Thought: One Thousand Two
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One. Truth from the mouth of the worthy sounds like arrogance.
Truth from the mouth of the unworthy sounds like humility.
Two. If you can accept it, carry on.
If you cannot accept it, flee.
And if you have boundless time in your hands . . . set it ablaze!
Three. Someone very close to me asked: Why do you work so hard? Do you desperately need money, or are you just terribly ambitious?
I answered: Both. I need both money and a career—regardless of whether anyone stays in my life or not. And trust me, with money and career, you'll never lack for human company even if you don't seek it. In my life, I keep barely one or two people; the rest I do without. More people bring more suffering. Position matters. Being able to create a position for yourself is more urgent than anything else.
The Creator sent me into this world, which means: surely He sent me for some purpose, I have something to accomplish in this world. I move toward that goal. He certainly doesn't send anyone merely to eat, sleep, wear clothes, waste money; and that cannot possibly be the purpose of human life.
A person doesn't die from being alone, but without money they die from within, and without a reasonably good career a person slowly drifts toward spiritual death. Especially if they are the eldest child of their family—there can be no compromise in these matters. What is more beautiful than a solid position!
Even if I fail, at least I will have no regret, because I gave everything I had. To live with the regret of not trying is far worse than death. Even after failure, I can live in peace, I can say with satisfaction: I patiently fought all the battles needed to survive.
No, my thoughts, beliefs, and opinions will not align with everyone's life, nor need they to. One person's philosophy of life cannot measure another's—life is that strange equation that has no solution!
Four. You visit someone's home. You're quite taken with their wife. Will you then tell that lady, "I'm very fond of you. This 'wrong house' doesn't suit you at all. Come away with me to my home. I want to keep you there."?
No, you won't. That's what civility is. You don't need to know rocket science to understand this—common sense will do. A person is most beautiful in their own place.
Or say a showpiece from that house appeals to you greatly. Would you want to take it home with you? If you're a gentleman, you wouldn't. To want such a thing is nothing but theft! You know this.
Yet when you like someone, you want to draw them into your religion, your belief, your path. Sometimes, shameless as can be, you begin pressuring them relentlessly.
The chickpea vendor walks about with a bag of chickpeas slung over his shoulder, crying out "chick-peas, chick-peas!" as he follows his customers; but the goldsmith never walks about chasing after gold, because gold is precious.
Religion is like a house. Whose house it is, their peace it brings. Someone else's house brings only fear!
Think about it for a moment! If your path had made you beautiful, then seeing you, she too would have been captivated, just as you were captivated seeing her.
All paths are good and beautiful; so when his path went wrong, how did you become so drawn to him? Come now, your own path of thinking couldn’t make you half so captivating!
Try being captivating. If you knew how to attract, you wouldn’t have to chase after people like this, so desperately, so relentlessly.
If you like a flower, that doesn’t mean you pluck it and stuff it in your pocket. Anyone lacking even that much civility can never be truly religious. Civility is the first step of faith. I have never seen a single rude person who was truly devout.
Five. Don’t break yourself so much. Nothing of this world is eternal anyway. What is eternal is this alone: only your ‘you’—that essence of yourself! Remember, that infinity into which your ‘you’ dissolves never truly dissolves—so how could you ever be temporary? Even if you wanted to be, could you manage it?
Don’t think about it. Let it settle, just as time once slipped in and peeked, exactly so will this moment one day dive deep into the depths of your mind. After that… everything becomes simple and natural again.
Six. You will forget. I too will forget.
In time’s alchemy, the wounds and festering sores of this moment will heal. The torment of memory will grow gentle.
You now are elsewhere, with another companion, happy in the ordinary life of the world, and so arrogant; with them, certainly, all unwanted pasts have been denied and erased.
Our touch, the depth of our love—it becomes bodiless, like a shadow cast from flesh. A mind within the mind one day forgets completely, entirely, and lies mute.
In your busy life, the old resentments, the grievances—all of it, like unpaid gas bills, falls into the waste-paper basket, listed among meaningless rejected items.
Happy, you forget the poetic past, the golden tale of love that was “certainly forgettable in this moment.”
“Be happy.”—and still that shameless heart of mine raises its voice to this blessing flung your way. Remembering everything, still the poor thing says—be well. Be happy.
Night deepens. The platinum-violet phone gives shelter even in long days of loneliness, in long nights—a warmth in cold, silent hours.
The famished heart’s lonely feast—with a silent yet tangible presence. It keeps me company, it brings closeness—in the untimely, you-less yet you-full solitude of the hour.
