You Can Knock, But You Cannot Barge In

I've been meaning to write this post for the longest while, and then last month I made a note to scribble it at the first opportunity. We all learn from our parents. They are our first heroes, our role models before we make any sense of the world. Their word is gospel because as a child you assume that everything an adult says must be true, particularly when they tell you to not lie.

Like many fathers, my father worked relentlessly for his family. He would come home tired in the evening, help us with our homework, and then help Matarani (my mother) in the kitchen. He lived an extremely simple, uncluttered, transparent life. And when I look back, I can distinctly recall at least seven traits that I learned from him. Some of it from what he told us, but most of it directly by observing him. Yes, sometimes we thought things like when would this lecture stop, I am sleepy, but  so-and-so has this or such-and-such person does this and they are doing great,  etc., etc. But all said and done, I cannot deny that a lot of the values I live by were directly handed to me by him, across a dining table, on the back of a scooter, in a sentence sometimes, he said once and never repeated. But most of all, it was through his conduct. These were the sort of rules of our household, most of them enforced strictly enough that so many who met us or him for the first time thought he was in the army. Here are seven of them, with the top three being absolute non-negotiables, no matter what:

1. Never Comment on How Someone Looks

This was almost a law. Short, tall, heavy, thin, dark, fair, well-dressed, shabbily dressed, all of it was off-limits. If one of us slipped and said something about a person's body or their clothes, my father would immediately correct us and warn us to not repeat it.

"You don't know what that person may be going through," he would say. "You don't know their circumstances."

Whatever appearance anyone was blessed with was just that, a blessing, he would say. It was not our place to pass comments on how one looked, much less make fun of anyone. Find better things to talk about or other ways to joke, he'd say.

A few words from him on this matter were enough. He did not explain that a thin man might be thin because he could not afford two meals, or that a woman in an old sari might be wearing the only good one she owned. He let us fill in the blank, and that was perhaps the whole point. "You have no right to appoint yourself judge of anybody's body. You were not there when they got dressed that morning. You do not know what it cost them to walk out the door," he would say. "Besides, first do something great with your own lives."

2. Speak the Truth

"I can bear and forgive anything," he'd say, "if you tell me the truth." And believe it or not, he absolutely lived by it himself. Even after I became a sannyasi, sometimes when I would visit Patiala in the early days, people would ask if I was home. He would say, "Yes, Swamiji is here, but he doesn't meet anyone."

And then the word would spread, and my mother's phone would go off the hook. But my father made it clear that no one should expect from him that he should lie on any matter, and least of all, when it's about me, his son, a monk, who had taken a vow of truth.

Not speaking the truth, in his eyes, was perhaps the greatest sin. Lying, he would say, is not just that we have said words that are untrue, but that we have breached the trust of the other person, we have taken them for granted, and we have fooled them. How would you feel if it was done to you?

Most parents enforce this rule in their homes. It becomes easier for the kids to practice if they see it in action with their own parents. Truth doesn't mean that you have to announce every thought in your head, but when you do open your mouth, it helps if it's something you know to be true.

3. Respect the Privacy of Others

I remember this one incident (I shared it in one of my discourses too, I believe) when I was around 12 or 13 years old. I was very happy that day because, as an astrologer, I had been helping a yajmana, client, overcome some difficult circumstances, and finally a very good thing had happened in their life. Everything had transpired exactly as I had predicted. I was very happy for them. So after they left, I went into the room where everyone in the family, including my father, was sitting. Thrilled, I had barely started speaking when he immediately stopped me.

"Never ever, ever, ever share with us or with anyone else what people tell you in confidence," he said.
"But it's good news," I protested. "I'm not sharing anything sensitive."
"That doesn't change anything," he replied with equal force. "You must remember that when someone comes to you, they are vulnerable, they are counting on you, and it's not for you to decide if you can pass on what they trusted you with. It's their prerogative, not yours. Good, bad, ugly, you must keep it to yourself. And if that feels too much, I strongly advise that you stop practicing astrology."

