In the quiet corner of Trichy, where the banyan tree spread its generous shade over the law college compound, lived a man named Krishna Rao. He was a retired teacher of philosophy, though in truth he taught very little and reflected a great deal. Every morning, after his filter coffee and the last of the day's Hindu newspaper, he would open his old red notebook—its pages yellowing like ancient palm leaves—and read the words he had copied with great care.
One such morning, as the sun was heading up for a bright day behind the temple tower and the crows returned noisily to their perches, Krishna Rao turned to the page marked “10 December” and began to murmur to himself in his soft, ruminative way.“For what, after all, is strong in this world?” he wondered aloud, as though addressing the passing cycle-rickshaw wallah. “What body is so hard that it cannot bend? What passion is so safe that it cannot be shaken? What law, what knowledge, what possession is beyond the reach of assault?”
He paused, smiling a little at the absurdity of human attachment, much as one smiles at a child who clings to a toy that is already broken. “All things are perishable, easily taken by assault. And if a man ties his heart to them in any way, he must be disturbed. He must fear. He must lament when his desires are disappointed and fall into the very things he wished to avoid.”
Krishna Rao leaned back in his old cane chair, which creaked in sympathy. In the distance, he could hear his neighbour’s wife scolding the son over a missing brass vessel. How easily everything slipped away—wealth, health, reputation, even the evening’s peace.“Then why not choose the only means of safety offered to us?” he continued, turning the page with a finger stained by years of ink. “Why not withdraw ourselves from all that is perishable and servile, and labour instead at the things which are imperishable and free by Nature?”
He closed the notebook gently, as one might close the door on a troublesome guest. A man, he thought, does not hurt another by doing good; nor does he truly suffer except through his own opinion of things. The hurt, the turning of one’s fate—it all begins in the mind. And yet how few of us remember this simple truth amid the noise of daily life in Trichy!
Krishna Rao rose, stretched his limbs, and walked slowly towards the veranda where his wife was already arranging the oil lamp. “Put it low,” he said to himself with a quiet chuckle. “Put it low, this flame of desire.”And in that moment, under the vast Indian sky, the old teacher felt a rare and fleeting accord with the universe—simple, unhurried, and entirely his own.
He paused, smiling a little at the absurdity of human attachment, much as one smiles at a child who clings to a toy that is already broken. “All things are perishable, easily taken by assault. And if a man ties his heart to them in any way, he must be disturbed. He must fear. He must lament when his desires are disappointed and fall into the very things he wished to avoid.”
Krishna Rao leaned back in his old cane chair, which creaked in sympathy. In the distance, he could hear his neighbour’s wife scolding the son over a missing brass vessel. How easily everything slipped away—wealth, health, reputation, even the evening’s peace.“Then why not choose the only means of safety offered to us?” he continued, turning the page with a finger stained by years of ink. “Why not withdraw ourselves from all that is perishable and servile, and labour instead at the things which are imperishable and free by Nature?”
He closed the notebook gently, as one might close the door on a troublesome guest. A man, he thought, does not hurt another by doing good; nor does he truly suffer except through his own opinion of things. The hurt, the turning of one’s fate—it all begins in the mind. And yet how few of us remember this simple truth amid the noise of daily life in Trichy!
Krishna Rao rose, stretched his limbs, and walked slowly towards the veranda where his wife was already arranging the oil lamp. “Put it low,” he said to himself with a quiet chuckle. “Put it low, this flame of desire.”And in that moment, under the vast Indian sky, the old teacher felt a rare and fleeting accord with the universe—simple, unhurried, and entirely his own.