All stories are unreal. Even real stories are unreal.

His new name was Shyam and it was a misnomer. He is white, and he is not enlightened. Apparently, he picked this new name after he joined a Hare Krishna movement or something and became a tourist to India for a couple of weeks. He felt good for sometime and thought he was spiritually elevated or some bullshit like that. He bought an English translation of Bhagwad Geeta and now could recite many of the slokas. He could recite some of them even in Sanskrit. But now he was with me conveying his frustration at the disappearance of his joy that he had initially had a glimpse of while he was in India.

“I have read Geeta 50 times, can you believe that? I was a Catholic first and learned Bible. Now I have read Geeta more than what Hindus usually do. I think I have understood the concept too. But where is the happiness?”

“Shyam, happiness and awareness is not the same. You don’t need awareness to become happy. You can just undergo lobotomy and be a laughing Buddha, ok?”

“Yeah, I know, I know. I guess what I meant was why I am not enlightened. What do I still lack?”

“That’s a question you need to ask yourself because from my point of view, you lack nothing. Nobody lacks anything at all.”

“Give me a hint, give me a direction. What should I do next? Which is the best book for enlightenment? Should I continue with Geeta?”