On my first train in transit to Kinnaur, I was assigned to a seat adjacent to an antediluvian man wearing a red beanie and white raincoat soiled around the collar and cuffs. I was less than enthusiastic as I took my seat but pleasantly surprised when he didn’t smell like urine. Two hours into my passage and after some sub-par train food, he turned to me and said in perfect English, “Ask me any question and I will give you a scientific answer.”
Now, some people I know have no problem talking philosophy with homeless people. I am not one of them. But, after some initial trepidation and apprehensive giggling, we managed to get the ball rolling. I figured I had another six hours of transit ahead of me and might as well entertain myself when the opportunity arose. Even if he was a complete bhang head, it would be better than sitting in silence or reading The Hindustan Times (seriously, the newspapers here are worse that my high school periodical).
He didn’t spit out the next cogito ergo sum, but he wasn’t a crazy homeless guy either (there’s a big range there). Just an 83 year old man on the way to a wedding, wanting to impart some Vedic wisdom on a little Korean (he insisted) girl.
He talked about how Barak Obama’s inauguration address correlated with the Maharbarta, how Barry was an Indian in a former life, how your roots are inescapable (“You can pull them out of the ground, but they are still there.”), and how the secret to health was living as natural a life as possible.
Finally, I gathered the cahones to ask the big one, “So… uh… what’s the meaning of life?”
“That’s a very good question.” He smiled his semi-toothed smile and grabbed a piece of paper from the facing seat pocket. “Is this not life?” Indian head wiggle. “Is a tree not life? A building? An animal? We are all life.”
Apparently, that was all he had to say on the matter.
“We are all life.”
I had my past life regression with Kumar on Friday. Yes, I did go into a “past life” and no, I won’t talk about it here. Let’s just say that the experience was freaky and I’m not sure that I believe that what happened was authentic or if I just want to believe my imagination. Regardless, it was a good experience.
One of the things he said as he was beginning the session was that noise is simply evidence of life. He said this as a passing comment, but I couldn’t help but brood over it during the following days. More brooding, I admit, than was spent my actual “past life” experience. Imagine that everything that beats or blows or rustles or drips is life. Drums and wind and leaves and the rain. In Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus asserts that God is “a shout in the street.” The music of movement, the fact that there is life, then, is God.
There is this Hindu legend/epic/parable whatever that tells (and I bludgeonly paraphrase) of a man who receives the opportunity to ask some god one question. His question is, “How can I be happy for the rest of my life?” The god answers, “Always remember that the divine one is eternally within you and around you.” God is in that annoying economics professor, the crippled beggar in Deveraj market, the mountains, the interent and our socks. But most profoundly, God is in us. Is this the meaning of life? I don’t know. But it’s a start.
Oh fuck, now I’m sounding all new-agey and shit. After you get of the net, remember these pretty pictures and not my banal ruminations.
we out and told victoria that it was my birthday. she got me a cake. 
this isn't my name...
1 comment:
not fair. c'mon, who/what were you?
Post a Comment