mean what’s my point? You are not bothered by this rat? What’s wrong with you?” Marvin demanded.
Naveen shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to his room. Marvin followed him there as Naveen began unloading his backpack.
“We have to do something about it.” Marvin said.
Naveen shrugged again. “It’s not giving me much of a problem. I’m hardly ever at home. I’m mostly at the lab till late at night.”
“But, the rat keeps showing up,” Marvin said. “Every time I have dinner, I see it scurrying across the floor to gather crumbs. I hear it at night also.”
“Didn’t you get a rat trap from the landlord?” Naveen asked. He ambled back to the living room, with Marvin behind him. Naveen gestured towards a black rectangular plate lying in a corner. It had a sticky-looking substance on its surface, and an upper plate tilted at an angled, ready to spring shut on the prey.
“Oh that glue trap.” Marvin threw his hands up in a dismissive gesture. “It’s useless. Two of those things have been lying around for a week, but the rat hasn’t gone near them.”
“And I also spoke to that exterminator dude who comes sometimes on Sunday mornings” Marvin went on. “He just sprinkled blue powder all over the edges of the floor and wall. He claimed it was poison or something.”
“But, this fucking rat is still here.” Marvin made a fist in the air.
Naveen went over to the kitchen cupboard and grabbed cookies to munch on. He noticed a small hole in the side of the Chips Ahoy packet. “I think this rat likes cookies.”
“Cookies? Yes,” Marvin nodded. “It is also eating our fruits, man.”
Naveen smiled. “It’s helping itself to our groceries. It’s enjoying our heated apartment. The rat actually spends more time here than I do. Maybe we should ask it to write a cheque for one-third of the rent.”
Both the roommates laughed.
“Yeah,” Marvin said, with a wry smile. “We should.”
“You know it even ate some of the chocolates my girlfriend sent me?” Marvin said, shaking his head. He frowned for a moment.
“I have an idea.” Marvin said suddenly. “My girlfriend sent me Hershey’s chocolates for my birthday. I’ll leave them on the floor inside a plastic bag. When the rat goes for the chocolates at night, I’ll be able to hear the rustle of the plastic.
Then, I’ve to just pick up the bag and the little bastard will be trapped inside it.”
Naveen looked at his roommate. “Ok, let me understand this. You are planning to use your girlfriend’s Hershey’s as bait and a plastic bag as the trap?” Naveen’s smile grew broader as he spoke. “I like it. Sounds like a good plan.”
Marvin stood with a hand on his chin. Naveen kept grinning.
“So, are you going to tell...” Naveen began.
“No, I’m not going to tell my girlfriend that I used her chocolates as bait for a rat.” Marvin cut him off.
Naveen nodded, unable to stop grinning.
“Shut up, it will work, I’m telling you.” Marvin said.
From the next night onwards, Marvin put his plan into effect. Before he went to sleep, he strategically placed a couple of chocolates inside a plastic bag on the floor, not too far from his bed. He tried to be alert for any sounds during the night.
It was during the third night that Marvin heard a rustling sound. It was soft, but distinctive. In a flash, he was off the bed and on his feet. As silently as he could, he tiptoed towards the packet. He could sense some movement there. In one swift motion, Marvin lifted the packet off the ground. There was a little squeal, and Marvin saw the brown-haired creatures inside the bag.
“I’ve got you now, you rat.” Marvin said aloud. “See, I knew this would work.”
He held the bag in his hand and looked around. He hadn’t thought about what he would do with the rat once he trapped it. The rat jumped inside the bag. Marvin could see it starting to pierce the bag slightly.
Realizing he had less time, Marvin put on his slippers and rushed out of the apartment. He raced down the flight of stairs, and out of the building entrance. Then, with a jubilant smile, he put the packet down to the floor. The rat crawled out. Marvin stared at the creature, relieved to have it out of the apartment.
He turned and faced the building front door. Then, it dawned upon him. He hadn’t brought the house keys. He twisted the door knob, but he knew that it was locked.
“Shit,” Marvin shouted. “Shit.”
He shivered in the cold and wrapped his hands around himself. He didn’t even have his cell phone to call Naveen. He looked around for help. But, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Except for the rat, who had stuck around to nibble the chocolates that Marvin had put as bait.
“Naveen is going to die laughing when he hears about this.” Marvin muttered.
He lowered himself on the ground, next to the rat. Here he was, stranded on the street in the middle of the night, dressed in his pajamas, in the sub-zero temperatures of a Philadelphia winter, while his nemesis the rat, enjoyed the Hershey’s chocolates that had been Marvin’s birthday gift.
“You screwed me again, you little bastard.” Marvin said, with feeling.
It was going to be one long night.
“Yeah, I know.” Naveen said.
“There is a rat living inside our apartment.” Marvin said, with greater emphasis.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it a few times. So, what’s your point?”
“What do you mean what’s my point? You are not bothered by this rat? What’s wrong with you?” Marvin demanded.
Naveen shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to his room. Marvin followed him there as Naveen began unloading his backpack.
“We have to do something about it.” Marvin said.
Naveen shrugged again. “It’s not giving me much of a problem. I’m hardly ever at home. I’m mostly at the lab till late at night.”
“But, the rat keeps showing up,” Marvin said. “Every time I have dinner, I see it scurrying across the floor to gather crumbs. I hear it at night also.”
“Didn’t you get a rat trap from the landlord?” Naveen asked. He ambled back to the living room, with Marvin behind him. Naveen gestured towards a black rectangular plate lying in a corner. It had a sticky-looking substance on its surface, and an upper plate tilted at an angled, ready to spring shut on the prey.
“Oh that glue trap.” Marvin threw his hands up in a dismissive gesture. “It’s useless. Two of those things have been lying around for a week, but the rat hasn’t gone near them.”
“And I also spoke to that exterminator dude who comes sometimes on Sunday mornings” Marvin went on. “He just sprinkled blue powder all over the edges of the floor and wall. He claimed it was poison or something.”
“But, this fucking rat is still here.” Marvin made a fist in the air.
Naveen went over to the kitchen cupboard and grabbed cookies to munch on. He noticed a small hole in the side of the Chips Ahoy packet. “I think this rat likes cookies.”
“Cookies? Yes,” Marvin nodded. “It is also eating our fruits, man.”
Naveen smiled. “It’s helping itself to our groceries. It’s enjoying our heated apartment. The rat actually spends more time here than I do. Maybe we should ask it to write a cheque for one-third of the rent.”
Both the roommates laughed.
“Yeah,” Marvin said, with a wry smile. “We should.”
“You know it even ate some of the chocolates my girlfriend sent me?” Marvin said, shaking his head. He frowned for a moment.
“I have an idea.” Marvin said suddenly. “My girlfriend sent me Hershey’s chocolates for my birthday. I’ll leave them on the floor inside a plastic bag. When the rat goes for the chocolates at night, I’ll be able to hear the rustle of the plastic.
Then, I’ve to just pick up the bag and the little bastard will be trapped inside it.”
Naveen looked at his roommate. “Ok, let me understand this. You are planning to use your girlfriend’s Hershey’s as bait and a plastic bag as the trap?” Naveen’s smile grew broader as he spoke. “I like it. Sounds like a good plan.”
Marvin stood with a hand on his chin. Naveen kept grinning.
“So, are you going to tell...” Naveen began.
“No, I’m not going to tell my girlfriend that I used her chocolates as bait for a rat.” Marvin cut him off.
Naveen nodded, unable to stop grinning.
“Shut up, it will work, I’m telling you.” Marvin said.
From the next night onwards, Marvin put his plan into effect. Before he went to sleep, he strategically placed a couple of chocolates inside a plastic bag on the floor, not too far from his bed. He tried to be alert for any sounds during the night.
It was during the third night that Marvin heard a rustling sound. It was soft, but distinctive. In a flash, he was off the bed and on his feet. As silently as he could, he tiptoed towards the packet. He could sense some movement there. In one swift motion, Marvin lifted the packet off the ground. There was a little squeal, and Marvin saw the brown-haired creatures inside the bag.
“I’ve got you now, you rat.” Marvin said aloud. “See, I knew this would work.”
He held the bag in his hand and looked around. He hadn’t thought about what he would do with the rat once he trapped it. The rat jumped inside the bag. Marvin could see it starting to pierce the bag slightly.
Realizing he had less time, Marvin put on his slippers and rushed out of the apartment. He raced down the flight of stairs, and out of the building entrance. Then, with a jubilant smile, he put the packet down to the floor. The rat crawled out. Marvin stared at the creature, relieved to have it out of the apartment.
He turned and faced the building front door. Then, it dawned upon him. He hadn’t brought the house keys. He twisted the door knob, but he knew that it was locked.
“Shit,” Marvin shouted. “Shit.”
He shivered in the cold and wrapped his hands around himself. He didn’t even have his cell phone to call Naveen. He looked around for help. But, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Except for the rat, who had stuck around to nibble the chocolates that Marvin had put as bait.
