ONE

The Story and the Storyteller

–1–

Monty’s skin looked dry, wrinkled and discoloured. He had lost a lot of hair. What had happened to him? He looked like he had been ravaged by a disease.

And then it struck me: time had happened. I hadn’t seen Monty for twenty-five years. Monty had simply aged, as we all do. Monty was probably having the same thoughts about me as we greeted each other at this college reunion.

I soon found myself talking to strangers, some of whom used to be my friends. We began sharing memories and trading details about our lives. We each had a story to tell.

Melanie, a classmate, had selected a striking yellow Prada summer dress to wear. Always the achiever, she began enumerating her successes: her large new house in the Hamptons in New York, the growth of her legal practice, and the work of her art collector husband.

“If you really want something, just go and get it!” she exhorted. “Like when my husband teamed up with Richard Eagleton, who remodels homes. He’s a friend of Barrack Obama’s. So, they were just starting out, and really had no idea how they were going to grow their business; but now they’re so popular, they actually have to turn down work. Just imagine. Everyone on Long Island wants their home refurbished by them.”

“That’s really impressive,” Lisa said kindly. “I always knew you would achieve big things.” Melanie thanked her with a smile.

Monty, self-assured and articulate, was discussing politics in the Middle East. He was a staunch supporter of former Prime Minister Tony Blair. Lisa didn’t like Blair’s war in Iraq. She interjected a few times, but Monty cut her down like a lawyer.

“As an argument, that’s not only silly, but irrelevant,” Monty declared with finality. Lisa was about to push her point further, but thought better of it.

“Do you remember Jim Elms?” Emma interrupted. “You know he committed suicide a couple of years ago, right?”

“Jesus! No way!” Melanie exclaimed. “Of course I remember him. What would make someone do that?” Her words tailed off, as if she were whispering to herself. There was a sombre silence.

I noticed that Bertha didn’t say much. She was the only single woman in our group who wasn’t a mother. Later she confided she wasn’t leading the impressive life she had planned on twenty-five years ago; and she wasn’t up to repeated interrogations about it.

Actually, Bertha had at first disposed of her invitation to the reunion. The prospect of attending this event had filled her with a mixture of curiosity and dread, not unlike that of a blind date. I suspect the last person she had wanted to meet was Melanie. They had been college rivals, and Melanie had stolen her boyfriend from her in the second year.

And then there was I, eager to please. Amiable and smiling politely, I nodded and agreed with the others, even if I wasn’t sure I did agree. I wanted to fit in and be liked.

As I listened and watched, I experienced a shift in consciousness. I found myself looking on with the perspective of a distant observer. It felt just like watching a movie and involuntarily becoming aware that what you’re seeing, with its drama and twisting storyline, is just a movie. As the audience gasps when the hero is in peril, you are left undisturbed. This is because you no longer identify with the lead character.

While growing up in temples and monasteries in India, I had learned from my teacher that in life we each create a story in our mind. That story is like a movie. Not only are we the author of our story, but we’re also the lead character in it.

The sacred texts of India identify the powerful hold our narrative has on us as one of life’s greatest illusions. The Sanskrit word for illusion, maya, means “not that”. The delusion that we are the lead character in our story causes us to live in a feverish dream.

We take our stories extremely seriously; we’re prepared to fight for them, even lose friends over them. We carry that story with us wherever we go; we can’t escape it. Our story is the script from which our life unfolds.

So much of our story is inherited and then enforced, coerced and impressed upon us by society. From a young age, we’re told what to be like, how to behave, what to want and hope for, and what to fear. We internalize these ideas, often unthinkingly. We come to believe we are what we wear, what we drive, what we watch and what we watch it on. We work very hard to keep up appearances. We try to live up to so many expectations and pressures. Slowly, imperceptibly, we build the walls of our own confinement.

With everyone living out their personal story, we are in the end simply interacting with each other’s projections. We view everyone else through the lens of our own story, and our stories can conflict and collide. We find our friends in those who support our personal narrative, and enemies in those who challenge or undermine it. If we start altering our own story, or if we move out of it, our action affects the stories of others. It creates ripples of disturbance in their world.

