A Book of Simple Living

Happiness is a mysterious thing, to be found somewhere between too little and too much.

Cold weather doesn’t care if your coat is old or new.

One sure way to lose the world and everything in it, is to try grasping it.

Enough for me that you are beautiful: Beauty possessed diminishes. Better a dream of love Than love’s dream broken; Better a look exchanged Than love’s word spoken. Enough for me that you walk past, A firefly flashing in the dark.

We must love someone. We must keep loving, all our days, Someone, anyone, anywhere Outside our selves; For even the sarus crane Will grieve over its lost companion, And the seal its mate. Somewhere in life There must be someone To take your hand And share the torrid day. Without the touch of love There is no life, and we must fade away.

Live close to nature and your spirit will not be easily broken, for you learn something of patience and resilience. You will not grow restless, and you will never feel lonely.

As I walked home last night I saw a lone fox dancing In the cold moonlight. I stood and watched. Then Took the low road, knowing The night was his by right. Sometimes, when words ring true, I'm like a lone fox dancing In the morning dew.

Well, we are equals, in our fear as in our loneliness.

And until death comes, all is life.

I think I have learnt something of the value of stillness. I don’t fret so much; I laugh at myself more often; I don’t laugh at others. I live life at my own pace. Like a banyan tree. Is this wisdom, or is it just old age?

with every lie we surrender a little of our peace of mind,

Botanists have done their best to intimidate and confuse the nature lover. But we should not allow ourselves to be discouraged; we have as much right to the enjoyment of wild flowers as they. So I will disregard the botanist and I will go looking for the pretty flower that I have named Merry Heart. It is always nodding and dancing in the breeze. It is a happy flower, deserving of a happy, light name.

A good monk would know that contentment is easier to attain than happiness, and that it is enough.

I am most at home in small places—Shamli and Saharanpur; Darjeeling and Dehra; Karnal and Kasauli; Meerut and Mussoorie….These are the places I know best, and where I have found my friends and heroes, and my stories.

It isn’t by throwing things away—and, invariably, replacing them—that we avoid cluttering up our life. It is by holding on to things that have been good and faithful to us. A trusted familiar knows how to live with us, finding its own space, giving us ours, and saves us from the need to hoard and possess that comes from feeling incomplete.

After all, most of living has to happen in the mind.

The world is only the size of each man’s head.

The adventure is not in arriving, it’s in the on-the-way experience. It is not in the expected; it’s in the surprise. You

If, by telling a lie, one can make someone happy, why not tell the damn lie?

After all, it is a good thing to laugh…and if a straw can tickle a man, it is an instrument of happiness.

A small ginger cat arrives on my terrace every afternoon, to curl up in the sun and slumber peacefully for a couple of hours. When he awakes, he gets on his feet with minimum effort, arches his back and walks away as he had come. The same spot every day, the same posture, the same pace. There may be better spots—sunnier, quieter, frequented by birds that can be hunted when the cat is rested and restored. But there is no guarantee, and the search will be never-ending, and there may rarely be time to sleep after all that searching and finding. It occurs to me that perhaps the cat is a monk. By this I do not mean anything austere. I doubt anyone in single minded pursuit of enlightenment ever finds it. A good monk would be a mild sort of fellow, a bit of a sensualist, capable of compassion for the world, but also for himself. He would know that it is all right not to climb every mountain. A good monk would know that contentment is easier to attain than happiness, and that it is enough.

Time, you old gypsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?

On the spur of the hill stood the ruins of an old brewery. The roof had long since disappeared and the rain had beaten the stone floors smooth and yellow. Some enterprising Englishman had spent a lifetime here making beer for his thirsty compatriots down in the plains. Now, moss and ferns grew from the walls.