Reflection: Twenty-nine.
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: Hey Ramcharan, where are you going so carefree? Over there they’re tearing down your house, beating your son, dishonoring your wife and daughter. Go home right now. Run! You’re finished!
(Ramcharan paid not the slightest heed to these words and continued puffing his hookah with even greater leisure than before. His pace didn’t quicken, nor did the shadow of any concern cross his mind. Seeing Ramcharan’s such foolish indifference, that noble gentleman almost ran to him, snatched the hookah from his hands, and began shouting…)
: You fool, have you lost your hearing? Didn’t you hear what I said? They’re going to set fire to your cowshed. They’re destroying everything in your house. Go now! Don’t delay any longer. Run!
(Ramcharan finally opened his mouth.)
: What are you saying, sir! Who would harm me? Harm is one thing—in all my life I’ve never heard even the slightest criticism from anyone’s lips! And why would they? The question simply doesn’t arise! I’ve never done anyone any good in my entire life. You must be mistaken somewhere. Give me back my hookah, sir.
Yes, Ramcharan is right. Truly, no one would harm him. The Ramcharans of this world never do anyone any good, and so they remain completely safe and secure from all human envy, ingratitude, and treachery. People harm most those who help others. A hundred good deeds will count for nothing in people’s eyes if you do even one bad thing. People don’t remember a hundred good deeds but remember one bad deed very well. Feed someone pilaf and korma for a hundred days, then serve them plain rice one day and see how they curse you. No matter how much you help people, when you’re in trouble you’ll hardly find any of them by your side. Instead, someone will come to stand with you whom you’ve never helped in the slightest—someone you’ve barely even had contact with. Until you fall into trouble, you can never tell who is truly your friend. Human nature is roughly like this. All scriptures also say that humans are ungrateful, envious, treacherous creatures.
(Written inspired by paragraph 3 on page 354 of Biharilal Sarkar’s book ‘Vidyasagar’)
Reflection: Thirty.
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When an individual becomes powerful before joining a group, that individual no longer wishes to be part of a collective. They continue to move forward with complete autonomy, in their own way. Sometimes such individuals do join groups, but only on the condition that they will enjoy greater privileges and respect within the group. When the group refuses to accept this condition, the conflict of personalities begins. Society understands well enough that not everyone deserves equal privileges, but that benefits should be distributed based on merit—yet it finds comfort in disregarding this principle. When a group becomes known not by its own identity but through the identity of an individual, that individual certainly deserves additional recognition. Without receiving such recognition, the individual will naturally fail to express solidarity with other group members on various matters. An individual with superior thinking and philosophy possesses greater power than any other group member to contribute to the group’s development, and therefore can play a more significant role. When such an individual is not given due respect and importance, they typically feel no obligation toward that group. This is not selfishness—this is self-respect.
When a relatively small, disadvantaged population suffers from insecurity over a long period—whether personal, familial, social, or state-related—an invisible bond of unity gradually forms among them. The curious thing is that whenever someone from this group somehow manages to attain slightly greater security than others, the rest of the group can no longer tolerate them, and everyone secretly considers them a class enemy. If that individual ever falls back into insecurity for any reason, the others in the group become delighted. An insecure person prefers to see everyone around them as equally insecure. In this way, at some point they begin to believe that insecurity is their destiny, and they become accustomed to this thought. Remaining in that state is easy; escaping from it requires additional qualifications, so they cannot easily break free. Not only do they not attempt to escape, but they construct baseless arguments and complaints to justify their position. Thus an insecure person spends their entire life complaining, preferring to pass their days in insecurity alongside many other insecure individuals.
This strange psychological crisis is most acute among the Bengali people.
Reflection: Thirty-one.
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I have observed that I have more in common with unhappy people than with happy ones. What a happy person does with great ease, an unhappy person perhaps does out of life’s necessity. For instance, it’s nearly half past three in the morning now, and I cannot sleep. Some luxurious sorrows have left my chest feeling strange, the pain in my heart keeps sleep at bay, I’m gazing outside through the window, not really knowing what I’m looking at. There’s a building under construction over there. In this winter night, workers continue laboring without pause. They don’t have proper warm clothing; I can see torn, old sweaters on a few of them. Like me, they too are suffering, they too have pain in body and mind, they too have no sleep in their eyes—everything just like mine, except for one difference: their agony is not the luxurious agony that mine is.
When you go for a morning walk in the park, you can see them—all the rich people who’ve driven up in their expensive cars, parked them, and are now walking with great determination……. Seeing them, I can’t help but think to myself, “Go on, walk! Walk more! You’d probably drive your car right into your thirteenth-floor apartment if you could! When you go anywhere, you don’t want to walk even a single step, and now look at you—walking away……! Hahahaha……..” And yet, this very act of walking—poor people walk too, but out of life’s necessity, because they have no choice. Where they ought to take a rickshaw, they walk instead, straight on foot, because they don’t have the money for a rickshaw fare.