Seven. As night grows longer, how much I think! The mind within my mind grows weary with a thousand questions, growing ever more weary.
Suffering increases. Quiet suffering. When a house floods without rain, or a boat sinks without a storm, then knowing how to swim or not becomes equally meaningless.
Who will test us on suffering’s whetstone? We are all just oxen at the mill. Whatever is put before our mouth, we accept without question.
Days pass. Nights too pass away.
Silent phone—what a strange magician it is! It gives me company on one hand, yet keeps me companionless on the other.
Eight. What is the nature of a guilty mind? I hold the phone to my ear, now and then feasting on the beloved’s honeyed voice. From unknown numbers, the tending of deception continues, inside and out.
The unbearable past breaks into laughter in the joy of my mind, its two rows of teeth bared in an obscene grin, making the present reek; sometimes making it quite ugly.
Within the chambers of my chest, all manner of fireworks burst. Scattered minds fly off in all directions.
I sigh long over the tale of a half-wasted moon, the way a person sits on the veranda of one life and turns the pages of memory from another life.
Sometimes sorrow mingles a little—sometimes understood, sometimes not.
No audible communication happens through the phone’s tunnel. Yet the disobedient horse of attention still circles round that alluring sphere over there, circling endlessly without reason.
On your end of the long-distance call, you too then spend hours as restless as mine.
In the flood of love, a thousand years’ worth of home and hearth drowns away. When a mind breaks, new soil doesn’t suddenly spring up there.
*Thought: One Thousand Three*
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One.
What pitiless shame we nurture unprotestingly in our remorseful chests—we inhabitants of solitary islands, each unto ourselves!
What boundless rage keeps its lamp burning through the night in our hearts! Smoldering in the dull fire of chaff, the mind wants to become defiant…against the journal of our times—that ‘Life’ you’ve given the wrong name to.
At the book fair, vendors sit. People come. Dust rises. The fair scatters. Each takes their own path.
Pitiless shame still clings everywhere, like darkness that gathers and settles in the broken marketplace.
The night deepens. A mobile phone offers its ashen companionship—loud in color, yet helpless and mute in sound. Besides you, I have no one I can call my own.
Two. Were you happy?
You painted me head to toe in the vermillion of humiliation, announced to all within your boundaries who belonged and who didn’t, and your chest swelled by mere inches—strange to hear, yet I want to measure it.
I want to know: if distance must begin when two people are to live well, if love could have been preserved well right there, why did such a flaw in judgment occur at all?
Was I happy?
Changed by the curse of sterile solitude, did I chase after some priceless sapphire, betraying promise?
In the mirror’s deception of self-image, today I myself am directionless. Now even if I suck my thumb all day, truth and falsehood won’t exchange their places.
What must happen, happens. This bare truth alone endures.
Three. What suffering! All day long, the heart is prodded relentlessly by every thought in the world.
Once, a sharp pride—like the glass-coated string of a kite bearing terrible humiliation—somehow leaves all anger and complaint far behind and becomes a frayed string of dampened sorrow.
By resting my head on it, my right hand goes numb. I don’t remove it. I’ve removed everything already! How much more!
Fire burns in the soles of my feet. Yet the blanket covering half my body isn’t removed either.
Just as a foolish Taj Mahal and an unnatural blue sky on a calendar occupy wall space needlessly, so too does this stubborn gloom, clinging like paste, deepen through the silent hours as the night grows longer. Night has never learned to diminish.
Still, the phone is silent. I know both the reason and its truth. Yet eyes and ears and mind rebel, or rehearse old habits.
Today there is no one I could call at night if I wished to. Can a person be so utterly alone!
Four. Above my head, a blue fan whirrs constantly. In the air, metal blades cut through the wind with sound. Clothes hanging on the rack sway sadly with each gust. On the ceiling, stuck in a spider’s web, crumbling plaster sways toward certain death, unmindful and assured. A plastic bag fills with air and crackles. One or two opportunistic mosquitoes, given any chance, whine and cut lines across the skin.
The night deepens. My sole companion on the bed sits curled up in silence—an orange phone, alive in color yet voiceless at this moment.
Five. The still of night. Two or three minutes before three o’clock.
Midnight—such an unguarded hour. Shedding all shells, the inner self emerges. In the conscience’s journal, one or two true testimonies are written whether one wishes it or not. Stripped bare, everything becomes clear—the darkness of alleys that spill out is seen without effort.
