The Yoga of Max's Discontent by Karan Bajaj Page B

were connecting themselves. If he kept pushing forward, he would penetrate the mystery of pain, suffering, and death.
    â€œIt sounds awesome,” said Omkara, who seemed to have heard every word Max had said despite looking completely absorbed with the motorcycle tire.
    â€œWhat does?” said Max.
    Omkara walked over to them. “Your life in New York,” he said. He sat down next to Shiva on the boulder. “How did your father die?”
    Max was learning not to be surprised when people asked him deeply personal questions casually in India.
    â€œHe worked in a garment factory in the Bronx. His lungs collapsed,” said Max. He paused, thinking of the one time he had accompanied his father to the hot, dark warehouse in Kingsbridge where he worked. The windows were painted black, the doors shut tight. His father, taller than anyone around, was moving boxes, sweating and coughing, yet joking with short, dark men stooped over machine stations. “I was five years old so I don’t remember much. My mother said he was a good man. He didn’t drink much and was good with numbers.”
    â€œYou did well to go to Harvard,” said Shiva. “Your mother must have been proud.”
    Max’s eyes watered suddenly. His mother had made Sophia and him practice their English in front of the mirror every night so they didn’t pick up her heavy accent. She herself had learned to speak English fluently over the years but had never learned to write in it. Each month at Harvard, he’d receive an envelope with a smudged ten-dollar bill from her. He had never refused her money even though his tuition was covered by financial aid and his expenses by his busing and dishwashing job at the dining hall. She had wanted to keep feeling useful to him. Max took a giant sip of tea from the thermos cup to stop his voice from cracking.
    â€œI still don’t get it though. What are you really looking for?” asked Shiva.
    Max hesitated. “Spiritual enlightenment, I guess.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve just started reading books like
The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali
,” said Max. “It says there is just one energyin the universe. Everything and everyone are just forms of it. When you get enlightened, you see that oneness everywhere, in everything. You realize that a human body—any body, for that matter—is just a temporary vessel for the energy to express itself so the body’s birth or death is inconsequential.”
    â€œBut what’s the point of knowing all this?” said Shiva.
    â€œHave you seen anyone die?” said Max.
    â€œMy grandfather,” said Shiva.
    â€œDid you see him take his last breath?”
    Shiva shook his head.
    â€œWhen I was five, the kids in my building locked a girl up in a car one night. I saw her blue face pressing against the car’s window the next day,” said Max. “A couple of days later, my father died in front of me. I’ve never forgotten either one. It’s strange to see someone die. One moment they are breathing and moving, and the next moment their bodies are heavy and solid, like stone. Their spirit is gone. It feels random, not like any kind of master plan. So the idea that you can reach some kind of a psychological whole with a permanent energy even if your body withers away gives more meaning to life, though I’m not sure I buy it quite yet.”
    Max rubbed his cold, stiff neck and put his balaclava back on.
    â€œYou are on the right track,” said Shiva unexpectedly.
    Omkara walked over to his motorcycle. “You are a fool to come here chasing these yogis,” he said. “They are all frauds.”
    â€œDon’t say that. Are you crazy? Take that back or you will be cursed, fucker,” said Shiva.
    Omkara kicked his motorcycle to a start and mounted it. Roaring forward, he raised his middle finger. He swerved dangerously. For one