Ashutosh Vardhana:
The Patient's Dilemma:
A modern Gita

Contents

Summary

Text

13. Who cares

Most of the family were still there when we arrived at Guruji's home. They had prepared a special meal to welcome their father and were disappointed that he had already eaten, that we had not told them that we would be so late. We, of course, had not expected any preparations. So often had we returned from check-ups without anybody even asking about the results, that we did not expect anybody might now be waiting or even have prepared a sumptuous meal for us. Yet our late return enforced in the children the idea that their father did not care for them, was inconsiderate, did not tell them where he was going or when he was coming back - what then was the point of caring for him if he cared so little, was so inconsiderate to them!

Thus one misunderstanding creates another.

Next time there will be no special reception for Guruji, and he will conclude that his children do not care for him. Is not this whole story an example of absolutely everything going wrong! No action had the expected or desired effect.

Aruna asked me for a summary of her father's condition and his prospects, now that he had been discharged from the hospital. We were standing in the hall. Guruji was settling down in the background. "Shall I explain, or will you", I asked. "You do it."

"All right. He had the option of having the operation, with the risk of death before leaving the hospital but the hope of greatly improving his health and strength if the operation was successful. The alternative was to accept his present state of health, as it was before he went into hospital and unchanged as it is now. Instead of a sudden death or a sudden return to greater health with less need for care, he will gradually deteriorate. He will continue to suffer from breathlessness, from pain, and be able to do less and less for himself. An infection may suddenly take him away. It may come soon, or later or never. But he will not get better. That was implicit in the decision not to risk the operation. He will get weaker and weaker, perhaps rapidly."

Aruna: "But if he gets worse, something can be done, can it not?"

"No, nothing can be done. This decision was final. If the risk was too high this morning, it will be higher next time. The more he weakens the less he will be able to stand an operation. The only prospect is the need for an ever increasing amount of care.

I do not only mean "care" in the technical sense, in the way the social services and the "caring professions" use the word. I mean he needs that people not only care for him, that is do things for him, but also that they care about him.

I do not know whether you understand. The word "care" is so ambiguous.

Let me use an example from your own experience as a mother (and I do not, of course, want to imply that your father should be treated like an infant or is anything like an infant, I only want to explain what I mean by "caring"). You have your son here, and you remember him when he was a baby. You did not only do the necessary things for him, you did not only respond when he asked for something. You also watched over him, you worried, you went to his room from time to time to see if he was all right. You anticipated his needs. If he was playing in the garden and you had not heard his voice for a while, you would go out and check why he was so quiet. It is some concern like this which your father needs, he needs to be watched over. That concern will automatically make sure that he gets the right food, gets water at the right time, that he has a clean and peaceful room and that he does not have to exert himself and worsen his condition. Do you hear what I am explaining, Guruji? Is that the situation?"

Guruji nodded in the background.

Aruna said: "You mean he needs Love?"

"Well, that is an emotional and ill-defined word, and I am therefore trying to avoid it. It can mean so many things and can lead to so many misunderstandings. For a start it is something which one cannot consciously control. So it is not a good word for me to use when I am explaining what your father needs in the new circumstances. I am just trying to explain through some examples the kind of care your father needs if you want to keep him alive for as long, and to make his life as pleasant, as possible, now that he has decided against the option offered by the operation."

Aruna: "Yes, but you cannot avoid that word. You have given the example of Dinesh. And what you have described is the result of love."

"Well, I would not use that word but if you want to put it like this, perhaps there is something in it."

Aruna: "Ah", and a bright shine, perhaps of triumph, came into her intelligent big eyes, "but what about me? I also need love. I also need someone to care for me."

What on earth did she mean? Did she mean that she missed her absent husband, that she was deprived of his love and had to bear it, that we all, including her father, have to bear our fate and our deprivations?

Did she mean that she found it too hard to cope with the daily household tasks, found it too hard to look after herself and her teenage son, without anybody helping her, and that therefore she had no energy to spare to care for her father in the way I had suggested?

Or did she mean - something dawned on me, but I could not accept that she meant what she seemed to be saying: "We get no love from my father, he will therefore get no love or care from us." I did not dare to put that meaning into words, for fear of hurting her or hurting Guruji who listened to all this while he was unpacking his bag.

"I am not quite sure if I am getting you right. Of course you need love, we all do. But I do not quite understand why you are saying it just now and what it has to do with the care that your father needs. Can you spell that out for me? This is a difficult subject, I am very tired and always very bad at guessing deeper meanings. I cannot read between the lines. Please tell me exactly what you mean.'

At this point her sister Pushpa intervened. "Leave that topic, Aruna. These are family matters. Ashok would not understand this. Just leave it."

Pushpa drew me into the kitchen. "I just want to say that I am very grateful for what you have done for our father. This is much more than could ever be expected. I know how the papers are piling up on my desk while I am away, so I can imagine how it must be with you. You too must have work of your own to do, and yet you have spent so much time with him. We do appreciate that."

"Well, I am his disciple. That makes me part of the family. It also puts me into a special relation to all of you. For example, I could not marry any of you. It puts on me the duties which any child would have for its father. I just try to follow tradition as best I can. Otherwise there is nothing special about what I am doing."