The mind doesn’t stay well; it becomes unwell. Unwell means very unwell. The needle of suffering embroiders upon the heart. In the endless weaving of thought, I keep my gaze fixed and naked in the darkness.
The night deepens. One watch. Two watches.
Six. In the end, it didn’t work out to stay with you. Tell me—where was the fault? Was there no pull? Or was there, but you should have stayed a little longer?
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
I still cannot fathom what we failed to find in each other.
When first love, at seventeen, wanted to unfurl its innocent pages in the dazzling light of your bewildering presence, spreading their eager limbs toward warmth—you were then absorbed in the discourse of the past. And when you finally turned away, I found myself possessed by a craving to hunt for an illusion called “peace of mind.”
Thus it was that when disbelief’s quicksand had swallowed me to the throat, I saw that you—that very reckless you—had sunk deep into my being. Who knows why, but just when my time ran out, you found the moment to turn back and look.
In the mutual flinging of that self-destructive, thoughtless mud, the two of us together had by then dulled the dream-white, gleaming bungalow of love. Our wounds are our own burden to bear.
How foolish and helpless is this two-legged, mindless creature called human! How many unuttered things and twisted struggles strangle beautiful moments to death before the very first tear can fall!
**Seven.** Does one who is confident in her own beauty go from door to door begging—or rather, *pestering*—saying, “Please, tell me I am beautiful”? Recognition is needed only by those confused about their own beauty. People love beauty. If you are beautiful, people will call you beautiful of their own accord. There is no need to request it or demand it of anyone.
One who can say, “Look at me! See how beautiful I am!”—their beauty faded long ago.
**Eight.** Long conversations beget endless rambling.
There is a notice in my office room: please keep your words brief.
Yet most people rob me of that courtesy. I do not know why such cruelty. I fear lengthy speech.
**Nine.** He who lies down, so lies down his fortune. He who walks, so walks his fortune; he who runs, so runs his fortune. What does not lie in destiny sometimes lies in labour. Work, and you will gain. Without labour—skills flourish and obstacles vanish—that exists only in fairy tales.
**Ten.** I remain loyal to only two things: my work and myself. I want my work to be without fault, and I want to be able to tell myself that by day’s end I am a good person. Beyond these two, I am not truly loyal to anything else. Whatever I must do for these two, I do at any cost. The world’s opinion matters nothing to me, so long as I remain true to these two. Praise irritates me; blame I ignore. (Both flatterers and detractors are hustlers of a sort.) The curious thing is, I believe I am indispensable to no one and no one is indispensable to me. So beyond my closest ones and family, I am not troubled by anyone else in the slightest. Let each do as they wish, let each live as they see fit. I care nothing for anyone or anything. I never overthink any matter, I never judge the world’s people, even by mistake. I assume I know no one, and this gives me peace. Whatever disturbs or embarrasses me, I remove from my sight or I remove myself from it; for I am terribly busy with my own work. This did not happen overnight—I have had to strive to attain it.
**Thought: One Thousand Four**
**Seven.** To be able to sleep on one’s own pillow in one’s own home—that is a comfort not everyone possesses.
**Eight.**
Many ask me, brother, should I start studying now for a job? (Holy cow!)
I don’t answer. I truly don’t know what the answer is. I only know this much: whoever needs to relieve themselves never asks anyone permission to do it; just the same, whoever needs to study never asks anyone’s permission to study. Sir, is the matter clear?
The urgency of nature and the hunger for learning are the same thing.
Three. Will you get 115 on today’s exam? Then start studying for the retest. Don’t waste time. Don’t give your time to just anyone, for no reason. Spend your time on your own work, give time only to yourself; you’ll see, the work gets done! Success begins by shaking hands with selfishness. (Here, being selfish means being conscious.)
Even if you don’t get 115, start studying anyway. If you want a job, there’s nothing better you can do right now than this. And if you don’t want one, do what your heart desires. A world of just two days! Pour some Coke in a glass and say to the wind: cheers!
Four. Never jump into the water at the urging of someone who can’t swim themselves.
Five. The most worthless boys are liked by the most wonderful girls, yet even the most worthless girls don’t like the most wonderful boys.
Six. Those who think poorly of you are less troublesome than those who think well of you. And those who don’t know you at all are the safest for you. Being among the strangers is the best thing.
Seven. Until disaster strikes or you get beaten down, everyone seems good to you.
Eight. When you spend time with someone, do so in such a way that if you never meet them again later, you don’t fall into difficulty or trouble. Even if your mind goes mad, keep your wits about you. Whatever the relationship, you cannot become dependent on anyone. Life went on before they came, and it will go on after they leave. Preserve your individuality at any cost. Indispensability is the mother of slavery.
