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Yudhishthira’s Dog at the Gate: Dogs, Dharma, and the Paradox of Compassion

Yudhishthira’s Dog at the Gate: Dogs, Dharma, and the Paradox of Compassion

by | Nov 8, 2025 | Compassion, Friendship, Gratitude, Grief, Joy, Life, Zen

 

On the Kodai Ghat road, as you turn from the plains of the marketplace toward the winding hills, one notice stands out. The Forest Department urges travellers: Do not feed the wild animals. It is a reminder written in bureaucratic script, but it carries a deeper teaching. Feeding them changes their nature. They lose the instinct to forage, they grow dependent, they become aggressive. What begins as kindness can end as harm.

This question of compassion follows me into Kanzeon Zendo. Here too, there are three kinds of visitors:

  • Dog lovers, who see every wagging tail as a chance to practice kindness.
  • Those who are scared of dogs, whose compassion is mixed with fear and hesitation.
  • Those who don’t mind either way, who pass by without much thought.

Visitors who come for short stays often feed the stray dogs. Perumalmalai has no shortage of them—thin, hungry, territorial creatures, starved of food, care, and warmth. For a moment, the dogs are happy. They have found a good Samaritan. But when the visitors leave, the dogs remain. They linger at the Zendo gates, waiting for the next act of kindness. Compassion, offered in passing, leaves behind ripples that are not always gentle.

This paradox is not new. The Mahabharata begins with the curse of a dog and ends with the loyalty of another. As a child, I read Mali Bharatham, the Malayalam retelling of the epic sweetened for children. What struck me then, and now, is how dogs frame the epic.

The first story is about the curse of a dog on a king. Janamejaya, son of Parikshit, was conducting a yaga. A dog named Sarameya entered the arena and was beaten by the king’s brothers. Sarama, the mother, confronted the king. Not satisfied with his response, she cursed him.

The epic ends with Yudhishthira, who refuses to climb the celestial chariot to Heaven without the dog that had accompanied him on his final journey. He had lost his brothers and Panchali along the way, but he would not abandon the dog.

Between these two stories lie pages of valour and cowardice, justice and injustice, joy and sorrow, sacrifice and self‑centeredness. And yet, the dog remains—at the beginning and at the end—as a mirror of compassion and responsibility.

Much later, rereading these epics through the hermeneutical eye my Zen Master encouraged, I saw how curse is the last weapon of the helpless. When powerless, the curse becomes the cry of frustration. Wuji, too, came into our Zendo life as a living koan of compassion—sometimes blessing, sometimes burden, sometimes curse.

And then there was Jackie Mu.

The first dog in my imagination was Buck, Jack London’s hero in The Call of the Wild. Later, in childhood, Jackie the mongrel stood guard at our Thenkara gate. But Jackie Mu was different. She arrived at Kanzeon Zendo, half‑tamed, majestic, part Indie, part hound. Adopted by Tithi, cared for like Elsa in Born Free, she became part of our practice. She had her blanket, her medicine kit, her morning walks. She even had her koan: Mu.

Mu is the first case in The Gateless Gate. A monk asked Jōshū, “Does a dog have Buddha nature?” Jōshū replied, “Mu.” Nothingness. Yet Jackie Mu, without doubt, had Buddha nature. She knew which doors to knock at, which people to trust, which paths to guide me along. She led me from Kanzeon Zendo to Bodhi Zendo, waiting at every turn, stopping at Surya tea stall for biscuits while I had chai.

But Jackie Mu was not only a guide. She was also a hunter. She never liked monkeys or cats, and chased them away whenever she could. She killed more than a few. One morning, during our walk toward St. Joseph farm, she spotted a kitten in the hands of a child waiting for her school bus. The kitten leapt from the child’s arms, tried to run, and Jackie Mu caught it in an instant. My screams did nothing. The child wailed, the mother tried to console her, and I sat on the kerb in anger and sorrow. And then, beside me, Jackie Mu appeared—obedient, present, as if nothing had happened. For a moment I did not know how to respond.

