The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

by Robin Sharma

  I hesitated before I replied.

  “I would enjoy that,” I said, “but I have to warn you in advance. I know that you do things differently from where I come from, that the etiquette is complicated.” I was having trouble saying what I meant. I was thinking about the airport scene. “I’m afraid that I may insult people.”

  “Please don’t worry,” Ayame replied. “I understand that, my parents understand that. But I’ll explain things as we go along, if you’d like.”

  I nodded. Just then, the taxi pulled over to the side of the road.

  “We have to get out here,” said Ayame. “The inn is down that street.” She pointed just ahead of us to what looked like an alley. “It is a very old street. Too narrow for cars.”

  We stepped out of the cab and turned down the lane. The stones that paved it were a little slick, and the air was warm and damp—as if it had just rained. The street was filled with modest shops and cramped doorways in an unbroken line. We walked for only a short distance before we got to what looked like a small wooden house sandwiched between the other buildings. Its curved roof was lined with dark brown cylindrical tiles, its windows latticed in dark wood. Low stone walls curved on either side of a carved wooden double door; leafy branches spilled over their tops.

  “This is one of the oldest ryokan in the city,” said Ayame. “It’s been run by members of my family for many generations. But it is small. Just eleven rooms and my parents’ apartment.”

  She pulled at one of the doors and ushered me in.

  We entered a modest slate-tiled hallway. Several pairs of shoes were lined up along the wall. Just beyond, a low step led into a lobby area. An assortment of cream-colored slippers were lined up at one side of the step.

  “Please,” said Ayame. “Place your shoes here and find a pair of slippers your size.”

  We both took off our shoes, put on slippers and then stepped into the lobby. As we did, a man and a woman came around the corner. “My parents,” announced Ayame.

  There was much bowing and smiling during the introductions, with Ayame translating as we attempted to say hello to one another. Eventually Ayame’s father turned to her and said something to her in a grave tone of voice.

  “Oh yes,” said Ayame. “My father is reminding me that you’ve had a very long journey and a difficult morning and that you must need to rest. I will take you to your room.”

  AS I STRETCHED OUT on the low futon, I couldn’t believe how much more relaxed I felt than I had just an hour before. Ayame had shown me my room and then led me to a men’s ofuro, or bath, down the hall.

  “There will be a robe for you inside, and towels and toiletries on a small shelf beside the door,” she said. “Shower first, and then soak in the tub for as long as you like. I will place a note on the door to say that the room is occupied.”

  The room I entered was small—a floor of tiny white tiles, wooden walls lined with three hand-held shower faucets. In front of each shower stood a small wooden stool and a bucket. In the corner farthest away from the door was a square wooden hot tub. The walls of the tub rose about a foot above the floor, but it was clear that the bottom of the bath was sunken far below ground level. The room was warm and humid and filled with a lovely lemony scent I later discovered was hinoki, Japanese cypress. The oil in the wood is said to be very therapeutic.

  A few minutes later I lowered myself into the bath. The water reached almost to my chin. I leaned back against the wooden side and breathed deeply. Fragrant steam rose from the hot water. The heat stung my skin slightly, but I could feel it melting away the knots in my shoulders and back.

  THERE WAS NO DOUBT about it—this was a strange trip. It was confusing and tiring, but it was also making me struggle in less obvious ways. These notes that accompanied the talismans—I knew they were not written for me specifically, that Julian had composed them for his own purposes. But he had suggested I read them and had given me a journal for my thoughts. He must have anticipated how the notes would affect me.

  That first talisman: authenticity. Being true to yourself. That idea had really got under my skin, and I was beginning to suspect why. There was something about my life that wasn’t quite right. It was more than the fact that I had disappointed Annisha and Adam. To fix this problem would take more than saying sorry to Annisha, making it home for dinner more often, attending a few more soccer practices with Adam. I was beginning to realize that my shortcomings as a parent or as a husband were being buttressed by a deep unhappiness. But it wasn’t an unhappiness with Annisha or Adam. It was an unhappiness with the texture of my life. It was as if I had taken all my ambition and drive and focused it on a race I had no real interest in winning. I was moving ahead, but I wasn’t going where I wanted to go. I love engineering. I love circuitry. I love mathematical challenges. I love technical design. And I’m good at these things. When I was in the design lab, I felt my work had purpose and my life made sense. There was nothing wrong with sales, but I just didn’t feel the same passion in that world.