"Ah, I suppose you are a confirmed bachelor now and would not marry anybody even if you were allowed to. But you are hearing many things here without being able to understand them fully. You say that our father needs care. But you must remember that he is a very difficult man to care for. The community condemns us as being bad children. But they do not know our father, and neither do you, as we know him. He can be very difficult. He wants our love, but he wants all or nothing, he cannot compromise, he wants everything on his own terms. His friends do not know this. We, his children, also have to breathe. We also have to survive. Sometimes it is necessary to break away entirely in order to survive. We were not pushing him away from the operation. We only wanted to give him freedom to decide." A few minutes later she was gone, said good-bye to her father and returned to her job in Nottingham.

14. Nevermore

It was six o'clock then, and a warm and sunny evening, just a couple of hours to go before sunset, and I persuaded Guruji to get into my car and drive to the nearby park, sit in the car and watch the pond and the ducks on it. He was silent, a muni, as always. I had to speak, stick out my neck, and try to elicit an interpretation from him. "You have heard my conversation, Guruji. I do not think you will get any better care than you had when you went to hospital. Your stay there and your decision to withdraw did not make any difference. You are not likely to get any more care than before, unless the shock of your stay in hospital makes them do more for you than they seem to promise now. We will wait and see."

Silence.

"I keep racking my brain, but I am so unhappy about the finality of it all. But really nothing can be done now. They will never put you back on the waiting list. If they did, the same thing would happen all over again. Your children will come and stir up such a fuss that you will change your mind about the operation."

"No, my children did not make me change my mind, I decided for myself. None of them, except Sushumna had an opinion. They all said, It is up to you."

"Well if, considering all that happened tonight, you wanted to have the operation after all, the only possible way would be to do it privately, provided the money could be raised, provided it could be done very soon, before you get worse, and provided Mr Jones would be prepared to do it, because he is the only person who knows you well enough and could do it without further painful tests. I know it is unlikely to become reality, but please keep it in mind, Guruji, just in case you regret your decision and then this possibility does not occur to you. It would also have to be done in absolute secrecy. You would have to leave the house without saying where you are going, say no good-byes to your children, not tell any friends, invite no visitors until the operation is over. Otherwise they will all turn up again and repeat yesterday's farce - at your expense."

15. Night thoughts

That evening at home, I massaged Guruji again. Then he went to sleep on his bed and I in my sleeping bag on his settee. My head was close to his and I could hear him breathing as I fell asleep. In the middle of the night, I heard, as on many other occasions before, that he was sitting up in bed, gently chanting the Thousand Names of Vishnu and Chapter Three of the Gita, which he was then committing to memory. This is what he does when he cannot sleep.

My brain also started working. I fell asleep while he was chanting and woke up again later. I was thinking through the dramatic changes in my expectations which had occurred during the last few days. I had taken him to hospital in the hope of a successful operation, expecting to stay there with him for a month and then bring a greatly strengthened Guruji home and start life, work and study with renewed vigour. What on earth had gone wrong?

Something had gone wrong. He had decided after much thought to have the operation. He had changed his mind at the last minute, in the face of much better prospects than expected when he went to the hospital. He had changed his mind as a result of a charade, put on by his children on an ego-trip. Why had I not spoken up more strongly? Why had I not spoken up at all, when they had agitated for their irrational point of view so strongly? When they had claimed the right of close relatives to have a say in the matter, while at the same time denying that their father had any right to their affection. How can sons and daughters who do not love their father and are not prepared to look after him, even for good reasons, have the right to speak with more authority about his fate than a stranger?

They had agitated against the operation simply by repeating the mantra "It is your decision", when the decision for the operation had already been made. They had refused to advise him when he asked for their opinion. They had made him insecure and then had left him utterly alone in making that most difficult decision of his life. Why? Where they really democratic, or were they simply cowards, not willing to shoulder the consequences of a clear-cut opinion?

But had I not done exactly the same? Was I not a coward not to have spoken? Oh, yes, my sweet, but conservative and not brave friend Amrita had warned me some time ago: "Do not meddle in other people's affairs. Do not say anything either way. Let him decide for himself. You do not want to be blamed."

That is utterly against my character. I always speak before being asked. I always stick my neck out and get into trouble. But that is me. And I should be proud of it. I should follow my nature. But I know I get into too much trouble, and it is good that sometimes I can turn to someone like Amrita, be restrained by her, and through her advice get her to make me behave a little more like ordinary people who do not get their fingers burnt as often as I do. It is often useful to listen to Amrita: in practical matters she usually turns out to be right. So here I had listened to her as well. But was it right to listen to her on this occasion? Should my Guruji's life depend on Amrita's common sense, her conventionality, on her cowardice, on her habit of playing safe?

No, it was not right. Perhaps I could have saved Guruji. Was not his present condition a lingering death? Would not our studies come to a slow and sad end, work which not only I but he also enjoyed. Because he loves teaching and he loves an eager student.

I could not have spoken in front of the children without making things worse. But I could have spoken in the evening, after they had all gone, when he was still undecided. I could have spoken forcefully.