Nine. God, from time to time, appears in the dreams of mainly two kinds of people, giving them various commands and instructions: the poor and the rich. The middle class sleep less, so they dream less.
Ten. Beside the epitaph,
if I’ve left a few flowers,
I see it clearly now…
clinging to them
is a scorching anger.
This anger, at best,
can only dull
the pristine tulips.
Yet still…they cannot touch me in any way,
just as your death
could never touch me either.
Eleven. What my heart desires,
my heart desires.
Because I can’t,
I cannot say ‘no’!
Twelve. Then tell me, why didn’t you all go to Atif Aslam’s concert? Are you all taking the BCS preliminary exam? Or is it forbidden to go to concerts if you follow me?
Thirteen. A mother is her own daughter. A woman becomes a mother only by giving birth; if she didn’t bear the child, could that woman be the biological mother of that child? Then the credit for that essential act of motherhood—the bearing of a child—belongs to that woman herself. This is why when a woman becomes a mother, the source of her motherhood is she herself; therefore, she is her own daughter.
Fourteen. Why do I look at him and think,
“Let him not push me away!”—
he who never once pulled me near?
Why do I fall at his feet and say,
“Never leave me!”—
he who never once came to my side?
Does one who loves only talk to himself? Is all the suffering he endures merely a mistake of the mind?
Fifteen. After twenty-seven springs have passed, drawing near to the world, I suddenly see that decay has set in the heart. Now feelings must be stored away, and if I cannot manage that, what kind of strong person am I?
I burn to ash within, and let it be—yet not a single tear shall my eyes permit.
Now I can bury my dreams with ease. To sketch an elevated head of myself in society’s gallery, I lower my conscience like a heavy stone around its neck with such practiced grace!
I have learned now that to preserve a family’s honor, sometimes one must even laugh at one’s own helplessness, think of others before oneself. Whether I am right or wrong—I have hung that question on a shelf so many times to sing the praises of so many people, and still do! The reason? Simple enough… I have grown up now! Family is a trivial thing, society will never accept such words. How could it? For if it did, its own face would stare back at it!
Yes, because I have grown up, I must relinquish my share of happiness. With a chest full of thirst, I must offer the pitcher of water to another’s lips. What if it costs the life a little—does it matter! With my own parched throat held tight in my own grip, I must say: Brother, drink some water… water! Your throat has gone dry! Wet it a little!
No, no—this debt belongs to no one really. Whoever the fault lies with, these days disgust falls only upon myself. Even without love, by day’s end I must hold someone’s hand. Is there a greater defeat than this? Perhaps we are all born simply to be defeated.
So I sing to forget it all, I watch birds. I post pictures on Facebook, sometimes I babble. What else was there for me to do? But do you know, sir, after crossing thirty-seven, I understood: some people must grow up merely to survive! This cursed life… what a wretched thing it is!
Sixteen. Even if someone offers you straw,
Do not forget… should you ever mount the pyre.
Even if you offer someone the forest,
Keep no memory of it the next moment… it is all in vain.
Thought: One Thousand Five
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One. I don’t understand anyway—what’s the use of reading? Or how am I to read?
Let me give you something simple. It is good to read with understanding, but if you cannot manage that, try understanding through reading. My experience says it works. There is but one condition: whether you understand or not, whether your mind is willing to read or not, you must not stop reading under any circumstances. I have seen many among my friends and students become toppers not by reading with understanding, but by understanding through reading.
(If you have not read my piece ‘My Mind Won’t Settle at the Study Table,’ you absolutely must, and for just 15 days, work exactly as instructed there. Should you still fail to enter the world of studies, come to my office and I will accept two slaps on my cheeks as payment for wasting your time. But before doing that, you must follow those instructions to the letter.)
Two. Those whose only conversation revolves around their own or their husband’s or their in-laws’ or their friends’ or their family’s professional, political, or financial identity—talking with such people is the most tedious work in the world. Having to tolerate them is the alms one must pay for success.
Three. A person spends 60 percent of his life acquiring wealth, and the remaining 40 percent protecting it.
When, then, does a person actually live?
Four. One who thinks but has no love in his heart
Has simply never come into contact with someone
Who could break his wrongness.
Even the heart of a dry, colorless person holds love, but he does not know it.
Five. Suddenly I understood: even if I reach out my hand, there is no one to hold it.