  Now, lying here in the tranquil ryokan room, I knew I was getting closer to what my authentic life might be. I could see that I had to make some serious changes. It was a scary thought, but I felt surprisingly peaceful about it. As if it were all in the distant future.

  AYAME HAD LEFT a small pile of clothes on the end of the futon while I had been having my bath. There was a note: “I borrowed these from a friend. I hope they fit.”

  I got up off the bed and took off my robe. Then I pulled on the soft cotton golf shirt, a pair of loose-fitting khakis. There was also a pair of white sport socks still in their package. I put those on as well, before placing my feet back in the slippers. Then I picked up my journal and a pen from the nightstand and shuffled over to the far side of the room.

  The guest room was small but airy. Tatami mats covered the floor. The white walls were set off with a dark wood framework that made them look a little like the paper screens that lined the lobby area. Near the foot of the bed was a small low table. On two sides of it were legless chairs—seat and back cushions that sat directly on the floor. Beyond were mullioned floor-to-ceiling windows, with a sliding door that led out onto a green area. I opened the door and stepped out onto a little wooden veranda. Although I could see the greenery of a garden through the window while resting on the futon, I wasn’t prepared for what greeted me outside.

  The veranda ran around three sides of a deep and lush garden. Clearly all the rooms were centered around this quiet courtyard. In the middle of the garden was a tall stone statue of a many-storied pagoda. Smaller statues were sprinkled throughout the greenery—several cranes, a Buddha, a rather threatening-looking toad. And at the far end of the garden, I could see a tiny waterfall cascading over a stone ledge. The burbling sound suggested that a pool was beneath it, hidden from my view by leaves and branches. The leaves and branches, in fact, hid all parts of the ground from view. The base of each delicate tree was surrounded by bright green ferns; arching branches with tiny flowers graced the carefully sculpted bushes.

  There was a wooden folding chair next to where I stood. I moved over and sat down. I dropped the journal onto my lap and stared into the green space as the minutes slipped by.

  The toad sculpture appeared to have a sinister smile and reminded me of the little grinning skull I had received from Antoine. Embrace your fears, the accompanying note had said. Well, I had already done a number of things I feared—including leaving my family and my job behind for this scavenger hunt. I had jumped off the edge of a cliff in a way. But I had been whining and complaining about it the whole time. I suppose by “embrace your fear,” Julian meant that a person should embrace it in a positive fashion, move out of one’s safe harbor; that a person should be exhilarated by the unknown, not become hysterical. Not long ago, I had taken a ride in an elevator for the first time in twenty years. But what else should I be doing?

  Well, my biggest fears—losing my family, losing Annisha, losing Adam—were not things I wanted t
o embrace. And I don’t think that was what Julian’s note meant. But I couldn’t help seeing the irony. The things I feared most were happening in my life despite all my caution. And they were being realized precisely because I had been passive. Maybe if I had made some of the changes Annisha suggested—turned down a promotion or two, or switched positions, or just said no once in a while, things I was too frightened to do—I wouldn’t be facing this crisis. And what if I went really deep? What did I really want to do that I was afraid of? I was beginning to see that doing things you are frightened of may just make life less scary in the long run.

  Just as I was finished writing these thoughts in the journal, I heard a gentle knock coming from my room. It was Ayame, coming to tell me that she had my luggage.

  “By the way,” she added, “have you checked your phone? I just noticed that Julian copied me on a note he sent to you with your itinerary for the next few days. Your most unusual trip will definitely continue. Lucky you.”