That weekend, when I was in Bangalore, came the news of her death. It seemed someone had poisoned her. The paradox closed: the dog who carried Mu, who embodied both loyalty and violence, was gone.

Whatsapp  message drenched in grief said: Jackie Mu had passed away. She lay down outside the meditation hall, her favourite place, and breathed her last. A pang struck deep, as if some part within me had died. Mahayana does not speak of soul, but I am sure Jackie Mu left her Buddha nature behind at the Zendo.

That night, I wrote to Fr. AMA:

Dear Fr. Ama, Tithy messaged me at 9:37 pm saying, “Laddo / Jackie Mu passed away.” Suddenly I felt a pang in my heart. As something within me had died down. I never had a pet before in my life, leave alone a dog. And I just happened to remember the koan Mu. As you used to teach us, all beings are connected in a way. Regardfully, Vishy Sankara

His reply was simple, tender, and true:

I too was saddened by the death of Laadu. It was fond of you, followed you often. I am in tears. Peace to Laadu and to you and to me. — AMA Samy

But compassion is not the same in everyone. In our Sangha, there are members like Robert, who genuinely care for dogs. He takes them along on his hikes, brings them to the vet, ensures vaccinations, medicine, and good food. His care is steady, embodied, and responsible.

And then there are those who are more superficial. They pet the dogs, feed them Zendo biscuits, and enjoy their company for a while. But when their time at the Zendo is over, they move on. They forget the true nature and requirement of being compassionate when a fine being reveals its great Mu nature to them.

This difference is itself a teaching. Compassion is not measured by the warmth of a single gesture, but by the continuity of care. To see the Buddha nature in a dog is to recognize both its joy and its vulnerability, and to respond with responsibility as well as affection.

So the Forest Department’s sign, the stray dogs of Perumalmalai, the curse of Sarama, the loyalty of Yudhishthira, the koan of Wuji, the life and death of Jackie Mu, the Sangha’s varied responses, and the tears of my teacher all converge. Compassion is not sentiment. It is awareness. It is foresight. It is the willingness to see the whole field, even when it complicates our desire to help. Sometimes compassion is feeding. Sometimes compassion is not feeding. Sometimes compassion is simply sitting on the kerb, seeing the dog, seeing our own heart, and bowing to the paradox.

The Mahābhārata ends with Yudhishthira, who refuses to climb the celestial chariot to Heaven without the dog that had accompanied him on his final journey. He had lost his brothers and Panchali along the way, but he would not abandon the dog. Perhaps our visitors too will take the cue, and be truly compassionate—not only in passing gestures, but in the continuity of care, in the willingness to walk alongside, even when the path is steep, even when Heaven itself beckons.

Bhim, the Zendog ...
Three Birthdays and a Remembrance: The Ensō Circles of November

Three Birthdays and a Remembrance: The Ensō Circles of November

by | Nov 2, 2025 | Gratitude, Grief, Joy, Life, Peace, RElationship, Zen

2 November. Today is Nithya Chaithanya Yati’s birthday. A long time back, when I started reading Malayalam newspapers, one of the must-reads was his articles—mostly about day-to-day life and challenges. Later in high school, my grand uncle, a National Award–winning teacher, used to talk about him as well as Krishnamurti. Gopala thatha was considered an atheist by many of my relatives. But he was quite spiritual, just not religious. Much before I started seeing Nithya as a spiritual guru, I read him as someone who wrote Malayalam prose really well. Like another spiritual master, Eknath Easwaran’s English.

