An Encounter with Buddhism: Looking into the Mirror

Teach For India Fellowship has been nothing less than a blessing or a miracle. The people I have met and worked with, which includes children, in the last two years have molded my personality in a way I had not intended it to do. I had only envisioned the fellowship to be a launch pad for a career in the development sector. However, it holds much greater value.

Earlier last month, I was asked to submit an essay (a portion of this post) as a part of a job application. It gave me an opportunity to reflect back on the experience, which I will reproduce here. Around till the end of first year of fellowship, I have been very curious and also, frustrated without answers, about the meaning and the possibilities of life. A conservation with a friend alluded to the idea and she asked me to undertake an experiment. I was to attend a ten day Introduction to Buddhism Course at Tushita Meditation Centre, located among Himalayas at Mcleod Ganj.

The idea is to observe abstinence of speech, killing, stealing, lying, sexual activity and intoxicants for ten days while being at the centre. One has to adjust to keep silence, has to be gentle in one’s behaviour and sensitive to fellow course participants and staff, keep an open mind and adjust to the schedule. By shutting out the distractions of everyday life, exposing oneself to spiritual (Buddhist) lessons and teachings and sitting through time-determined meditation sessions, I found a set of answers that I was looking for.

It was subtle, profound few days on the hill. I got up early in the morning, before others, to ensure that I could get the washrooms unoccupied. I saw the light of the dawn peeking from behind the tall trees and in the glitter, I did what I like to do the most in the morning, read. The discussions, listening to the teacher and the understanding I have developed of the people by observing their eyes and smile (or the absence of it), took time and have become one with who I am.



I now observe existence to be a function of love, kindness, gratitude and grit. I realised what is important for me – my relationships, peace of mind and learning. I understand and feel affection with an open happy heart. Sometimes, I am quite overjoyed or overwhelmed as I notice the love people have for me and my heart stops. I have learned the importance of taking care of myself, it’s of much significance to have both mind and body healthy. I learned where to draw the line - at work, in my relationships, in my adventures. I have let go of unhealthy people, few addictions and habits. I have stopped feeling ashamed of my body's shape and size. I speak openly, I prefer to look in the eye of the person and say the truth. I don’t get easily outraged at people or during difficult situations. I try to understand my anger and control it. I observe how people respond, I analyse how and why of their actions, I try not to judge. With judgment minimised, forgiveness has seaped in me. I have learned to be a happier, calmer and kinder person. I love better.

A hand to hold as I sleep

Years passed by, as I
Mocked affection, warmth
Dismissed it, belitting
I didn't know what awaited me
A hand to hold as I sleep

I devoured bodies, wandering
From one street to another
Uncovering depths, not of kindness
Of unfulfilling pursuits; while all I wanted
A hand to hold as I sleep

Desires, dreams, demons mixed
A confidence falsely held
Tears kept in check
All the time, all this while, only
A hand to hold as I sleep

The hands I scratched, others
smothered and held
I knew not, it was yours
In which my nirvana lay
A hand to hold as I sleep

Living with a privilege, more than one

Last week, over dinner, a dear friend and we were discussing the daily travails that ails our hearts and the regular encounters of our aging selves. He remarked that I am leading a quality life. It was to be another affirmation of my thoughts, coming from someone else.   

The continuum of my miracles is even greater than I would be able to put down here. It clearly started once I was conceived in my mother. She was well taken care of, all the basic endowments – clothes, food, shelter, comforts, affection and more, made its way to her. Even before I was born, my grandparents started doting on me, depriving my elder brother his due share of love. He still stands today, by my side - the only one in the family privy to my true self – a source of immense relief.

Early as a child, my family decided to move out of Delhi and establish base in a small town in Haryana. We had a government quarter in cantonment area to ourselves, supplies in place, a clean, quiet environment to learn and grow in. The compound was huge, with trees laden with leaves and fruits.

In the school, I was a, or among the toppers. It allowed me excessive advantages to dominate other kids, keep my mouth flowing and question the ways of administering education. I wish I was more emphatic towards and cognizant of my fellow beings.

I wonder why my mother always asked me to choose a profession of my choice, she never expressed a desire for positions, designations, roles. All she ever wanted and she still does, is for me to be happy. I choose an overpriced course in a city away from home, I chose to leave a decently paying job to teach in a government school against my family’s wishes, I choose to spend time away from them with friends or travelling, I still choose to spend an amount on a meal in a fancy restaurant which my parents started their jobs with. Never once, they have flinched to make me comfortable, happy and feel loved. I am sure there exists no way to repay their affection and care.