I could have spoken quickly and forcefully the following morning when he told me that he had wanted to protect me from the future hatred of his children. Of course I did say that this was not a good reason, but I could have said it more forcefully and more quickly, before I was interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon at eight o'clock. I could have said:
"Guruji, I do not care whether your children will hate me. I do not want to lose you, I want you to live. That's why I am in favour of the operation. I support you in that decision. If it turns out to be wrong and your children hate me, I do not care, because I had only good intentions. We do not control the outcome of our decisions. I will be hurt enough by losing you. And yet I think it is better for you to have the operation. You also wanted it, I know that. I support you in the decision. And I will bear the risk with you. We both will lose if the operation fails, we both will gain if it succeeds.

I will bear the greater risk, therefore you can accept that my advice is not lightly given. Your risk is small. It is your life, I know, but you may lose it anyway even if you do not have the operation. If you die as a result of the operation to which I have contributed by having given such forceful and strong advice, then you will have no further suffering and no further regrets in this life. And none of us knows what your next existence will be like. Perhaps you have suffered enough, so I hope, because I have seen your suffering. You have paid dearly for any wrong you may ever have committed.

Your children will not much care. They will make the usual show, but if they do not care while you are alive why should they care when you are dead? You therefore do not have to protect your life, a painful life, and die a slow death, for the sake of your children, they do not care, as you have observed in the past and as they explicitly said last night. And you will be rid of these cares if you die.

But I am the one who will suffer, because I will live with the knowledge of my advice and I will have deprived myself of one or several years of having you as a friend and teacher. But, (I should have said), I want to take that risk and I want you to take yours. Because I am sure you will live, and your life will be easier and longer. Therefore I give this advice. Do not worry about me, go ahead with the operation. Trust the surgeon, he knows what he is doing. He does not want a corpse on his hands. If he offers to operate on you, it shows you how confident he is. I have trust in him and share his confidence. You do same, be confident, go ahead and stick to your old decision. Do not be afraid, Guruji, not for yourself, not for me, just go ahead and do it, you will be all right!

We both will be happier as a result.

Why did I not say this to you - that evening in the visitors' room, that morning while sitting on your bed just before the surgeon came at 8 o'clock, giving you your last chance? Why did I not speak?

Why did I not jump up at that very moment and say: No, Guruji, this is your last chance. Make a snap decision, take it. Just jump, you will be all right. I will bear the responsibility. I am strong enough for it. I am your friend. I care for you. That's why I say it. Just say Yes!

Why was I so timid and silent, so civilised and dead, and let every chance slip away, even this last one?

Did you not need a friend and companion in your decision making? Why did I desert you? How on earth could you be expected to shoulder such a great risk when only the professionals but not your closest friend would strongly support you?

Oh, how did I let you down, Guruji? Now it is too late. Why do all these thoughts and words only occur to me when it is too late?

16. Flight at dawn

These thoughts were going around in my head in ever new formulations and variations. Anger with myself mounted in me. I had been a coward, I had done nothing. I thought by saying nothing or speaking feebly, by ending every argument with the idiotic mantra "but it is your decision Guruji, I do not want to influence you", I thought that with these tactics I could escape responsibility. But I could not.

I see now, the responsibility is mine. I knew better, I did not speak, I did not act. Your slow death, your lack of care, your lack of love, is my responsibility.

I could sleep no longer. It was six o'clock. I was agitated. I went and had my cold shower. I came back to your room and got dressed. I saw you sleeping peacefully, there was no suffering on your face. The restless night for you was over, your time of rest was there.

What can I do to make up for my failings? Never again will the National Health Service trust us. By twice rejecting the operation, once after actually going into hospital to have it done, by rejecting it after the frenetic agitation of your children (for without them, say what you like, you would never have changed your mind - it is now time that I make my opinion clear, even if it hurts your children), by thus rejecting the operation we have discredited ourselves at the hospital. We also have discredited Dr Rajgor who so strongly recommended the operation and put pressure on the hospital to have it done soon. They know that what happened this time can happen again. They will not offer you another chance of an operation when they have to fear that you will be dissuaded again. They will not want to risk expensive bed space and hospital resources -- unless, yes, unless it costs them nothing because you put your own money at risk.

As I said last night at the pond: if the money could be raised for a private operation, then you would have another chance. Then I too would have another chance. I could be courageous, I could speak loudly. I would not bully you. This is not bullying, but I could support you clearly and unswervingly, not leave you in this dilemma which can only be resolved by making a jump into the dark. I will help you make that jump by jumping with you. By saying clearly, "I approve of this decision", I will face the consequences, yes I, I, I, because if you die, the consequences in this life are mine, not yours. You will go on to another life and you do not know which and how and where. You will forget how you got there. But I will remember for the rest of my life what I advised you to do, and how strongly I did it. And I tell you, do not feel sorry for me, for I am ready to bear the consequences, they are mine. I have more to gain than to lose. So do you. Therefore go ahead and have the operation. My support is well considered because I have as big a stake as you in the outcome.

Thus I spoke to Guruji in my mind, and I had to act quickly, because the next step should be taken before he got worse, before the whole possibility of an operation was forgotten. Now was still decision-making time. But who would help me to move on to this next step. How could the money be raised, who knew Guruji's friends and could approach them? Who could broach the suggestion to Guruji?