In my collection, after Krishnamurti’s books, the most number of books I have are by Nithya and Eknath Easwaran. While Easwaran’s spiritual life was almost like that of JK and UG, Nithya belonged to the illustrious lineage of Śrī Narayana Guru—the great Advaita teacher and social reformer from Kerala. Nithya’s guru, Nataraja Guru, was Narayana Guru’s disciple. Nataraja Guru, after a PhD from Sorbonne and teaching in Switzerland, returned and accepted sanyasa. Nithya, after being a monk, went on to do a PhD from TISS and taught in many universities such as Stanford. He also headed ICMR’s yoga division.

Though I was not fortunate to meet them in person, they were all great influences on me—connected through their writing. And another connection: I share my birthday with Nithya Chaithanya Yati, 2 November.

I missed that with my late father Sankara, whose birthday was on 3 November. He passed away on 20 November. So November is a bittersweet month. Like that movie Four Weddings and a Funeral, for me it is “three birthdays and a remembrance (śraddhāñjali) day.”

Like that classic movie Four Weddings and a Funeral. It was such a wonderful comedy and a must watch… especially for that eulogy Matthew delivers during the funeral service of Gareth. That W.H. Auden poem— “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone…” And the best in my view: “He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest.” Maybe someone would rephrase it for me at my memorial in the Zendo: “My resting week and my Sunday work.”

When my father left, I did not cry for a very long time. The tears came much later, one evening as I sat alone on the KAUST beach. With that, my grief cycle turned in full, like the arc described by Kübler‑Ross. Perhaps it turned so full that, later that year, when my mother called to ask if I had done puja on 20 November, I realized I had forgotten the śraddhāñjali day. And after so many years, I see that this forgetting is itself the best śraddhāñjali one can offer to the dear and near—that we forget they are no more, because in truth they are still here, in another form, formless.

I even hope to breathe my last on a 1 November, so that after I am dusted and gone, joyful memories would come up for my dear and near ones after the sad ones—if at all someone cares to remember.

And it is always good to get reincarnated, even in our imagination, like Jesus—though I was not crucified by life in general. After all, don’t we wake up to life after a deep death every single night.

Many religions and concepts of God arose from humanity’s fear of death and the anxiety of being mortal. Some religions and spiritual paths teach that real life begins only after this life, after our death—the very word moksha points to that. But Zen looks at it differently. For Zen, this life is the only life that matters. Samsara is Nirvana.

Fr. AMA often reminds us that life is precious, and any other thought is without true understanding. One begins to live only when one accepts death fully. Only when we accept our mortality and fragility do we become truly immortal. There is no day without night. And if there were an endless day without night in between, would we really value that day at all?

Many years ago, when I joined a Stoic Week program organized by the University of Exeter, there were two important meditations: one to recognize our insignificance in the vast universe as individuals, and the other to face death directly. A few months ago, Fr. AMA too spoke of the Jesuit meditation practice of meeting one’s own death. All these are preparations to face death. And in a way, there can be no better preparation for death than this: to live one’s day-to-day and moment-to-moment life with full presence.

I don’t remember celebrating my birthdays during my growing-up years. One reason was obviously economic—my parents just struggled to take care of the essentials in my and my siblings’ life. And the second reason is that, usually in Kerala, birthdays are celebrated as per the Malayalam calendar. So it kind of complicates things.

The first such celebration was in engineering college hostel, when my friends—the Dagar gang—came up with an impromptu birthday celebration and gifted me a book: Lee Iacocca’s autobiography.

And this time, it is the first birthday in the Zendo. So kind of being reborn.Feel like the first birthday. And like that, life comes in circles… not straight lines. What I missed in childhood, comes back now in another form. Not with cake or candles, but with silence, chanting, and friends on the path. Feels like the day itself is saying—be born again, again and again.

Zen teaches that life and death are not two separate realities, but one continuous unfolding. Yet at the Zendo we still celebrate birthdays, and we also gather in prayer for departed Sangha members. To lean only on the side of the infinite, ignoring the world of form, would be foolishness. We live in this phenomenal world, where grief must be endured and cannot be bypassed. However much one reframes, body pain, loss, hurt—all are truly sorrowful. And just the same, moments we cherish and enjoy bring real joy, laughter, and happiness. To deny either sorrow or joy would make life sterile and empty. To embrace both is to live fully.