“Naveen is going to die laughing when he hears about this.” Marvin muttered.
He lowered himself on the ground, next to the rat. Here he was, stranded on the street in the middle of the night, dressed in his pajamas, in the sub-zero temperatures of a Philadelphia winter, while his nemesis the rat, enjoyed the Hershey’s chocolates that had been Marvin’s birthday gift.
“You screwed me again, you little bastard.” Marvin said, with feeling.
It was going to be one long night.
Rod-Man
The water tank was three feet high, and at the back of one of the buildings in our colony. We were playing a variation of chor-police. I had to chase someone at that point. My target ran away from the tank. Without further hesitation, I leaned forward and leapt to the ground. I landed on my feet, but was off balance. I only managed two strides ahead before falling.
The building compound was hard concrete with scattered stones and rocks. The middle of my left hand landed on top of one of the rocks. The full weight of the rest of my body came crashing down on the left hand. The exact details are somewhat blurred in my memory. However, I will never forget the soft but unmistakable Crack sound. At the time, I did not know what that sound was. I had an instinct something bad had happened.
As I sat up on the ground, I felt a burning explosion in my left arm. I let out a scream of agony that must have been heard several buildings away. I looked down at my arm in horror. The arm was bent at unnatural angle pivoted halfway between the elbow and the palm. The lower part of the arm looked ready to fall off. I hastily brought my right hand below it to give some support.
All the kids in the building gathered around me. They had shocked expressions as they watched me scream my lungs out. The pain was like nothing I had experienced before. My mother was alerted and came rushing out. I can still see the look in her eyes when she saw me. It was a mixture of anxiety and fear that bordered on outright panic. She barked orders to the watchman to call for a taxi. Breach Candy hospital was across the street from our colony.
“Mamma, help me.” I cried. “It’s hurting very badly.”
“ Please, Mamma, do something. I can’t bear it.” I pleaded.
There was a look of helplessness on my mom’s face.
“It will be ok, beta. We have almost reached the hospital.”
“You have to be brave now, Naveen.” My mom said in a soft tone.
Soon, I found myself sitting on a chair in the examination room.
“We need to take an X-ray of the arm.” A man wearing a white coat said.
“Beta, I will need you to lift your left arm and keep it on the x-ray machine.” He addressed me.
I looked at him as though he had asked to climb Mount Everest in the middle of a freezing winter, that too in my under clothes. Every time I moved, I felt like the arm was going to fall off. The excruciating pain validated this theory. How the hell did this moron expect me to lift it and place on the x-ray machine?
“I don’t think I can do that.” I declared.
“C’mon, Naveen. We’ll help you.” It was my mom.
“No. There is no way I can get my arm up there. It is just not happening.”
“Just try at least. You have to get an x-ray done.”
“Why is it necessary to get an x-ray?” I demanded, looking at Mr. White Coat. “We all know it is broken.”
“We have to know where it is broken, which bones are broken. Only then will be able to perform a surgery to fix it.”
Mr. White Coat stood up from his seat now and came over to me.
“The sooner we can do the surgery, the better it will be for you. You want the pain to stop, don’t you?”
I glared at him, unconvinced. Reluctantly, I agreed to comply. My mom, Mr.White Coat and I lifted my arm together slowly and carefully and brought it down on the x-ray machine. I yelled every second as this happened.
Mr. White Coat brought the x-ray and showed it to us. I saw four shiny white pieces of bone in my arm.
“The ulna and the radius are the bones that run from the wrist to the elbow.”
Mr.White Coat spoke as though he were lecturing a group of college students.
“In your case, both are broken into two pieces each.” He added simply.
“We will put the arm in a temporary cast and operate first thing tomorrow morning. Do you have any specific surgeon in mind?” He asked my mom.
At this point, my father arrived on the scene and was quickly brought up to speed. He seemed relatively calm. After making a call to the family doctor, my parents came up with a name of a surgeon. Dr. Jain was the chosen one who would be charged with the task of fixing my arm.
The procedure of putting on the cast was quick but very painful. Before I knew it, I was at home, lying in my bed. I lay face up staring at the ceiling. Every time I moved my body even an inch, it was accompanied by a sharp, shooting pain in the left arm. Movement of any kind was just not worth it. Sleep was almost impossible to come by. I stared at the fan envious of how it could rotate its blades so freely. It is amazing that a thing as simple as movement that we naturally take for granted can seem so precious when you don’t have that luxury.
Morning eventually came after what seemed like an eternity. As I went to the hospital, I felt many mixed emotions. Fear, nervousness, pain, apprehension were all there. Strangely, I also felt a sense of an impatience for the whole thing to be done with. Next thing I knew, I was lying in a hospital bed with some injections shoved into the back of my palm. I was made to wear that dull blue hospital gown that I had always disliked. Both my parents were by my side throughout.
“Naveen, how do you feel? Are you nervous?” My father asked. I nodded, almost imperceptibly. He smiled at me.
“Don’t worry, everything will be ok.”
My bed was wheeled into what must have been the operating room. I was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. A tall broad-shouldered man wearing a green mask strode into the room, and introduced himself as Dr. Jain. In my drug-induced daze, I could make out two others in green masks. There were bright, circular lights directly above me. I was blinded as I looked up at these white lights.
I heard voices that could have been the doctors in conversation.
“Did you see the match yesterday?”
“It was a pathetic collapse. Sachin has really lost form these days.”
“I swear it. And that Ganguly. I don’t know why they still select him.”
I wondered if these were the same jokers who were about to operate on me. They clearly had other things on their mind. The room around me was becoming a blur. The lights above seemed hazy. I was unable to keep my eyes open anymore.
I woke up still in a daze. I was awake, but I found it difficult to open my eyes. I heard my father’s voice next to me. All of I sudden, I opened my eyes and saw that I was back in the hospital room. My arm had a new cast on it and was suspended from a metal rod above the bed. It felt strange. There was no pain, but I still was uncomfortable. I glanced across at my father seated at the bedside.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Okay, I guess. How long have I been here?”
“Two hours. But, you have been talking to me for the last fifteen minutes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Your eyes were closed, but you were talking.”
“What was I saying?” I asked, having no recollection of this.
“Oh, you were rambling on about cricket and music and movies; things like that.”
“Anyway, the doctors said that the surgery went well.” My father informed me.
Dr. Jain strode into the room at that moment.
“How are you feeling? Ok?” He beamed at me. I nodded vaguely.
Dr. Jain put the x-ray in front of us. This time there were only two pieces of bone, but the x-ray showed a thin cylindrical structure in each of them.
“Those are two metal rods that we have inserted to hold the bones in place. The bones should re-generate in no time. After a year, we can take these rods out. You will be perfectly normal with these rods until then.”
The thought of having two rods in my arm was difficult to digest. I could see how my friends would joke about this when they found out. Maybe ‘Rod-Man’ would be my new nickname.
As the doctor left the room, I reflected on what had been an eventful past twelve hours.
“You will be back to normal before you know it.” My father told me.
“Broken bones, broken heart; they can all be fixed. Time heals all wounds.”
In due time, I found out that he was right. After eight months the cast came off and a few months after that so did the rods. Time proved to be the greatest healer.
The building compound was hard concrete with scattered stones and rocks. The middle of my left hand landed on top of one of the rocks. The full weight of the rest of my body came crashing down on the left hand. The exact details are somewhat blurred in my memory. However, I will never forget the soft but unmistakable Crack sound. At the time, I did not know what that sound was. I had an instinct something bad had happened.
As I sat up on the ground, I felt a burning explosion in my left arm. I let out a scream of agony that must have been heard several buildings away. I looked down at my arm in horror. The arm was bent at unnatural angle pivoted halfway between the elbow and the palm. The lower part of the arm looked ready to fall off. I hastily brought my right hand below it to give some support.
All the kids in the building gathered around me. They had shocked expressions as they watched me scream my lungs out. The pain was like nothing I had experienced before. My mother was alerted and came rushing out. I can still see the look in her eyes when she saw me. It was a mixture of anxiety and fear that bordered on outright panic. She barked orders to the watchman to call for a taxi. Breach Candy hospital was across the street from our colony.
“Mamma, help me.” I cried. “It’s hurting very badly.”
“ Please, Mamma, do something. I can’t bear it.” I pleaded.
There was a look of helplessness on my mom’s face.
“It will be ok, beta. We have almost reached the hospital.”
“You have to be brave now, Naveen.” My mom said in a soft tone.
Soon, I found myself sitting on a chair in the examination room.
“We need to take an X-ray of the arm.” A man wearing a white coat said.
“Beta, I will need you to lift your left arm and keep it on the x-ray machine.” He addressed me.
I looked at him as though he had asked to climb Mount Everest in the middle of a freezing winter, that too in my under clothes. Every time I moved, I felt like the arm was going to fall off. The excruciating pain validated this theory. How the hell did this moron expect me to lift it and place on the x-ray machine?