The wealthy have no shortage of food in their homes—such variety, such abundance. But alas, they cannot eat that food—doctor’s orders! Can’t eat this, can’t eat that, and even what they can eat, only this much! I think to myself, what’s the point of having all that food at home then? Like them, poor and suffering people also cannot eat—they can’t eat because they have no food, while the rich can’t eat despite having food. So what does it come to? In the end, both groups find themselves in the same predicament—neither can eat, only the reasons differ. Though I must say, the anguish of “I have food but still can’t eat” is greater than the sorrow of “I have no food, so I can’t eat.” At day’s end, nobody is well off. Oh life!
Reflection: Thirty-two.
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Life—stands on three pillars—silence. Tears. Laughter. How so? When you speak to a childhood friend after nearly 17 or 18 years, and they ask about the ‘mole’ on your left cheek—first, you’re stunned—they still remember after all this time? Then, tears of joy well up in your eyes. Finally, something inside starts laughing uproariously. Truly, the feeling of warmth exceeds all bounds. With some people, in certain conversations, that middle step of the three becomes one of pain. But that too is tears. After quite some time has passed, you think, whose words am I crying over? Someone who only wants to make me cry? Why am I crying? I’m doing exactly what they want, aren’t I? This just hands them the victory! The moment this thought strikes, thinking “I don’t need any damn person in my life,” both eyes and lips begin to smile together, for my own sake. It takes a while to reach this laughter—traffic jams often occur on the road to that smile. The more shortcuts you can find to reach laughter, the better. If there are no shortcuts, then you should remove yourself as quickly as possible from whatever causes tears and return to the main road. The sooner you can start moving on the right path, the sooner you’ll reach laughter. Alas, even this trick often fails to work on the heart.
The memory I don’t want to recall is the very one that keeps returning.
The words I don’t want to hear are the very ones I must hear again and again.
The mask I don’t want to wear is the very one I must put on again and again.
Where does it all end? When will we walk the roads of laughter? When will we race unhindered down that highway? Why is it that the moment we reach out, the very closest thing is the first to slip away? In meaningless tasks and activities, why does a meaningful life so often become meaningless—because we cannot find that very meaning, life sometimes feels utterly hollow. This feeling is terrifying. Often, what is not real begins to feel true. Sometimes, what is actually true gets grabbed by the throat and thrown out of the mind. Again and again, I simply lose… Then it occurs to me that perhaps I truly play only to lose—some races in life are just like this… I run like a madman, addicted to nothing but defeat. Running while knowing I will lose. And yet… in a race! Can you imagine? In a race where losing is the competition, winning becomes the hardest thing of all. Who can lose the most—that struggle is the most difficult struggle. The subjects of the backward king are deeply miserable. They want a different king—and cannot have one; they do not want a different country—and end up with one.
Enough of this nonsense. Let’s talk about practical matters. Why aren’t you learning to swim? Drowning holds second place on the merit list of the most agonizing deaths. Didn’t you know? The day you die, you’ll remember me. Of course, whether anything comes to mind at all during the moment of dying—no one has kindly come back from the other shore of life’s river to tell us, so none of us knows the actual truth. You’re thinking to yourself, what a scoundrel! Drowning a living, breathing person… Hmm, I am indeed… whoever keeps open the possibility of drowning—that possibility can come in handy at any time! Do you understand, my dear? One more thing. It just occurred to me, let me say it now, otherwise I’ll forget to mention it later. If there’s a pull toward the South Pole even before marriage… and the same pull toward the South Pole after marriage too—then why is it only during marriage that there’s such a search for the North Pole, with microscopes and all sorts of instruments?—this question is for the men. For the women too, those who sit at that North Pole, waiting for the North Pole explorers. Actually, no one knows who will go to which pole. There’s unrestricted opportunity to go, not even the hassle of getting a passport—just go, the desire to go is everything! Yet the blame falls only on the men.
Thought: Thirty-three.
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Standing on earth, humans lack the power to touch the moon… nor does the moon have the power to touch humans. But when we love the moon and step outside on a moonlit night, the moon’s magical light touches every part of us intensely. The cynics will say—that touch of light can be had even without love. Yes, it can be had indeed—but can it be felt even a little? It can only be felt when there is love. Touch without feeling only increases suffering. A hand might be wounded by mere touch, but leaves not a single mark on the heart. Yet a hand I have never touched—and perhaps never will touch—the imagined feeling of that hand’s touch continuously wounds the heart by touching it. Sometimes I get myself all tangled up within myself. Sometimes I feel I forgive wrongdoings, and other times I feel my patience somehow expands the scope of wrongdoing even further.