Like Kübler‑Ross’s grief cycle, everything else in this universe too has its own life cycle. It is circular in nature. A recognition that the path is not straight, but it is whole. That every loss is woven into the fabric of a larger gain, and every ending is, in some form, a very quiet and gentle beginning.

And perhaps the best wordless way this truth is represented is in the Zen ensō—the circle drawn in a single breath, open or closed, complete yet unfinished.

Yesterday evening, Fr. AMA reminded us of this truth in the most ordinary way: he said today morning we will go   to the cemetery for Alosanai’s remembrance — she, the first staff of Bodhi Zendo, who lived Zen without ever needing to sit in meditation. Today evening 630 pm we will gather again for a memorial service to all departed Sangha members. And i plan to include Nithya and my late father Sankara too to that. And in between, he is taking me  for a birthday lunch. Life and death, grief and joy, silence and laughter — all folded into one circle

Willing the Will: From Material Assets to Essence

Willing the Will: From Material Assets to Essence

by | Oct 5, 2025 | Compassion, Gratitude, Grief, Joy, Peace, value

A few days ago, in our Coaching WhatsApp group, there was a conversation about writing a will. Many wise and practical suggestions were shared, mostly focused on financial assets—how to ensure they are passed on smoothly to loved ones. In a way, our will reflects what we owned while alive, even after we have stopped living.

Soon after, Thara and I were visiting my sister in Bangalore. During the course of conversation, she shared the sad fate of a distant relative. On the eve of his housewarming, he met with a freak bike accident and has since remained in a coma, tube-fed in a hospital bed. It was heartbreaking to hear.

Seventeen years ago, my father passed away without writing a will. He was a generous man and did not have much to leave behind. The small house he built, he ensured was registered in my mother’s name, along with his family pension. That was his quiet foresight. Last year, my Zen master shared the draft of his will with me, and I was touched to see my name in it.

When I moved to the Zendo last year, I had already given away what little I had of financial worth. Today, I live on a modest four-digit pension. For a while, I felt there was nothing left worth writing a will for. But the question lingered: other than money, what do I truly own that is worthy? This was on my mind as I took the night bus back from Bangalore to the Zendo.

What is rightfully, legally, and morally mine—and more importantly, what am I, legally and spiritually? These are deep questions. In the natural world, animals do exhibit an instinct of “myness”—my prey, my food, my territory. Yet once their life is done, there are no personal claims. They cannot leave behind a will. Nature has no concern for their mortal remains, their cave, or the trees they nested in.

Much later, Marx observed that many human problems began when we started dividing the Earth and creating ownership: of land, water, air, trees, food. In The Communist Manifesto, he wrote:

“The theory of Communism may be summed up in one sentence: Abolish all private property.”

His point was not about denying people shelter or livelihood, but about how the very act of carving up the Earth into mine and yours created alienation and conflict. Even today, our ownership is often nominal. If gold, diamonds, or petroleum are found beneath the land we “own,” the government claims it.

If this is true of material assets, what about the products of the mind? Many of us claim ownership of those too, and make them part of our will. Yet there are exceptions. U. G. Krishnamurti, for instance, refused to claim ownership of his words. On the front page of his books, he wrote:

“You are free to reproduce, distribute, interpret, misinterpret, distort, garble, do what you like, even claim authorship without my consent or the permission of anybody.”

When I added a similar note to my first published book, The Fallen Flower, Fragrant Grass, the publisher told me they would not allow it. I may have to go to a printer directly and get it printed. In contrast, Jiddu Krishnamurti fought a long, drawn-out court battle with Rajagopal over the rights to his teachings and writings.

And then there are inventions like the three-point seat belt, the internet, and the polio vaccine—gifts to humanity, not possessions to be hoarded.