“I don’t think I can do that.” I declared.
“C’mon, Naveen. We’ll help you.” It was my mom.
“No. There is no way I can get my arm up there. It is just not happening.”
“Just try at least. You have to get an x-ray done.”
“Why is it necessary to get an x-ray?” I demanded, looking at Mr. White Coat. “We all know it is broken.”
“We have to know where it is broken, which bones are broken. Only then will be able to perform a surgery to fix it.”
Mr. White Coat stood up from his seat now and came over to me.
“The sooner we can do the surgery, the better it will be for you. You want the pain to stop, don’t you?”
I glared at him, unconvinced. Reluctantly, I agreed to comply. My mom, Mr.White Coat and I lifted my arm together slowly and carefully and brought it down on the x-ray machine. I yelled every second as this happened.
Mr. White Coat brought the x-ray and showed it to us. I saw four shiny white pieces of bone in my arm.
“The ulna and the radius are the bones that run from the wrist to the elbow.”
Mr.White Coat spoke as though he were lecturing a group of college students.
“In your case, both are broken into two pieces each.” He added simply.
“We will put the arm in a temporary cast and operate first thing tomorrow morning. Do you have any specific surgeon in mind?” He asked my mom.
At this point, my father arrived on the scene and was quickly brought up to speed. He seemed relatively calm. After making a call to the family doctor, my parents came up with a name of a surgeon. Dr. Jain was the chosen one who would be charged with the task of fixing my arm.
The procedure of putting on the cast was quick but very painful. Before I knew it, I was at home, lying in my bed. I lay face up staring at the ceiling. Every time I moved my body even an inch, it was accompanied by a sharp, shooting pain in the left arm. Movement of any kind was just not worth it. Sleep was almost impossible to come by. I stared at the fan envious of how it could rotate its blades so freely. It is amazing that a thing as simple as movement that we naturally take for granted can seem so precious when you don’t have that luxury.
Morning eventually came after what seemed like an eternity. As I went to the hospital, I felt many mixed emotions. Fear, nervousness, pain, apprehension were all there. Strangely, I also felt a sense of an impatience for the whole thing to be done with. Next thing I knew, I was lying in a hospital bed with some injections shoved into the back of my palm. I was made to wear that dull blue hospital gown that I had always disliked. Both my parents were by my side throughout.
“Naveen, how do you feel? Are you nervous?” My father asked. I nodded, almost imperceptibly. He smiled at me.
“Don’t worry, everything will be ok.”
My bed was wheeled into what must have been the operating room. I was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. A tall broad-shouldered man wearing a green mask strode into the room, and introduced himself as Dr. Jain. In my drug-induced daze, I could make out two others in green masks. There were bright, circular lights directly above me. I was blinded as I looked up at these white lights.
I heard voices that could have been the doctors in conversation.
“Did you see the match yesterday?”
“It was a pathetic collapse. Sachin has really lost form these days.”
“I swear it. And that Ganguly. I don’t know why they still select him.”
I wondered if these were the same jokers who were about to operate on me. They clearly had other things on their mind. The room around me was becoming a blur. The lights above seemed hazy. I was unable to keep my eyes open anymore.
I woke up still in a daze. I was awake, but I found it difficult to open my eyes. I heard my father’s voice next to me. All of I sudden, I opened my eyes and saw that I was back in the hospital room. My arm had a new cast on it and was suspended from a metal rod above the bed. It felt strange. There was no pain, but I still was uncomfortable. I glanced across at my father seated at the bedside.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Okay, I guess. How long have I been here?”
“Two hours. But, you have been talking to me for the last fifteen minutes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Your eyes were closed, but you were talking.”
“What was I saying?” I asked, having no recollection of this.
“Oh, you were rambling on about cricket and music and movies; things like that.”
“Anyway, the doctors said that the surgery went well.” My father informed me.
Dr. Jain strode into the room at that moment.
“How are you feeling? Ok?” He beamed at me. I nodded vaguely.
Dr. Jain put the x-ray in front of us. This time there were only two pieces of bone, but the x-ray showed a thin cylindrical structure in each of them.
“Those are two metal rods that we have inserted to hold the bones in place. The bones should re-generate in no time. After a year, we can take these rods out. You will be perfectly normal with these rods until then.”
The thought of having two rods in my arm was difficult to digest. I could see how my friends would joke about this when they found out. Maybe ‘Rod-Man’ would be my new nickname.
As the doctor left the room, I reflected on what had been an eventful past twelve hours.
“You will be back to normal before you know it.” My father told me.
“Broken bones, broken heart; they can all be fixed. Time heals all wounds.”
In due time, I found out that he was right. After eight months the cast came off and a few months after that so did the rods. Time proved to be the greatest healer.
Robbery Begins at Home
“Sattar rupaiya.” The bearded cab driver called out as the taxi grinded to a halt in front of Karan’s building.
It was two am and Karan was exhausted from all his partying. He pulled out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, only to find it empty. He had started the night with a thousand, but had spent it all on entry into the club and then drinks. He looked around for the watchman on duty to see if he could borrow the money. But there was no one in sight.
The cab driver stared at Karan with unblinking eyes, underneath thick eyebrows. Karan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Ghar se lata hoon.” He addressed the cabbie, gesturing towards his house.
The driver scowled at him, unconvinced. He maintained his glare for a moment longer and then grunted his agreement, turning off the engine of his beat-up old Fiat.
Karan entered the room that he shared with his brother, who was snoring away in his bed at that time. Not wanting to wake his brother by turning on the lights, he fumbled around his desk drawer in the darkness looking for his spare money. But there was nothing left from his monthly allowance. He slid quietly across to his brother’s desk, hoping to find some money there. Much to Karan’s disappointment, his brother was broke too.
Karan stood in the lighted passageway outside the room, with his hands on his hips, considering what options he had. He certainly couldn’t leave that sullen cab driver waiting for too long.
Reaching a decision, Karan walked towards his parents’ room. As silently as he could, he tiptoed into the room. He went for the drawer next to his mom’s bed where her keys to the cupboard were kept. The only sound that could be heard was that of his breathing. Slowly and deliberately, he groped for the keys inside the drawer. On finding his mom’s key set, he picked them up and wrapped his fist around the keys to cushion them so that there would be no jingling sound.
He went to his mom’s cupboard, trying to figure out which key to use from the set that he held. He couldn’t afford to make many trials as that would surely wake his parents. He made a guess of which was the right key, based on what he could recollect. Trying his best to keep the sound down to a minimum, he turned the chosen key in the lock. The key refused to turn. Karan took it out and tried it again, but with no luck. He let out a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, in the pin-drop silence, Karan heard a soft, shuffling sound behind him. He turned around cautiously, and saw a figure approaching him. Just as Karan turned, the person rushed straight at him. He appeared to be holding something in his right hand.
In the next instant, there was a man towering over Karan with a shoe in his hand, ready to strike him down. In a flash, Karan recognized his father.
“No, Papa. It’s me.” Karan shouted.
“It is Karan, papa. Don’t hit.” He pleaded.
His father stopped himself just as he was about to strike Karan. He had a determined look in his expression. It took a moment more for him to relax and put the shoe down.
“What the hell were you doing, beta? I heard someone opening the cupboard and I thought it was a thief.”
His mother, awakened by all the commotion, had turned on the lights in the room.
“I needed some money to pay for my cab.” Karan mumbled sheepishly. “I didn’t want to wake you’ll.”
He turned to look at his mother, who had a grin on her face. It must have been a comical sight for her to wake up in the middle of the night to find her son stealthily opening the cupboard and her husband standing over him with a shoe in hand.
The doorbell rang loudly, interrupting them. Karan saw a flicker in his father’s eyes as his expression changed back to what it had been moments earlier. His father instinctively reached for the shoe as the doorbell rang for the second time. Karan just stood there, frozen stiff, not sure how to react. Who could be ringing the bell so late?
“Oh, relax. It is probably just your cabbie, demanding his money. How much do you need?” It was his mother, calm as ever.
Sure enough, it was the cabbie, who was not pleased at being kept waiting. Karan apologized and paid him a bit extra to pacify him. Then, he went back to his parents’ room.
“This was hilarious.” His mom still saw the funny side. She looked at Karan.
“Next time, wake us and ask for the money. Don’t go sneaking around like a robber.”
She turned to Karan’s father, smiling.
“And next time, you may want to choose a better weapon than that old shoe.”
Karan said good-night and walked towards his room, with a smile, reflecting on what had been an unusual ending to his Saturday night.
It was two am and Karan was exhausted from all his partying. He pulled out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, only to find it empty. He had started the night with a thousand, but had spent it all on entry into the club and then drinks. He looked around for the watchman on duty to see if he could borrow the money. But there was no one in sight.