  DINNER TURNED OUT TO BE a long, elaborate event. I was ushered into the Satos’ private reception room, where Ayame’s parents were waiting. After we greeted one another with smiles and bows, they gestured toward the table. It was low, like the one in my room, and on each of the four sides was a large white cotton cushion. I noticed a little alcove at the side of the room, backed with a beautiful scroll-like ink drawing of cranes and water reeds. Small sculptures and a simple flower arrangement were positioned in front of the drawing. I started to head toward the pillow opposite the alcove—I thought it would provide a pleasant view—but Ayame shook her head gently and led me to the side of the table that faced the other way.

  “It is considered immodest to seat guests across from one’s tokonoma. It would be like bragging—like saying, ‘Look what lovely things we have.’”

  “I see,” I said. I must have sounded disappointed because Ayame added, “I would let you sit there, but it would make my parents very uncomfortable. I hope you understand.”

  After we were seated, a young woman came in with a tray of hot, damp towels.

  “Oshibori,” Ayame said. “For cleaning your hands. But do not use it like a Western napkin. You shouldn’t wipe your mouth or your face with it.”

  When the first course was brought out and served, Ayame and her parents said, in unison, “Itadakimasu.”

  “It means ‘I humbly receive,’” Ayame explained. “We start that way and end the meal with gochisosama-deshita, which means ‘thank you for a good meal.’”

  Dinner lasted long into the evening. There was soup and sushi and sashimi; tempura and steamed fish; and broiled beef and pickled vegetables. The final course was a second type of light, clear soup.

  During the meal, Ayame gave me further lessons in Japanese dining etiquette. She showed me how to hold chopsticks and explained that I should never stick them into my rice so they stood up. “That reminds people of how incense is placed in sand during a funeral.” She also explained why passing morsels of food from one person’s chopsticks to another’s is considered to be in very bad taste: this was how the bones of the dead were handled after cremation. And there was more: never pick up anything with the thick ends of the chopsticks if you can help it; never put your chopsticks down so they are pointing at someone; and finally, never stab food through with a chopstick. This last rule disappointed me. In the past, it was the only way I could guarantee any food would make it from the plate to my mouth.

  I also found out that my habit of dunking pieces of nigiri sushi rice-side down in the bowl of soya sauce was considered bad manners. Ayame explained that rice would suck up too much sauce this way—it was thought to be a bit greedy—and also might let grains of rice drop into the soya sauce.

  But perhaps the rule that fascinated me the most was about pouring drinks for one another. When the saki bottle was brought to the table, Ayame poured some for me, and then some for her parents. She did not fill her glass, so I assumed she was not going to drink. But then her father took the little bottle and poured some into the small ceramic glass in front of his daughter. A little later, Ayame’s mother refilled everyone’s cup, but not her own. This time Ayame took the bottle and gave her mother some more saki. By the third time the drinks were being replenished in this way, I looked over at Ayame and raised my eyebrows.

  “Ah, so you’ve noticed,” she said. “The Japanese consider it an important part of hospitality to keep their guests’ glasses full, but it is thought to be impolite to fill your own. Instead, you must wait for others to notice that your glass is empty so they can fill it for you.” I thought of Annisha and Adam and the dinners we used to share. Annisha would have become very parched if she had to wait for me to notice her empty glass.

  After dinner, Ayame suggested we take a stroll through the neighborhood. The streets were dry, but a sultry humidity hung in the air.

  “Thanks for explaining the dining etiquette,” I said as we walked down the cobbled street. “If I had more time here, I might eventually get the knack.” Julian’s itinerary noted that I would be flying out the day after tomorrow, for Mexico. I had thought at first about seeing if I could book an earlier flight, but with all of Ayame’s kind attention, a request like that now seemed a little rude.

  “I was happy to do it. I’m quite fascinated, actually, about these little codes of behavior. As Julian may have told you, I have traveled quite extensively, and I always pay attention, in every place I go, to all the unspoken customs, the shared understanding of how things should be done.”

