Man in the Mirror

The one time, as an 11-year-old, I took away a gift-wrapped box because I thought it had my name on it, left me restless all night. The annual Christmas party at the club in Victoria was an event we all looked forward to. I had won two games but had received no prizes since there was a shortage. Sulking, I looked around to see if there were any others awaiting their prizes. Far across the other end of the hall, I saw an unclaimed box, lying atop the party organizer’s table. Waiting till the end of the party, I walked across and believing it was unspoken for, read the tag on it. “2nd runner up.” I took it. In my defense, I was the 2nd runner up in Musical Chairs. I tore it open to find a brand-new pair of roller skates, which I promptly put on and skated around the whole back yard. The next day, the locker room conversation in school was about a classmate having misplaced her prize at the Club party. A 2nd runner’s up prize. Restless, I promised her I would help locate it. The next day, I placed the box with the partially used skates in her locker. Quietly. And I checked the box of my conscience.

We lived in an apartment with a mixed set of residents. One of our neighbors was a power couple, or so I presumed – an ultra-rich businessman, with his well turned out wife. She had a friendly relationship with my mother. Unfortunately, her husband suddenly passed away with a heart attack, and by the unspoken rule of the land, she had to pack up and exit the country overnight. Friends and family came together in the dark of the night, wrapping things, packing, dismantling, stuffing into boxes, to get her on the first flight to India. At 8:30 am the next morning, the doorbell rang and my mother opened the door to let the lady in. She had an unlocked duffel bag in her hand which she handed over to my mother, with a long hug, soft words, and tearful eyes. I never figured out what the bag contained or where it was kept, despite my eagle eyes and inquisitive questioning. 7 months later, the lady came back briefly, and the bag was dutifully returned. I witnessed the interaction, as she hugged my mother and was thanking her with folded hands apologizing for the huge favor she had asked of my unsuspecting mother. The lady sobbed as she told her that the bag had contained jewelry, heirlooms, locker keys, cash, and investment receipts- a fortune! Unflinching, my mother told her that she would have guarded it with her life, had they even contained stones. Didn’t you want to look inside even once, I inquired suspiciously after she had left? “The contents did not matter” my mother said, “my words and my promise did.”

A story from Katha Upanishad, Nachiketa was watching his father, the sage Udalaka perform a Yagna. Having promised a donation of all his prized possessions as honorary alms to the Brahmins, Udalaka began doling out his cows. He gave away all the sick cows, the useless property and everything that he did not want and made a big show of it. Upset at this, Nachiketa told his father, “What you have done is not right. If you did not want to give away everything, you shouldn’t have promised.” The young boy kept asking his father, “Who will you give me to? I am also your prized possession.” After multiple attempts with the same question, Udalaka lost his temper at Nachiketa, and rebuked that he would give away Nachiketa to Yama, the God of Death. Wanting to make good his father’s words, and not knowing anything but the power of a promise, Nachiketa left for Yama’s abode. Yama was not at home and so the little boy kept waiting for days together. Upon Yama’s return, he was impressed by his honesty and perseverance and granted him three boons.

I returned the prize to the rightful owner, but quietly – power of a promise only in action, not form and spirit. My mother, by not wanting to know the contents of the safe-keep, had demonstrated the power of a promise, in form, spirit and action. Nachiketa, on the other hand, demonstrated the ownership of a promise uttered by another, in form, spirit and action. Each, a degree of integrity, each a delivery of a promise. I was happy at the imaginary second rung of the ladder of integrity. My mother was at the top rung of the ladder of integrity. Nachiketa’s story proves that he needed no ladder, no level. It was zero sum. 

Three stories of integrity - between classmates, between friends, and between a father and son. All of these are playing out in so many ways at home, as the current crises reveals. But there seems to be one key story of integrity sorely missing. An 18% increase in calls in Italy, 20% in Spain and 30% in Brazil, to helplines for domestic abuse, and the UN calling for Women’s Safety as a key part of the response plan for Covid- 19, makes we wonder about the story of integrity between the person who we really are and the person who we pretend to be. There is a rung in the integrity ladder we have completely broken - that which connects the good mind and the pure soul, the kind heart and the balanced head. Is this a story of integrity we are choosing to forget?

My daughter’s head safely ensconced in my lap, chatting away about her dreams, as a song softly plays in loop …

I am starting with the man in the mirror,

I am asking him to change his ways

And no message could have been any clearer,

if you want to make the world a better place

         Michael Jackson