The cab driver stared at Karan with unblinking eyes, underneath thick eyebrows. Karan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Ghar se lata hoon.” He addressed the cabbie, gesturing towards his house.
The driver scowled at him, unconvinced. He maintained his glare for a moment longer and then grunted his agreement, turning off the engine of his beat-up old Fiat.
Karan entered the room that he shared with his brother, who was snoring away in his bed at that time. Not wanting to wake his brother by turning on the lights, he fumbled around his desk drawer in the darkness looking for his spare money. But there was nothing left from his monthly allowance. He slid quietly across to his brother’s desk, hoping to find some money there. Much to Karan’s disappointment, his brother was broke too.
Karan stood in the lighted passageway outside the room, with his hands on his hips, considering what options he had. He certainly couldn’t leave that sullen cab driver waiting for too long.
Reaching a decision, Karan walked towards his parents’ room. As silently as he could, he tiptoed into the room. He went for the drawer next to his mom’s bed where her keys to the cupboard were kept. The only sound that could be heard was that of his breathing. Slowly and deliberately, he groped for the keys inside the drawer. On finding his mom’s key set, he picked them up and wrapped his fist around the keys to cushion them so that there would be no jingling sound.
He went to his mom’s cupboard, trying to figure out which key to use from the set that he held. He couldn’t afford to make many trials as that would surely wake his parents. He made a guess of which was the right key, based on what he could recollect. Trying his best to keep the sound down to a minimum, he turned the chosen key in the lock. The key refused to turn. Karan took it out and tried it again, but with no luck. He let out a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, in the pin-drop silence, Karan heard a soft, shuffling sound behind him. He turned around cautiously, and saw a figure approaching him. Just as Karan turned, the person rushed straight at him. He appeared to be holding something in his right hand.
In the next instant, there was a man towering over Karan with a shoe in his hand, ready to strike him down. In a flash, Karan recognized his father.
“No, Papa. It’s me.” Karan shouted.
“It is Karan, papa. Don’t hit.” He pleaded.
His father stopped himself just as he was about to strike Karan. He had a determined look in his expression. It took a moment more for him to relax and put the shoe down.
“What the hell were you doing, beta? I heard someone opening the cupboard and I thought it was a thief.”
His mother, awakened by all the commotion, had turned on the lights in the room.
“I needed some money to pay for my cab.” Karan mumbled sheepishly. “I didn’t want to wake you’ll.”
He turned to look at his mother, who had a grin on her face. It must have been a comical sight for her to wake up in the middle of the night to find her son stealthily opening the cupboard and her husband standing over him with a shoe in hand.
The doorbell rang loudly, interrupting them. Karan saw a flicker in his father’s eyes as his expression changed back to what it had been moments earlier. His father instinctively reached for the shoe as the doorbell rang for the second time. Karan just stood there, frozen stiff, not sure how to react. Who could be ringing the bell so late?
“Oh, relax. It is probably just your cabbie, demanding his money. How much do you need?” It was his mother, calm as ever.
Sure enough, it was the cabbie, who was not pleased at being kept waiting. Karan apologized and paid him a bit extra to pacify him. Then, he went back to his parents’ room.
“This was hilarious.” His mom still saw the funny side. She looked at Karan.
“Next time, wake us and ask for the money. Don’t go sneaking around like a robber.”
She turned to Karan’s father, smiling.
“And next time, you may want to choose a better weapon than that old shoe.”
Karan said good-night and walked towards his room, with a smile, reflecting on what had been an unusual ending to his Saturday night.
The Spark of a Child
Naveen trudged ahead, heading home. His eyes were half-closed. His head hung low and his shoulders sagged. Each step was heavy and labored. To say that he was having a bad day would have been an understatement.
That morning he had arrived at work, only to learn that due to ‘financial setbacks in the economy’ his company had to let him go. Naveen felt sick in the stomach. He had collected his things and cleared up his desk by noon. There were some awkward farewell moments with friends and colleagues whom he had worked with for the past two years.
Later that afternoon, he had met Sonya, his girlfriend of three years, for coffee. Naveen really needed to unload his disappointment at losing his job to Sonya, the one person he always counted on for support. Before he could bring up the subject, Sonya took charge of the conversation and in a not-so-subtle manner unleashed another bombshell on the already battle-scarred Naveen. After much consideration, Sonya claimed, she had decided to move on from their relationship. She said her priority was her career and gave him an assortment of reasons, none of which eased the pain of the hammer blow that had been struck to his chest. Naveen started hyper-ventilating. He engaged Sonya in a brief shouting-match that inevitably follows a break-up. Then, it was over and she was gone.
So, Naveen walked one step at time on the lonely road that led to his house. There were cars honking, people talking, and all the usual hustle-bustle of Mumbai city roads. But Naveen did not notice any of this. He toyed with the circular dial of his wrist-watch. His mind was swarmed with a myriad of bitter thoughts. The hollow feeling in the pit of his belly wouldn’t go away. He wanted to cry and vomit, at the same time.
Naveen looked up at sky and let out a volley of abuses, which were very uncharacteristic of him.
“Why?” He demanded. “Why?”
Upon receiving no answer, Naveen plodded ahead.
“Kaise ho bhaiya?” A voice asked him.
Naveen saw the smiling face of the bhel-puri wallah looking at him. Naveen nodded his acknowledgement.
“Kya loge?”
“Ha, ek sev puri.” Naveen tried to smile. He usually exchanged a friendly banter with the neighborhood hawkers. But, not on that day.
Naveen took his sev puri and moved ahead. On one corner of the footpath, he saw a street kid, dressed in rags, squatting down and rubbing his eyes. When he reached closer, Naveen saw that the boy was sobbing softly. Naveen went a couple of steps ahead, and paused. He turned to look at the kid again.
There was something in that boy’s eyes that called out to Naveen. He felt some kind of connection with that unknown child. Maybe it was just the sight of another human being in pain, much like he was.
Naveen turned around and walked towards the weeping boy. He lowered himself and sat down next to him. Without a word, Naveen offered the kid a piece of his sev puri.
The scrawny boy wiped his eyes, and accepted the offer.
For the next five minutes, the two of them sat there. They shared the rest of the sev puri, but neither of them spoke.
After they had finished the last piece, Naveen noticed a number of small marbles lying on the ground next to them.
“Yeh kiske hai?” Naveen asked and pointed at the marbles.
The kid picked up a couple of marbles and grinned at Naveen. “Khelna hai?”
Naveen returned the smile and nodded.
The kid gave Naveen one shiny marble, took one himself and lined up the remaining a few feet away from them. They played a game of marbles, something Naveen hadn’t done for a very long time. Naveen had been fond of playing marbles when he was younger. That little boy proved to be an excellent player.
For the next twenty minutes, the two of them played marbles. Naveen laughed and joked with the boy. He forgot all about his job and his girlfriend. He was just a kid again, playing a game in the park, having fun. There were no barriers between Naveen and the street boy. No barriers of wealth, social status or even age. They were just two people, enjoying a simple game.
This spark is seen so often in children, but not as much in grown-ups. When we were children, we were so free and uninhibited. We played, and laughed and cried. That was when we were really alive. As we grow older, we begin to learn about the ways of the world. We understand things like money and the hierarchy of society. We build barriers around us that decide who we can or cannot be friends with. We go to work and go through the motions of our routine. Our minds are always preoccupied with some worldly concern or the other.
What kind of life is that? Are we really alive? We become mechanical in our habits and are consumed by the barrage of thousands of useless thoughts that came to our brain every minute. We are always doing things that are required of us. The economic and social demands on us increase more and more. Somewhere along the way, we forget who really are. We leave ourselves behind as we move ahead in the rat race of the modern world.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could be children again? Wouldn’t it be nice to get that spark back?
Take a moment to step back from your busy routine. Get a room or a certain time of the day, where you can just be yourself. Do the things that you love to do, the things that bring that spark in you. Play that music you like the most, even if it is corny music that no one else respects. Read that book you always wanted to read. Watch that favorite movie of yours. Dance. Take a boating trip on the open sea. Experience things that make you feel alive again and release the enthusiastic child inside you. Then you will get some intuition of who you really are.
That morning he had arrived at work, only to learn that due to ‘financial setbacks in the economy’ his company had to let him go. Naveen felt sick in the stomach. He had collected his things and cleared up his desk by noon. There were some awkward farewell moments with friends and colleagues whom he had worked with for the past two years.
Later that afternoon, he had met Sonya, his girlfriend of three years, for coffee. Naveen really needed to unload his disappointment at losing his job to Sonya, the one person he always counted on for support. Before he could bring up the subject, Sonya took charge of the conversation and in a not-so-subtle manner unleashed another bombshell on the already battle-scarred Naveen. After much consideration, Sonya claimed, she had decided to move on from their relationship. She said her priority was her career and gave him an assortment of reasons, none of which eased the pain of the hammer blow that had been struck to his chest. Naveen started hyper-ventilating. He engaged Sonya in a brief shouting-match that inevitably follows a break-up. Then, it was over and she was gone.
