Bubbles

The Guru was seated at his usual place. The Ashram was empty for a change. I walked in straight, without having to wait for a short darshan.

"You seem to be in a hurry," the Guru smiled.

"Not really. But I am a little agitated. You see, after that post on LLM, people started calling me a very good writer and even a philosopher."

"Is that bad news?"

"Indeed it is. Now I feel the pressure to keep up with that reputation. It’s as if I must churn out something deeply insightful every other day. I’m not that smart—I know it. But how do I keep looking smart? That’s stressful."

"No one gives two hoots about who you are. They liked your post and said something nice. That’s it. The matter ends there." The Guru had this effortless way of grounding people.

"I give more than two hoots about who I am," I blurted, my foolishness refusing to bend to his simple reasoning.

"See this picture?" The Guru held up an ordinary image of a child blowing soap bubbles.

"Yes, yes. But you’re not answering my concern. How do I get out of this self-expectation?"

The Guru ignored my plea and went on.

"The child is the one with the idea of blowing bubbles. The pipe is the instrument, and the soap water is the ingredient. The bubbles that come out when the child blows air are short-lived and ephemeral. They don’t have any independent existence."

I was restless. "All this is fine, but please consider my quandary and help me out."

"Watch this picture again and repeat to yourself what I just said. Take a few minutes to do that while I step out to feed the crows."

So I sat there, replaying his words while staring at the picture. For a long while, nothing seemed to make sense. I waited for the Guru to return and explain further. He didn’t. I craned my neck, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I waited some more. And then some more. Then, reluctantly, I went back to the picture and his words. I replayed them again and again.

When the Guru finally returned, he asked,

"So? Did I answer your question?"

"The boy is the Paramatma. The pipe is the body. The air the boy blows is consciousness. The soap water is the samskaras and circumstances. The bubbles are the fleeting perceptions of false identity. They are short-lived, constantly changing, and have no solid base to endure."

"I knew you were a good man," the Guru reassured.

"I see now. The child will discard the pipe and pick a new one when it is time. The air simply shifts into the new pipe. Nothing lasts except the child. And the least important of all is the bubble."

The Guru smiled, his gaze already moving past me, toward the next pipe—sorry, the next disciple—walking in, weighed down by his own bubble.

Such, then, is life.