Lost in our story, we experience a continuous compulsion to define who we are to ourselves and to others. Through Facebook and social media, we now have the technology to refine and polish our image of ourselves. We forget that the lead character in our story is birthed by the mind. The ancient texts of India refer to this fictitious self as ahamkara, which in Sanskrit means literally, “I-making”. Mostly, we live from this illusory, constructed self. We, the storyteller, remain undiscovered.

Because the false self is created by the mind, circumstances in the world can test that identity, challenge it and even shatter it. If my story is about being a successful achiever, that story is undermined if I suffer misfortune or if others view me as a failure—say, if I lose my job, face bankruptcy or suffer a nervous breakdown. If I see myself as highly attractive, my story is challenged if others no longer find me as beautiful as before, maybe because I’ve put on weight or suffered illness. When the lead character in our story, with whom we identify, is in trouble or fails, we become fearful, confused and dejected. When the lead character triumphs, we’re temporarily jubilant. The more we believe our story, the more we are its prisoner.

That we create a personal story is an almost inevitable part of life; this is how we make sense of the world. But when we take our story so seriously that we forget it’s just a story, we begin to lead small, anxious lives. We’re then blind to the quality of the narrative we create. Whenever we find ourselves caught up in fear, anger, jealousy or frustration, we’ve fallen victim to the delusion of the false self.

Not only individuals possess stories, but entire communities and nations create and promote them too, as they construct false shared identities. Religions may do the same, propagating narratives that unite or divide. When these collective stories clash, it leads to conflicts and war.

So, what happens when events challenge our story so profoundly that we can no longer hold on to it? What happens if our story collapses? We are propelled into deep darkness and despair. We find ourselves cast adrift in a world without meaning. This is a dark night experience, a crisis of despair.

This is exactly what happened to Arjuna at Kurukshetra.

–2–

On that fateful day at Kurukshetra, Arjuna was poised for battle. He had prepared for this moment very carefully for more than thirteen years, acquiring the deadliest of weapons. He blew his conch shell loudly, signalling his presence on the battlefield and intent to fight, and took up his bow.

Requesting Krishna to position his chariot between the two armies, Arjuna sees his family members, elders and dear friends, all willing to face death. This is the trigger that leads to Arjuna’s despair.

Arjuna is deeply loyal to his brothers, headed by Yudhishtira. They have suffered piteously, as has his dear wife, Draupadi. Shamed, banished, mocked and driven into hiding, they were forced to take up positions as servants in a foreign kingdom. They now depend upon Arjuna to win this war. To do so, he’ll have to fight against his own dearly loved teacher and grandfather. Both now face him as generals in Duryodhana’s army.

Until now, Arjuna has been confident about his cause, sure that he and his brothers hold the moral high ground. The public insult to Draupadi, the many years of suffering in the forest, and the attempts on their lives have led to this great battle. Through deception, Duryodhana had unjustly stripped the Pandavas of everything they owned. The Pandavas had tried repeatedly to compromise with Duryodhana and find a pathway to avoid war; but Duryodhana had always interpreted these attempts as signs of weakness, becoming only more avaricious and belligerent.

On many occasions, Arjuna had vowed to defeat Duryodhana and crown his older brother Yudhishtira as emperor. The time had finally come. Surely, Arjuna thought, he now had a right to claim the kingdom back for Yudhishtira.

But when Arjuna sees his dearly loved family members and respected elders ready for battle, he has very serious doubts. The sheer number of soldiers on both sides makes him question whether such a war can be justified. His moral compass is thrown into confusion.

Shocked by his own thoughts and actions, Arjuna turns to Krishna: “Ah yes! How strange it is that we’re resolved to enact such great misfortune. Driven by greed for the happiness of royalty, we’re intent on killing our own people.”³

Arjuna had believed that with victory he and his brothers would finally be happy. They would reclaim their kingdom and at last find peace. This was his narrative. But now Arjuna is not so sure. How could he enjoy the spoils of such a war? How could he find any happiness in a world without friends and relatives—those he had himself killed or had allowed to be killed in such a battle?

Arjuna’s crisis is not the result of a newfound morality or sense of meaning in his life. It’s the result of a breakdown of meaning, leading to a loss of purpose, doubt, lack of resolve and paralysis. Casting aside his bow and arrows, Arjuna sits down in his chariot, overcome by despair.