From Battlefield to Monastery: His 12-Year Silent Retreat Begins

 Life has never been the same, and perhaps it can never be. This story is about an old friend of mine whom we call “Army.” He earned this name because he once served as an ex-soldier. Later, he worked as a security guard and also spent time in construction work. His life has always been a journey of constant change.

Life can never remain the same. Sometimes, it is life itself that tests us through different situations, pushing us into paths we never imagined. My friend is one of those examples. I understand what it feels like to be neglected—not only by society, but sometimes even by one’s own people. He, too, has been one of those silent victims of circumstance.

Life has tested him in many ways.

At the age of 42, he chose to enter monastic life. It marked a completely new beginning—a journey he had to start from the very beginning. I know this must have been one of the most challenging transitions of his life. Yet, he tried and gave his best. It was never easy. We walked this journey together.

Being a monk has its own beauty and charm, but it is also a path that tests a person in a very different way. It is a life with a different taste altogether. At times, we had to endure silent pain while carrying a smile on our faces. Every journey has its own ups and downs, and not every adventure is easy.

After these so-called eight years, he has now decided to enter a 12-year retreat. I know this is yet another profound journey for him—one that will not be easy, no matter

He also needs a refrigerator to preserve essential items for his retreat. He has been suffering from gout, and having proper storage will help him maintain a healthier diet and manage his condition better. During his retreat, he will have very few people to look after his personal needs. While food and accommodation are provided by the monastery, there are still occasional miscellaneous expenses that can become costly.

In addition, he also needs a gas stove for cooking during emergencies, especially in situations where electricity might go off. There are also a few other important essentials he still needs to buy to properly prepare for his retreat.

how simple it may appear from the outside. It is always easier said than done.

Through this message, I would like to sincerely thank all of you who have helped him with necessary items for his retreat. He may not be able to thank you all personally, but I stand here as his voice to express his deep gratitude. I have seen it in his smile—the moment I brought the items and handed them to him. His smile said everything words could not.

So here, I extend my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has supported him.

And I am still not done—if anyone wishes to help further, your small contribution will mean a lot to him and to us.

Finding Companionship in Books Again

If you’re reading this, you’re one of the rare ones in this digitised world where the habit of reading has almost vanished globally. And if you’re reading till the end, then you’re even rarer.

Ever since I was introduced to Chandrakirti’s philosophy of equanimity, my interest in Western books slowly faded. But now that I’m becoming more familiar—without claiming to know much, let alone excel in that field—I’ve started to love reading again. I don’t know why, but I often feel that many philosophies of ancient Buddhist masters were, in some way, borrowed by both modern and older Western thinkers. Just a thought, though.

Recently, after a short trip to Phuentsholing–Jaigaon, I bought a book titled The Art of Being Alone from a bookstore. I mention this because I usually buy books from street vendors. To my utter surprise, the moment I stepped into the store and moved towards the shelves, scanning what to buy, they stared at me as if I was about to mess something up. One of them asked, “What are you looking for?”
I replied, “Philosophy books—I mean self-help w-a-l-a.”
Another man, perhaps the owner, seated comfortably in his chair, interrupted with a chuckle, “Self-help h-o-g-a. Show him some.”
“Here, sir,” said the staff member who had come closer, pointing me toward a rack.

I picked the book, but I kept wondering why they looked at me with such curiosity. It might have been different if I were in pants or casual clothes—but I was in monk’s robes.

I’ve always found the best companion in books, even though I was never a voracious reader. I made sure to read at least a couple of books a year, but after choosing monastic life, that habit slowly faded. Of course, one could call that a convenient excuse.

Now that I’m in my mid-thirties—mid-thirties? Oh my God—the perspective changes. You start looking at the world from a different angle. You don’t just see it differently; you understand it differently. I think I’m maturing, learning, and experimenting with many things in life.

For now, I’ll return to my book—and yes, I have to chant my prayers as well.