When I extended my hand hoping someone would hold it, and found there was no one to take it, that’s when I knew—I had grown up.
Growing up brings its troubles. You can no longer ask favors of people haphazardly, turn to just anyone; there is no warm breast, like a kitten’s refuge, where you can bury your face in trust; you cannot laugh out loud for no reason; you cannot cry at the top of your lungs; you cannot eat rice seasoned with your mother’s love from her own hands; you cannot spill the things your heart holds before anyone without restraint.
In the journey from small to grown, someone or other is always there. But once you’ve grown, there is scarcely anyone close—not even one person with whom you can carry the hard, parched afternoons of an aching heart into the evening and let them fall. You cannot pass through a single evening without thought gnawing at it; you cannot spread your wings like a bird and simply fly away.
Alas, for age!
**Six.** Some find joy through love,
others gain profit in the stock market.
Brother, can’t we install a ticket system so these lucky ones can have their foreheads rubbed?
**Seven.** —What’s this! It’s a disease that promises death! What poison did it feed you?
—With considerable gravity . . . ‘Neglect.’
—Then why do you still linger on this path?
—In exchange for a sky full of neglect . . . to return ‘Importance’ to them!
—But this is only your own ruin!
—Can it match the weight of my long sigh?
**Eight.** I wanted someone *hot*,
but God, in His wisdom, sent me *hot weather*!
**Nine.** Since I know that you do not eat grass, you ought also to know that I do not eat grass; if you do not know this, then certainly my knowing is in error. I beg pardon for the unintentional mistake.
**Ten.** Lacking the desire to study one particular subject cannot be an excuse to leave the study table—at most, it can be an excuse to begin studying a subject you prefer.
What do I do on Facebook? If I don’t like a particular reel, I move to the next one. And do I leave Facebook then? No, I do not!
**Eleven.** You have a belly. For six months, eat a little less and exercise. You’ll see—even if you wanted to keep it, your belly will be gone.
You have a six-pack. For six months, eat a little more and stop exercising. You’ll see—even if you wanted to keep it, your six-pack will be gone.
You possess knowledge. For six months, cease all efforts related to acquiring knowledge; in fact, if you can, do something (whatever you wish) that destroys or diminishes what you’ve learned. You’ll see—even if you didn’t want to keep it, the knowledge will remain. Knowledge alone has the greatest permanence.
Now you tell me: what is true wealth in this world? History bears witness—you can kill a person, yet you cannot kill their knowledge; instead, it spreads all the more! Yet here you are, obsessing day and night over bellies and six-packs! Look at those who labor as coolies and workers on the streets. You’ll find bellies and six-packs in many bodies. But will you find knowledge?
Whoever gives time continuously in one place becomes a king there one day. Now you decide—the king of which wealth do you wish to become?
—
**Thought: One Thousand Six**
**……………………………………………………………**
**One.** The year the journey began was 1921. More than 103 years have passed. Towards the end of June, the centennial celebration of the Faridpur Ramakrishna Mission will be held. Preparations are underway in full vigor. Through the sincere efforts of the Principal Maharaj, a seven-story modern building has risen in the ashram grounds. A splendid statue of Swami Vivekananda awaits installation on the front face of the second floor of that building, at the conference room, during the centennial festival.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
A few months ago, the Ramakrishna Mission in Dinajpur celebrated its centenary. It was a grand affair. Many monks came from Bangladesh and India; they will visit Faridpur as well.
The Ramakrishna Mission is a splendid place to become enriched in the knowledge-yoga. You don’t often find such a treasure of gems. Whatever your philosophy or path, when you come to the Ramakrishna Mission, you will find supreme peace. The equanimity enshrined in the Gita finds exquisite expression here. When you visit the Mission, you may have some delightful surprises. You might see a monk working in the garden or sweeping the dust from the path. You won’t even realize that the person who just served you was, before taking monastic vows, teaching at Oxford or MIT. (There are many former students of such universities here.) They never reveal their true identity from their earlier life to anyone. A monk has but one identity: he is a monk—”burn the sage to ash, let the ash scatter… only then can we sing the virtues of the sage.” I had just such a curious experience in Bodh Gaya. Let me tell you what happened.