At the time, I did not understand exactly what vulnerability was or what the big deal was, but somewhere deep within, it felt that he was right, that he had a point, and that he was telling me a good thing. And that became my principle from that very day, and has remained like that.

He would never open a letter that was not addressed to him. He would not press you for a secret you did not want to give. If you closed a door, that door stayed closed. This was true for his children, for guests, for the household help, for everyone.

I think he understood that every person, however open, keeps a small locked room inside them, and to force your way into it, even out of love, even out of curiosity, is a kind of trespass. You can knock, but you cannot barge in. What another person chooses not to tell you is theirs to keep, and your patience with that silence is perhaps not just one of the quieter forms of love, but their basic right.

4. Do Not Attack a Defenseless Person

Of course, this was not meant in a literal sense. After all, it's not like we were gangsters or the mafia. He meant it in a completely different way.

To him, when we speak ill of anyone behind their back, we are attacking a defenseless person. They are not there to defend themselves. It's a one-way attack.

I think if there was one thing he truly loathed, it was gossip, it was speaking ill of others when they weren't around. As a result, he just couldn't gel socially because when people gather, they talk. And when they talk about others, sometimes you are expected to join in and play along. He was simply not cut out for all this.

"If you have something to say about a man," my father told me once, "have the spine to say it to his face. Otherwise, keep it in your mouth."

All conversations, and I am not exaggerating, in our household were about education, country, career, and our future. Other people's lives or choices did not feature in such conversations.

5. Live Within Your Means

"I can't believe my luck," he would say. "God bless this country. I have no debt, I have savings for any unforeseen medical expenses, and I get my pension every month from the government. There's not a thing I want from anyone."

He was not a rich man, and he never pretended to be. He never took on a debt to impress a relative, or bought a thing, let alone flaunt it, to make himself look big or anyone else small.

No pun intended, but, "It costs nothing, and yet living within your means is the most peaceful way to lead your life," he'd say. "Besides, it's truthful too."

6. Be Humble

Humility, he would explain repeatedly, was not merely being polite. In fact, it had little to do with politeness. In his eyes, humility was (a) being respectful to others, (b) being open to learning from anyone, and (c) being genuine.

Respect for elders was assumed, that was a given. But my father meant something more. He meant: respect the man who fixes your shoes, respect the woman who sweeps the road, respect the person you disagree with completely. In a nutshell, respect everyone. And respect did not mean agreement. You could think someone was entirely wrong and still not be rude to them.

"If you want to learn," he'd say, "humility is the most basic requirement. When you are humble, you admit that the other person knows more than you, that you could be wrong, and that there's much to learn."

Humility also meant an absence of pretense. To him, as it is to me, and perhaps to you too, being humble means to be genuine.

7. Be Grateful

While he had things to say about the government, about the state of the nation, on the whole, he just did not complain. If one day there was less salt in the food, he'd get up and put it himself. He would simply fold his hands, pray, and eat whatever was served to him. I don't have any distinct memories of hearing him complain. Not about money, people, relatives, the weather, or his own tired body. It was not that his life was easy. But perhaps he knew that no one's life ever improved by complaining about it. Life does not listen to our whining, and thank God for that, because the mind complains without pause.

"The world doesn't owe us anything," he'd say. "Be grateful for whatever you've been blessed with. If you are not happy with whatever you have, work harder, work smarter, and realize your dreams. But don't complain."

Funny as it may sound, he would tell us that my mother and he were doing the best they could with their resources, and if we were not happy, we were free to leave his house and build ourselves a life we wanted.

Another thing you might find relatable is that we were not allowed to waste food. "Put less in your plate. Take a second helping," he'd say, "but, you must not waste food. You have no idea what a blessing it is to have a square meal."

At some point, I may have faltered on all seven, but after my time at Naga Baba's, at least there's one thing I can say, "Father, I know what a blessing it is to have food to eat. You were right. On all counts. Thank you."

Peace.
Swami