If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir

by Om Swami

  It happened on a highway in Vermont. No, I didn't meet with an accident but I think I lost my sanity for a minute when I chose to step on the gas and reach a speed of 280 km per hour. My eyes were locked on the road ahead and there was no time to see the scenery that went past in a blur. I remember thinking of Einstein after I slowed down to the legal speed limit. Time was truly relative. At 280 km per hour, even though I was at that speed for no more than thirty seconds, I felt I had lived through a lifetime. At the core of the thrill was a sense of deep fear. A lapse in concentration for even a couple of seconds could have resulted in complete disaster. But the anticipation of the thrill had completely overridden my reason. I remember feeling compelled to step on the gas.

  Interestingly, at that fast and illegal speed, I ended up having an eternal and legitimate experience—the experience of unusual stillness and remarkable awareness. That is why every second felt so much longer to me, and those moments were filled with the most intense quietude. The faster I'd gone, the quieter it had become.

  Two weeks later, I turned on the phone to inform my brother that I was well, and found I had quite a few voicemails. One of them was a message about my sister, who was admitted to a hospital because she had been having seizures and convulsions. She had been asking for me. I felt terrible. Here I was, having turned off my phone so I could have fun and be undisturbed, only to discover my sister had really needed me and I had not been available.

  I first spoke to mother and then called Didi. She was still in the hospital. The MRI had revealed a tumour in her brain. I cut short my vacation, put everything on hold and took the next flight to India. I rushed to the hospital in Patiala as soon as I landed in New Delhi.

  She hugged me tight and cried. 'I’ve missed you so much. I’ve thought about you every moment. I was dying to hear your voice, just once.'

  'I'm sorry, Didi, I'd turned off my phone for a few days.'

  'Will I be okay?'

  'Just okay? I promise you'll feel even better than before.'

  'I'm worried about Daksh, he's only eight. He needs me.' She began sobbing.

  'Why are you talking like this, Didi? I promise you everything will be just fine. Nothing will happen to you. What am I here for?'

  I kissed her head, I kissed her forehead, I kissed her cheeks, I hugged her tight till she calmed down. I promised her I would not leave India till she had completely recovered.

  Her husband, Suvi, and I took her to Delhi. The chief neurosurgeon recommended immediate surgery. 'There's a 1 per cent chance of loss of life, 2 per cent chance of loss of memory and 13 per cent chance of loss of vision,' the surgeon said. 'You need to sign here to indicate you understand and accept this.'

  The surgeon’s look had conviction but no assurance or emotion; my brother-in-law's eyes held fear and anxiety. For the first time in my life, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I had been helpless before, but this was different. If anything went wrong now, there was no road to recovery, no way of making things alright. I had no control over this situation and no medical insights either. But I had one thing, which gave me the courage to put my hand on Suvi's shoulder to steady him as he signed. Faith. I had faith. For I knew it was not her time yet.

  I remember feeling weak as she hugged me before being taken to the operation theatre. A tear rolled down from the corner of her eye as she waved at me quietly. Later, in the ICU, looking at her shaved head, her eyes huge in her round, pale face, she had looked like a beautiful Buddhist nun. I cannot forget how, when she was brought back to the hospital room, she had smiled like a child at the sight of a room full of flowers. But the memory that stays with me is the one where she is back home, healthy and happy, her laughter filling the house, her joie de vivre intact.

  Three months later, I went back to Canada and resumed the Canadian operations, signing on many new customers. After that, I shifted to Silicon Valley once more to revive my old contacts, secure new customers and, above all, shop for investors for my new business. In my spare time, I drove around the Valley; it was a lovely time of year to be there. I had the chance to meet wonderful people, and had many an inspiring conversation with brilliant minds. Keith and I continued to meet on Sundays.

  One day, I happened to get an email from a person called Atul Sharma. Professionally, I had known Atul from my New York days when he was a vice-president with Lehman Brothers. At this time, he was a senior executive with Barclays Bank in London. Atul wrote about his upcoming plan that involved large-scale banking projects with leading web technologies. On top of his agenda was innovation engineering: he wanted to roll out software that enabled better internal and external communication among the various stakeholders. We gave him an online demo of my search product and he immediately saw the potential. The product could take data warehousing and business intelligence to an entirely new level.

  Atul asked me to establish a presence in London. He was a sharp and incredibly driven individual; clients like him were vital for a start-up like mine. Being in London also meant I could explore the European market since I already had small customers in Denmark, Norway and Holland. In December 2006, I moved to London. Barclays turned out to be a major customer but this relationship was short-lived, the result of a sudden management change at Barclays coupled with the financial market crisis. This was June 2007.

  Now, I finally paused and took a long look at myself. I still had to discover the truth of my existence. My desire to meet God was waiting to be fulfilled. This life I was living at the moment was good, was even true, but this was not the only truth and certainly not the eternal truth I longed for. It was time to move back to India. It was time to find my God.