So, Naveen walked one step at time on the lonely road that led to his house. There were cars honking, people talking, and all the usual hustle-bustle of Mumbai city roads. But Naveen did not notice any of this. He toyed with the circular dial of his wrist-watch. His mind was swarmed with a myriad of bitter thoughts. The hollow feeling in the pit of his belly wouldn’t go away. He wanted to cry and vomit, at the same time.
Naveen looked up at sky and let out a volley of abuses, which were very uncharacteristic of him.
“Why?” He demanded. “Why?”
Upon receiving no answer, Naveen plodded ahead.
“Kaise ho bhaiya?” A voice asked him.
Naveen saw the smiling face of the bhel-puri wallah looking at him. Naveen nodded his acknowledgement.
“Kya loge?”
“Ha, ek sev puri.” Naveen tried to smile. He usually exchanged a friendly banter with the neighborhood hawkers. But, not on that day.
Naveen took his sev puri and moved ahead. On one corner of the footpath, he saw a street kid, dressed in rags, squatting down and rubbing his eyes. When he reached closer, Naveen saw that the boy was sobbing softly. Naveen went a couple of steps ahead, and paused. He turned to look at the kid again.
There was something in that boy’s eyes that called out to Naveen. He felt some kind of connection with that unknown child. Maybe it was just the sight of another human being in pain, much like he was.
Naveen turned around and walked towards the weeping boy. He lowered himself and sat down next to him. Without a word, Naveen offered the kid a piece of his sev puri.
The scrawny boy wiped his eyes, and accepted the offer.
For the next five minutes, the two of them sat there. They shared the rest of the sev puri, but neither of them spoke.
After they had finished the last piece, Naveen noticed a number of small marbles lying on the ground next to them.
“Yeh kiske hai?” Naveen asked and pointed at the marbles.
The kid picked up a couple of marbles and grinned at Naveen. “Khelna hai?”
Naveen returned the smile and nodded.
The kid gave Naveen one shiny marble, took one himself and lined up the remaining a few feet away from them. They played a game of marbles, something Naveen hadn’t done for a very long time. Naveen had been fond of playing marbles when he was younger. That little boy proved to be an excellent player.
For the next twenty minutes, the two of them played marbles. Naveen laughed and joked with the boy. He forgot all about his job and his girlfriend. He was just a kid again, playing a game in the park, having fun. There were no barriers between Naveen and the street boy. No barriers of wealth, social status or even age. They were just two people, enjoying a simple game.
This spark is seen so often in children, but not as much in grown-ups. When we were children, we were so free and uninhibited. We played, and laughed and cried. That was when we were really alive. As we grow older, we begin to learn about the ways of the world. We understand things like money and the hierarchy of society. We build barriers around us that decide who we can or cannot be friends with. We go to work and go through the motions of our routine. Our minds are always preoccupied with some worldly concern or the other.
What kind of life is that? Are we really alive? We become mechanical in our habits and are consumed by the barrage of thousands of useless thoughts that came to our brain every minute. We are always doing things that are required of us. The economic and social demands on us increase more and more. Somewhere along the way, we forget who really are. We leave ourselves behind as we move ahead in the rat race of the modern world.
Wouldn’t it be great if we could be children again? Wouldn’t it be nice to get that spark back?
Take a moment to step back from your busy routine. Get a room or a certain time of the day, where you can just be yourself. Do the things that you love to do, the things that bring that spark in you. Play that music you like the most, even if it is corny music that no one else respects. Read that book you always wanted to read. Watch that favorite movie of yours. Dance. Take a boating trip on the open sea. Experience things that make you feel alive again and release the enthusiastic child inside you. Then you will get some intuition of who you really are.
The Other Side
Ram and Shyam were classmates in Engineering College. Ram was studious and intelligent, and had always been a class topper. Shyam, on the other hand, struggled to concentrate on his studies, leading to poor results in his exams. In a couple of semesters, much to his dismay, Shyam came precariously close to failing. But, for the seventh semester final exams, Shyam made a sincere effort to work hard. When the results were announced, Ram scored in upper seventies at the top of the class, and Shyam was just a couple of marks behind him. Their reactions, however, were in stark contrast. Ram shrugged his shoulders and casually put his report card away. He barely smiled, and went on his way. Another class-topping semester was business as usual for him. His classmate Shyam clutched his report card, staring at it as though he were in some kind of trance. Then he looked up, with his pupils dilating. His face lit up in a broad smile, stretching from ear to ear. He held the report card high above his head and jumped up and down, screaming something indistinct. This was the first time he achieved such great results, transforming from the brink of failure to second in the class.
Amar and Prem grew up in the same building, and went to school together. As they moved to college, Prem blossomed into an extroverted personality who was especially popular with the girls. Amar remained relatively shy and reserved. His childhood buddy had gone from one girlfriend to another and was rarely seen without a girl by his side. Amar too longed for a relationship, but he didn’t get close to any of the girls he knew. On Valentine’s Day, during their third year of college, both the buddies set out on a mission. Amar was determined to summon the courage to go up to the girl he had been fond of for a while, and ask her out. Prem was looking for a new girlfriend and had his sights firmly set on the hottest babe from the junior batch. Both made their proposals in their own unique way: Prem with a necklace and a public message on the notice board; Amar with a simple rose and a quiet word in the corner of the hallway. Both were successful in their endeavors. Prem put his arm around the pretty junior girl’s waist, and strode out of college to join his friends at their favorite haunt. He showed no sign of surprise that he had received a positive response. After all, he always did, from every girl that he had gone after. His friend Amar, parted company of his new beau with a promise of a phone call later on, and then went to an isolated corner to celebrate. His face was flushed and had turned scarlet. His hair stood on end, and he couldn’t control the goose bumps that ran through his body. He skipped around in a circle and did a little dance. He couldn’t believe his luck.
Neha and Sonam were sisters, who went to different colleges. Both were passionate about dance. Every year, both the sisters entered the annual dance competition of their respective colleges. For three years in a row, Neha, the elder sister by a year, won the first prize. She was a naturally gifted dancer. Sonam too, loved to dance, but always got nervous when she went on stage, and fumbled her moves. She failed to win any prize. During their final year, once again the sisters geared up for the dance competition. This time, Sonam, found the self-confidence that she previously lacked. Both Neha and Sonam claimed the first prize in their respective colleges. Neha dumped her trophy alongside the others in her closet and didn’t give it a second glance. She was so accustomed to winning and had so many trophies. Sonam came homes and cuddled the trophy like it was a little baby. She balanced it on her head and jumped on the bed, giggling uncontrollably. Her dream of winning the dance competition had finally been realized.
Karan was seated comfortably on his couch. It was late in the evening, and he was watching his favorite television program. He sipped orange juice from a glass kept on the side table. He was almost oblivious of the glass in his hand and the juice in it. Arjun was outdoors playing tennis for three hours on a hot summer day, with the temperature soaring to thirty five degrees Celsius. The sweat drenched every pore of his skin. In the scorching heat, his body felt like the inside of an oven. Then, Arjun picked up an identical glass of orange juice and took one long, tantalizing, refreshing gulp. He exhaled deeply, looking at the juice as though it were an elixir sent down from heaven.
The point of the above stories is that everything in life consists of pairs of opposites. To truly enjoy the things that give us happiness, we must first experience the other side of them. Only then will we appreciate the value of what we have.
In fact, most things can only be defined in terms of their opposite. Imagine a place where there was always sunlight at all times. It never got dark or cold. It never rained or snowed. In such a place, there would be no concept of summer or winter. Summer only exists because of the contrast to its anti-thesis, the winter. One has no significance without the other.
The saintly people who are on a higher spiritual plane will tell you that you must move beyond pairs of opposites: good and evil, light and dark, day and night. To attain nirvana, you must find your inner, immovable center and be in a state of non-dual consciousness.
For those who are not on such a spiritual journey, think about all the things that bring you joy in your life. Have you previously experienced the other side? Now, think about the joys that you wish for, but haven’t experienced yet. If you are deprived of that pleasure, then you are currently seeing the other side of things. When you see people around who already have these things, just imagine how much more you will cherish them, when you do experience them, because you have had the privilege of living through the other side.
Amar and Prem grew up in the same building, and went to school together. As they moved to college, Prem blossomed into an extroverted personality who was especially popular with the girls. Amar remained relatively shy and reserved. His childhood buddy had gone from one girlfriend to another and was rarely seen without a girl by his side. Amar too longed for a relationship, but he didn’t get close to any of the girls he knew. On Valentine’s Day, during their third year of college, both the buddies set out on a mission. Amar was determined to summon the courage to go up to the girl he had been fond of for a while, and ask her out. Prem was looking for a new girlfriend and had his sights firmly set on the hottest babe from the junior batch. Both made their proposals in their own unique way: Prem with a necklace and a public message on the notice board; Amar with a simple rose and a quiet word in the corner of the hallway. Both were successful in their endeavors. Prem put his arm around the pretty junior girl’s waist, and strode out of college to join his friends at their favorite haunt. He showed no sign of surprise that he had received a positive response. After all, he always did, from every girl that he had gone after. His friend Amar, parted company of his new beau with a promise of a phone call later on, and then went to an isolated corner to celebrate. His face was flushed and had turned scarlet. His hair stood on end, and he couldn’t control the goose bumps that ran through his body. He skipped around in a circle and did a little dance. He couldn’t believe his luck.
