Many Buddhas have come, stopped by me. Yet I have recognised only a few.
At 70, Munna still lugs bricks and sand for a paltry Rs 75-a-day. Time and the work have taken a toll, evident from his weatherbeaten brow and a battered body. His worn out knee-joints barely keep up. Yet, he refuses to give up. He has a family to keep in far away Bandha in Uttar Pradesh. Two sons and their wives and their children and an old wife who barely recognises him.
Munna has little to call his own - yet his life flows like a breeze in the meadows. Worry... stress... unknown to him. My uncle, a devout Buddhist, calls him a bodhisattva.
Munna stopped by me, helped me build my house and left lessons I will never forget.
My favourite Giordano shirt went to him. The next day I could not recognise it - cement, sand, red earth had replaced the designs. Annoyed at the utter disrespect to my favourite piece of clothing, I went on to explain the origins of the rag (Hong Kong) and the cost. Paying little attention to what I was saying, he pinched his shriveled hand and pointed to the sky and said, when he had totally busted this gift from god a shirt from Hong Kong meant nothing. I rested my case.
A lesson. A formula of life from someone who seems far removed from himself and the world of want.
Nothing seems to stop or intimidate Munna. The day my wife met with a terrible accident he found his way into the hospital and also found her room, as it was the only door marked by the 'Do Not Enter Sign'. He did not come in, stood by the door looking worried and in pain.
I have often asked Munna to retire, go back home to his family. He did once last year but was back after two months. His family needs his service. So Munna Bhai and I still catch up sometimes - over some water of life. About the AuthorKarma Paljor Karma Paljor has been a journalist for over 11 years. Having started with The Times of India in Mumbai, he moved to CNBC TV18 in 2001. Apart fr...Read Morefirst published:April 22, 2006, 17:45 ISTlast updated:April 22, 2006, 17:45 IST
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Sometimes, the most powerful lessons in life pass by you like the little rustle of a dry leaf. Sometimes, you pause to pick up the flower that will dry with you.
Many Buddhas have come, stopped by me. Yet I have recognised only a few.
At 70, Munna still lugs bricks and sand for a paltry Rs 75-a-day. Time and the work have taken a toll, evident from his weatherbeaten brow and a battered body. His worn out knee-joints barely keep up. Yet, he refuses to give up. He has a family to keep in far away Bandha in Uttar Pradesh. Two sons and their wives and their children and an old wife who barely recognises him.
Munna has little to call his own - yet his life flows like a breeze in the meadows. Worry... stress... unknown to him. My uncle, a devout Buddhist, calls him a bodhisattva.
Munna stopped by me, helped me build my house and left lessons I will never forget.
My favourite Giordano shirt went to him. The next day I could not recognise it - cement, sand, red earth had replaced the designs. Annoyed at the utter disrespect to my favourite piece of clothing, I went on to explain the origins of the rag (Hong Kong) and the cost. Paying little attention to what I was saying, he pinched his shriveled hand and pointed to the sky and said, when he had totally busted this gift from god a shirt from Hong Kong meant nothing. I rested my case.
A lesson. A formula of life from someone who seems far removed from himself and the world of want.
Nothing seems to stop or intimidate Munna. The day my wife met with a terrible accident he found his way into the hospital and also found her room, as it was the only door marked by the 'Do Not Enter Sign'. He did not come in, stood by the door looking worried and in pain.
I have often asked Munna to retire, go back home to his family. He did once last year but was back after two months. His family needs his service. So Munna Bhai and I still catch up sometimes - over some water of life.
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