 

This reminds me also of Kahlil Gibran. In The Prophet, he wrote of eating fruit with reverence:

“When you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart, Your seeds shall live in my body, And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart.”

And echoing this spirit, an old proverb says: “We enjoy the shade of trees we did not plant; we eat the fruit of trees we did not sow.” Both remind us that what we inherit and what we pass on are rarely ours alone.

Hearing about my distant relative’s tragedy—much like Michael Schumacher’s accident—brought another thought to the surface. I do not want a medically prolonged life. For two reasons: first, because the most important hope is for a dignified death. And second, because I once read that 95% of one’s lifetime medical expenditure is spent in the last four or five days of life. That struck me as both sobering and unnecessary.

This reflection deepened as I skimmed Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air.

He writes:

“At those critical junctures, the question is not simply whether to live or die but what kind of life is worth living… Because the brain mediates our experience of the world, any neurosurgical problem forces a patient and family… to answer this question: What makes life meaningful enough to go on living?”

That question lingers with me.

And here, again, Gibran’s words return with force (On Giving, The Prophet):

“You give but little when you give of your possessions.

It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?

And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the over prudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?

And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.

And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.

And is there aught you would withhold?

All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’. You often say, ‘I would give, but only to the deserving.’

The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.

And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?

And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?

See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.

For in truth it is life that gives unto life—while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.

Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be over mindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.”

Perhaps, then, the real will we leave behind is not a document of assets, but a testament of choices—how we wish to live, how we wish to die, and what we wish to pass on that cannot be measured in currency.

For me, it is the dignity of a simple life, the freedom of a simple death, and the hope that my words, my friendships, and my small acts of belonging may outlive me.

My late father was an ordinary man who lived an ordinary life of extraordinariness. Even after seventeen years, when my siblings and I speak of him, and when those who once knew him remember him, I realise this truth: in the end, a will is not measured in possessions, but in the meaning we leave behind. 

Truly, it is not our assets that matter, but the essence we bequeath.

The Crane That Could Not Lift and the Compassion Shift

The Crane That Could Not Lift and the Compassion Shift

by | Sep 29, 2025 | Change, Compassion, Grief, Joy, Meditation, Peace, RElationship, STRESS, Transformation, Zen

Yesterday night, was on my way to Bangalore from Kanzeon Zendo, Perumalmalai. The KSRTC Volvo semi sleeper  bus stopped in the middle of nowhere. At first I thought , it was a momentary halt. But then as it lingered on  A, most of the passengers stepped down from the bus to look for the cause of block on the ghat road. I continued to read Mother Mary comes to me. Then Driver Krishnappa , came back and asked me to go and see. There was a mini truck off the road, almost landed perfectly on all four.

 Krishnappa, the ace KSRTC driver is one of my new found friends from my sojourn to  Perumalmalai over the last three years.  For the first two years, I had made a monthly trip of. Blr- Kodai- Blr  and since last December. It is. Kodai-Blr- Kodai.  Mostly on Sunday to Friday  or Friday to Sunday.  And most of these days, drivers were  Krishnappa, Girisha and  Sunmadhappa ….  I used to get down at Perumalmalai some 13 km away from Kodaikanal , the bus stand.  Though my initial interactions with them was just friendly courteous smiles and a thank you as I stepped off from the bus.  It was Krishnappa who broke the ice.  Once while having early morning coffee at that way side coffee shop during a pitstop, he asked me what I am doing at that place , making so may visits.  And when I shared about Zendo and Zen, he  told me with a hearty laugh, that they thought I am a drug carrier from Blr.  Especially since I used to travel lightly and used to get down before the check post and town limits.

From then onwards, those coffee became on the house for me. If Krishnappa was the driver,  he used to announce to them,  Nammavaru to the coffee “barrista”  which roughly translates. “ He is one of us”.