Neha and Sonam were sisters, who went to different colleges. Both were passionate about dance. Every year, both the sisters entered the annual dance competition of their respective colleges. For three years in a row, Neha, the elder sister by a year, won the first prize. She was a naturally gifted dancer. Sonam too, loved to dance, but always got nervous when she went on stage, and fumbled her moves. She failed to win any prize. During their final year, once again the sisters geared up for the dance competition. This time, Sonam, found the self-confidence that she previously lacked. Both Neha and Sonam claimed the first prize in their respective colleges. Neha dumped her trophy alongside the others in her closet and didn’t give it a second glance. She was so accustomed to winning and had so many trophies. Sonam came homes and cuddled the trophy like it was a little baby. She balanced it on her head and jumped on the bed, giggling uncontrollably. Her dream of winning the dance competition had finally been realized.
Karan was seated comfortably on his couch. It was late in the evening, and he was watching his favorite television program. He sipped orange juice from a glass kept on the side table. He was almost oblivious of the glass in his hand and the juice in it. Arjun was outdoors playing tennis for three hours on a hot summer day, with the temperature soaring to thirty five degrees Celsius. The sweat drenched every pore of his skin. In the scorching heat, his body felt like the inside of an oven. Then, Arjun picked up an identical glass of orange juice and took one long, tantalizing, refreshing gulp. He exhaled deeply, looking at the juice as though it were an elixir sent down from heaven.
The point of the above stories is that everything in life consists of pairs of opposites. To truly enjoy the things that give us happiness, we must first experience the other side of them. Only then will we appreciate the value of what we have.
In fact, most things can only be defined in terms of their opposite. Imagine a place where there was always sunlight at all times. It never got dark or cold. It never rained or snowed. In such a place, there would be no concept of summer or winter. Summer only exists because of the contrast to its anti-thesis, the winter. One has no significance without the other.
The saintly people who are on a higher spiritual plane will tell you that you must move beyond pairs of opposites: good and evil, light and dark, day and night. To attain nirvana, you must find your inner, immovable center and be in a state of non-dual consciousness.
For those who are not on such a spiritual journey, think about all the things that bring you joy in your life. Have you previously experienced the other side? Now, think about the joys that you wish for, but haven’t experienced yet. If you are deprived of that pleasure, then you are currently seeing the other side of things. When you see people around who already have these things, just imagine how much more you will cherish them, when you do experience them, because you have had the privilege of living through the other side.
Snowhite Seattle
“Dude, have you looked out of the window?” Sujeet’s voice asked me over the phone.
From my snug position in bed, it took a substantial effort to raise my head and glance at the digital clock on the music system. It was seven thirty in the morning. I always disliked waking up to the sound of a phone ringing.
“I’m still sleeping,” I mumbled. The window in my room seemed much too far away to bother looking out of. I would have to get out of bed completely for that.
“It’s seven inches of snow out there,” Sujeet exclaimed.
I blinked and stuttered. “What?”
“Dude, it snowed like crazy in the night. The snowstorm forecasted for yesterday that never happened, has come one day late.”
Now, I sat up bolt upright. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“So, what time is your flight to India?” Sujeet asked.
“Ha? Flight?” I replied, as I slowly came to my senses. “It’s Korean Air and it leaves at twelve five.”
“Dude, the whole of Redmond is snowed in…” Sujeet began.
At that point, I tuned out from the conversation, hauled myself out of bed and staggered across to the window. I pulled up the blinds and stared outside. The sight that greeted me was remarkable. It was an ocean of white that had blanketed the road, the lamppost, the trees and every uncovered car. The soft, white snowflakes kept pouring down relentlessly from the skies above, as if determined to whiten out the whole planet. The gusty wind made them came down at oblique angles. Even though I was indoors, I shivered involuntarily just watching the storm unleash. It was beautiful and frightening at the same time.
“Dude, are you there..?” the voice on the phone queried.
“Yeaahh…I guess,” I was in a daze.
“I probably won’t be able to take my car out today. It can’t drive through snow at all.” Sujeet told me. He paused, and went on. “We’ll have to figure out some alternate way for you to get to the airport.”
Sujeet had agreed to drop me to the airport, but I had seen how poorly the BMW handled icy roads. It would be foolhardy to drive that car in the current scenario.
“Do you want to call for a cab?” Sujeet prodded.
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“Ok, sorry I can’t drop you. Let me know if you need any other help.”
“No problem, man. Thanks.”
A quick Google search gave me a list of taxi services that operated in the area. I called them one after the other, only to receive the following responses.
“Sorry, we are not operational today.”
“We have no taxis available now.”
“The weather conditions prevent us from coming there.”
“All our cabs are stuck on the freeway and will take hours to reach.”
“Please leave your message after the beep.”
And so on and so forth.
Ten phone calls later, I put the phone aside and paced up and down like a caged animal. I gulped down a large glass of water and gobbled a banana. By force of habit, I switched on the living room TV.
“There is a record amount of snowfall in all of the King County area in Washington. The snow has been falling continuously since four o’clock in the morning….”
The news presenter attempted to put on a grave face, but he looked rather excited. The shrill ringtone of my cell phone cut him off. I answered it after the first ring.
“Dude, did you get a cab?” It was Sujeet.
“No man, none of them are willing to go.”
“Really? Hmm...probably because of the snow,” Sujeet said. “You should keep trying. Let me also try a few cab services. I’ll call you back.”
I disconnected and called up Korean Air to ask if the flight was delayed. But, they informed me that it had only begun to snow in the area of the airport, and all flights were on schedule. Next, I spoke to a desi taxi driver and tried my best to cajole him into going to the airport. I even offered to pay double the fare. But, he claimed that he was stuck on the freeway and had no idea how long it would take him to get to my place.
I flung my phone onto the bed in frustration. It started ringing again, and I grabbed it.
“Dude, you are right, all the taxis are not operational,” Sujeet confirmed.
“Yeah.”
“You could try to go by bus…”
“But I have two huge check-in bags, one carry-one bag and a laptop bag,” I protested.
“Also, the bus is slow and has bad frequency, that it’ll get you late,” Sujeet added.
“You have your car with you, right?” Sujeet asked.
“Yeah, but are you suggesting that…”
“Dude, that’s the best alternative you have right now.”
After some more debate, I acknowledged that driving myself to the airport was the only available course of action. Sujeet wished me luck and said that he would keep calling to check on my progress. I looked at the clock. It was quarter to nine. I had originally planned to leave at nine fifteen as it took half an hour to reach the airport. But from what I had been hearing about the freeways, it would take a lot more than half an hour that day. So, I skipped a bath, hurriedly threw on some clothes and raced down to my Honda Civic. The same Honda Civic that had skidded uncontrollably and collided in the snow last year. I shook myself and tried to forget that incident, as I loaded the bags into the car.
The ground inside the building complex was covered with milky white snow. I started up the engine and put my car into the reverse. The snow there was soft and the tires ploughed through it easily. Feeling a little better, I changed the gear to Drive and stepped on the accelerator.
Without warning, my car slid sideways towards a lamppost. I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten. Before I could react at all, the car screeched and came to a halt inches away from the post. I exhaled heavily. So, this was a preview of how things were going to be. Cautiously, with my full attention to driving, I eased the car of the complex and onto the main road.
Less than a minute later, I glanced at the fuel gauge. It was on empty. While the Civic probably had enough reserve fuel to make it to the airport, I felt this wasn’t the best time to test the reserve capacity. I pulled into a nearby gas station and filled up about quarter of the tank.
The road leading out of the gas station had an upward slope and like everything else was under a white blanket. After moving a foot or so up the slope, the Honda Civic refused to budge. I pressed the accelerator harder, and the rear wheel spun in the snow. But the car remained where it was. My breathing became unsteady and there was a pounding in my chest. I got out of the car and stared at the wheel. It was mired in the snow. I scratched my head and looked around, but found no one else within sight. My phone started ringing.
“Dude, where are you?” Sujeet inquired.
“I’m at the gas station on 8th street. My car is stuck in the snow.”
“Oh shit. Now what? Is there anyone around to help?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Maybe you should…” Sujete began, and then stopped abruptly.