  “You are clearly more observant than I am,” I said. “The only thing I noticed in Istanbul was that Ahmet never touched anything with his left hand.”

  “In many countries, one particular hand is used only for any kind of dirty work. So you would not touch food or another person with that hand.”

  That was probably it, I thought.

  “The interesting thing,” said Ayame, “is that the rules we have been raised with seem natural, obvious, logical even. It is not until we start seeing our behavior through the eyes of another culture that we begin to question it or to wonder.

  “For example,” she continued, “I have read that the tradition of shaking hands originated as a way of showing someone that you were holding no weapons, and so intended no harm or injury to the one you greeted. So why today do I walk into a conference in New York and put out my hand? Do I really mean to show that I’m not carrying a dagger?”

  That made me laugh.

  “But how some customs start is really not so important. The importance of etiquette, manners, rules, is to make it easier for us to interact with one another. Our shared behaviors make us comfortable; they are ways to show respect to one another. They are all about how we make one another feel. Our daily behaviors broadcast our deepest beliefs.”

  “But sometimes it gets confusing,” I said. “Take opening the door for a woman. There was a time when no gentleman would walk through a door in front of a woman. You had to hold the door open for her and pass through only after she had gone. But I’m not so sure I’m supposed to do that now.”

  “Yes, that is one of the rules that are changing in the West,” said Ayame. “It was meant as a sign of respect, was it not? But then some women began to feel that this habit was patronizing, that it suggested they were weak, that they needed help with something as simple as a door. Suddenly, it is unclear whether this custom is polite or not.”

  “I usually just try to hold doors open for everyone now,” I said. “So I don’t single women out.”

  “That is one solution,” said Ayame. “Actually, the last time I was in Los Angeles, I noticed that sometimes men held doors for women and sometimes women held doors for men, or other women. It seems as if many people have rethought the etiquette of door-holding.”

  We had circled around the neighborhood now for a half an hour. The streets looked pretty in the dark—lights shining through rice-paper screens on the windows of some houses, golden lanterns hanging outside others, the moon glitt
ering off the glazed tiled roofs of a few buildings.

  We turned down a small lane, and I realized that we had entered the far end of Ayame’s street. I was exhausted, but not entirely sure that I would be able to sleep. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to returning to my peaceful room.

  As we entered the ryokan lobby, Ayame said, “Let me give you Julian’s parcel tonight.” She led me through the lobby to a door at the far end. I followed her and found myself once again on the wooden veranda, overlooking the garden. A few lamps hung under the eaves, and a small spotlight shone on the bubbling fountain; a few more lights cast bright beams on the statuary. The garden looked otherworldly, magical.

  “Please sit,” Ayame said, pointing to a small teak bench. “I will be back shortly.” Then she disappeared into the inn.

  She returned a minute later, holding a small parcel in two hands. It was wrapped in what looked like thick handmade paper and tied with silk cord. She held it out for me, and I carefully took it from her with both hands. Then she looked at me and grinned.

  “You know what this letter says, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Ayame, laughing.

  When I got back to my room, I untied the package and unfolded the thick mottled paper. Inside was a note, along with a tiny golden crane. I stood the crane up in the palm of my hand and looked at it. The long, gentle curve of its back, its tilted head, its delicate beak. I closed my hand around it and then took the leather sack from around my neck. After I dropped the crane inside, I unfolded the note and read it.

  Live with Kindness

  It is important to remember that just as our words are our thoughts verbalized, so our deeds are our beliefs actualized. No action, no matter how small, is insignificant—how we treat someone defines how we treat everyone, including ourselves. If we disrespect another, we disrespect ourselves. If we are mistrustful of others, we are distrustful of ourselves. If we are cruel to another, we will be cruel to ourselves. If we can’t appreciate those around us, we won’t appreciate ourselves. With every person we engage, in everything we do, we must be kinder than expected, more generous than anticipated, more positive than we thought possible. Every moment in front of another human being is an opportunity to express our highest values and to influence someone with our humanity. We can make the world better, one person at a time.