He was a very interesting character. One who took immense pride in being one of the really early Volvo bus drivers in Karnataka.  He told me that. It was Karnataka RTC which bought Volvo buses first in India and they  had put their best drivers for that fleet.  And I have heard that story from him quite a number of times.

So when a Pilot of an aero plane, a Captain of a ship and driver of your bus, tell you something, you think twice, or at times thrice before saying a  reason to say know. So I got down from the bus and made my way to that  accident spot. Just  10 – 20 meters ahead. 

 I was told, the driver had passed away on the spot. May be yesterday afternoon. Truck went down and the driver’s soul up. Since the truck load was fruits, the owner had send a crane to lift the truck. Looking at the crane, Krishnappa told me that , that crane wont be able to life the truck with the fruit load. And after more than 1 1/2 hour of effort , those workers to agreed and gave up. On our walk back to bus, Krishnappa told me that many a times, driver die due to heart attacks. ANd accoding to him, that is a better way than live on with pain and severe injiruies. ! Neither i agreed nor disagreed with him. Our journey to Bangalore continued. MAy be that scene was playing up in my mind. When i landed in Bangalore home , very early morning, there in Linkedin popped up a advt brochure on Compassion Shift. An org i had worked ( ?) earlier is part of that program. and i had to type in the below comment. During the last part of my tenure over there, i was in deep depression. My otherwise friendly Tinnitus had turned into a monster in my brain and ate away, my sleep, my wakefulness, peace of mind, joy and hunger and tears. Dont know which crane was able to pull me out of that abyss. But i too landed on all four in Zendo on the Way. On reaching home, went with Thara for our breakfast at The Rameshwaram Cafe… Thara was talking about their new joint named Thirtha in Cunnigham road. May be there was too much butter on that crispy rava dosa. I slept again and woke up for lunch.. 🙂 Pls find below my comment without further comments. Shift / transformation is not a one time act . One constantly and consciously need to be aware and keep working on it. Often reflecting on the past does help. reflecting on the past is crucial. This is wise reflection (yoniso manasikara). We look back not with guilt or pride, but as a scientist studies data: · “In that moment of irritation, where was my compassion?” · “When I acted kindly, what was the true motive? Was it free from the ‘passion’ for gratitude or recognition?” · “How did that word or mindless act of mine land on the other person?” This reflection isn’t dwelling; it’s learning to do better next time. It’s how we polish the lens of our understanding and make the “compassion shift” more accessible, more instantaneous, in the next moment of interaction. And what is a butcher’s compassion . Is it towards the animal or the knife as in Daoist parable of Cook Ding . And who are we in the parable! The animal, knife or Cook Ding ??? From someone who was on the receiving end of compassion…😀

On second thoughts,  I feel  compassion is not about choosing between the animal, the knife, or Cook Ding. it is about seeing that in each moment, we are all three—cutting, being cut, and learning to move with the grain of life. And in that realisation , the shift happens quietly without needing an external prompt, like a bus resuming its journey after a long halt on the ghat road. In the end, the truck stayed where it was, the crane gave up, and the bus rolled on. Life too moves like that—sometimes stuck, sometimes lifted, sometimes simply continuing. What matters is whether compassion travels with us. I don’t know which crane lifted me from my own abyss, or which hand steadied me when I landed on all four.

But I know this: each time I pause to reflect, compassion becomes a little more available, a little more natural. And that, perhaps, is the real shift.

Also the true crane is not outside us at all, but that  quiet strength, boot strap program written in us by that great intelligence  lifts us, again and again, into the next step of the Way.

Choosing life after every great death…

Choosing life after every great death…

by | Jul 24, 2025 | Gratitude, Grief, Peace, Zen

Today is 24 July 2025. Karkadaka Vavu in Kerala… we pay homage to souls of all the ancestors .  And I am waiting or my mother’s phone call to remind me whether I had done puja to Sankara, my late father.

There is a wonderful quote from  Douglas Adam’s  The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and it goes:

“You can trace every being in the Universe back to the first couple on Earth with a little imagination and a lot of paperwork.”