Unalloyed goodness brings very bad consequences. Think about it for a moment—someone who spends their entire living time perpetually grinning with all thirty-six teeth plus four bonuses on display faces not just minor troubles but the gravest problem of all when they attend a condolence meeting… keeping those teeth clamped down and hidden inside for nearly an hour becomes excruciating. The poor teeth seem to suffocate to death! I too keep my teeth bared. It’s quite convenient—hiding suffering becomes easier. Still, it sounds pleasant to my own ears when someone says, “You know, as long as I’m with you, I feel like there’s no sorrow in life…” I think to myself, I know such good acting! Whose achievement is this? Mine? Or my teeth’s? I never learned the rules of staying well, but I’ve mastered the art of keeping others well. Let all that be! Every day, morning rolls into afternoon… the sun’s intensity keeps growing—this is an ordinary occurrence. But does everything ordinary always remain ordinary? Some ordinary things, sometimes, become extraordinary. When the ordinary becomes extraordinary, it becomes more extraordinary than the extraordinary itself. Even in this blazing, terrible, endlessly long, scorching afternoon, I hear Mother humming in the next room—something that hasn’t happened in at least the past five years. Why is it happening today? Is Mother alright? I won’t seek that explanation. Some extraordinaries don’t just become ordinary when you try to explain them—quite often, they simply vanish somewhere. I’m feeling quite good. I won’t search for why I’m feeling this way. Good afternoon… the afternoon’s rage is growing, mine is diminishing. My mischievous mother sometimes makes me happy too! Hehehe…
Thought: Thirty-four.
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When someone, at some point, calls me beautiful (or hurls it as an insult), I too feel like believing it. It seems that if this person speaks even one true word in their entire lifetime, it would be that. Though I respond outwardly with the usual platitudes—’What are you saying! It’s all makeup trickery’—inwardly I become terribly pleased. Seeing them, thinking of them, somehow feels good. When they want to advance the conversation, I don’t mind—the chariot of clean, innocent words moves forward, along with pleasant feelings. The problem is, once my fondness begins, it gradually moves toward enchantment, or perhaps I myself pull it toward enchantment. I sow seeds of dependence, and when saplings begin to emerge, I slowly realize that I’ve actually grown accustomed to being pleased by someone who, at that time, called not the entirety of me beautiful, but some ‘particular appeal’ of mine. They want me only in that measure—their years-long yearning for anything more was merely skillful acting. If they don’t get that, they’ll leave me. Only to obtain that can time be spent with me; there’s nothing else within me. Seeing this, I feel utterly helpless. If only they had delivered that blow before my enchantment with them had formed, perhaps I wouldn’t have become so helpless. Some people understand very well when, how, and where to strike so that it hurts the most. To think in such terms about someone I’d never considered this way, someone I thought was different, distinct from others—this brings terrible tears. I don’t dare think a single bad thought about the person I care for. Then two things torment me greatly. First: perhaps I myself, unknowingly, did something or showed something that made them think I was the sort who would go to bed—that such a proposal could be made to me without hesitation. Second: perhaps they have such relationships with some others—the moment this comes to mind, I feel tremendous anger toward those women. I know this is entirely each person’s private matter, their preference; yet it happens.—These two thoughts shake me profoundly, shaking me until I’m trembling and unsteady.
Thought: Thirty-five.
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I have seen many people who mean nothing to me, who never will, with whom I haven’t even formed the slightest mental connection—and yet, whatever they choose to do with their lives doesn’t concern them in the least. Then again, I have seen many others—those they love, if they manage to possess them, become something greater than the moon in the sky—they grow frantically busy keeping them wrapped in tender care. But if they cannot have them, then let that person be devoured by street dogs and cats—that too doesn’t trouble them at all. People think however they think—however they need to think to stay content. But for me, it is different. Say you are nothing to me, will never be anything to me, yet something bad happening to you would cause me considerable pain, because I love you. For me, love is not a matter of possession or calculation. Whoever I have given space to in my mind also finds a place in my prayers and well-wishes. I am writing down a thought. A person may have physical relations with someone they love, someone they are fond of, or someone they consider worthy of love or affection, based on mutual desire and consent—I’m not saying this is wrong, but such love or affection is surely not something to be squandered. If a person loves five people, is fond of five people, and has such relations with all five—well, I suppose I can accept even that! A person might feel attraction toward multiple people for specific reasons, in specific moments. But when there is no love, not even any real fondness, practically nothing between two people, and yet one continues consuming body after body driven solely by physical desire—how people manage this is beyond my comprehension. I have seen many do exactly this—and these, the most civilized individuals of civilized society! What kind of society is this! What kind of people inhabit it! A high-ranking official befriends a woman on Facebook. The woman is ten years his senior. This woman wants to arrange her daughter’s marriage to this gentleman. Conversations flow between them, along with pleasant exchanges. A few days later, this very man has physical relations with that woman. Even then, she still wants to give her daughter in marriage to this official. I cannot quite grasp this psychology. Could it be that after marriage… one day the mother, another day the daughter, or perhaps both together? Forgive me, I am compelled to think in sordid terms. Yes, you’ve guessed correctly—the marriage did take place. I don’t know the rest of the story.