  I sold my Porsche and gave the proceeds to some ISKCON devotees I knew in Australia. I had enjoyed it just as I had enjoyed all my other possessions. I will not deny that I had taken great pleasure in my wealth and luxurious lifestyle. It was a delight to stay at the suite in the W Hotel in New York or at the Royal Mirage in Dubai, have high tea at the Ritz Carlton in London and savour vegetarian meals in San Francisco, pastas in Venice and desserts in Paris.

  I flew business class wherever I went and travelled a great deal. I visited stunning locales in Switzerland, rejuvenating spa resorts in California, beaches in Australia and mountains in New Zealand. I enjoyed having a cook and a cleaner and someone to launder my designer clothes. I wore shirts made from ultra-fine cotton with my customized business suits; expensive and elegant watches in graphite metal and sapphire glass completed my ensemble. My wardrobe had the latest outfits from Versace, Armani, Prada, Bvlgari, Tag Heur, Longines, Mont Blanc…

  Yet, wealth had never been my primary focus. Whether big or small, a goal once attained turns into a mere experience and then just a memory. My luxurious lifestyle had been a stepping stone in my journey. I knew very well that material success did not make me who I was, it did not define me in any way. And I was ready to give it all up now.

  The Universe, however, didn’t seem ready just yet. From London, I went for a short vacation to Canada before moving back to India. There, I met a man called Vivek Dhume, an acquaintance of Rajan’s. I liked him instantly.

  'It’s my dream to do something in India,' he said at our first meeting.

  I said, 'Well, I’m going to India permanently.'

  'Will you be doing some business there?'

  'Not really. I just want to take a break. I may do some stock trading to keep me busy.'

  'Well, won’t it be nice if we did something for India?' he said.

  'Yes, but I have a different goal.'

  'Can you share it with me?'

  'How about over a bite tomorrow?'

  We met the following day in a quiet restaurant called Zen Garden, where they served great vegetarian food.

  'You see, Vivek, I'm financially taken care of and don't have the pressure of working to sustain myself. I've seen whatever I wanted to see in terms of material comforts and have no more desires on that front. Now, I want to devote my life to self-discovery
and realization. I'm going to renounce and become an ascetic.'

  Vivek stopped eating. We were the only customers in the restaurant. Complete silence ensued.

  'You mean, you'll renounce as in renounce, like become a sadhu?'

  'Yes.'

  After a long pause, he asked, 'When will you do this?’

  I'm glad he didn't ask me why I was going to renounce. There was no answer to that question.

  'I can't disclose the date but I can tell you it'll be within the next three years.'

  'You mean you'll actually leave everything and put on a robe?'

  'Yes.'

  'But what about the next three years?'

  'I'm going to India to spend some time with my parents.'

  'So, you won't work at all?'

  'I'll be twenty-eight soon and am open to working till I'm thirty. In fact, I'm sitting on substantial savings and I don't mind investing the money in a new venture since I plan to give it up anyway. It's better to use it for creating employment for others than just leaving it the way it is.'

  'But why did you earn it in the first place if you knew you would leave it all one day?'

  'I never focused on earning it, Vivek. I was simply doing my karma, growing my business, and I was enjoying it. Money was not my goal, it was merely the consequence of intelligent decisions. Now, I wish to go in solitude and do intense sadhana.'

  'Will you never come back from your sadhana?'

  'I will. I just don't know when. It depends on how long it takes me to attain that transcendental state.'

  'After you come back, won’t you need a place to stay?'

  'Yes, I will.'

  'And you will have living expenses once you come back, right?'

  'That’s right.'

  'So, why don’t we build something in India? We can invest equally. You can renounce as per your plan but let the business pay you a stipend every month once you come back,' he proposed. 'We’ll make a little place for you in the mountains.'

  The idea sounded good. This way, I could always remain independent. I asked, ’Who will run the business? I can set it up and make it profitable but I won't be there to run it.'

  'I'll run it.'

  'You mean, you'll move to India?'

  'Yes.'

  'With your family?'

  'Yes.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Positive.'

  I ate my tofu thoughtfully while Vivek watched me. Neither of us spoke for a while.

  I said, 'You do know that I will go away, Vivek, and I will only return once I attain my goal.'

  'I believe you.'

  'So long as we are clear,' I said. ‘I'll leave as soon as the business is profitable.'

  'Fine.'

  'I’ll renounce my wealth to you, for you. A little gift.'

  He was speechless. When he finally found his voice, he said, 'Why me, Amit? Why not leave it for your family?'

  'I guess you'll find out one day.'

  'No, I can't take so much from you.'

  'I've already decided this, Vivek.'

  ‘Anyway, we’ll see to it later.'

  'No, I’m serious. I want to renounce properly. We have to settle it now. Please don't expect me to be a part of the business once I walk away.'

  He was quiet again. I knew this was neither my plan nor Vivek's; it was the Universe's way of doing things. What else could explain two people meeting for the first time and not only sharing their financials but pledging their entire corpus of savings? We had started our discussion over our entrées and everything was finalized before we ordered dessert.

