by Sachin Garg
Come On, Inner Peace
I Don’t Have All Day!
Come On, Inner Peace
I Don’t Have All Day!
Sachin Garg
Grapevine India Publishers Pvt. Ltd.
Plot No.4, First Floor
Pandav Nagar
Opposite Shadipur Metro Station
Patel Nagar
New Delhi - 110008
India
[email protected]
[email protected]
Grapevine India Publishers
Copyright © Sachin Garg, 2013
Typeset and layout design: Arpit Printographers
All rights reserved
For sale in India only
Printed and bound in New Delhi
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the abovementioned publishers of this book.
To Swamiji
(who made me write this book)
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture in the lonely shore;
There is society, where one intrudes;
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man less, but Nature more . . .
— Lord Byron
Contents
Acknowledgement
Prologue
When She Was Not Around Anymore
I’d Be One Of Them
What If Fate Doesn’t Let You Choose
Still Wondering If It Was So
Like a Melody Gone Wrong
Embrace Who You Are
Not Immediately, But Definitely
Key To My Inner Peace
Such a Long Journey, Such a Wrong Journey
Searching for her
I’m Not That Guy
The Time Has Come
Vandana Speaks
Like A Foot Soldier In A Battle
Like A Mother Protecting Her Child
I Didn’t Have All Day
Breath Of Fresh Air
Like A Building Needing Resurrection
Showing Very High Confidence
As The Silence Got Longer
Waiting For Death In A Flat, Alone
‘Yes, This Is Me’
Every Minute Of Your Day
Days You Want To Erase
The Dog In The Fight, The Fight In The Dog
The Wind Beneath My Wings
Epilogue
Acknowledgement
It’s a privilege to have been a part of the Grapevine India story. Whenever people ask me how we got our ideas together and aligned them, I always tell them that we’ve been blessed with great friends and mentors.
I’d like to start by thanking Mr Anurag Batra and Mr Nitin Aggarwal, my mentors, whose guidance throughout this journey of bringing together books, of making them reach out to people, has been extra ordinary.
And then, I’d like to thank Ms Aanchal Arora, a writer’s dream as an editor, who’s responsible for most things good about the book.
Also, I’d like to thank Durjoy Datta and Nikita Singh, two talent power houses who have taken care of my peer learning department.
And, of course, my tremendous baniya family, for letting me do my own wacky thing, like that was the most natural thing to do.
Prologue
I believe that the city of Rishikesh holds more adventure than it is given credit for. It was in late 2011, when I had finally quit my job to become a full time author and entrepreneur that my love for Rishikesh truly grew. With more control over my time after quitting the job, I realized it was becoming increasingly difficult to not take the bus to Rishikesh at every chance that I got. Yes, I fell in love with the city.
I bumped into freakish backpackers, made random friends and heard some unusual stories in the time that I spent there. But more than anything, I realized that if ever there was a place tailor made for self-discovery, it would have to be Rishikesh.
The credit for the genesis of this book would have to go to someone to whom I would refer throughout as Swamiji. He has a real name and he has his own Ashram. But unlike many fame hungry Swamis and Ashram owners around, Swamiji insisted on maintaining a low profile. I understood his distaste for popularity, simply because popularity attracts the wrong kind of people and wrong kind of headaches for him. They are happy with the filtered foot fall which ensures that only genuine people show up. And they want to keep it that way.
As a result, I have changed names or have just alluded to them by their Ashram designations. I am not going to name the Ashram too. I have shared Swamiji’s story in the book and people close to him might be able to recognize him; but that is done after his permission.
The idea of this book came to me on a lazy monsoon evening, as I sat in Swamiji’s kutiya, in the middle of a philosophical conversation with him. We were discussing the kind of people who came to The Ashram. What Swamiji meant to them and what his mission in life was.
‘But what brings people to The Ashram, Swamiji? When I lived in the city, I believed nobody had any time for spirituality. I come here and witness that it’s almost fashionable to be broken. Young folks seem to be coming here simply because it’s such a cool story they can take back to their friends.’
Swamiji always weighed his words before speaking, which was probably why every word coming from his mouth was a gem.
‘There are two types of people in this world, Sachin. The first, who comprise the majority, are simple people who lead simple lives. They may or may not achieve great things through their simple ways. They wake up every morning, go about their daily chores and labour and do pretty well for themselves. If somebody were to ask them questions like why are they here on Planet Earth, they would frown and rush to work.’
‘I know! And I have lived amongst such people all my life,’ I said.
‘Yes, you have. And then there is the second type. These are the people who consider themselves broken. They can see questions which the first type is blind to. They can have thoughts which they would want to disentangle themselves from, but they can’t.’