There was only Dr Rajgor. It was 7.30 in the morning. I could drive over to him before he went to his surgery. I let Guruji sleep, quietly slipped out of his house and drove off to Dr Rajgor. I found him at home and joined him for breakfast. I poured out my heart to him for an hour. He allowed me to rest and read at his home while he was in the surgery. We had lunch and continued the discussion. Money. How could one raise the money? A lot of money would be needed.

I had not told Guruji where I was going, I had not phoned him during the morning, because I did not want him to stop me in what I was doing. Especially not out of generosity. I wanted to sort the matter out first, for once I did not want to be timid and lazy.

When Dr Rajgor understood my concerns and knew all that had happened during the three days at the hospital, he phoned Guruji in order to enquire how he felt. "Tell him I am here, that I was rather upset and that's why I came here in the morning, to discuss things with you."

"Come here, Ashok. Panditji wants to speak to you. He is all right. He is content with the decision he has made."

"I have been worried about you, Ashok, why didn't you tell me where you were going?"

"You were asleep."

"Yes, but you could have phoned me later."

"I was upset that's why I did not want to talk to you before calming down."

17. The Guru speaks

"There was no reason for you to be upset." And now Guruji used what I call his prophetic voice. He has many voices. His most common one is silence. It can have many meanings. I can say things that may upset him, but he will not venture an explanation unless I ask repeatedly. He may be pondering what I have said. He may feel that a reply is superfluous. He may be tired and be saving his breath. Why speak if I am not interested enough to repeat my question or to make it more precise. He may then give me a Yes, a No, or a Perhaps.

He has the voice he uses when he chants in public, resonant and strong. He has the voice which he uses when, during sleepless nights, he chants the Gita or the Thousand Names of Vishnu, more gentle than the voice of public chanting.

He has the voice of the teacher, of the lover of scriptures, of scholarship and knowledge. He will then be animated. His mind will entirely overcome the listlessness, tiredness and breathlessness which is so normal with him. His words will come fast and strongly. He will make fine distinctions. He will energetically reject wrong opinions and abuses. He will have the voice of a man half his age. He will tell stories to illustrate his point, quote Sanskrit and Hindu proverbs, cite or chant Sanskrit texts, reel off lists of names and philosophical and ethical categories. That is the strongest voice of his I know, and seldom have I had a chance to provoke it. But I have heard it often enough. The right kind of question triggers it.

He also has the fatherly and reassuring voice. When he speaks with affection. And he has the broken father's voice, on the rare occasions when he has been deeply hurt. When he has been attacked, when his love for his children has not been seen, when he sees them in trouble or running into trouble, when he is trying to stop them and to help them, but when they misunderstand his intentions, do not listen, or even make a positive point of insulting him in the name of "telling him the truth". Is truth really so much more important than love? Or even mercy? He does not want mercy, but he deserves at least that.

He also has the night voice, a voice from the grave, the voice of a survivor from a concentration camp, the voice of a man whose vocal chords have been slashed. He has this voice when he is very ill or woken up from his sleep. It is just a low rumble, hardly intelligible, emanating from his suffering chest. Then one would not dare to ask anything or to put a strain on him. That is a terrifying voice.

But today I heard a different voice. The prophetic voice. It was slow and clear. It was not breathless. It was the voice of a tenor and not of a bass. It was the voice of conviction, of authority and reassurance. The voice that permits no doubt and therefore removes uncertainty and fear.

"Why were you upset, my child. There was no reason for you do be upset! You have done your best and that is all that counts. You make a mistake if you think life offers only one route and that only one route is desirable. There are many routes. And the other routes are not failures. They are merely different. Whatever route we choose, we do not know where it will lead us. But it will lead us somewhere. And that somewhere will be good.

Did you not yourself speak to me yesterday so beautifully about divine chaos, and how life is easy to bear if we accept that chaos? We all get through somehow, from birth to death, only those two points are certain, but we do not know how we will manage or which route between the two is best.

There is only one absolute target, God, and all routes ultimately lead to him. But on this earth we do not know the target, therefore there is no good route and no bad route. And since we do not know the route, there can be no success or failure. If there IS no success and failure, then you can be 'even-minded in success and failure'. That is what the Gita means.

yogastha¾ kuru karm�Ïi saôgaò tyaktv� dhanaòjaya siddhyasiddhyo¾ samo bh‰tv� samatvaò yoga ucyate Fixed in yoga, do your work, abandoning attachment, with an even mind in success and failure, for evenness of mind is called yoga. (G­t� 2:48)

yadÙcch�l�bhasaòtuãæo dvandv�t­to vimatsara¾ sama¾ siddh�v asiddhau ca kÙtv� 'pi na nibadhyate He who is satisfied with whatever comes by chance, who has passed beyond the dualities of pleasure and pain, who is free from jealousy, who remains the same in success and failure, even when he acts, he is not bound. (G­t� 4:22)

We think we choose the route, we must agonise over our choices, we must consider what is morally right and what is wrong, what is better and what is worse. But when we have made the choice, it is made. We must consider the choice we have made, and its results, as our destiny. Our destiny is not in our hands. And that is very comforting. Remember what the Gita says:

