Forgetting the Keys
As you become successful, do not forget the keys to happiness. ‘
Happiness resides not in possessions, and not in gold, happiness dwells in the soul.’ —
Democritus
It may have been a mistake to publicly announce that my favourite cuisine comes from the south of India, because the whole year, it was sambar for breakfast, sambar for lunch and sambar for dinner. In fact, sambars followed me everywhere I went. For those of you who do not know, sambar is a lentil-based vegetable stew, which accompanies famous rice-based dishes such as dosa or idli. From the United Kingdom to Australia, everyone who invited me to their home fed me their version of this much-loved lentil soup. Having had so much of it, it was only natural that I became a connoisseur of the dish; I knew where to find the best sambar in any town, let alone my own. And that is where our story begins. Although I grew up in Pune, my heart lies in a simple ashram, paradoxically situated amidst the skyline of downtown Mumbai. I have lived there as a monk for twenty-two years, where I have not only been studying ancient eastern wisdom for my enrichment, but also learning how to share its practical application with the world. People who attend my lectures regularly invite me to have lunch at their homes but, to their disappointment, I usually decline. As a monk, I have to be cautious of overindulgence; it is essential to stay regulated in our habits. But after months of pleading, I hesitantly accepted an invitation to go to Mr and Mrs Iyer’s home, a decision which would deepen my understanding of happiness in the long run. Mumbai is notoriously humid in mid-May. It’s the type of sticky humidity in which your sweat causes your shirt to stick to your back. But one only felt like that at sea level, not in the cloud-bound apartment of Hariprasad and Lalita Iyer situated in a high-rise in elegant Worli. This area of Mumbai is what Fifth Avenue is to New York, or Park Lane is to London. Indeed, if there were a version of the board game Monopoly for Mumbai, you would be paying a hefty price if you landed on Worli’s distinguished towers: Palais Royale or Omkar 1973. And, here I was, a monk with hardly a rupee to my name, enjoying the cooling breeze from the Arabian Sea on the twenty-eighth-floor home of my gracious hosts. A word of caution: I have changed the names in this story. This adjustment is not only to be sensitive towards the couple whose secrets I am about to share, but also to avoid offending those who have ever fed me sambar that didn’t live up to the standard set by the Iyers.