‘I can’t agree more, Swamiji. But isn’t it sad that this second category pushes itself into sadness and state of brokenness?’ I pondered.
‘The reason why they consider themselves broken could be any of the following:
1. They have had an event or a tragedy which has had a lasting impression on them. No matter how hard they try, they cannot get it out of their heads and have stopped seeing a point in all things in life. For a short while, they manage to convince themselves that they are over it and world is alright. But it’s definitely not. Time coats sad memories with dust but it is bound to fly off if we don’t find a permanent solution to heal ourselves.
2. They have been disowned or cheated by someone they loved. They were normal, happy people like the rest of us. But then, one act of failure or distrust or deception has left them so devastated that everything else seems juvenile and empty.
3. Forces of life, or, if you wish to call it God, has dealt a terrible hand to them and all they can do now is wait for everything to end. Someone once said that dream as if you were to live forever. But what if you know you were going to die so
on? How will you sleep peacefully at night? Will you become permanently depressed or excessively cheerful for the remaining time you have?’
I listened to every word coming from Swamiji with rapt attention. Swamiji had obviously given a lot of thought to this. I was lucky to have known a man as wise as him.
‘And you have taken up the mission of changing some of these lives?’ I asked.
‘I am too small an entity to make any significant change, Sachin. But I try to help whoever comes to me.’
‘Is there any way in which I can help?’ I asked him, even though I knew I was incapable of it.
‘You sure can. But it would require a lot of effort and commitment from you,’ Swamiji said.
‘I would love to try it.’
‘You are an author, Sachin. Your books reach out to the youth of the country. Even though you don’t realize it, you are leaving an impression on a lot of minds. I want your next book to be based on what you have learnt staying in this Ashram. I want you to tell our story, without telling our names. I want you to help us reach out to people we have always wanted to reach.’
‘I will be honoured to attempt something as meaningful as that,’ I said, albeit with a withheld fear and hesitation.
‘You don’t seem absolutely convinced.’
‘Swamiji, my concern is that even though I would love to write about what I have learnt, the people of today don’t want to read about such things. I believe in what I have learnt and that has changed my life. But people are too busy watching movies and TV serials and killing time in ways they won’t even realize. They wouldn’t care about what is happening in an obscure Ashram in Rishikesh.’
Swamiji heard me out. And then he grew silent for a few seconds. And then he spoke, as if an idea had hit him.
‘Rishi Vyas wrote The Mahabharata. Gita, which is a part of The Mahabharata is considered the biggest learning of Hindu religion. But why is it so relevant? It is because when you read The Mahabharata, you know the story and the people who are talking about The Gita. You know Krishna, the person who is delivering it. You know Arjuna, the person who is receiving it. You know Arjuna’s dilemma’s which are being addressed in The Gita. You know the Methodology Krishna has adopted to solve them. You understand The Gita so well because it’s a part of a story.’
I had a confused look on my face. I had somehow lost track of what he was saying.
‘The point is, Sachin, that I want you to write a story, like you do in your books, and deliver my message through it. As Gita forms a part of the Mahabharata, I want you to weave a stimulating story, and incorporate my lessons for people. That’s the only way we can reach out to them.’
And once again, I knew I was sitting in front of a genius.
When She Was
Not Around Anymore
It was the last day of the third year of my college. I was in the Chemistry Lab, for my final practical exam of the year, which was going to be followed by a two month vacation. I was a mediocre student and somewhere, I actually made efforts to maintain a low profile. It was my comfort zone; I wasn’t fond of hogging the lime light in college. But there was one thing I didn’t do averagely: I was good in the Chemistry Lab.
I wanted to become a Chemical Engineer. And we had to make crystals for this exam, something I was particularly good at.
Making crystals is not rocket science; it is a simple procedure and by the end of third year of Chemical Engineering, everybody knows the steps by heart. But to conjure the clearest, largest and prettiest crystals is an art not everyone can master. I had the hands of a magician, I was told. And half the class would be interested in how my crystals were shaping up rather than theirs.
That day was no exception. All sixty of us in the lab were raking our brains to get the finest crystals we could, with the powder of Calcium Chloride given to us. And yes, like every time, I got whopping clear blue crystals which would have found a place in a Chemistry Lab Museum, if there was to be one.
I left the lab as soon as I was done with the experiment. I didn’t have any friends in the class any more.
I didn’t nurse grudges against anyone in the class. My problem was the pity that shot right through everyone’s eyes. Whoever I looked at, whomever I talked to, it was sickening to get hit by the reverberations of the same emotion from all four corners. Pity and friendship can never be compatible with one another.
Poor guy, the girl he was madly in love with died.