­±vara¾ sarvabh‰t�n�ò hÙdde±e 'rjuna tiãæhati bhr�mayan sarvabh‰t�ni yantr�r‰¯h�ni m�yay� The Lord abidesin the hearts of all beings.His power of illusion makes them turn roundas if they were mounted on a machine.(G­t� 18:61)

When we look forward, the decisions are in our hand. When we look back, however, they were in the Lord's hand, and so are their consequences. You have no reason to be upset. You have done your best. That is all that matters. The consequences do not matter at all. You and I will live with them and accept them whatever they are. We do not know whether they are good for us or bad. Remember the Gita again:

karmaÏy ev� 'dhik�ras te m� phaleãu kad�cana m� karmaphalahetur bh‰r m� te saôgo 'stv akarmaÏi To action alone have you a right but never to its fruits; you should not be motivated by the fruits of action; nor be attached to inaction.(G­t� 2:47)

We simply have to do our duty as best as we can recognise it. We do not know where the different routes lead. Wherever they take us is neither good nor bad. It simply IS. Just as God is neither good, nor bad, neither just nor unjust, neither loving, nor unloving, but simply IS. And just as we, simply ARE. Not happy, not unhappy, not rich, not poor, not clever, not stupid, not successful, not failures - but simply ARE.

We live in the midst of confusion. We have to recognise that confusion as divine, while we are searching for firm ground to which we can anchor ourselves.

I am not upset by what happened. I have made the decision, and it is my responsibility. It took me long to make up my mind, because I had the illusion that human intervention could improve my fate, my life, for as long as it is destined to last. I made a mistake in starting this whole drama?"

I interrupted, seeing a ray of hope: "What do you mean, Guruji, by 'having started this whole drama'? Do you mean that you should not have let your family and visitors know that you were still pondering the decision? I agree. Because if they had not known that there was still uncertainty, they would not have agitated as they did and shaken your original determination."

"No, I do not mean that at all. I listened to them, but I was not swayed by them. I hoped that by participating in the decision making they would learn something for themselves and about their relationship with me. I wanted to give them a chance to interrelate to me, in a matter of life and death. To show their concern. I hoped they would become aware that, if I live without an operation, I will need care. If they learn to care, it will be good for them, even more than for me: since their care will be aimed at my body, but the benefit will be reaped by their souls. Since last night I know that they have not learnt any lessons, and I will have to live with the consequences.

But my mistake was made much earlier. It was made during those years when I explored the physical causes of my condition and implicitly the possibility of an operation, hoping to extend my useful life. In the end that determined exploration lead to the plan for the operation. Now that I have decided against the operation, I have come to see even the exploration as a mistake. Whatever happened in the hospital during the last few days was the result of my decision to pursue that route for so many years. It was my fault, not yours, or anybody else's.

Now all this is behind us. There is no point in mourning. I am content and accept what comes. You need not be upset. Come home now."

18. Aftermath

"All change here!" rang out the voice of the conductor. We had arrived in London. Our coach had been empty for some minutes. I parted from Ashok.

I met him again a few weeks later. "How is your Guruji?"

"Physically he is slightly better. He now does his yoga in the evening rather than in the morning. His body is warm then and it is easier for him. He can do more, and more strenuous, poses than before his stay in hospital. He also sleeps better as a result. I think he still hopes that with yoga and his iron discipline and will-power he can be stronger than his defective heart."

"And the children, do they look after him any better? Perhaps their bark is worse than their bite."

"Not much hope there. It is the same as before or slightly worse. They have worked out a rota for looking after him. That is indeed a good idea, terribly orderly and efficient, from the European point of view. But in a way it is also utterly heartless and mechanical, especially since they seem to stick to it with trades union rigidity. It is a method of minimising the trouble caused by an unpleasant duty, and that is how my Guruji takes it. Is he demanding too much of his children? I dare not say. Should he be grateful for the little attention he gets? I dare not say. Is it true that he demands all or nothing, that he wants everything on his own terms? I do not know. It is quite beyond me. I only see him suffering and feel sorry for him. And I wonder why his children cannot see it and feel equally sorry - whatever childhood complaints they may have against him.

Does a man not pay heavily
for having got married
and for having children!
Once you have them,
they can affect you deeply,
can cause you great pain,
but you cannot control them
as you can control your own body and mind.

There are six days covered by the rota. The daughter and son who live with him have shared these out. The one or the other gives him dinner on alternate days. He has to make his own breakfast and lunch. During the day nobody checks on him, gives him anything, enquires after his well-being, or even asks if he is lonely. Nobody has asked him if he is content with these limited arrangements. That is what they have decided, he can take it or leave it. He takes it. He follows the Gita which tells us to be content with whatever comes by chance, be it good or bad.

It has happened that he has requested food from the "off-duty" son or daughter, only to be told: "Sorry, it is not my turn to look after you today, I am busy, you must wait for my brother or sister to come home." Imagine the humiliation, especially in our culture, where children are supposed to do things voluntarily. So he has now learnt not to make requests. Such a refusal is more than his dignity can bear. And it is not good for his health. It will shorten his life, for which his children were so concerned when they were canvassing at the hospital. Is it surprising that they find him silent? He says nothing and so avoids rejection and humiliation.

