The Young Buddha:- Part 2

The Young Buddha

-Naitik Sood

Part 2:-Chains of Past 

"Modern society hangs over us like a cloud, trying to shape us into consumers rather than thinkers."

-Jiddu Krishnamurti

I hope you missed my presence, and here I am again, telling the story of a "Pagal." People prefer romantic series, so let's add romance here too—though in a different way. Of course, there will be romance, but this is not your typical love story. It's about reasons, about choices, about why he broke up. Uhh, I never expected to delve into this stuff. But let's begin.

A quiet night—the chirping of crickets, the distant barking of dogs. Our man was engrossed in reading Kabir's couplet, his finger tracing each line as his eyes narrowed in concentration. His small room was illuminated by a single lamp, casting long shadows across walls lined with carefully organized books—Vedantic texts beside Nietzsche, Camus next to the Upanishads. A thin mattress lay in one corner, while his wooden desk stood cluttered with notes beneath the window, through which the faint glow of streetlights filtered in.

"Man lago mero yaar fakiri mein, Jo sukh paya Ram bhajan ma, vo sukh nahi amairi mein."

(Now my mind is in love with fakiri; the happiness I found in the worship of Ram cannot be found in riches.)

He wondered—was money truly the source of happiness? What is happiness? Is happiness infinite? Why do we suffer from misery? Rudra glanced at his  smartphone lying on the desk, remembering how his hands had trembled with excitement when he first unboxed it. Now it sat there, just another object, the initial thrill long faded—exactly as the Vedantic texts had described.

Suddenly, his phone rang—it was a call from his "Mehbooba." Rudra hesitated, his hand hovering over the device for three heartbeats before he picked up. How could he ignore it?

"Hello," said Rudra, his voice soft but measured.

"Hii, what are you doing?" she asked

"I was just wondering about happiness." Rudra shifted in his chair, his gaze drifting to the night sky visible through his window.

"Ain't I your happiness, baby?"

"First of all, don't use that word. Baby signifies something small—you can call me Greatuu instead." 

"Uff, don't preach to me. Anyway, what happened to you? Happiness is happiness." 

"But what is happiness? An effect of hormones, or something deeper? How do we achieve it? Is happiness temporary?" Rudra began scribbling question marks in the margin of his notebook as he spoke.

"You know what—give me money, and I'll be the happiest person alive."

"Can money buy happiness?" Rudra straightened in his chair, fully engaged now.

"For me, yes."

"So say I gave you 10 rupees. You buy something, use it, feel happy—but soon, it deteriorates, and the happiness fades." He remembered the blue silk scarf he had given her three months ago—how her eyes had lit up, how quickly it had been forgotten at the back of her wardrobe.

"You are correct, but that's the nature of happiness."

"But we have a constant desire to be in a state of bliss—that's what we work for. That's the Vedantic concept." Rudra's fingers traced the spine of the Upanishads on his desk.

"I don't know much, but money is enough for me."

"You must like Charvaka philosophy."

"What's that now?"

"It's an ancient Indian philosophy that stands against the Six Schools of thought. They have a simple philosophy—there is nothing metaphysical, no afterlife. Life is not complicated. Their belief is simple: Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die."

"Sounds great to me," she laughed. "Why chase abstract concepts when we can experience real pleasure right now? Why do you make life so complicated—believing in things like the afterlife, god, soul, and even giving a purpose to life? We all know we evolved from simple microorganisms—not because some microbe suddenly decided it would be great to become human. It was just evolution. So, there's no grand purpose. We should enjoy the present."

"I absolutely agree with you," Rudra replied, his voice growing more animated as he rose from his chair and began pacing the small confines of his room. "The philosophers we're referencing—Nietzsche and Camus—weren't advocating mindless hedonism. In fact, their arguments are much deeper. Without external meaning, we must create meaning ourselves. That's what Nietzsche's concept of the Übermensch is about—not just pleasure-seeking, but transcending nihilism through creative will.

And Camus? His absurdism doesn't stop at recognizing the meaninglessness of the universe. He argues that the heroic response is to rebel against this absurdity—to create meaning despite knowing it's a human construct. His Sisyphus finds purpose in the very act of pushing the boulder."

"You sound like a philosopher. But tell me, Mr. Rudra, if I can find real pleasure—" said Aarohi.

"You see if you can find real pleasure, but that again takes us to the same question—what is pleasure? Is pleasure temporary or permanent? We're back to the same dilemma." 

"For me, money is pleasure. I can buy things, live the dream life I imagined—that's pleasure, and at least my philosophy isn't like yours Vedantic philosophers who  claim everything is an illusion."

