If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir Read Free

these lodges weren’t busy with work or occupied watching a cricket match on TV, they longed to chat with people as a way of passing their time. They didn’t have any rooms available but a conversation with a stranger was welcome.
    Not getting very far in my search for a place to stay, I asked Manish to take me to a bigger hotel, but he said there weren't any. I realized that he didn’t really know the area; he had lied to me. Anyway, I was starving now. We managed to spot a vegetarian Jain dhaba that served meals without onion or garlic. I avoided eating onion and garlic, so the menu was fine with me but the food wasn't; it was tasteless. I was too tired to fuss and my head hurt. I swallowed whatever I was served, though my guide seemed to savour the meal. After we left the dhaba, I bought two chilled bottles of water from a small provision store. Opening the first one, I washed my face and poured the rest on my head. The second I guzzled right away.
    It was nearly 6 p.m. by the time we resumed our hunt for accommodation, and we finally got lucky at Pooja Guest House, where they gave me a room. I let Manish go and asked him to come again the next morning.
    Even though I had a room now, I couldn't sleep because of the fatigue and dehydration, which was evident from the colour of my urine. I hadn’t known I was so fragile. There was a time not long ago when I had played badminton daily, spent hours at a stretch on the golf course, pumped iron and run 12 miles regularly, and all this had felt effortless. But today, just one day spent in the ‘real’ world, and I found myself stretched beyond what I could take. My belief that I was fit and strong seemed merely a conceited notion.
    I realized that my body was far from ready for the hardships of monkhood. If I couldn't even tolerate the heat of a day, what chance did I have to endure the rigours of meditation and the harsh life of an ascetic? I had no idea how to prepare my body for intense penance. Yet, I knew that life would teach me. I had only to be open and willing.
    I lay there thinking about my worldly journey thus far.
     

2

The Mystic

 
     
    My mother was raised in a deeply religious environment and grew up revering religious figures. She would never lose an opportunity to seek the darshan of mystics and saints who visited our town.
    One day, during the lunch hour at work, she went to get the blessings of an unusual saint she had been told about. It was said that he never slept; he didn’t even blink. He observed silence most of the time. Perpetually wandering, he wouldn’t stay more than one night in a place, and he never returned to the same town again.
                  'In the month of Margashirsha, when the moon is waxing, you will give birth to a special soul,' he said as soon as he saw my mother.
                  My mother was brought up not to question saints, but she wasn’t expecting this blessing from the mystic who rarely spoke.
    'Babaji, I already have two children.'
                  'It doesn't matter,' the sadhu said. 'One of us is coming after a long wait. A saint.'
                  My mother's heart sank. One of them? A saint? That meant he wouldn’t lead a normal life but give up everything. She lowered her head and sat quietly, trying to calm herself.
                  'Yes, he will renounce,' he said, reading her mind. 'Please remember me when he is born, and touch some tulsi leaves to his lips as an offering from me.'
                  She bowed before him and got up to leave. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Her family was already complete and there was no need to have a third child. Yet, the thought of losing this third child, to have him become a wandering sadhu, was unbearable.
                  'You are merely the medium. Don't resist the ways of the Divine,' the saint said as he gave her a pinch of holy ash. 'Eat this ash on ekadashi. At his birth, petals will