Else where in the same book, he writes

“The chances of finding out what’s really going on in the universe are so remote, the only thing to do is hang the sense of it and keep yourself occupied. But it is comforting to reflect that every single one of us is, by some extraordinary coincidence, here. And that we can trace a line back through our parents and their parents and their parents, and so on, to the first couple on Earth, and that every single one of them managed to live long enough to have children.”

It’s not  phrased exactly this way in the book, but this sentiment echoes Adams’ blend of awe and absurdity. The idea that we’re here because an unbroken chain of survival and reproduction—through wars, plagues, accidents, and heartbreak—somehow held together. Every link in that chain was improbably lucky.

It’s a beautiful paradox, isn’t it? That our uniqueness is the result of sheer statistical improbability. In Zen terms, perhaps it’s the koan of being both utterly contingent and infinitely precious.  From a Zen perspective, this can feel both absurd and luminous. The self that traces its lineage, step by step, becomes a narrative construct—one mask among many. And yet, within this genealogy of luck, something stirs that can’t be traced: the Original Face. That which was never born and therefore never needed ancestors.

When my father passed away in November 2006.. I did not cry..  Brij, my mentor and good friend at Wipro asked me to read  The Tibetan Book of the Dead…  Much later, during one of those chilly morning at KAUST , when I sat on facing the light tower in the Red Sea, looking for Dolphins, suddenly I was overwhelmed with grief.  And I cried. Not sure whether the sea level rose because of my tears or early morning tide. “As I felt the taste of tears, I remembered that Gibran couplet: ‘There must be something strangely sacred in salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.’ At the end of it I felt so empty and light…At long distance, a huge fish jumped up in the air and flipped.  I was not sure whether it was a Dolphin or Sankara, my late father. And I started my walk towards the café for a coffee.

 Later on 20 November , when I had called my mother, she asked me whether I did offer puja. That is when I remembered  that day was my father’s death anniversary and I also remembered I had completely lived the grief cycle at last.  It took some  8 years.

Krishnamurti wrote  ““If you pursue a feeling to its very end, without resistance, without naming it, without trying to escape from it, then that feeling runs its course and ends. But if you suppress it, control it, or rationalize it, it remains and recurs.” And this theme keeps recurring in his  Commentaries  of living and Awakening intelligence.  He also wrote ““To observe a feeling without naming it, without condemning or justifying it, is to be free of it.”

May be , on that red sea shore, I was free of the grief.  After that , no loss whatever had affected me more than it should. Whether it is death, job loss, any other psychological pain.   I just be with it.  Be aware of it. Endure the pain .

That freedom met me again when Sr. Chitra spoke before breakfast: ‘Birgit Foster has passed. Brigit was one of the earliest disciples of Fr. AMA and an early Bodhi Sangha members. For years together she had organised Fr. AMA’s sesshins in Europe. And even in her old age, when she was in a wheel chair, she used to make jewellery and sell it contribute to the school run by Sangha at Kodai Kanal. After breakfast i met Fr. AMA to offer my condolences. He spoke for a few minutes . About losing Karen, Sheela and Birgit , his disciples and friends all within a short span of time. And as I was leaving , he called me and told me “Tomorrow is Sreenath’s birth day. Pls buy a cake and let us wish him.” . So Prakash our Zendo manager bought a cake and yesterday morning at 650 am after early morning zazen , we all cut the cake at our dining hall and sang Happy birthday to Sreenath. And yesterday evening a silent prayer meeting was held at the Zendo hall in memory of Brigit.

There are many Koans which talk about life and death. Joshu’s great death for example. “Joshu’s Great Death”  is  a koan from the Book of Equanimity (also known as The Book of Serenity). The koan, found in Case 63, presents the question: “What if a man who has died a great death comes back to life?”. This seemingly paradoxical question explores the nature of existence and the illusion of death and rebirth, prompting practitioners to question their understanding of self and reality, life and death.