"You haven't actually studied Vedanta," Rudra countered, his tone gentle but resolute. "It's not exactly illusion. Maya is just a veil obscuring deeper truth. People think objects will fulfill them, but satisfaction always fades—leaving us wanting more, and more." He glanced at the pile of unused gadgets in the corner of his room—a testament to his own failures in this regard. "We get stuck in this loop, wasting our entire lives. Desire is such a strong force—it can drive us to greatness, but also to ruin. Remember how Tulsidas, in the midst of a storm, driven by lust for his wife, scaled a window using a snake as a rope? That's the power of attachment and craving. They keep us bound, causing all our miseries. The very things we believe bring us happiness are actually the source of our suffering."

"Here goes your Buddha again," she sighed, the exasperation clear in her voice. "Sometimes I wonder if we're even compatible. You always question these abstract ideas, while I'm trying to build something tangible."

"The tangible and intangible are interconnected. True happiness doesn't come from getting what we want but from understanding the nature of wanting itself." Rudra no longer quoted directly from texts; these were his own synthesized thoughts after years of reading and reflection.

"Just stop it, man. I want to save up for a house, and you respond with quotes from dead philosophers. Do you even live in the same world as the rest of us? Or do you exist in some delusional world of your own?"

Rudra's fingers tightened around the phone, but his voice remained steady. "Perhaps we want fundamentally different things from life."

"Yes, we do."

It was their last conversation. Rudra gently placed the phone down, neither slamming it in anger nor clutching it in desperation. His movements were deliberate, accepting.

The breakup wasn't dramatic or painful—not in the way romantic novels portray it, nor how poets glorify heartbreak. It was simple. Rudra acknowledged that something had already broken long ago, so there was no regret.

Later that night, lost in thought, Rudra returned to Kabir's words, his hand running along the worn page:

"The happiness I found in Ram's worship cannot be found in riches."

He wondered—did true contentment come from acquiring wealth or from realizing its limitations?

So after the breakup, what do you do? Usually, you put on your usual music—the sad songs. And what do you think our Pagal is going to do? The same? No, man. He is quite different.

---

He wakes up in the dim light of early morning, his head heavy with the thoughts from the night before, still wondering his usual questions. the single bed with its rumpled sheets, the modest wooden bookshelf overflowing with dog-eared texts, the small desk where he documented his thoughts. And that is what you actually call a nerd. Philosophy has an endless loop. Science can make you satisfied for a moment. The commerce stream can confuse you between money and meaning. But philosophy? It never finishes. It keeps on continuing within the same concepts again and again and again.

As he steps out of his room, he notices something unusual—an old man sitting comfortably at the kitchen table that had been in his family for generations, eating from a steel plate. But his father isn't home. Neither is his mother. The old man's presence is a mystery. And when the old man looks at him, his deep, ancient eyes capture Rudra's attention.

Rudra wants to ask who he is, but the words that come out of his mouth are something entirely different.

"What is love?" He stands in the doorway,  surprised by his own question.

The old man smiles and replies, "You wake up with the most difficult question of them all." His voice carries the weight of decades, weathered yet warm.

"I should probably ask who you are first." Rudra's hand drops from the frame and starts walking 

"Does it matter? I am merely passing by." The old man gestures to the chair across from him, inviting Rudra to sit.

"How did you get in?" Rudra remains standing, his posture curious rather than defensive.

"I came in the same way love does into one's heart—without knocking, without any warning." The old man's eyes twinkle with a quiet wisdom.

"Can you explain to me what love is?" Rudra finally takes the seat

"Ah," the old man chuckles, placing his spoon down deliberately. "To believe love is a journey—a ladder. First, we love physical beauty. Then, we love the mind. Then, we love knowledge. And eventually, we love the essence of love itself—the divine, the eternal. That is the highest form of love. And below, for a person, is the lowest love."

"So, you're saying love isn't about people, but about something beyond them?" Rudra leans forward, fully engaged.

"The answer is both yes and no. The love we feel for people is just a reflection of a deeper understanding—of truth, of eternity."

"Do you love someone?" Rudra's question comes with no preamble, his direct gaze meeting the old man's.

"Yes. I love the Earth. I love the whole existence. I enjoy both the pleasure and the pain. I embrace every part of the process of living. I do not discriminate my love for a single special person—I give my love to each and every creature. And if I must go to extremes for my love, I will.

"Let me tell you my story. I was a hardcore meat-eater. I used to mock vegetarians, wondering how they could enjoy tasteless greens. But one day, my father took me to a butcher shop in a remote village, an experience that shook me to my core.