I will quickly recount a portion of what I continue to be indebted for. Being born a boy – the life is so much easier being a guy in the country or otherwise – I will make a separate blog entry to thank my father for his Y chromosome. Getting pampered in the company of affectionate, human, guiding friends and colleagues throughout. To be able to always afford decent healthcare, flights to travel home or attend numerous weddings, attend film and music festivals, indulge in food and comfort. To have the space, time and resources to persue interests, observe the sun going down, step out at any time of the day or night.  

Also, being honoured with the opportunity to experience and appreciate human warmth and care. Being endowed with the understanding to share and receive love. Living with the third person perspective to observe and correct actions. Being a witness to a soul as it smiles, laughs and cries. To be able to count the number of shoulders on which I can cry on. I believe it is indeed a luxury, just to be able to count my blessings.

I spoke to another friend about three months ago. We had connected after five years and he asked me if my time is better than it was before. I will reproduce what I said – life pehle bhi achi hi thi, samjh bas ab aaya hai - life was the same earlier, a blessed one, however only now I have understood what I have. 

Homecoming (Work Ledger -2)

A little more than a year ago, in a defining kind gesture, an ex-colleague connected me to my present colleague. I was unaware of the impact a simple phone call could lead to. In the months past that opportune moment, I have had a profound realisation of the remarkably privileged life that I lead. The call led to an exposure to substantial experiences hitherto I was unaware of or never imagined true for me. I also, and most fortunately, came to work with set of four thoughtful, compassionate, generous individuals, and who, I along with them, were known as Vini - 6 School Team.

Over the years, I have observed quite a few teams, who just simply moved together, all the time. I envied those teams. And in the course of the last year, I became part of one. Occasionally, I pause to observe their contemplations, the lines of their faces, their smiles and wonder how our paths interlocked. In the treacherous/ transformational fellowship journey, these four became my home, nothing short of that.

After about years of running from one thing to another, from one city to another, from many relationships to several, I am home. A place where I am forgiven for mistakes big and small. A place where my stories are sought after. With them, I can turn into an annoying child and escape without being chided. They allow my words to stay with me, they are most comfortable with the comfort I am accustomed to. They know the words unsaid.

When around them, I am less anxious, I am a joker, chatter mouth, a little more responsible, shameless. This team's company and also its memory is a refuge, especially for a runaway that I identify myself to be.  They are witness to the darkest and filthiest versions of me, and they still are kind. With them, I share my fears, my tears flow easily. With them, I am nurtured and loved.

I also wonder if I will ever be able to repay the kindness in one lifetime or more. Meanwhile, for the last few months we are physically together, I will continue to rejoice, in my good fortune.

A Commonwealth of Love

A few months ago, amidst the magnificent hills around Pune, I sat with strangers, at a storytelling circle. Together, one by one, we gave away ourselves, our narratives. Some insights about what shapes who we are, reasons why many things still wreck us and how love, in many ways, was present in our lives, or instead, has been missing. 

Hearing others, I was overwhelmed, almost overcame with tears. It was a struggle to find words that would match up to, if not equal, the whys and wherefores of me. I did it, making people laugh and wonder, though not really content with my storytelling skills. 

I have come to know and spend time with people from that circle, embracing them beyond the shower soaked, emerald, tenderness encouraging peaks. Abundance in all positive means persist. Another wonderful miracle of that circle were the choice of words that I made. I have been looking for the right ones from quite some months, for this post. There were many viewpoints, much rattling of parables. The search ended among the hills where this book opened.   

I am the younger one in the family, always youngest among friends, have been even until up to the place where I work now. If one has known a similar experience, they might be familiar with the emotion of being overpowered, by warmth and care.

My canvas is made of tolerance, sacrifice and uncountable portraits of pain – none mine. Identify the vivid colours - Me losing control of my tongue, my voice and always being forgiven, always. Never being shouted at after multiple mistakes at different roles that I have played at work. Deliberately doing performances that most find uncomfortable and unacceptable. Also, keeping my paint brushes tucked away, while others only shared, ample with their own colours. 