We went to see the Bodhi tree. You must remove your shoes before entering. Outside, a monk was carefully brushing and wiping everyone’s shoes with a brush and cloth, arranging them neatly. We naturally paid him little attention as we wandered about looking at the surroundings. When we came out and saw how perfectly our shoes were arranged, I felt a warmth in my heart. I looked for the worker to thank him and offer him a tip. Not finding him, I asked a gentleman there in English: where is the person who arranged our shoes? (I didn’t yet know he was a monk.) “Oh, he’s gone off on some work. Why?” “Well, I wanted to thank him and give him something.” “What are you saying! He won’t accept a tip! Serving you is his duty—he’s a monk!” Then he pointed the man out to me. He was standing a little way off, talking with two others. I noticed the monk looked European. Curious, I asked where he was from. The answer came: America. “I see. What did he do in America? Where is his family?” “He taught at Stanford University. He has two PhDs. His name was even nominated for the Nobel Prize. His family is in America; he lives here alone.”
Here was this great soul who, seeking nothing but peace, had renounced all glory and fame, all family and kin, and become a Buddhist monk—and I was searching for him to offer him a tip! That infinite shame and self-reproach lingered in me for a long time. In a later meditation, I recalled Sri Ramakrishna himself, who kept his hair long so that even unconsciously, no trace of ego might lodge in his mind, and with that hair, unseen by all, he would clean the filth from the sweepers’ latrines. Ah, what a sublime culmination of silent, intimate communion between the soul and the Supreme in that penultimate moment of union!
I had never visited the Faridpur Ramakrishna Mission before, though it is over a hundred years old. I had planned to come, but it never worked out. Today it did, so here I am. Talking with Siddhartha Maharaj here reminds me of Iman Maharaj from Mymensingh; both are remarkably affectionate toward their friends. When I first saw Nityananda Maharaj, I was taken aback; his face resembles the features of Vibhatmananda Maharaj, the principal of the Dinajpur Ramakrishna Mission. I met another, Prakash Maharaj; he loves conversation, simple and sincere like the rest. I have known the ashram’s principal, Tulsi Maharaj, for many years. For a long time, he managed the bookstall of the Chittagong Ramakrishna Mission.
He shows me fondness without any discernible reason.
The Ramakrishna Mission is quite a place of peace, a birthplace and center of practice for the philosophy of “as many beliefs, as many paths.” I find it wonderful. Whenever I get the chance, I come here. I come, of course, for another reason as well. The source of this pull lies in the very constitution of my mind, the house of my consciousness. Those who browse the books at the Ramakrishna Mission’s bookstore know this: for those who are devoted to the Vedas, the Gita, the Upanishads, Vedanta, the Bhagavata, the Puranas, and other schools of Sanatana Dharma philosophy, this bookstore is nothing short of an ideal place. I and many like me stand indebted to the Ramakrishna Mission’s bookstore, having gathered much of the necessary provisions for building ourselves from this very place. The collection at the Faridpur Ramakrishna Mission’s bookstore is truly splendid. You will be enchanted if you visit.
If you wish to live with dignity and honor, there is no alternative to the pursuit of knowledge and its application. Does any of this happen by mere chance, out of thin air? You must read extensively, spend your days with books. Sanatana Dharma philosophy teaches us, regardless of age, to bow our heads before those who are great in wisdom. Bowing the head only raises it higher. The more you bow, the more you grow—this is the strange magic of Hinduism! Herein lies our distinction.
Come visit the Faridpur Ramakrishna Mission. Few missions possess a bookstore as rich as this one.
Two. I have lived through so many years of life without his presence; I shall pass through the remaining days without it just as easily.
This is why, whenever a stranger (or even an acquaintance) annoys me or makes me feel uncomfortable, I block them without a second thought. Let each be as they are. Let everyone live in peace.
If I do not block them, two problems arise:
I express silent consent to their intrusive behavior
I leave the door open for them to behave this way in the future
A goat needs a fence.
Yes, one can simply ignore them. But then you might have to ignore them repeatedly. Such a person doesn’t even deserve your contempt! Where does one find the time? Time is too precious!
What’s the point! When a person can live perfectly well without even their own children or parents, why in the world would I think a second time about some random stranger! A person has only two true companions: himself and his own engagement. Nothing beyond this is essential for a beautiful life.
You may have a grand palace, but my humble hut is not yours—you cannot enter it even if you wish. Is that clear?
Three. Never judge a person by their religion, for the inhuman have no religion.
Four. An intelligent person and a good student are not the same thing. Learn to understand this.
Schools, colleges, and universities can produce good students, but an intelligent person is something different. Good students can be made; intelligent people are formed.
Do not hastily call someone a “brilliant person” just because they score well on an exam—call them a “good student.”
A brilliant person can choose to be a good student, but a good student may never become a brilliant person, no matter how much they wish it.
