Living between worlds.

Story 25

There is no real reason for this number. I just looked at the date on my computer today, and that is what it became. But the day itself felt like it carried some kind of weight.

I spoke to my partner about the future—about us, about what we are becoming. It was not any conversation. She read things to me, astrology, interpretations of who we are together, what we mean, how we are supposed to be. It felt, at moments, like she was giving me sermons on how to be with her, how to exist beside her. And yet, within all of that, there was an opening. We laughed. We found something light. And through that opening, I caught a glimpse of her—not just what she says, but what she wants. I feel like I started learning something real about her today.

After that, I went back to the workshop.

I am staying in this unusual place where men live like monks, working on handloom. They have stepped away from the world, from society, and live in a kind of quiet discipline—working not for themselves, but for something larger. They give employment to local villagers, they produce cloth, and they live simply.

Today was supposed to be my last day there.

But when I walked into the workshop, I felt something shift. I did not want to leave. Not yet. There was work unfinished—cloth still on the loom, pieces yet to be completed. I wanted to see them through. I wanted to carry some of this with me, physically and otherwise. So I stayed.

We worked. Then we ate—the same simple food everyone eats here. After lunch, I returned to the workshop, and Shubham—though everyone calls each other “Bhaiyaji,” brother—came up to me. We spoke as usual about what we would make, what needed to be done.

There was a different energy today.

Then he said he might be leaving for a few hours, to visit someone nearby. He asked if I wanted to come along.

I said yes without thinking too much about it.

He mentioned that there were three Jain Digambar monks nearby. I didn’t really know what that meant. Only vaguely—that they live with almost nothing, that they detach themselves from the world in a way that is difficult to even imagine.

Still, I was curious.

We drove for about half an hour in their old pickup truck. We stopped once to drop something at one of their centers, and then we entered a narrow street and parked.

We walked into a dark room.

There was barely any light—just a faint glow coming through a small window. I could make out the shape of a monk sitting inside, chanting softly. He was bald, with white hair across his chest and beard. There was something about the atmosphere that made me hesitate. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

The last time I had been around a monk, he had looked at me with anger—perhaps because of my tattoos, or just because I did not belong there. I carried that memory with me. I didn’t want to repeat it.

So I stayed quiet.

When he opened his eyes, the others bowed and greeted him. They spoke about their work, about what they were doing. Then they introduced me.

He looked at me.

And instead of judgment, there was calmness. Even a kind of warmth.

He asked me a simple question—whether I ate vegetarian or non-vegetarian food. I told him that I try to stay vegetarian, but the people around me often eat meat.

He didn’t react strongly. He simply said that I should help them become vegetarian. That it is better—for the body, for the environment.

I said I could try.

Then he asked about my partner. About whether she lives here. I told him she comes sometimes. He said she should come more often—to understand this life, this world.

The room remained dim, almost unreal. Like something half-seen, half-felt.

Then we went upstairs.

The next room was completely different. Bright. Open. Exposed.

Another monk sat there—much younger, completely unclothed, fully at ease in a way that felt almost impossible. People came in one after another, touching his feet, sitting beside him, greeting him. He acknowledged them, but there was a distance in his attention.

No one paid much attention to me.

I stood there, observing. Neither part of it, nor entirely separate.

After some time, Shubham said we would go to the last monk and then leave. I felt a quiet sense of relief. I hadn’t realized how much I was holding inside just being there.

As we walked, my mind kept drifting.

To my partner.
To my child.
To the life that is slowly forming into something real.

All of it—no longer abstract, no longer distant.

Then we reached the third monk.

He was sitting quietly on a raised platform. There were markings on it, as if it had been made specifically for them. The three monks gathered together and began chanting. We bowed, greeted them, and then stepped away.

And just like that, it was over.

On the way back, Shubham asked me how it was.

I didn’t have an answer.

I still don’t.

I am not trying to define it. I am just experiencing it. There are no conclusions yet—only impressions.

But somewhere in all of this, I realized something.

These lives—whether the monks in the workshop, the Digambar monks, or even the Tibetan monks I had once seen in Dharamshala—they are all very different.

And yet, there is something they share.

I can’t fully name it yet.

But I can feel it.

Saransh