“Hello? Maybe I should what?” I demanded. But, there was silence. I looked at my phone and read the message ‘Main Batter Very low. Switching off’
“That’s perfect, that’s just perfect,” I yelled at the phone. It was a useless piece of junk that had the appearance of a phone but more often functioned like a glorified paper-weight. I considered tossing the device into the snow.
“Why did I have to fill gas at all?” I admonished myself.
I looked at the Honda again and was struck by a thought. There was substantial snow ahead of the rear wheel on the upslope, but there was not much behind it. In fact, the car was just a foot from the fuel pump, which was flatter ground, with scanty snow.
I sat in the driver’s seat, and sucked in a deep breath. I put the car into reverse gear and gradually slid it backwards. The Honda cooperated and inched backwards towards the fuel pump. With a sigh of relief, I guided it back the way I came, and out of the gas station in reverse.
After ten minutes of watchful driving, I made it onto the ramp leading to the freeway. The Honda Civic didn’t seem enamored by the thin, semi-black ice on the ramp, and decided to skid and slip every few inches. I gripped steering wheel as tightly as I could and tried to keep the car stable.
On the freeway, I crawled along at a snail’s pace of seven miles per hour. There weren’t too many cars that had braved the storm, and most of them that did were pickup trucks and sturdy SUVs. Compact sedans like mine were a rarity. Except on the shoulder of the freeway, where I saw quite a few sedans, stranded in the snow and abandoned by their owners. I saw one Honda Civic on the side of the freeway, the same color as mine, standing perpendicular to the road, with its tires entrenched deep in the snow. There was no sign of any passengers. A chill ran down my spine.
I gripped the steering wheel even tighter and slowed down even further. I glanced at my phone, the paperweight, wishing that I could call Sujeet or anyone else. In the rear-view mirror, I noticed a rust-brown Chevrolet that had been right behind me since I got onto the freeway. There was one man in the driver’s seat and no passengers. I decided to name him John Doe.
“Hey John, how are you getting along back there?” I said aloud into the mirror.
The rust-brown Chevy stayed on my tail as the cars inched forward.
“It’ll be alright, John. Just don’t look at all those abandoned cars on the side.”
I did realize how crazy I sounded, but I really needed to converse with someone. If Tom Hanks could talk to a volleyball in Cast Away, then why not me?
I continued my conversation with John as we plodded ahead at an agonizing pace. A look at my watch revealed that it was already ten forty.
“One hour twenty five minutes for my flight, John. But there is no need to panic.”
Looking ahead, I saw the stretch of road was covered with patches of slimy, unwelcoming ice. I looked at the mirror to warn my buddy.
“The road ahead is slippery. We need to be careful. Just dri…”
Suddenly, my Honda Civic veered left, out of control. It was headed straight for the divider.
“Oh Fuck,” I shouted. My heart skipped a beat. I twisted the steering wheel to the right. I yanked up the hand brake. From my past experience, I knew that slamming hard on the foot brakes, will only cause the car to skid further.
Centimeters away from the divider, the Honda Civic changed direction and straightened. It came to a halt with its front bumper almost kissing the concrete divider.
I let out a long breath. The blood was still pumping through my veins at breakneck pace.
The Chevy had stopped a few feet behind me to observe the scene.
“Don’t worry, John. I’m alright. Everything is fine.” I said, as I gradually pulled back into the lane and resumed our perilous journey, with John and the Chevy keeping a safe distance behind me.
“Driving through snow in a sedan is hell, ha?” I asked my travel companion in the mirror. “Don’t you wish you had an SUV with a four-wheel drive at a time like this?”
“Anyways, no point complaining now. We can get through this. We are almost there.”
We trudged along at a sluggish speed. Every mile seemed so long. I checked the time again. Forty minutes to my flight time. Boarding would probably start soon. We just passed Exit 1, less than four miles to the airport now. John was still with me.
“Slow and steady now. No need to think about the flight time.”
Without further incident, I reached the airport parking lot. The ‘Welcome to Sea-Tac Airport’ sign had never looked so good to me. At that point, I bid adieu to John and the Chevy which had gone to the Arrivals terminal.
“We made it, John. In one piece. It was nice talking to you.”
It was twenty three minutes to flight time. The parking fare was fifteen dollars a day plus tax. I was going on vacation for a month and would have to figure out some way to get my car removed from the long-term parking. But, I wasn’t worried by the monetary concerns. I was still thinking about making my flight.
“Just a few more minutes now. The flight won’t leave.” I told myself.
Finding parking on the third level, I stepped out of the car. There were no trolleys around, so I had to maneuver one large suitcase in each hand, with the cabin baggage balanced on top of one and the laptop bag hanging from my shoulder. My movement was unwieldy. But, I had only eighteen minutes to go. So, I accelerated to a brisk walk and then to a jog.
I was fifty feet from the elevators, when my legs gave way on a lump of ice. The next thing I knew I was lying flat with my back on the floor. There was a bolt of pain in my left ankle. One suitcase had crashed down next to me, with the carry-on and laptop bag nearby, and the other one had wheeled away to collide into the bumper of a parked car.
I stood up gingerly and stepped forward, feeling the shooting pain in my foot. My watch reminded me that there was only fifteen minutes to go. There was no time for pain.
Quickly collecting my scattered bags, I scampered to the elevator. I rushed to the Korean Air counter, with arms and baggage flailing around me. Thirteen minutes to flight time. Was there any chance that I would still be given a boarding pass?
“Your flight has been delayed by three hours due to ice on the runway and on the plane.” The man at the counter told me, and handed me the boarding pass.
I looked out of large window at the airport. There was that now familiar sight of layers of soft, white snow that had totally engulfed all the aircrafts the covered the ground below them.
For the first time that day, I smiled. With only the carry-on and laptop bag, I strolled towards a nearby restaurant to grab a quick bite. I put away my passport and the two boarding passes.
I stopped myself suddenly. Two boarding passes? I had forgotten all about the connection at Seoul. On checking, I found that there was a three hour fifteen minute layoff between the two flights. My flight from Seattle was three hours late. Would that mean I was going to miss my connection? How long would I be stuck in Seoul till the next flight to India?
One adventure ends and a new one begins.
From my snug position in bed, it took a substantial effort to raise my head and glance at the digital clock on the music system. It was seven thirty in the morning. I always disliked waking up to the sound of a phone ringing.
“I’m still sleeping,” I mumbled. The window in my room seemed much too far away to bother looking out of. I would have to get out of bed completely for that.
“It’s seven inches of snow out there,” Sujeet exclaimed.
I blinked and stuttered. “What?”
“Dude, it snowed like crazy in the night. The snowstorm forecasted for yesterday that never happened, has come one day late.”
Now, I sat up bolt upright. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“So, what time is your flight to India?” Sujeet asked.
“Ha? Flight?” I replied, as I slowly came to my senses. “It’s Korean Air and it leaves at twelve five.”
“Dude, the whole of Redmond is snowed in…” Sujeet began.
At that point, I tuned out from the conversation, hauled myself out of bed and staggered across to the window. I pulled up the blinds and stared outside. The sight that greeted me was remarkable. It was an ocean of white that had blanketed the road, the lamppost, the trees and every uncovered car. The soft, white snowflakes kept pouring down relentlessly from the skies above, as if determined to whiten out the whole planet. The gusty wind made them came down at oblique angles. Even though I was indoors, I shivered involuntarily just watching the storm unleash. It was beautiful and frightening at the same time.
“Dude, are you there..?” the voice on the phone queried.
“Yeaahh…I guess,” I was in a daze.
“I probably won’t be able to take my car out today. It can’t drive through snow at all.” Sujeet told me. He paused, and went on. “We’ll have to figure out some alternate way for you to get to the airport.”
Sujeet had agreed to drop me to the airport, but I had seen how poorly the BMW handled icy roads. It would be foolhardy to drive that car in the current scenario.
“Do you want to call for a cab?” Sujeet prodded.
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“Ok, sorry I can’t drop you. Let me know if you need any other help.”
“No problem, man. Thanks.”
A quick Google search gave me a list of taxi services that operated in the area. I called them one after the other, only to receive the following responses.
“Sorry, we are not operational today.”
“We have no taxis available now.”
“The weather conditions prevent us from coming there.”
“All our cabs are stuck on the freeway and will take hours to reach.”
“Please leave your message after the beep.”
And so on and so forth.
Ten phone calls later, I put the phone aside and paced up and down like a caged animal. I gulped down a large glass of water and gobbled a banana. By force of habit, I switched on the living room TV.
“There is a record amount of snowfall in all of the King County area in Washington. The snow has been falling continuously since four o’clock in the morning….”
The news presenter attempted to put on a grave face, but he looked rather excited. The shrill ringtone of my cell phone cut him off. I answered it after the first ring.
“Dude, did you get a cab?” It was Sujeet.
“No man, none of them are willing to go.”
“Really? Hmm...probably because of the snow,” Sujeet said. “You should keep trying. Let me also try a few cab services. I’ll call you back.”