—
**Thought: Number One Thousand and Seven**
**……………………………………………………………**
One. Whether you celebrate the first of Baisakh or not, you will feel the heat; whether you celebrate it or not, you will eat sweet mangoes.
In the end, the story is one and the same.
Those who do not celebrate do so with understanding; just as those who do celebrate do so with understanding as well. Understanding belongs to those who possess it.
Why all this fuss? Instead, come, brother, let the two of us share an ice cream. It’s hot, so hot…
Two.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
Don’t forge friendship on results. When all is said and done, those results—pass or fail—amount to nothing. What remains is the mind alone. Let me put it more plainly. Be friends only with someone whose mind is willing to bear you. Whether they fail, pass, top the class, or prove a fool—what does it matter to you? A person must wash their own brain and drink the water; there’s no opportunity to wash another’s brain and drink from it, is there? So what does it mean to you whether someone’s a topper or Harvard-educated? If being with someone requires you to diminish your self-respect or feel small, why must you mix with them at all? The more you reach out, the more you suffer. If you must, let people go.
Let me share a small fact. (I don’t think it will be irrelevant.) My favourite poet, Jibanananda Das, was terribly introverted. He hardly mingled with anyone. As far as we know, he had no significant poet-friends. He never went to literary gatherings of his own accord. (Even when forced to attend, he either couldn’t or wouldn’t speak properly—he would hide himself away.) He deliberately avoided all sorts of literary circles. Yet he remains one of Bengal’s greatest poets. Once you’ve found the path to greatness, you can walk that path without mixing with those who walk it too. (That’s actually better, because spending too much time with people wastes time needlessly.)
Friendships born from worldly calculation almost always bring more pain. Can it really be friendship if you can’t speak freely and uncensored before someone, or cry with your whole heart?
*Three. Without company, how much*
*can colour truly shine?*
*Four.* We who follow the eternal dharma worship the true guru—even if he is younger in years. This guru need not be human; the *Bhagavad Gita*, for instance, is our scripture-guru, and in our tradition, it is worshipped as such. Through such worship, in time, the worshipper and the worshipped become one—just as Rahu and Rahu’s head are, in essence, the same entity. (Comparable to this: through constant meditation and contemplation of Brahman, one comes to be established in Brahma-knowledge, in Brahmahood itself.)
Where else will you find this novel magic of spiritual philosophy but in Advaitism and Sufism? This is where religion’s beauty lies.
*Five. Labour hard—labour like a ghost labours hard.*
What harm can come from labouring much, very much? The body will depart, yes—but what of it?
*Better the body burn to ash*
*than dreams burn to ash.*
*What say you?*
Labour! I’ve known the name of working till exhaustion as “staying alive.”
*Six.* A friend just called me.
Friend: Eid Mubarak, man.
Me: (raising my hand) Yeah, brother, Eid Mubarak.
Friend: What’re you doing?
Me: Sleeping.
Friend: You’re still in bed?
Me: I got up! Had my tea, now I’m going back to sleep.
Friend: That’s good! I did the same thing. Suddenly thought I’d give you a ring. So what’s the plan for today?
Me: Brother, that’s a tough question. Ask me an easy one. Otherwise, I’ll have to manufacture answers like in a BCS exam. I’ve never had any plans.
Friend: Ha ha ha! Just do whatever comes to mind. Want to go out? Come to my place, we’ll have some *semai*.
Me: What can I do, how can I? I don’t feel like coming to your place right now. I’m sleeping, rolling around in bed—that’s what feels good. After lunch, if I feel like moving, we’ll see then…
Friend: Looks like you’re in the same state as my son-in-law! When he comes to Barisal, he does so much research and still can’t figure out what to do!
Me: You get it—we’ve become innocent sorts of people. Innocent people have no plans except sleeping.
# All plans, anyway, belong only to the sinners.
: Sleep, monkey! This evening, we’ll take everyone and head over to Taltoli Bridge.
: Brother, the mutton’s cooking; let’s see if my belly’s weight will budge after lunch!
: Won’t you meet with your followers?
: Brother, forgive me, and bless me too! All that’s false. Sleep alone is real. I slept the whole day yesterday too. You hang up now! Go on, off with you! I’ll call in the evening. We’ll get a bunch of kids and eat fuchka and ice cream, take rickshaw rides through the city.
(After finishing the call with my friend, now I’m having black coffee. After I’m done, either I’ll write or sleep. That’s life!)
Reflection: One Thousand and Eight
………………………………………………………………
One. Don’t misunderstand me.
