The Schopenhauer Cure(39)
“This all took place at night with only one witness, the moon, who found the event hilarious. Enraged, Ganesha cursed the moon and banished him from the universe. However, the whole world lamented the moon’s absence, and an assembly of gods asked Lord Shiva, Ganesha’s father, to persuade him to relent. The penitent moon also apologized for his misbehavior. Finally, Ganesha modified his curse and announced that the moon need be invisible only one day a month, partially visible the remainder of the month, and for one day only would be permitted to be visible in its full glory.”
A brief silence and Vijay added, “And now you know why the moon plays a role in Lord Ganesha festivals.”
“Thank you for that explanation.”
“My name is Vijay, Vijay Pande.”
“And mine is Pam, Pam Swanvil. What a delightful story, and what a fantastical droll god—that elephant head and Buddha body. And yet the villagers seem to take their myths so seriously…as though they were really—”
“It’s interesting to consider the iconography of Lord Ganesha,” Vijay gently interrupted as he pulled from his shirt a large neck pendant on which was carved the image of Ganesha. “Please note that every feature on Ganesha has a serious meaning, a life instruction. Consider the large elephant head: it tells us to think big. And the large ears? To listen more. The small eyes remind us to focus and to concentrate and the small mouth to talk less. And I do not forget Ganesha’s instruction—even at this moment as I talk to you I remember his counsel and I warn myself not to talk too much. You must help by telling me when I tell you more than you wish to know.”
“No, not at all. I’m most interested in your comments on iconography.”
“There are many others; here, look closer—we Indians are very serious people.” He reached into the leather bag he wore on his shoulder and held out a small magnifying lens.
Taking the glass, Pam leaned over to peer at Vijay’s pendant. She inhaled his aroma of cinnamon and cardamon and freshly ironed cotton cloth. How was it possible for him to smell so sweet and so fresh in the close dusty train compartment? “He has only one tusk,” she observed.
“Meaning: retain the good, throw away the bad.”
“And what’s that he holds? An ax?”
“To cut off all bonds of attachment.”
“That sounds like Buddhist doctrine.”
“Yes, remember that the Buddha emerged from the mother ocean of Shiva.”
“And Ganesha holds something in the other hand. It’s hard to see. A thread?”
“A rope to pull one ever closer to your highest goal.”
The train suddenly lurched and began to move forward.
“Our vehicle is alive again,” said Vijay. “Note Ganesha’s vehicle—there under his foot.”
Pam moved closer to look through the lens and inhale Vijay’s scent discreetly. “Oh, yes, the mouse. I’ve seen it in every statue and painting of Ganesha. I’ve never known why a mouse.”
“That’s the most interesting attribute of all. The mouse is desire. You may ride it but only if you keep it under control. Otherwise it causes havoc.”
Pam fell silent. As the train chugged on past scrawny trees, occasional temples, water buffalo in muddy ponds, and farms whose red soil had been exhausted by thousands of years of work, she looked at Vijay and felt a wave of gratitude. How unobtrusively, how gently, he had taken out his pendant and saved her from the embarrassment of speaking irreverently about his religion. When had she ever been so graced by a man? But no, she reminded herself, don’t shortchange other dear men. She thought about her group. There was Tony, who would do anything for her. And Stuart, too, could be generous. And Julius, whose love seemed unending. But Vijay’s subtlety—that was uncommon, that was exotic.
And Vijay? He too fell into a reverie, reviewing his conversation with Pam. Uncommonly excited, his heart raced, and he sought to calm himself. Opening his leather shoulder pouch, he took out an old wrinkled cigarette package, not to smoke—the package was empty, and besides he had heard of how peculiar Americans were about smoking. He merely wished to study the blue-and-white package, which bore the silhouette of a man wearing a top hat and, in firm black letters, the brand name, The Passing Show.
One of his first religious teachers had called his attention to the Passing Show, a brand of cigarettes his father smoked, and instructed him to begin his meditation by thinking of all of life as a passing show, a river carrying all objects, all experience, all desires, past his unswerving attention. Vijay meditated on the image of a flowing river and listened to his mind’s soundless words, anitya, anitya—impermanence. Everything is impermanent, he reminded himself; all of life and all experience glide by as surely and irrevocably as the passing landscape seen through the train window. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and rested his head upon his seat; his pulse slowed as he entered the welcome harbor of equanimity.
Pam, who had been eyeing Vijay discreetly, picked up the wrapping that had fallen to the floor, read the label, and said, “The Passing Show—that’s an unusual name for cigarettes.”
Vijay slowly opened his eyes and said, “As I said, we Indians are very serious. Even our cigarette packages have messages for the conduct of life. Life is a passing show—I meditate on that whenever I feel inner turbulence.”