Too Cool for Nine to Five : Dharma Journey of the Ordinary 10
The very first metro of the day is a different creature from the ones that come after it.
I was on it that Thursday, on my way to meet KC and George for the Virajpet trip. Almost empty coach. The kind of quiet Namma Metro never has once the city wakes up. A young man got in a few stations later and sat across from me, laptop bag between his feet, and his T-shirt said, in a careful embroidered hand — Too cool for nine to five.
I read it twice. Then I did the thing I do, which is to sit with it instead of reaching for my phone to type in my random non thoughts.
I have never been cool. But I have been a long way from nine to five, and I found myself, somewhere between Majestic and the Kengeri Metro station, in Kanzeon again.
The day there started at 3:45. Not 3:45 as an idea — 3:45 as a bell, in the dark, with the waterfall already going. On most days there would be a mail from Fr. AMA timed at around 3:10 am. Then it was time to get ready for Zazen. Bhim slept inside the room only when it was too cold, or when Perumalmalai came under a blanket of mist for two or three days after a storm. He never understood why humans would get up before the birds do. After the early morning Zazen, whatever the day had decided for me, which was never something I had decided for myself. Book editing, writing, answering email queries from visitors and sangha members, cleaning, cooking, sitting, the small endless jobs of keeping a Zendo alive, sitting again, Bhim watching all of it with his usual lack of interest. The day ended when I was dead tired, which was the only clock that mattered by then. And many a time a coaching client of mine would call in late. I could not say no to that, because that was pocket money for Manu and Rishi. Three and a half years of that. Full time student, and assistant to a master who did not consult my preferences.
Nobody would put that on a T-shirt.
And yet, sitting across from that boy, I wasn't feeling superior. I was feeling wistful. Which surprised me, because by any honest count Kanzeon was a much worse deal than nine to five. Longer hours. No pay. No weekend. And here I was, missing it.
There is a Korean-German philosopher, Byung-Chul Han, who wrote a small book called The Burnout Society. His argument is simple and it has stayed with me. Older societies ran on "you must." The boss, the church, the rules, the clock. Ours runs on "you can, you could." Anything is possible, your best life is still out there, unlived, so get on with it. Nobody is standing over you anymore. You are standing over yourself. Han calls it self-exploitation, and says it is more efficient than any master could ever be, because there is no one left to rebel against. The whip and the back it lands on belong to the same person.
That boy on the metro was free. Free of the boss, free of the clock, on the first train of the day with his work on his shoulder. He will be at it long after five, I suspect. Not because anyone told him to. Because he can. And because he is not free from himself.
Here is what I didn't understand when I was in Kanzeon and only understood on that train.
The 3:45 bell was a "you must." The schedule was a "you must." The master was, most definitely, a "you must." And somehow that rested me. When the han sounds you don't decide anything. You get up. When the bell rings you sit. When the food comes you eat it. There is nothing to optimise, nobody to impress, no better version of the morning you could have had if only you had tried harder. The form holds you, so you don't have to hold yourself. For three and a half years the boss inside me — the one that has run my life since school, the one that never once said well done — had nothing to do. He came along, of course. He sat behind me in the zendo for the first few months, telling me my posture was poor and my breath was wrong and everyone else was getting it faster. And then one day, I couldn't tell you which, he went quiet. Not defeated. Just — unemployed.
Baizhang, the old Chinese master, had a rule for his monastery. A day without work is a day without food. People read that as harshness. I read it now as kindness. He was handing his monks a "you must" so that the "you can" could finally shut up.
I was tired at Kanzeon in a way I have not been tired since. It was the tiredness of a body that has done what the day asked and is now done. Han has a phrase for the other kind — the tiredness of the achievement society, which he says is a lonely tiredness, one that separates. And he has a phrase for the first kind too. A tiredness that trusts the world.
That is what I was missing on the metro. Not the Zendo. The trust.
The boy got off at the same station I did. Laptop bag, long stride, already somewhere else in his head. I hope he finds a bell one day. Something outside himself that says, this and not that, now and not later, enough and not more. It doesn't have to be a Zendo. It can be a dog who needs walking at seven, when the sun starts smiling at the birds. It can be a stream that has no name and no opinion about your quarterly targets.
Even Bhim, my Zendog master, had a bell. He never heard it as one. He got up when the birds did, ate when the bowl came, slept when the mist rolled in. He didn't need a bell. He was the bell. The highest form of spirituality is when one is the act itself. Bhim never knew that. That is how I know he had it.
I used to think form was the opposite of freedom. Three and a half years of a schedule I didn't write taught me the other way round. The boss inside treats everything as a means. Sit so you'll be calmer, work so you'll be free, and the end is always one more effort away. The bell doesn't work like that. It asks for the sitting, and the sitting is the whole of it. There is a difference between means and ends. When the means and the end are one, that is when the must starts working for you, instead of you working for it.
I still get up early. Old habits. But nobody rings a bell anymore, and I notice the difference.
Here is the thing under the thing. Most of us live with some end in mind. A better job, a calmer mind, a version of ourselves that hasn't arrived yet. Then we put our striving to work as the means of getting there. It doesn't matter much whether the striving says "you must" or "you can." Once it is a means to somewhere else, it has a boss, and the boss is us. That is how the oppressor and the oppressed end up being one person. Zen has only one thing to say about this, and it says it flatly. The means is the end. You do zazen for the sake of doing zazen. Not to become calm, not to become wise, not to become anything. Becoming always lives in the future. Keep your eyes on who you are becoming and you will never once be here, in any of the nows you actually get. The bell at Kanzeon never once asked what my sitting was for. That is why it rested me. There was nowhere the morning was trying to get to.
On those mornings I sit anyway. Not because I can.
Because I must. And that, it turns out, is the freer of the two.
