Bodh Gaya is a strange place to live if you’re like me—someone haunted by questions about existence. Everywhere you look, people are either meditating, debating, or scribbling notes in well-worn journals. The air itself feels heavy with existential angst, as though even the trees are pondering why they exist. And then there’s Uncle Roberto, the cheerful anomaly in our little town.
Uncle Roberto lives in a small house with a garden that isn’t particularly beautiful or well-kept. It has some wildflowers growing out of control, a sagging fence, and a stubborn patch of weeds he calls “nature’s rebellious spirit.” Every morning, he sits in this garden with his eternal cup of tea, staring at the sky as though he’s in direct communication with the heavens. But here’s the thing: Uncle Roberto doesn’t think about the heavens. He doesn’t think about anything, really. He just… exists.
To everyone else, Uncle Roberto is a beacon of joy, a man who has “found peace.” But to me, he’s a cosmic joke—a man so blissfully oblivious that he’s missed the entire point of living in a place like Bodh Gaya. I often wonder if he’s a misplaced extra from some cheap comedy about enlightenment.
One morning, I decided to confront him. It was a humid day, the kind where the air feels like wet cotton, and Uncle Roberto was in his usual spot, sipping tea and humming a tuneless melody. A stray dog lay at his feet, looking as serene as its master.
“Uncle Roberto,” I began, standing over him like a frustrated schoolteacher, “don’t you ever wonder about the meaning of life? Or why we’re here? Doesn’t it bother you that you don’t know anything about the truth?”
He looked up at me with his maddeningly calm smile. “The truth? Oh, Kashaf, the truth is right here.” He gestured vaguely at his tea, the dog, and the wildflowers as if they were the Holy Trinity of existence. “Life is beautiful. Why trouble yourself with questions when you can enjoy a nice cup of tea?”
I sighed, already regretting my decision to talk to him. “Uncle, you’re like someone in a prison, but instead of chains, you have tea and flowers. George Orwell once said, ‘Football, beer, and above all gambling filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult.’ You’re the same, only your distractions are peace and happiness. The system doesn’t even need football or beer to control you; you’ve imprisoned yourself with joy!”
Uncle Roberto chuckled and took a long, dramatic sip of his tea, as if to prove my point. “Controlled by happiness? What a delightful prison to live in! And unlike Orwell’s football and beer, my peace doesn’t come with hooligans or hangovers.”
I felt my eye twitch. “That’s exactly the problem! You’re so busy enjoying your little distractions that you’ve stopped asking questions. You’re like a bird in a golden cage, so mesmerized by the shiny bars that you don’t even realize you’re trapped.”
“And you,” he said, wagging a finger at me, “are like a fish trying to climb a tree. You’re chasing after questions that have no answers, forgetting to enjoy the water you’re already in.”
I groaned. “No, Uncle! I refuse to be content with ignorance. I want to know things. I want to understand the truth, even if it’s painful. Socrates said, ‘I know only one thing: that I know nothing.’ That’s my wisdom—to embrace my ignorance and keep searching. But you? You’ve numbed yourself with this endless peace. You’ve let your happiness blind you to the bigger truths of existence!”
Uncle Roberto’s dog let out a sleepy yawn, as if to mock my outburst. My uncle, meanwhile, looked at me with the patience of a kindergarten teacher explaining shapes to a child. “Ah, Kashaf,” he said, “why chase the truth when you can sip tea? Life is simple. Complicating it with questions is like stirring sugar into your tea and complaining that it’s sweet.”
I stared at him, wondering if I was the fool or he was. Here was a man who had somehow turned his own ignorance into a fortress, his happiness into an impenetrable shield. He didn’t care about the cracks in his worldview or the mysteries of the universe. To him, life was tea, dogs, and wildflowers.
For a brief, horrifying moment, I envied him.
But then I snapped out of it. “Uncle, your peace is an addiction!” I declared. “You’re like those people Orwell warned about. Football, beer, gambling—they were just distractions to keep the masses docile. And you’re no different! Your peace is your football. Your tea is your beer. Your wildflowers are your gambling. The system doesn’t even have to work hard to control you because you’ve trapped yourself!”
Uncle Roberto laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that made the stray dog wag its tail. “And your questions,” he said, “are like chasing the horizon, thinking you’ll reach the end of the earth. Both are equally pointless, but one is much more enjoyable.”
I wanted to throw his teacup into the weeds, but I knew it would only end with him shrugging and saying, “Ah, now the soil gets to enjoy the tea.”
As I stormed out of his garden, I couldn’t shake the absurdity of it all. Here was a man who had, in his own way, found freedom—not through wisdom or understanding, but by refusing to question anything at all. To him, life was a string of small joys: a sip of tea, the sound of a bird, the rustle of the wind. And he was perfectly content to stay in his golden cage, never daring to peer beyond the bars.
I returned to my little room, where books and questions piled up around me like mountains. Bodh Gaya, the land of enlightenment, seemed utterly indifferent to my struggle. I didn’t have the answers—not even close. But I knew one thing: I would rather wrestle with the chaos of existence than drown in its calm illusions.
Uncle Roberto may have found peace, but I found purpose in my questions, even if they led nowhere. That, perhaps, is the difference between us: he is happy, and I am free—or at least free to be frustrated.
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