  7

  The Renunciation

  The following day, Vivek and I met to work out the details of our business. We had decided we would do something together but neither of us actually knew what we were going to do. He suggested growing my software business but I was bored with software. I had done it for nearly ten years now.

  The café where we were sitting was full of customers and rather noisy. We decided to take a stroll and find a quiet place. Just a few shops down was a juice bar; it had no customers. We sat down and ordered a couple of smoothies.

  Looking around, Vivek said suddenly, 'You know, there are no juice bars like this in India.'

  'There are, but only in the big cities, I reckon.'

  'But I haven't seen any chain of juice bars.'

  'There are numerous roadside carts offering juices.'

  'Yes, but what about a premium offering for those who care about health and hygiene?'

  'You know, it doesn't sound like a bad idea.'

  We brainstormed for an hour and, without any further market research, decided that we would start a chain of juice bars in India. I wasn't sure if it was our casual attitude towards money or faith in each other that allowed us to simply put our chips on a business we had no knowledge of whatsoever. We agreed that I would start this enterprise in India and build the team, while Vivek would join me two years later.

  In September 2007, I moved back to India. My parents were living in the same old house. My father was still driving his old scooter. The TV, sound system, furniture … everything looked old and shabby. All these years, I had travelled to India but had completely failed to notice how my parents were living. A deep sense of guilt washed over me. Even with all my wealth, I had been of no use to my parents.

  I couldn't make up for the past but I could build for the present. I bought them a new house, furniture, gadgets and everything else I thought they might like. I bought them two new cars and hired a full-time driver as well; I didn’t want them to use the scooter any longer.

  But with all this came a realization: objects don't make up for what objects can't make up for. My father, a simple man, cared little about gadgets and cars. Both he and my mother were used to leading a certain life; after all, they had always lived that way. My arrangements had come a little too late. My father continued to use his old scooter most of the time.

  When I asked him about this, he said simply, 'You're back to live in India. What more can we ask for?'

  Repeatedly, Ma expressed how happy she was to have me back and to be able to feed me again. Seeing their happiness, I could not muster up the courage to share with them the fact that this joy was short-lived and that I was going to leave in the foreseeable future. I only shared my business plans with them. Even though my mother had never opposed me and my father always supported me, I couldn't figure out how to start this conversation. Besides, I was getting increasingly busy with building the new business, and didn’t manage to find an appropriate moment to broach the topic.

  Meanwhile, my software business was still obliged to fulfil its current and active contracts with customers in Canada, Australia, Holland and the US. I wanted to focus on the new business as, this time, it was not just about my savings but Vivek's as well. I wanted to do a thorough job and come through. So, I began wrapping up my software business in North America, Australia and India which, due to the nature of customer contracts, was an eighteen-month process.

  Meanwhile, Vivek and I also acquired an Ayurvedic health-care company. Engaging a team of top doctors in the industry, we came up with a product range of seven unique health boosters. The company broke even within the first eighteen months.

  Vivek moved back with his family in the third quarter of 2009. The company was turning around fast. By the end of that year, the company was in profit; in fact, we had several current orders and many more worth millions of dollars in the pipeline. I gently reminded Vivek that I would leave soon.

  Another couple of months later, we saw a block of land in the mountains. Vivek and I stood on that land and thought it was a good place to be in after I returned from my sadhana. I told him that my only requirement was a meditation hall, around ten small rooms, a kitchen and a small cottage. But he gave me a bigger vision.

  'We’ll have nice pathways here, with fragrant creepers growing along both sides; there can also be trees arching over the paths. We’ll have trees as wind-bre
aker around the periphery of the property and a pond in the middle. I’ll get a special type of feed which, once placed in pots hung from the trees, will attract all sorts of coloured birds. We’ll also have special meditation huts with thatched roofs. And it would be lovely to have deer running around. This place is going to be a heaven on earth.’

  We finalized the deal for the land. On the way back from the mountains, Vivek and I discussed the monthly stipend the company would pay me, and settled on Rs 10,000. This was just a fraction, less than 2 per cent of what I would have earned had I invested my capital in a low-interest secure financial instrument like a term deposit. But it was enough for my needs.

  I made a trip to Australia and Canada in late 2009 to meet my friends and family. My mother was in Canada visiting Rajan at the time. I wanted to see everyone once before marking my departure from the material world. I didn’t know when they would be able to see me again. One evening, I was alone with my mother. 'You know, Ma, soon I'll leave for sadhana?' She turned pale.

  'You already do sadhana, you sit in meditative absorption all the time, you have everything, my son. Why do you still want to go away?’

  'You are right, Ma. But, God forbid, should something untoward happen to you or my other loved ones, the pain I experience will be far deeper than any sentiment I may feel at losing someone I don’t care about or don’t know. This means I'm still attached, still biased. I want to feel the same pain and the same love for all beings. To become impartial or, putting it another way, to have unconditional love for all, I need to be in solitude for a while. Plus, the vision of God I had earlier was dreamlike, Ma. I want something more concrete, more real.'

  'As always, I don't have any response to your statements. All I have is this faith in you that you'll only take the right step, whatever it may be.'