“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.
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