Equanimity.

I am currently sitting inside the temple complex and listening to a monk speak in a language that I don’t understand. I honestly cannot fathom what draws me to this place so much.

McLeodganj is beautiful in ways I cannot describe. Of course, there is the mountains and the scenic beauty and the bloody amazing food and some cozy little cafés to while away your time, but there is something more and beyond all of these that constitutes this place. There is something in the air, something that fills me with wonder and makes me restless and yet settles me, eases me, makes me feel peace.

People here have seen suffering. You can see it in their eyes, in their kindness, in their value for joy. You can see it their lack of arrogance despite where they come from. This has taught me one of my most important lessons in life, that of humility.

People who face severe distress often end up basking in the arrogance of it. As though they didn’t deserve it, as though they deserved better. In all fairness, they probably did deserve better. But then they start demanding better out of everything in life, every circumstance, even if it is unfair in places. Why, I myself have done that for years – deliberately or not, I do not know. And then, I look at the people here, demanding justice not privilege. I know that struggles must never be compared but I also know that people here have faced more grief than I can barely imagine. I don’t mean to belittle my troubles but looking at their humility only makes me feel small. It makes me look at the concept of privilege from a whole new perspective. 

When I hear their stories, sometimes from books, sometimes from the people themselves, stories of refugees who have traveled strenuously across mountains for months – starving, seeing their loved ones die or leaving them behind, forced to leave their land, their beliefs and more so their identities, and when I see their perseverance and their means of claiming it back, all the concepts of historical exploitation and war and violence and affirmative action I have learnt in three years of college lectures (and read about back and forth in newspapers) get dissolved. I am only reminded of one word - equanimity.

People here have a resolve; a clear purpose and they are doing everything they can to get there without complacency, with compassion. And with equanimity. Despite the unparalleled wrong that has been done to them, they don’t seek revenge; they only want a way ahead. They are constantly putting up a fight for their rights but without harming others. Honestly, a few years back I would have laughed it off. How can you put up a fight without violence, I would have asked. And yet, they do it. Every single minute of their lives.

It is probably this resilience that fills up the air.

Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.