I mean, I was sufficiently shattered after what had happened. For the love of Lord, why couldn’t everyone let that be my problem? Those constant sympathetic reminders through their humbled body language and gestures made things even worse.
But I was struggling to hold it up as sensibly as I could. I didn’t spend days in bed staring at the ceiling or strolling alone on the precarious edges of my terrace. After months of starving, I was now eating properly. But the lost weight showed on me and made me look spiritless and ripped, even though the wretchedness was subsiding. I watched sitcoms on my laptop, which is a perfectly acceptable and sane pastime. Drowned in cigarette smoke, that’s what guys of my age do in their rooms anyway. I didn’t talk to any of my friends but I used to chat up with my Mom daily. She had come to spend some days with me when Kanika passed away. She was my biggest support throughout that traumatic phase, but, eventually, I had to force her go back to Muscat. The same reason: I couldn’t stand the grief struck condolence that every move of hers glaringly offered. Just when I finished retrospecting and decided to serve myself lunch, the phone rang. It was Mom. The moment I received, two thoughts started running parallel in my head. One part of mind knew that she meant well but the other part had a huge problem with her mournful tone. She made herself perfectly eligible to be the front runner for The-Show-Samar-Pity-Campaign.
‘Hi Mom,’ I said, pulling myself out of my stream of consciousness.
‘How are you beta? How is your health? How was your last exam today? I hope you have been regular with your meals.’
I could discern that she was hearing intently. I used to be a good son when she was in Muscat. Mom and I got along, we talked on the phone every now and then and I shared with her everything I could.
But things had completely gone off track a few days after Kanika’s demise. It became difficult to talk to her about anything other than Kanika. The entire conversation inevitably circled around the repercussions and effects of her death on my life.
‘Mom, I want to say two things to you,’ I said to her. I realized it was time I took a stand.
‘Hmm’
‘Mom, I love you, okay? I do appreciate whatever you have done for me, and all the care you shower on me.’
‘I know you respect me, beta. And the second thing?’ she asked with concern.
‘The second thing would not be very pleasant to assimilate. Mom, I know you love me, but I need some time off you. I need to figure some things out in life and I need some time to do that.’
‘Hmm, I understand. But for how long?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I will call you whenever I the time is right. I hope you understand, Mom,’ I almost cautiously implored.
‘Samar, that’s what a mom does. Understand,’ she said and hung up, surprisingly without any cracks in her voice.
That’s what a mom does, understand.
I knew it was difficult for her. But she would do anything to get her old son back. I felt proud and fortunate to have such a considerate mother.
My thoughts drifted back to Kanika. She was a happy memory and if I were to go back in time, I would rather have met her and lost her than having not met her at all.
But why did I have to lose her?
Such an innocent and adorable person meeting such a scary end; how do these things work?
And what egregious wrongs had Kanika done to deserve the fate she had?
Who decides who gets to live and who gets to die?
And what the fuck was I supposed to do, when she was not around anymore?
>
I headed back to my flat, lost in thoughts of the summer coming up. I craved to run away from Delhi for a while. I needed to pull myself out of that environment and not sit on the sofa where I had laughed endlessly with Kanika; not sleep on that bed where I had caressed her sleepy eyes, not walk on the roads where she used to teasingly brush her hands against mine while walking, not visit those places where we bonded over cappuccinos and matured over wines.
I reached my flat and messaged Saloni, asking her to come over. Being my oldest friend and a Psychology major, she understood me like no one else did. She could see beyond the-oh-you-poor-guy-who-had-lost-his-love and could talk to me about inconsequential nothings. I liked that and I needed that.
She started the conversation with cricket, and then bitched about her husband a little. She had been funny and uninhibited, right since our school days. Her marriage was, needless to say, a surprise for us. But, as Lennon says, life is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans.
‘So what plans for the summer vacation?’ she asked me.
We had a two month vacation starting today after the third year. Technically, we were supposed to undergo Industrial Training for these two months.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied, almost dazed.
‘Where are you supposed to be putting up for your Industrial Training?’
‘I don’t know. I wish I didn’t have to do it in the first place,’ I made a whiny face.
And then, out of nowhere, my biggest fears came true. Saloni dropped her chirpy contour and the demeanour she adopted now made a chill run down my spine: Pity, now on Saloni’s face. Shit.
‘What are you doing, Samar?’
‘What do you mean? I am okay, okay? Don’t treat me like a victim because of what happened!’
‘You think you are okay, Samar. That is your problem Samar. When was the last time you looked in the mirror?’
I turned my head and looked into the mirror, which was on the wall opposite me. My six foot frame looked frail after the weight shedding. My dusky complexion now looked pale. The same ruffled hair which suited me earlier now looked like that Garnier woman’s hair before she uses the magical shampoo (read straightener).