In the lively lanes of Lalgudi, where the aroma of fresh filter coffee mixed with the scent of jasmine and the occasional whiff of diesel, lived a cheerful man named R. Subbu. Everyone knew him as a good salesman in the cloth shop near the bus stand, always ready with a joke and never one to refuse a second helping of anything pleasant.
Subbu’s problem was simple: his senses were far more active than his mind. The sight of a new silk shirt in the shop window would make him buy it on impulse. The sound of a film song from a radio shop would pull him inside for an hour. The smell of hot bajjis from the corner stall would empty his pocket before he knew it. And when it came to taste—well, Subbu’s plate was never empty for long.
One evening, after a particularly heavy meal of biryani, and three laddus, Subbu sat bloated and uneasy on the veranda of his friend Venkatesh’s house.
“I feel as if I have swallowed a whole festival,” he groaned.
Venkatesh smiled and poured him a glass of plain water. “Eknath Easwaran used to say that we eat not only with the mouth but through all our senses. Sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell are the channels that connect the mind to the outside world. Ideally, the senses should be the mind’s assistants. But most of the time the assistants become the masters. They cajole the mind into having a good time through constant consumption.”
Subbu nodded slowly, still holding his stomach.
“There is a simple test,” Venkatesh continued. “The next time your senses urge you to consume something—whether it is another laddu, a new shirt, or an hour of mindless radio—ask yourself: Will I be happy about this consumption five hours from now? Five days from now? Five months from now? Five years from now? If the answer is a clear ‘yes,’ then go ahead. Otherwise, say a firm ‘no.’”
He added with a twinkle, “Even the old Greek Plutarch noticed that our minds, like our bodies, are hurt more often by overeating than by hunger.”
The next morning Subbu decided to try the experiment. When he passed the bajji stall, the delicious smell rose to meet him. His hand automatically went to his pocket. Then he paused and asked the four questions. Five hours later he would feel heavy. Five days later the money would be gone. Five months later—nothing. Five years later—still nothing. He walked on, a little surprised at himself.
In the cloth shop, a customer returned a soft cotton shirt of a shade Subbu had long admired. The shop owner offered it to him at a discount. Subbu’s eyes lingered on the fabric. Again he asked the questions. The pleasure of wearing it would last a few days; the regret of spending money he needed for his daughter’s school books would last much longer. He declined politely.
Slowly the habit grew. When a new film song blared from the radio shop, he listened for a minute, enjoyed it, and moved on. When the sweets came out at a neighbour’s function, he took one mysore pak and stopped. Each small refusal felt difficult at first, but afterwards his mind felt lighter, clearer, and strangely free.
A few months later Subbu sat again with Venkatesh on the terrace, watching the evening sky.
“I used to be driven by my senses,” he said. “Now I try to keep the mind as the boss. It is not easy, but the questions help. And I find I enjoy the things I do choose far more than before.”
Venkatesh nodded. “That is the beginning of real freedom. The senses still work for you, but they no longer rule you.”
In the quiet of Lalgudi’s evening, the distant temple bells rang, the aroma of someone’s dinner drifted past, and life continued in its usual colourful way. But R. Subbu walked home with a lighter step and a quieter mind, having discovered that true satisfaction came not from consuming more, but from choosing wisely what the senses were allowed to bring to the table of the mind.