One day with a Zen master teaches you all about life and death and zen than all those books together. One thing Fr. AMA kept telling me is how it is important to celebrate life. When  i was working on that Koan Joshu and Great Death he asked me to read one of his articles which read. “Choose life” is one of the most important commandments of the Jewish people. It is also one of the fundamental values of  many other great  traditions. In that article , Fr. AMA  strongly disagrees with the views of the great Masao Abe. Because there is nothing wrong with loving life so much.

One got to choose life and living  after every great death of ours one every single day that we die and reborn and live.  

“Masao Abe saw emptiness; Fr. AMA sees fire. Birgit sold jewellery from her wheelchair to support a cause. Sankara waits in the salt-wind. Adams chuckles at the paperwork.

“And this Karkadaka Vavu?
I am heading to Kodai Kanal for a cup of that super filter coffee and walk through Coaker’s walk.
I chose life long ago—deep in the tinnitus-dark, dumping pills into the wastebin.
Now, when dawn’s bell cracks the silence,
I choose it again: with this breath, zazen, with a cup of coffee…
Not once. Not someday.
Now.
Now.
Now.”

Out of Office!  or “Out of Life “  : Replies ….“In the presence of absence”!

Out of Office!  or “Out of Life “  : Replies ….“In the presence of absence”!

by | Jan 15, 2025 | Compassion, Empathy, Friendship, Grief

A long time back, almost 15 years back, while working for an IT company, i wrote a blog on the funny, wonderful poetic and entertaining “Out of office replies” i could collect from my colleagues at work.  Yes! Like people collect stamps, coins etc., I used to collect Out of Office replies.  That blog post came out well.   

 Only one person, whose OOO message, I quoted in that email, got really infuriated and send me a rather strong email.  I took that in my stride, though it was my pre-Zen days.  (Now with Zen in my flesh, bone and marrow, I can take a lot of ridicule,  sniping and even a knife stab at my back quite well.  ).

 Almost an year back, a good colleague and friend of mine, as she left our Org to start something on her own,  wrote to me in her parting message , “  hope you are well!

wanted to let you know that I will be transitioning out of XXXXX on the 15th of Jan.

I wanted to take a chance to let you know that I will miss working with you! Though our interaction was brief, you are one of the warmest people I have interacted with at XXXXX and will miss working with you. Your OOO emails were always my favourite to read! 

I would love to stay in touch outside work as well and hear more about your incredible stories and experiences.”

 That brought back my old hobby   to my PFC. ( Pre Frontal Cortex .)  And I was on the lookout for Out of Office messages again.   But I could not find anything worthwhile to my list. In fact my own OO replies was poetic if  compared to those staid messages !

   I remember I did share my concern with my reporting Manager, mentor and good friend at work Robert M.  He was in charge of Cultural transformation, and I said to him, “Did we become too serous fellas at work and life for our own good! Do we take ourselves too seriously and instead our work seriously!  Are we losing our happiness, laughter and soul in our work.”

 And I started writing a blog …  “IN the presence of absence”. At that point of time, i did not know Mahmoud Darwish too had written a book of poems with the same title.  I had to buy a copy and My new year went in devouring them and making it my bone marrow. He sounded far better than Rumi, Gibran and Rilke put together…   Let me share one such bloodstone !

 

It takes a lot of pain in one’s heart, to write with own blood! And it sinks in the mind and soul of a reader.

 Will i ever be able to write like him!!!   

May be. May be not…    

 Especially with Zen,  I think,  I won’t be  hurt that much  or  broken inside to write poems with blood as ink and bones as pen.

 Mahmoud Darwish knew it well that he is going to die soon and he put his soul into those poems.  And he died within a few weeks of publishing those poems.

 I recommend his book highly… Must read…

Get the poem back in your mind, heart and soul.

 Happy or Sad reading…

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