Until about a year ago when he needed some help he had to shout in order to attract the attention of his son or his daughter somewhere in the house. He could not climb the stairs, he could hardly walk to the door of his room. But even the repeated shouting was too tiring to him. I suggested he should install a bell that he could ring from his room. He used it for a while and it worked in a way. But sometimes the bell is simply ignored. He feels he is being a nuisance. Now he is so embarrassed and humiliated by the whole situation that he does not use it any more. What do I care about my body, he says. And what is the value of a service that is given so reluctantly? What is the value of being given some food after ringing a bell when, without ringing the bell, nobody would come into his room and ask him if he is hungry or thirsty, even at the obvious times. Shall I ring for breakfast and lunch every day? Is it not clear that I need these, without having to ask?

Is this what the children mean by saying: "He wants all or nothing?" And is he wrong in seeing it in those terms?

Perhaps they are only concerned with what his body needs. In that case it makes no difference whether he gets his food as a result of ringing the bell or whether his children anticipate his needs.

But he is clearly concerned with the ethical implications of their actions. He suffers for his children because by their actions they betray their state of mind, a deep-seated unhappiness. No happy child would behave like this towards his father. They are, so too speak, mentally ill. He suffers not because he is being deprived of their attention but because he cannot bear to see them so ill and unhappy.

One of his sons, Ramesh, lives a few miles away. He comes every Thursday with his wife, Sushumna. It is then her turn to cook Guruji's dinner, which she does very nicely and lovingly. She also cleans his room, gives him water and is affectionate to him in other ways. She is also the only one who dared to speak in favour of the operation. She is normal. She is not his child. She does not carry the ancient childhood hang-ups of his children. But his son, on arrival, simply slumps down in front of the television set and watches cricket. He says Hello and Good-bye to his father, but no more. He has no interest in talking to him. He is totally self-absorbed. Guruji observes: He does not come to visit me, he comes to accompany his wife. So what is his presence worth to me?

I have tried to cheer Guruji up by pointing out how nice it is that they come and visit him regularly, compared to six months ago when they did not come at all. But I cannot deceive Guruji: "There is no feeling behind it. They might as well send a cook, or send me a cheque so that I can employ one". He points out that his son does not talk to him and only goes through the motions of a visit. So where is its value? This son does the minimum he can get away with. How often and how thoroughly, during these visits, could the operation have been discussed, and was not!

Well, is Guruji too strict, or should he praise the son for at least putting in an appearance? So he says nothing. He neither praises nor complains. The children perhaps think that he is unfeeling. He does not even complain to me. But when I try to give undue praise to the children, then he is incorruptible. He points out the weaknesses, the defects of their actions. Then there is nothing more that I can say in their defence. Perhaps he is right, perhaps he is wrong. I dare not say because I neither want to criticise him nor condemn his children.

There is no doubt that they all have their own problems and are in various ways deeply disturbed. They are different from ordinary people. They do not interact well with other people, find it hard to compromise - they too. They are to different degrees argumentative, touchy, quarrelsome, jealous of each other, politically hyperactive - unnecessarily fierce about everything they do. They are razor-sharp.

You might simply call them "characters", but the way in which they interact with each other and with their father makes life very difficult for all concerned. They are capable of forming parties within the family, ganging up on one member of the family, not talking to someone for years, flying into rages, bearing grudges. One brother was able, in his grudge, to boycott his sister's wedding. It is not only their father whom they treat badly. Are they abnormally self-centred?

Usually you find one such strange person in a family, but I have never found a whole family consisting exclusively of people with such extreme characteristics. The only silent one is Guruji, but then now he is out of breath and I do not know what he was like when he was younger. I am sure you have come across the stories of our irascible saints of olden days. Was he ever one of them, or was he always a muni? I wonder.

19. Muni

Perhaps even being a muni, while ideal for a hermit, is not ideal in a society which is noisy and which expects noise and emotional responses. To be even-minded in success or failure, neither to laugh nor to cry, to treat heat and cold, pleasure and pain, as the same, to be always calm and collected, as the Gita recommends, will not go down well in a society which makes a virtue out of these human weaknesses. Even I who love him am sometimes surprised to find how understated his responses are, how seldom he laughs (but he does), how little he engages in trivial talk, of which our life consists. Is it this, perhaps, his pursuit of the ideals of the Gita, not incompatible with love, which, through misunderstandings, has engendered the coldness which the children now show to their father?

If even I who have chosen him and am dedicated to him sometimes worry about his silences, about his lack of reactions, how much more would his children, whose ideals are those of the West, have missed, when they were children, great displays of affection! Imagine the situation twenty years back, about which I know nothing, but about which I must speculate, seeing what is happening now: Once resentment has set in on the side of the children and they act accordingly, he cannot help but withdraw into himself even more.

If he meets coldness at every turn, it is impossible for him to go around and smile at those indifferent faces. He has to protect himself, not give out signals which will be rejected, face inwards, and move through the house, past his stony children, silently, withdrawn and unobtrusively. In turn perhaps they wonder why their father is so emotionless. Circulus vitiosus.

He loves his children, but cannot show it in the ways they expect. He carries out "secret acts of love", providing for his family, worrying about their well-being, but expecting no rewards, as the Gita prescribes. The children are not aware of this, because the customary show is missing.