I disconnected and called up Korean Air to ask if the flight was delayed. But, they informed me that it had only begun to snow in the area of the airport, and all flights were on schedule. Next, I spoke to a desi taxi driver and tried my best to cajole him into going to the airport. I even offered to pay double the fare. But, he claimed that he was stuck on the freeway and had no idea how long it would take him to get to my place.
I flung my phone onto the bed in frustration. It started ringing again, and I grabbed it.
“Dude, you are right, all the taxis are not operational,” Sujeet confirmed.
“Yeah.”
“You could try to go by bus…”
“But I have two huge check-in bags, one carry-one bag and a laptop bag,” I protested.
“Also, the bus is slow and has bad frequency, that it’ll get you late,” Sujeet added.
“You have your car with you, right?” Sujeet asked.
“Yeah, but are you suggesting that…”
“Dude, that’s the best alternative you have right now.”
After some more debate, I acknowledged that driving myself to the airport was the only available course of action. Sujeet wished me luck and said that he would keep calling to check on my progress. I looked at the clock. It was quarter to nine. I had originally planned to leave at nine fifteen as it took half an hour to reach the airport. But from what I had been hearing about the freeways, it would take a lot more than half an hour that day. So, I skipped a bath, hurriedly threw on some clothes and raced down to my Honda Civic. The same Honda Civic that had skidded uncontrollably and collided in the snow last year. I shook myself and tried to forget that incident, as I loaded the bags into the car.
The ground inside the building complex was covered with milky white snow. I started up the engine and put my car into the reverse. The snow there was soft and the tires ploughed through it easily. Feeling a little better, I changed the gear to Drive and stepped on the accelerator.
Without warning, my car slid sideways towards a lamppost. I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten. Before I could react at all, the car screeched and came to a halt inches away from the post. I exhaled heavily. So, this was a preview of how things were going to be. Cautiously, with my full attention to driving, I eased the car of the complex and onto the main road.
Less than a minute later, I glanced at the fuel gauge. It was on empty. While the Civic probably had enough reserve fuel to make it to the airport, I felt this wasn’t the best time to test the reserve capacity. I pulled into a nearby gas station and filled up about quarter of the tank.
The road leading out of the gas station had an upward slope and like everything else was under a white blanket. After moving a foot or so up the slope, the Honda Civic refused to budge. I pressed the accelerator harder, and the rear wheel spun in the snow. But the car remained where it was. My breathing became unsteady and there was a pounding in my chest. I got out of the car and stared at the wheel. It was mired in the snow. I scratched my head and looked around, but found no one else within sight. My phone started ringing.
“Dude, where are you?” Sujeet inquired.
“I’m at the gas station on 8th street. My car is stuck in the snow.”
“Oh shit. Now what? Is there anyone around to help?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Maybe you should…” Sujete began, and then stopped abruptly.
“Hello? Maybe I should what?” I demanded. But, there was silence. I looked at my phone and read the message ‘Main Batter Very low. Switching off’
“That’s perfect, that’s just perfect,” I yelled at the phone. It was a useless piece of junk that had the appearance of a phone but more often functioned like a glorified paper-weight. I considered tossing the device into the snow.
“Why did I have to fill gas at all?” I admonished myself.
I looked at the Honda again and was struck by a thought. There was substantial snow ahead of the rear wheel on the upslope, but there was not much behind it. In fact, the car was just a foot from the fuel pump, which was flatter ground, with scanty snow.
I sat in the driver’s seat, and sucked in a deep breath. I put the car into reverse gear and gradually slid it backwards. The Honda cooperated and inched backwards towards the fuel pump. With a sigh of relief, I guided it back the way I came, and out of the gas station in reverse.
After ten minutes of watchful driving, I made it onto the ramp leading to the freeway. The Honda Civic didn’t seem enamored by the thin, semi-black ice on the ramp, and decided to skid and slip every few inches. I gripped steering wheel as tightly as I could and tried to keep the car stable.
On the freeway, I crawled along at a snail’s pace of seven miles per hour. There weren’t too many cars that had braved the storm, and most of them that did were pickup trucks and sturdy SUVs. Compact sedans like mine were a rarity. Except on the shoulder of the freeway, where I saw quite a few sedans, stranded in the snow and abandoned by their owners. I saw one Honda Civic on the side of the freeway, the same color as mine, standing perpendicular to the road, with its tires entrenched deep in the snow. There was no sign of any passengers. A chill ran down my spine.
I gripped the steering wheel even tighter and slowed down even further. I glanced at my phone, the paperweight, wishing that I could call Sujeet or anyone else. In the rear-view mirror, I noticed a rust-brown Chevrolet that had been right behind me since I got onto the freeway. There was one man in the driver’s seat and no passengers. I decided to name him John Doe.
“Hey John, how are you getting along back there?” I said aloud into the mirror.
The rust-brown Chevy stayed on my tail as the cars inched forward.
“It’ll be alright, John. Just don’t look at all those abandoned cars on the side.”
I did realize how crazy I sounded, but I really needed to converse with someone. If Tom Hanks could talk to a volleyball in Cast Away, then why not me?
I continued my conversation with John as we plodded ahead at an agonizing pace. A look at my watch revealed that it was already ten forty.
“One hour twenty five minutes for my flight, John. But there is no need to panic.”
Looking ahead, I saw the stretch of road was covered with patches of slimy, unwelcoming ice. I looked at the mirror to warn my buddy.
“The road ahead is slippery. We need to be careful. Just dri…”
Suddenly, my Honda Civic veered left, out of control. It was headed straight for the divider.
“Oh Fuck,” I shouted. My heart skipped a beat. I twisted the steering wheel to the right. I yanked up the hand brake. From my past experience, I knew that slamming hard on the foot brakes, will only cause the car to skid further.
Centimeters away from the divider, the Honda Civic changed direction and straightened. It came to a halt with its front bumper almost kissing the concrete divider.
I let out a long breath. The blood was still pumping through my veins at breakneck pace.
The Chevy had stopped a few feet behind me to observe the scene.
“Don’t worry, John. I’m alright. Everything is fine.” I said, as I gradually pulled back into the lane and resumed our perilous journey, with John and the Chevy keeping a safe distance behind me.
“Driving through snow in a sedan is hell, ha?” I asked my travel companion in the mirror. “Don’t you wish you had an SUV with a four-wheel drive at a time like this?”
“Anyways, no point complaining now. We can get through this. We are almost there.”
We trudged along at a sluggish speed. Every mile seemed so long. I checked the time again. Forty minutes to my flight time. Boarding would probably start soon. We just passed Exit 1, less than four miles to the airport now. John was still with me.
“Slow and steady now. No need to think about the flight time.”
Without further incident, I reached the airport parking lot. The ‘Welcome to Sea-Tac Airport’ sign had never looked so good to me. At that point, I bid adieu to John and the Chevy which had gone to the Arrivals terminal.
“We made it, John. In one piece. It was nice talking to you.”
It was twenty three minutes to flight time. The parking fare was fifteen dollars a day plus tax. I was going on vacation for a month and would have to figure out some way to get my car removed from the long-term parking. But, I wasn’t worried by the monetary concerns. I was still thinking about making my flight.
“Just a few more minutes now. The flight won’t leave.” I told myself.
Finding parking on the third level, I stepped out of the car. There were no trolleys around, so I had to maneuver one large suitcase in each hand, with the cabin baggage balanced on top of one and the laptop bag hanging from my shoulder. My movement was unwieldy. But, I had only eighteen minutes to go. So, I accelerated to a brisk walk and then to a jog.
I was fifty feet from the elevators, when my legs gave way on a lump of ice. The next thing I knew I was lying flat with my back on the floor. There was a bolt of pain in my left ankle. One suitcase had crashed down next to me, with the carry-on and laptop bag nearby, and the other one had wheeled away to collide into the bumper of a parked car.
I stood up gingerly and stepped forward, feeling the shooting pain in my foot. My watch reminded me that there was only fifteen minutes to go. There was no time for pain.
Quickly collecting my scattered bags, I scampered to the elevator. I rushed to the Korean Air counter, with arms and baggage flailing around me. Thirteen minutes to flight time. Was there any chance that I would still be given a boarding pass?
“Your flight has been delayed by three hours due to ice on the runway and on the plane.” The man at the counter told me, and handed me the boarding pass.
I looked out of large window at the airport. There was that now familiar sight of layers of soft, white snow that had totally engulfed all the aircrafts the covered the ground below them.
For the first time that day, I smiled. With only the carry-on and laptop bag, I strolled towards a nearby restaurant to grab a quick bite. I put away my passport and the two boarding passes.
I stopped myself suddenly. Two boarding passes? I had forgotten all about the connection at Seoul. On checking, I found that there was a three hour fifteen minute layoff between the two flights. My flight from Seattle was three hours late. Would that mean I was going to miss my connection? How long would I be stuck in Seoul till the next flight to India?
One adventure ends and a new one begins.
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