I ran away from home more than four years ago at the first opportunity I got. I did not pay attention and it has become a habit. It increased and took many forms – running away from the mess food, away from the banalities of the similar sunsets, from only-self-regard and paths downhill, cities and even genuine affection. 

Only after experiencing myself how distance can be cruel, I understood the naturalness of the love and concern of my family. When I finally had the courage to part with my secrets, I found friends closer. I am trying to be as forgiving, as understanding, as others have been with me, being the kindness that always came my way. Alongside, what an absolute pleasure it is to smear and splatter colours on the canvasses of people who love you and one after the other, add loving tones to yours. 

Hanya Yanagihara wrote, “And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it….of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness.”

Bangalore Blues

Years ago, when I was about 10 or 11 years old, a mathematics teacher shared a lesson with the class. Keeping aside the usual diction, she asked us to make a count. A count of number of times we used the words thank you and sorry. She added the less we use these words, the more we score on the sheets of life.

However, over the past few months in Bangalore, I saw something very different to what was mentioned at school – the value of understanding and acknowledgment of what others do, knowingly or out of habit, to allow more comfort and joy seep through.

I spent the most hours in Bangalore either working and on the bed. Curiously, the number of hours spent at work were fulfilling, with each member from the small team invested equally, stretching themselves, making sacrifices and recognising each other’s contributions and out-of-the-way help, which was commonplace – putting people first at all times possible, even when business took precedence.

If one has seen Bombay’s rush and Delhi’s frenzy, Bangalore appears to be numbingly quiet and calm (not denying their own wonders). A city where the conductor and the driver of the bus shout at you just to ask you to be careful, as you attempt to jump off the moving vehicle. A city where a youngster in an Audi, allows you to cross first even while your eyes are on the phone and not the road. A city where it rains simply because the temperature shoots up a notch higher. One cannot help being grateful. 

The human emotions run equally parallel as in other cities, the human composition after all warrants only a little peace. But the pace of the city allows more room to them, something you usually experience when you sit by the sea or on the capital’s silent streets or otherwise while being tucked away with people who care about you.

Love and desire brushed past me with full force here, putting me out of my reverie. Once significant things lost significance, desires gave way to absolute essentials and meaning of others’ actions were made a note of.  

The city has sundry people in its fold. Some visited, people who I care about. Over many fired, warm, sparkling conversations, I also met some talented people from different turfs, with astounding stories and I found them indebted too. Weekends, the clichéd joyful days became the norm to indulge in company and the temperature of the city blew quite a few lids off.

I was told that Bangalore is a city that I would really like. I did. Several answers that I looked for after stepping out of Pune surfaced in surreptitious ways. Goodbyes soaked with a thanks or two, made it easier to step out. And as more months passed by, it was pleasing to recognise the basics of investing time, well, every time with a thank you.  

My first picture in Bangalore :)

Stories maketh a man

In the midst of some interesting encounters this year, I realised I have a predilection for stories. Stories in different shapes and sizes. Fiction and Non-Fiction. Books, films, blogs, some short snippets by Terribly Tiny Tales. A few social media updates that if put together can be an interesting tale. Distinctly astonishing reads from The Stranger’s Project, stories that are brought alive by groups like Kommune. And the ones that I hear during conversations, at work, over rides, food and trips. 

These stories have laid bare very human desires and many fears. I now know the reasons behind some choices – which had left me exasperated earlier. Pretexts of love for a particular food item, song, a film, a person. The ploy of a kiss, those tears and that hug. One blink and the monotony, the ordinariness of a gesture is sanitised to reveal the hidden sum of the hundreds of moments. What I take away from chats, films has changed. I gather more.

It starts from the start, the family. It took me years to realise our narratives are supposed to be linked like the fevicol ka jod. There is no point denying it. They are the ones who are most eager to hear our side, however trivial the accounts are. Watching the kids grow up and racing the scooter through the city where I grew up, the usual happened - life flashed past. A friend said some time ago, we are each other’s experiences, there’s no living without.

A few weeks ago in Bombay, conversations alluded unrequited love and a longing to demystify the future. Thoughts slipped into conversations and I glanced up to place the voice and the person together. An exchange that took more than 2 years in making, was left unfinished. Others were set in motion.  

The background of every story is love or grief borne out of it. I have also realised that behind the restrained, evasive remark, everyone has a story to tell. Fairytales, legends of kindness and companionship, an account of honesty, a piece of care.