The Gita also prescribes that we should display the emotions which are expected of us, but not in earnest. We may have to pretend to be angry, but we should not really be angry, because deep down there is no reason to be angry. Similarly we should go through the motions of pleasure when receiving a present, even though real pleasure on receiving any material thing is a sign of lacking wisdom. Did Guruji, when his children were younger, at least go through these motions, or did he miss out on that aspect of the Gita's teaching, something the Gita recommends because without it we cannot survive in this relative and material world. Rama went through all the human emotions of pain and pleasure when he lost Sita and when he regained her, even though he should, of course, have known that both events were, in a way, illusory.

There is a novel by Camus: "The Outsider" (L'étranger), whose hero, who commits some criminal acts, in many ways behaves as one thinks the Gita recommends. And yet, I think, no devotee of the Gita, would like to see him as the ideal man. Certainly most Westerners would loathe him, especially his utter lack of feelings, his deadly rational objectivity. Yet this is what the Gita seems to recommend. Theoretically and emotionally he seems to act in accordance with the Gita, even though his motives may be different. His resulting conduct, however, seems detestable. His lack of emotion and remorse ultimately leads to the death sentence, imposed by normal people expecting normal behaviour. I must really look into this question properly one day.

Does following the Gita lead to trouble, at least in a Western environment where different norms apply?

None of the happy Hindu families I know are as deeply immersed in the Gita as is Guruji. They respect the Gita, they know its principles but their primary concern is material success. They use the common sense of the relative world in their behaviour. They are not, and do not try to be, sages, and they have, relatively, happy families and, relatively, straight children.

Could it be that
if you want to be a sage,
you cannot have a family,
and if you want to have a family,
you must not behave like a sage:
Being a sage, puts you outside the community.
Could that be the cause of all this misery?

With that heavy question hanging in the air, Ashok left me.

20. Nashto mohas

Five days later, I had an excited telephone call from Ashok.

"You would not believe this. I have just spoken to Guruji. He has received a hospital appointment to see Mr Jones. Out of the blue."

"Ah, the cardiologist."

"No, the surgeon."

"The surgeon? What for? His role is finished."

"That's what I wonder. But I think I know. Just remember: He had offered Guruji an operation with splendid prospects. Guruji was convinced. Guruji was optimistic. At the last minute Guruji bails out. No good reason is given. Guruji seems to be throwing his life away.

This is what he cannot understand. He suspects that Guruji has been put under pressure to change his mind, and so it was.

There was a great injustice done to Guruji. While the family was milling around, Mr Jones could not discuss the matter quietly with him. It would have appeared as interference. After the final decision at eight in the morning, there was no more time for discussion or explanations.

I think Mr Jones wants to find out what really went on during that day, and if he finds out that Guruji has been bullied, he may give him another chance, perhaps immediately. Can I come and see you?"

Sixty minutes later, Ashok arrived.

"The situation in the hospital was such that nobody could give Guruji clear and firm advice and help: they all felt, or said, that they wanted to protect his rights.

The people involved felt free to speak their mind only after the bad decision had been made. When it was too late. Beforehand they felt they had no right to speak forcefully:
- Before the decision Professor Henderson warned mainly of the risks, while recommending the operation. After the decision he said categorically: "You have made the wrong decision." He knew all along what the right decision would have been but did not dare say it plainly.
- I did not fight for my point of view until my visit to Dr Rajgor. Until I was ashamed of having let Guruji down. And even then I allowed Guruji to silence me by his exposition of the Gita.

But at that time Guruji was no longer free. He had made a decision and his task was to dispel my depression. He had to find arguments to make me content and make himself content with what had happened, no matter whether it was for the best or not. He found these arguments.

For the same reasons, I supported his decision in favour of the operation on our way to hospital and showed contentment with the very opposite, with his withdrawal from the operation on our way home. We were trying to help each other on the chosen route, whichever it was.

But now I have learnt. I have learnt that I must have courage and be outspoken, just as Guruji must have courage and take the operation if it is offered again.

I have reconsidered the Gita. What Guruji said about the Gita in his prophetic voice was what one must say AFTER an event, after a battle. But now we are again BEFORE an event. The decision is yet to be made. When we see Mr Jones.

And BEFORE a decision, the teaching of the Gita is quite different. It is not passivist.

Therefore this weekend I shall travel up to Leicester to see Guruji. This is what I will tell him:

When we see Mr Jones, we must explain to him what really happened. You were put under pressure by your children. When you decided against the operation, you had hoped that at last they would care for you. The moment you reached home they denied that they had any duty to do so. You should not have given in to their pressure. I was wrong in not defending you forcefully while you were sprayed with the "you-decide" grapeshot to weaken your resolve.

You must take the operation if they give you another chance, but you must do it secretly until the operation is over. This requires only a two-day unexplained absence from home. Or a two-day stay in the private wing of the hospital, where your children cannot trace you. Afterwards you can be transferred to the general ward.

The decision against the operation was not in accordance with the Gita. On the contrary, the spirit of the Gita obliges you to undergo the operation.

Lord Krishna in the Gita told Arjuna to fight, rather than do nothing. The same applies here.

Having the operation is to fight, as Arjuna is told to do. Not having the operation goes against the spirit of the Gita.