"As I stood there, I watched in horror as a helpless hen was dragged from its cage, its wings flapping desperately, as if it knew what was about to happen. The butcher, with a cold and practiced grip, held the trembling creature down, and with one swift motion, its life was taken. The sound of its final shriek rang in my ears, and I felt something inside me break.

"The smell of fresh blood filled the air, the sight of its lifeless body on the chopping block burned into my memory. When the same flesh was later placed on my plate, I couldn't bring myself to eat it. The image of that hen—alive, struggling, terrified—flashed before my eyes. My stomach churned, my throat tightened, and I ran to the bathroom, vomiting not just the food, but the realization of what I had just witnessed. At that moment, I knew—I could never be a part of this again.

"But my journey didn't end there. As I started to learn more, I discovered the hidden cruelties behind dairy and poultry farms. I saw footage of cows being forcefully impregnated, their newborn calves stolen so that humans could take their milk. I learned about male chicks being ground alive or suffocated just because they couldn't lay eggs. The illusion of humane slaughter shattered.

"Every time I took a bite of dairy or eggs, I felt like a hypocrite—claiming to love animals while paying for their suffering. I couldn't unsee the truth. I had a choice: to turn away or to take a stand. And so, I chose. I stopped making excuses. I stopped pretending I didn't know. That day, I didn't just become vegan—I became free.

"Then, I heard arguments—'You have to eat bacteria,' 'You can't escape the cycle of consumption.' I was confused. Were my choices correct or wrong? Were my morals valid?

"But soon, I got my answer. My goal is not to nullify violence completely but to do the least violence possible—because I love existence as a whole. And this love for existence changed me. It is this love that transformed me from a casteist man who used to discriminate, to a person who now sees all as equal. It is this love that changed me from a man who used to beat his wife after drinking, to a husband who now devotes himself to making his wife's life beautiful. This is love—the higher love."

The old man continued, "Aristotle believed that true love is when two souls grow together, not just desire each other."

"Exactly! But who will explain this to my ex? She thinks love is about texting 'good morning' and 'good night' and breaking up over WhatsApp." Rudra's voice carried no bitterness, only a quiet resignation.

"In your age, love is about instant gratification. It is like fast food—cheap, convenient, temporarily fulfilling." The old man pushed his empty plate aside, folding his weathered hands on the table.

"Then what is real love?" Rudra's question hung in the air between them.

"You have to figure it out yourself." A small smile played on the old man's lips.

"But there's a dark side to love too. Love in relationships often means dominance over another person's insecurities, keeping them bound and preventing them from growing," said Rudra, recalling how Aarohi had once chided him for spending time with a female classmate on a group project." said Rudra

"I agree with you. That is what Nietzsche taught us—love must empower, not weaken or enslave," said the old man, nodding slowly." said old man

"Thanks, old man. I think I got my answer." Rudra's posture relaxed, a subtle shift in his bearing.

"But let me tell you what Kabir says," Rudra interrupted and recited, his eyes closing briefly as he summoned the words:

"प्रेम-गली अति सांकरी, तामे दो न समाहिं। जब मैं था तब हरि नहीं, जब हरि है मैं नहिं।।"

("The lane of love is very narrow; it cannot accommodate two.

When I was, God was not; now God is, and I am not.")

"That's great, you have good knowledge about thinkers." The old man's eyes crinkled with appreciation.

"But what's the profit? I get ridiculed by my friends. I get mocked by society. Whenever I present my ideas, they laugh at me. They call me 'Pagal.' What do I do? Where do I go? Sometimes, I feel that I am wrong. I can't live as a normal person. My thoughts are too different from society," expressed Rudra, his hands gesturing in frustration, voice dropping to almost a whisper with the last words.

"Let me tell you about Spinoza. Baruch Spinoza was a lens grinder in 17th century Amsterdam. He suggested that God was not separate from nature but expressed through it. For that, his Jewish community excommunicated him. He was cursed, expelled, forbidden from seeing his own family. Why? Because he thought differently. He lived modestly, continued crafting lenses, and wrote philosophy that wouldn't be appreciated for centuries. Now? He's one of the most important philosophers in Western history."

"But how did he bear the loneliness? The rejection?" Rudra's question came from a place of personal pain

"By finding purpose in truth as he saw it. Consider Hypatia of Alexandria. She taught philosophy when Christianity was rising. For choosing reason over religious dogma, she was attacked by a mob—her fate was tragic. Or look at Aryabhata, who proposed that the Earth rotated on its axis. People ridiculed him. Now? His calculations are in every school textbook. Galileo was placed under house arrest. Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake. In Ancient Greece, there was Antisthenes, a follower of Socrates, who lived in poverty by choice. When people mocked him, he said, 'The ability to converse with myself is my greatest gain.' And Diogenes, who lived in a clay jar, told Alexander the Great—'Stand out of my sunlight.'"