When nobody cared for me, I was the damn-care type.
Now many people care for me, and I’m still the damn-care type.
‘Damn-care’ means two things to me: self-respect and busyness.
When time is scarce, it’s actually better: you don’t get the chance to be idle yourself, nor the time to tolerate idle people.
Busyness, illness, rest or recreation—these three make a life.
Researching another person or chasing after them? No way!
Two. Who wants to cook for someone who says nothing when the food is good but speaks ill of the world when it’s bad?
Three. When love is lacking in the home, that’s when a person goes beyond the walls of home, within their own solitude, searching for attention and love from someone. Just someone who’ll love them, understand them, stroke their head and offer them comfort—they search for such a person, fumbling through the dark. No negative thought works in them here.
Four. In the East, whatever we’re forbidden to do is forbidden through religious discipline; in the West, it’s forbidden through the discipline of law. People there follow law as much as they follow religion—which isn’t much. Here it’s the opposite. They’re as preoccupied with life before death as we’re afraid of life after it. Most of our inspiration for good deeds comes from the greed to live well after death or the fear of punishment—thoughts that never cross their minds. So their minds carry the fear of consequences, ours the fear of God.
An educated and civilized people must be bound by law, not religion. A person who is merely decent is already far along the path of faith. But both policies work well. If telling someone something or explaining it to them works, then tell or explain away and get the job done! Whether one avoids wrongdoing through belief in God or through the constraint of law—it’s the same thing. The end justifies the means. What matters is that the work gets done, however it does—whether through the rule of law (fear of consequences) or through the prohibition of scripture (fear of God). For a people living by the principle “action is dharma,” law is the answer; for a people living by “dharma is action,” belief is the answer. Action is the guardian of law, and religion is the guardian of faith.
If religion isn’t followed, then law.
If law isn’t followed, then religion.
So the question becomes: which is greater, religion or law? The simple answer: neither. Rather, the human being is greatest. Whether people live by law or by faith, it matters little; one way or another… let them live.
Five. Never explain or waste time on what doesn’t deserve explanation or time. Some people have time to spare, so they linger over explanations others don’t need. Unless, of course, you too have time to burn.
Let me make it simple.
# The Plaster of Thought-Walls
One. If someone has never once made you feel good, and suddenly they appear to make you feel bad, ignore them entirely. They need you to follow them around, but you don’t need them to follow you around, do you?
Six. Being the wife or girlfriend of a fool is a great sorrow.
Seven. Do you know where the real difference between you and me lies?
You can’t tolerate me, and I don’t even know you.
Rather, come by the office one day—we’ll share tea and stories. Don’t you find it distasteful to judge someone you’ve never even met?
I understand, you haven’t the time to think about me; so where does this intolerance, this refined disgust, come from? When I find people I know unbearable, I simply don’t remember them due to my busyness; yet I’ve never spoken a harsh word about anyone. (If anyone who knows me has ever heard me say something mean or disrespectful about another person, please tell me plainly in the comments.)
Forget all this! You’ve got me completely wrong. Come, let’s have tea together. Invite me or be invited. We have only two days of life!
Eight. Believe it or not, if you don’t come online, no one’s soul writhes for you except your own. So by coming online, you haven’t saved anyone but yourself. Brother, if you don’t log on for seven days, by the eighth day people will have forgotten you entirely!
Nine. Boys, be jealous.
Girls, nurse your crushes.
The rest of you, go ahead and react with laughter or anger.
Why can’t you tolerate me? Is your face just a little too ugly?
Ten. In the courtyard of Rabindra Sarovar, a red hibiscus with its boyfriend. One best friend, four girlfriends. What a fragrant abundance!
I was moved and “inspired” by the sight of that tree; tears came to my eyes with emotion! Four colours of flowers, in peaceful coexistence—not a trace of discord anywhere. This tree must have been Superman in a past life! In this birth it’s sulked and become a tree, yet it hasn’t abandoned its noble ideal of service. See how quietly, how tenderly, it proclaims the sublime glory of selfless giving!
Girls, learn, understand? Learn! What good is mere adulteration? Live together like sisters, share (Five-times Korean spicy ramen) to eat, drain your boyfriend’s or son-in-law’s pocket as you please and exhaust him. You’ll see—life becomes worth living, the world becomes so beautiful. If while you’re here your boyfriend or son-in-law lives in peace, what’s the point of your living at all?
Now I must go and toil in Enayetpur—if only I can find something to eat! I ask for everyone’s prayers.