You told me that your life and death is in God's hand. So it is. But that does not mean that you should not use whatever medical techniques are available. In your case, Mr Jones is God. And his hands are God's hands. Your life and death is indeed in God's hands. If you argued differently about the role of God and of destiny, no operation, no blood-transfusion, no birthcontrol, no painkiller would be acceptable. They would all be interfering with the will of God. But in fact they are all the instruments which God uses, indirectly, to help us or to let us fail - as he sees fit. But first we must try to use them.

Arjuna is told that the result of his battle, defeat or victory, is in God's hands. (That is what the doctors call "risk".) But first he has to take up his arms, first he has to fight.

He is not allowed to sit back and let God decide defeat and victory without a battle taking place. He is not allowed to let "nature take its course".

By the same token, you are not allowed, according to the Gita, to sit back and rely on medication and yoga, as you were proposing to do when you withdrew from the operation, like Arjuna when let drop his bow and arrow and said: "I will not fight."

You have taught me the Gita. Let me therefore, just for today, remind you of the Gita:

yad ahaòk�ram �±ritya na yotsya iti manyase mithyai 'ãa vyavas�yas te prakÙtis tv�ò niyokãyati If in self-conceit you think 'I will not fight', your resolve is in vain.Nature will compel you. (G­t� 18:59)

svabh�vajena kaunteya nibaddha¾ svena karman� kartuò ne 'cchasi yan moh�t kariãyasy ava±o 'pi tat That which, through delusion, you wish not to do, that you shall do even against your will, fettered by your own karma born of your nature. (G­t� 18:60)

Therefore, Guruji, do not resist any more. Follow your own instincts which were to take advantage of modern medical skills. When you made your first decision, you were right. That decision represented your true instincts, your swadharma.

Arjuna was obliged to take up his best bow and arrows. Similarly you must allow the surgeons to take up the weapons they have. That is the spirit of the Gita.

It you do not do so, you set a bad example by encouraging a passivist interpretation of the Gita.

Only when the surgeons have done their best, can you sit back and accept the consequences as ordained by destiny. Next week when we go to see Mr Jones, we will enrol him as an ally in our battle, we will not hide behind the cover of destiny.

I will write to Mr Jones and explain to him the background of your withdrawal from the operation. Your determination collapsed after your children arrived in hospital, started agitating and put on their charade of filial love. They participated in a decision in which, as you now know, they had no moral right to participate since they disowned you the moment you returned home from hospital. When we go and see him, you yourself should tell him the truth as I told it, or at least confirm what I said. If he gives us another chance, you should take it - immediately and ask for the operation to be carried out as soon as possible. On the very next day, if he can. I shall stand by you. That is all that matters.

I have suffered much confusion during these days. But now I am speaking strongly. I take the risk of speaking out. Both of us have been in a terrible dilemma, but now at last the right way ahead, whatever the consequences, is absolutely clear to me.

We must battle first.
We will battle together.
Let us go.

naãæo moha¾ smÙtir labdh�tvatpras�d�n may� 'cyutasthito 'smi gatasaòdeha¾kariãye vacanaò tavaDestroyed is my delusion,your grace, KÙãÏa, has made me remember.I stand firm,my doubts are dispelled.I shall act according to Your word.(G­t� 18:73)

21. Glossary

arti: Evening prayers
auricle Outer ear
Balakrishna: God Krishna in his childhood
bhajans: Popular religious songs
brahmacarya: Sexual abstinence
Circulus vitiosus Vicious circle
Cum tacent clamant: Latin (Cicero): By being silent they shout. Their silence cries to high heaven.
devanagari: Script used for writing Sanskrit and related languages
Ein Gott, Ein Papst German: one God, one pope
Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer German: Nazi slogan: One people, one empire, one leader
Gita: Bhagavad Gita: Best loved holy scripture of Hindus; the "New Testament" of the Hindus, if the Vedas are seen as their "Old Testament"
Guru Purnima: Full moon festival used to honour all teachers and the guru
Guruji: Honorific for a teacher or guru
Kerala State in South India
mandir: Temple
moksha: Liberation from the cycle of birth, death and rebirth
muni: Sage who practises silence
nashto mohas Sanskrit: Destroyed is my delusion (Gita 18:73)
Ordnung muß sein: German: There must be order, proverbial saying used to justify, for instance, disciplinary measures
Panditji: Honorific for a priest and scholar
Pax Tecum: Latin: "Peace be with you", brief ritual in Christian Churches when devotees shake hands with each other as a sign of peace
Pitaji: Honorific for father
prasad: Consecrated food distributed in the temple
Quot homines, tot dei: Latin (after Terence): As many gods as there are men. One god for each human being.
Rama Incarnation of God. His life on earth is described in the Ramayana epic.
Ram Naumi: Birthday of God Rama
tohu wa bohu: Hebrew: chaotic and empty, without form and void, a formless void, (Genesis 1:2)
SOAS: School of Oriental and African Studies, of London University
swadharma One's personal duty
Vishnu: Name of God

22. Rejected (Alternative) Titles:

The Choice. Decision Time. Time to Decide. The Decision. Responsibility. THE SILENCE. THE RISK. Clash of cultures. The disciple. The Coward. Too late. A question of life and death. The patient's dilemma.

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