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.
