Chasing the Mirage

Books have taught me the power of the mind, people have taught me the weakness of mind but Siddhartha, the Buddha has taught me how to control the mind. Often these days, my heart faces a stirring notion, a resplendent feeling of achieving prudence and flushes a latest latent desire of achieving mental soundness and equanimity.

This feeling of becoming an ascetic, monk or a chaser of mirage is not disillusionment or extremely peculiar in one’s life. People often face this desire of achieving greater than what they could imagine—Peace. I am no exception but this desire has come running to me early than the usual. What’s wrong with me? Why a monk? What will the family say? Don’t I am at peace with my life? Is this natural? No wonder these questions kept me from being fully conscious of my surrounding and kept me awake late at night till the sleep itself got tired and fell down upon me.

I imagined myself clad in a saffron coloured long cloth, walking slowly, touching the bark of the tree with rickety fingers, breathing nature, watching aloof and listening silence. Oh wow! What a feeling that was. But No, I can’t do this? Why should I? I am in peace, I lied. I just need to clear my mind, I told myself.

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The next day, just before the sun has woken itself from the last 10 hours long sleep and was shedding its slanting rays upon us appositely behaving like a knowledge torch especially being lit for me, I sat down under it, closed my eyes and started off my first ever practice of meditation. It was stark dark and my shut lids flickered and shimmered in the sun rays. Myriad of thoughts ran back and forth, to and fro and from everywhere to everywhere in my over conscious brain reminding me of the deadline for the reports to be submitted tomorrow, the degree of plagiarism to be checked in the report, about the college, my classroom, its air conditioner, graffiti of its right wall, my future, my future wife and what all the heck I was doing in my life. Terrified, my eyes shut open quickly. Everything looked new this time, my garden, its saplings, the bark, leaves and dew on it; everything was rejuvenated but was I?

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Admittedly, I tried again focusing only on one thing this time—Buddha’s image, the inspiration. I imagined him sitting stiffly under the Peeple Tree of Bodh Gaya, shimmering not because of light but enlightenment. His face had the expected peace and calm, smiling silently as if charmed. Soon the curled and intertwined curls of his hair transfused into the long composite locks of a nubile, his sturdy chest into a sagging breast and those sagging breast gradually into a busty, curvy one. There was no Buddha now, no seeker, no achiever but giver of lust, a courtesan to love. With perfectly curved hands, she beckoned me closer, calling me closer to her breasts, pulling me, breaking me and seducing me throughout. I did not go but waited and kept leering at her. She gave a quick nod of smiling disagreement on my unwillingness to resignation and approached me, walking softly on tiptoe as if she did not want to alarm anyone with her heavy gaits, leaving no stones unturned in seducing me alone. No sooner she touched my impotent nipple when my eyes shut open once again, breaking this chasm of unreality. Was this really normal? Is this what people seek while meditating? Or was this just a juxtaposition of my mental decadence? Sweat emerged from the impalpable pores on my temple, my body seemed fatigued, my heart heaved a sigh and my mind whispered me something; shutting my eyes once again and watched those busty, curvy breasts turning into a saggy one and gradually turning this metamorphosis into Buddha, purging my mind from the crystals of this mental chasm.

 

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