"But how did they live, being so out of step with society?" Rudra leaned forward, the morning light catching the intensity in his eyes.

"They found their authentic path. Some, like Ramana Maharshi, withdrew from the world. Others, like Viktor Frankl, survived concentration camps and found meaning in helping others."

"The thinkers who question most deeply often feel the most alone. But they are the ones who create new paths for humanity. As Nietzsche said, 'The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe.'"

"So being pagal," he said slowly, a tentative smile forming, "might actually be the sanest response to an insane world?"

The old man smiled. "Now you're beginning to understand."

The stranger went out in silence, leaving Rudra alone in the kitchen bathed in full morning light, the empty plate the only evidence of his visit...

---

Three days after the visit, someone knocked on the door. When Rudra opened it, he found his uncle Vikram standing there, accompanied by his friend Farhan and their families. Uncle Vikram—broad-shouldered wore white kurta—dominated the doorway, while Farhan, with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp , stood slightly behind him.

As soon as Rudra greeted them with a small nod, Uncle Vikram jovially exclaimed, "Surprise inspection!".

His aunt, Sunita, draped in a bright silk sari with gold trim, chuckled and added, "We heard that you have been becoming a hermit these days." Her bangles jingled as she patted Rudra's cheek.

Rudra, without responding, gestured for them to sit.  His parents were out of town, which meant that today was going to be an intense debate.

As they settled in, Aunt Sunita observed, "Oh Rudra, you have grown so much! I still remember little baby Rudra."

She laughed and then continued, "You know, at your age, I was already married. And by the time your grandmother was twenty-five, she had three children!"

Uncle Vikram chimed in, nodding in agreement, his tea untouched. "That's the best way. Women are naturally made for the household. It is their dharma. Even the Vedas say so." He spoke confidently

Farhan nodded, adding, "And Islam also teaches that a woman's role is primarily that of a homemaker and a mother. She is protected by her husband, and it is in her nature to nurture." His voice was softer than Vikram's, but no less certain.

Rudra, who had been calmly sipping his tea, interrupted. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the cup as he spoke. "The Vedas don't restrict women to the household. That is a later interpretation. In fact, the Vedas mention female Rishis like Gargi and Maitreyi, who were renowned philosophers. Even in Islamic history, you have Khadijah, the wife of Prophet Muhammad, who was a successful businesswoman. Clearly, women were not always confined to the home." He set his cup down without a sound, eyes moving between the two men.

Uncle Vikram's face reddened as he retorted, "Don't lecture me about our scriptures! These modern notions are corrupting our culture." His hand slapped the armrest of his chair for emphasis.

His cousin, Rahul, a young man in designer jeans and a tight t-shirt, smirked and said mockingly, "That's why you can't keep a girlfriend. Who wants to hear about the Vedas on a date?" 

His aunt said, "That is the law, men protect and women nurture. Women are not made for men's stuff." She adjusted her pallu, 

Rudra said, his voice quiet but firm, "What do you mean by 'men's stuff'? Simone de Beauvoir wrote that one isn't born a woman but becomes one through social conditioning."

Farhan suddenly spoke. "For once, I agree with your uncle. Allah created men and women for different purposes. The Quran clearly establishes men as the protectors and providers. A woman's highest calling is motherhood." 

Rudra said, "But these roles are forced upon women. Women are not just limited to motherhood, and this is proved by Rani Lakshmibai, the queen who led her army against British colonial rule. Even Sir Hugh Rose said her , 'A man among mutineers.' Or Joan of Arc, a peasant girl who led the French army to victory against the English in the Hundred Years' War, believing she was guided by divine visions. She was later executed but became a national heroine. Or Savitribai Phule, Rosa Parks, Malala Yousafzai, Marie Curie, Kalpana Chawla, Indira Gandhi, Bhikaji Cama, Sarojini Naidu, Aruna Asaf Ali—" His words came faster now, passion building in his voice, hands gesturing to emphasize each name.

Rahul mocked him by saying, "Oooo stop it, Women's brother!"

Farhan said, "At the end, I must say Muslims have always respected women most." He sat back, arms crossed in satisfaction.

Vikram said, "Yes, by imposing burkha, triple talaq, polygamy, mahram system." His tone dripped with sarcasm.

