This happened more than twenty years ago. After my visit to the Vedanta Society in St. Louis, I was taken to its branch in Kansas City, Missouri, which is four hours by road. It was a pleasant ride, which was made all the more interesting by the great conversation I had with the young swami who was driving me. In the midst of our discussion the swami suddenly paused and said with a puzzled expression on his face, “I don’t remember seeing this landscape the last time I drove on this road.” I said nothing, for it was my first visit to that area, so everything was new to me. As we pushed ahead, the swami’s face wore a worried look. A few minutes later we pulled in at a secluded gas station.
Those were pre-smartphone days. GPS gadgets were rare and people either used maps or printed out directions from a website. Where were we? The elderly man at the gas station had no difficulty decoding the expression on the swami’s face. “Looks like you have lost your way,” he said with a smile. It turned out that, while we were absorbed in our conversation, a wrong turn had taken us on a long detour—and we found ourselves close to Hannibal, where Mark Twain (1835-1910) grew up and which provided the setting for his two much loved characters, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Fortunately, we didn’t have to take a U-turn to get back on our route. Instead we were guided along a country road which provided a more enchanting view than the one on the highway.
Obviously our arrival in Kansas City was delayed by several hours. The memory of that accidental detour has remained in my mind and especially the experience of not knowing where we were. Losing our way while traveling in an unfamiliar setting happens rarely these days because of GPS-enabled smartphones. But it is still possible to lose our way in life, even if we no longer do on road. However cliché-ridden it is to speak of life as a journey, it does feel like one, even though we have no idea when and where this journey supposedly began, and when and where it is supposed to end.
Time gives us the idea of movement. When we slice time into past, present and future, we feel as if we are traveling from the past into the future through the present. We experience this from the way our lives advance from childhood to senility through an extended period of youth, only a part of which is real and the rest imaginary. Life is viewed as a journey even in the Kaṭhopaniṣad (1.3.3-9), the only difference being that, spiritually speaking, the movement is entirely internal, through the different layers that cover the ātman, the true self.
The sense of movement comes also from our experiences in the workplace. We begin our careers at a certain level and then move forward along the path through different responsibilities that are held, or different jobs that we do, or the different companies that employ us. Spiritual seekers may also see their lives in terms of a journey—which includes the hope that fuels the start of the journey, the memorable landmarks on the way, and the many detours that inevitably delay progress.
The interesting thing about a detour is that it is not a “problem” unless and until we realize that we have veered off the track. We won’t know this unless we pause occasionally and check our roadmap (assuming we have one; if we don’t, we better get one!) to make sure our life is going in the direction we have chosen. It is always good to know where we are at present and how far we are from our intended destination—and whether our current movement is along the route that is the best, the shortest and the quickest. If we don’t do this kind of periodic examination, if we don’t know where we are and where life is taking us, if we have taken a detour and are not even aware of it—we are in big trouble. And we have no one to blame but ourselves.
So how often should we pause and check our location? It is helpful to do this along three parallel tracks, which will provide us with (1) a long-range view, (2) a medium-range view, and (3) a close-range view. This is a standard technique in filmmaking. We may have often seen in movies a bird’s-eye view of a town or a neighborhood which helps put the location in perspective. Then the camera zooms in to where the action is about to take place and we see the figure of a person on a rooftop. This is followed by a closeup of the person smiling—and we are then ready (and curious) to know what that smile is all about! In three quick clips we are provided a clear picture from three distinct but related perspectives.
It is helpful to take a long-range view of one’s life periodically, perhaps once a year—maybe on one’s birthday or on the new year day or any other special day. The process is simple. It involves traveling back in time—and going as far back as memory will allow and reviewing how my life has evolved from then to now and from there to here, especially noting the major events in my life and how they changed me or my life’s circumstances. I can end the tour into my past by asking myself: what have I learnt from my life so far?
There is one other important question I should ask myself: If I continue to think and to work the way I am thinking and working at present, where will I be ten years from now?—will I be anywhere close to my goal, or my ideal, or wherever I want to be? If the answer is no, I need to make some changes to the way I think and the way I work and the way I relate myself to others. These things won’t change unless I push for change. If a change is called for, I need to push myself to make it happen. If I don’t, my life will be an unending series of detours with no goal in sight.
A medium-range examination of my life can be a daily practice, ideally before going to bed every night. This process too is simple. I have to review everything that happened that day—the things I did well and the things I goofed up. This practice will give me a fairly accurate picture of what I am good at and what I need to work on to improve myself. Making a firm determination to not repeating today’s mistakes the next day and seeking God’s grace, I can go to sleep peacefully in a prayerful state of mind.
A close-range examination means being alert and remaining alert throughout the day. This calls for a determined practice. It is difficult, but with perseverance it gets progressively easier. Most of the mistakes we make in life are not because we don’t know what the right thing to do is, but because we become forgetful. Even an extremely brief spell of forgetfulness is enough for us to end up doing the wrong thing. Forgetfulness can be conquered by practicing constant alertness. According to the Kena Upaniṣad (2.4), the truth is known only when we are alert or conscious at every moment, through every perception, in every engagement of the mind with the world. Swami Vivekananda said that “every moment” of a karma yogī’s life must be a form of realization (CW 1. 111).
The only way I can avoid long and torturous detours in my life is by asking myself as often as possible, “Where am I?” Practicing self-examination along the triple track described above can help me remain focused on the goal. This is important, no matter what goal I set for myself. But this is absolutely crucial if the goal is spiritual enlightenment.
Even before I am ready to know who I am, I should be aware every day, every moment, of where I am. Without knowing where I am, there is not the slightest chance of me ever knowing who I am.