Returning from a not-so-pleasant trip to my children in the USA, suddenly Zen came to me. I hope it stays. The burden and cares were lifted from my mind, and I felt amazingly carefree and light. This, at the age of 75!

I have delved into the rich tapestry of Indian philosophy, studying Vedanta and exploring what I could find of the Charvaka. I made a nodding acquaintance with Poorva Mimansa and Uttar Mimansa. Each stream of philosophy is fascinating in its attempt to study the human mind and propose a set of beliefs that explain the mysteries of life and death. The whole idea of Atman and Moksha, in which the Atman unites with Parmatman from which it came in the first place, left me struggling. This is one of the key teachings of Vedanta. It raised a question in my mind that if the at from the Padmakar only to go back to it after struggling in its earthly existence in its efforts to reduce its karmic debt and not create more as far as possible, then why come to this world at all? This theory, the most widely studied and accepted, has created a multitude of faithful who regard it as the gospel truth and find solace and comfort in it. I, on the other hand, was drawn to Charwag, despite the fact that very little is available on it, because it continually questioned this theory and many others. Like them, I ask myself whether it was a fiction created to provide solace and remove the fear of death.

On return to my home in India, as I tried to overcome my anger and hurt, all the time aware that blood bonds cannot be and should not be severed, I made an effort to overcome my anger and hurt.

One afternoon, I picked up a book of Zen stories somewhat randomly. Zen stories are fascinating.  Each story stimulates thought. It is as inexplicable as life itself. It can have many meanings, each equally valid, depending on one’s perspective at that time. The story sits with you and recurs unexpectedly like a flash while you go about your day’s business. Yet it is not overthinking, as life experiences tend to dictate. Each time you laugh, a different meaning emerges that could contradict what you earlier thought. It’s another perspective. The two meanings may contradict each other, but you realise that both are equally valid. Strangely, it throws away all the hypotheses and theories one has been struggling to believe in all one’s life and never quite succeeding. They are not invalid, but you can only adhere to one, as the tradition demands, to the exclusion of others. Zen is meditative and invites reflection, making one open to receive but not necessarily to accept, to the exclusion of every other. This leaves you carefree. It seems as if a huge load has been lifted from your head. The many meanings are not confusing. They are only ripples of thought. For instance, when you throw a stone in still water, an ever-widening circle of ripples is formed; the furthest ripple does not invalidate the closest one.

But what is Zen? There is no single explanation or definition. Its lineage is traced back to the Buddha and is said to be an offshoot of Mahayana Buddhism. However, as Kai Tsukimi  says, Zen aims directly at your mind. Imagine a cup of tea that is full. Now, no more tea can be poured into it, no matter how good the tea is. This cup can be your mind. It is already so full of opinions, worries, distractions, and things that you think you know. There is no space left for further insights and no room for clarity, as the cup is already filled to the brim with different heavyweight philosophies and beliefs. The mind is a clutter.

Zen is not about religion or deep philosophical concepts. It’s about seeing things as they are. It frees us from the baggage we carry of planning, controlling, regretting or overthinking. But life can be very simple. We only need to clear our minds to live that kind of life. Zen stories help us do that.

Zen stories invite us to see things differently, rather than telling us what to think. Sometimes the stories seem strange, and at other times they make no sense at all. But suddenly they do. Theories and explanations are valid for those who accept them fully, as they attempt to provide answers to the perennial questions that human beings have posed. Still, these are only pointers towards what the philosophers think is the right direction. It is invaluable, but Zen stories invite you to experience and provide glimpses of another way of seeing. They help you break free of rigid thinking, which stems from the belief that everything needs a definitive answer. However, sometimes there isn’t an answer, just a different way of perceiving and being. It’s something that is already there, but to see it, it requires silence between thoughts, the sense of waiting before the answer comes, the pause between one breath and the next. The stories are really saying that peace doesn’t come from control, or answers or constant thought. It comes from stopping long enough to see what’s already there. Clarity is always there. It’s hidden from you because you are too busy to look at it.

Let me tell you one small story. A monk began to live in a small hut deep in the forest. He had left the temple and the monastery to be alone, surrounded by the stillness of the forest and the sounds of nature. He wanted to find his own answers. One morning, he opened the door to let the cool morning air in. Earlier, he had folded his blanket, but he had lit no candle, as he used to do at the temple.  As the shadows of the trees on the inside of his hut shifted into shapes, he took an old wooden bowl and placed it on the porch. He did not fill it with grains, vegetables, or any other offerings, as had been the practice at his temple. Somehow, the empty bowl felt cleaner. It was not a gesture towards gods or ancestors but towards space itself. The monk sat in silence before the bowl, letting the sound of the forest settle into his being. A crow called from somewhere unseen; a branch creaked under the weight of an unseen wind. And then a black feather, damp with dew, floated and settled into the hollow centre of the bowl. The monk watched it, but did not touch it. As the sun rose high in the sky, he stood up and went into the forest. When he returned, there was no feather in the bowl, not even a trace of it. It was as though it had never been there at all. So, what do we make of this story? It is for each one of us to perceive and understand it as we wish.

What is the feather in the empty bowl? A thought, a person, an experience, a memory or something else. It’s as you wish. The moment of contemplation is essential. Relate it to yourself and your life, and something may shift for you, or perhaps it may not. Each is fine. Who is to say? It is what you make of it.

I could relate many more stories, but let’s not overfill the cup. To return to the point from which I began —my experience with my family in the USA. Zen has now given me clarity, and I feel carefree. I could say to them without rancour, instead with all love and affection, that you have your cup full to the brim—carriers, children, a home to manage, and mandatory social obligations to fulfil. Your cup is so full that there is no room for another. There is nothing for anyone to feel bad about. Besides, for years we have lived on two different continents, and our ways of thinking and living have diverged. Why worry about it? It’s only natural. I realised that if I work with this clarity that Zen has given me, my life is full of joy and love, both for myself and my family. There are no demands and no expectations.