Rudra commented, looking directly at Farhan, "Yes, I agree too. Marital rape is not considered a crime in many Islamic states. Muslim men could marry non-Muslim women, but Muslim women cannot marry non-Muslim men without conversion. In many states, women were given voting and driving rights just recently." His words were measured, factual rather than accusatory.

Farhan said, turning to Vikram, "What about Sati, child marriage, discrimination against widows, dowry system, male patriarchy, devdasi system, menstrual taboos?" His voice rose slightly, fingers tapping rapidly on the armrest.

"And what about menstruation taboos?" Rudra asked, looking directly at both men. "Women treated as impure, forbidden from entering temples or kitchens, unable to touch pickles or plants—all because of a natural biological process."

Aunt Sunita shifted uncomfortably, adjusting her position on the sofa. "These are matters of purity, not oppression." Her voice had dropped to almost a whisper.

"But who decided that a woman's body is impure?" Rudra pressed, leaning forward. "It's shame. Why do girls learn to hide sanitary pads in black paper? Why do advertisements show blue liquid instead of red? Both our cultures have turned a natural process into something shameful."

Rudra said, glancing between both men, "But these practices, both in Muslim and Hindu culture, were a part of culture and not of religion. They were later developed." He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture of reconciliation.

Vikram said, "That's just your view. The caste system is ever true, it's the natural order, and even the Vedas—" His chin jutted forward stubbornly.

"The Vedas don't support hereditary caste," Rudra objected, his posture straightening. "Varna was originally based on aptitude and profession, not birth. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says one's varna is determined by qualities(Sattva,Rajas,Tamas), not birth." 

 Uncle Vikram said "Society needs structure."

"Like the Prophet established," Farhan added, nodding. "A clear order with scholars interpreting law, men leading households, proper modesty for women."

"Both systems have been used to oppress," Rudra argued, his voice level despite the tension in the room. "Ambedkar called caste 'a division of laborers' that became 'a division of labor.' Similarly, religious hierarchies often serve those in power." 

"So you think everyone should be equal? Chaos!" Uncle Vikram exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"Not chaos—justice," Rudra replied, fingers splayed on the table. "As Rousseau said, 'Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.' Our traditions often become those chains."

"You want to throw away all tradition?" Aunt Sunita interjected

"No, I want to examine traditions critically," Rudra explained, his eyes meeting each person's gaze in turn. "Keep what elevates humanity, discard what diminishes it. That's what even the Upanishads teach." 

"Who decides what 'elevates humanity'?" Farhan challenged, pushing his glasses up. "Your Western philosophers? Divine revelation already established these boundaries."

"I am not against any religion or Guru. They made the best laws possible as per their time and situation, but today those laws are no more useful, and we must have the courage to free ourselves from cages of centuries-old laws. Otherwise, as Marx said, 'Religion is the opium of the masses.' A person must examine his own beliefs and rise above them. As Gandhi said, 'I want the cultures of all lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible."." Rudra's words came from deep conviction now, not from rote quotation.

Vikram said, "Gandhi weakened India with his non-violence nonsense." He slapped his knee for emphasis.

Rudra replied, "Even Buddha, Mahavir, Lord Ram, and the Upanishads preached non-violence. Were they wrong too? I don't agree with him fully, but that goes for all great people. We all are humans. No one is god. No one is a demon. He went to jail for India and gave confidence to oppressed, hopeless, and superstitious people." He remained seated while others grew increasingly agitated.

"That's why we're in this mess!" Uncle Vikram exploded, rising halfway from his seat. "No pride in our culture! Muslims demand special treatment while we bend over backwards accommodating everyone!"

"And Hindus increasingly demand a theocratic state," Farhan retorted, also rising. "Muslims are treated as second-class citizens in our own country."

"This secular nonsense is destroying India's character!" Uncle Vikram shouted

"And Western individualism corrupts traditional values!" Farhan added, glasses sliding down his nose.

Vikram said, "Let's eat meat now." 

Farhan said, "Yes, order it." He pulled out his phone.

Rudra commented, "I hope both the Quran and Gita preach non-violence." 

Suddenly his mother and father entered from the door and shouted, "Shut UP!" Their unexpected appearance shocked Rudra

Rudra said, "Father, I was just—" He rose

Father said angrily, "Enough is enough, Rudra. Now there is only one solution." 

Mother asked, "What?" Her voice trembled slightly with apprehension.

Father said, "KOTA."

The word fell into the room like a stone into still water, ripples of silence spreading outward.

Nothing much to say, meet you in the next part. Till then, read philosophy and enjoy...