I have often wondered, like any other human being, the cause and the need of happiness in our lives. Why does it seem so elusive? In the much clichéd words, why does life suck so much?

Raymond Martin, in his essay named, “A fast car and a good woman”, elaborates the need for human happiness. Why do we question the meaning of life? He points out the truth that the origin of all our earthly complaints lies in our inability to get satisfied. Reading this so far, one might get the opinion that my piece too is going the way the millions of blogs on happiness and contentment go_ boring, everybody-knows-it stuff. I will try my best not to make it so, if one cares to accompany me to the world of a certain man that I have learnt to admire.

In the hostel I live in right now, there lives a gardener. He is an old fellow, blinded by age and bones as rusty as the simple old implements he uses. He wasn’t blind when I joined this place three years ago. He still isn’t completely blind but nevertheless, he can’t really see things as clearly anymore as before. I have not talked to him for more than twice. The first time was when the football we were playing with fell into the garden.

Every hostel here has a quadrangle and a garden, separated by the path that leads to the back gate of the hostel, straight through the hostel from the entrance. We use the quadrangle as a “mini-stadium”, as the respected dean puts it. It, being a small place, tends to get crowded in the evenings when each inmate makes his way to the puny ground to snatch his share of physical exercise. One such evening, while we were playing football, someone kicked the ball hard towards the garden. It fell into the lawn and bounced off to hit the shapely hedge that was growing on the other side like a green wall. The gardener picked up the ball and smiled to me saying, “Careful pa. Flowers weak. Ball breaking.flowers pa”. Hilarious that it sounded to me the first time, I made it a point to use those words as a pun every time someone kicked the ball too hard towards the garden. Looking back upon that trivial incident, I feel somewhat less than miserable, but not really happy about it. There was an old guy, more than thrice my age, who did all the back breaking work of creating a beautiful flowerbed and cared for the myriad colorful flowers. One so attached and committed to work would have been angered and frustrated, not necessarily in that order, at witnessing one’s creation being crushed by a bunch of teenagers mindlessly kicking around an inflated rubber ball. But there was no sign of any disgruntlement. The smiling expression was one that reminded me of some wise old fellow saying, “Only kids; let them play. It is their age to have fun. They won’t understand.” There was a strange placidity on his face that gave the impression that nothing could agitate his age-acquired calm.

“But it was only a paltry gardener”, one might exclaim.

We often overlook a man by judging him by his profession or his education. The gardener might not have held a degree in anything, but he was much better off and wiser than all our crème-de-la-crème brains put together.

Swami Vivekananda, in his sermon named, “Karma Yoga”, mentions that happiness can only be derived from work if you love it. And above all, he said, there must be a strange detachment that I never really understood. How can a man love his work and yet be detached? It sounded impossible to me until I met this man, the gardener. He loves his work enough to enjoy it. But he never complains if someone else’s joy in playing football hinders his occupation.

The second time I talked to this man was after two years, on the occasion of Pongal_ Tamizhar Thirunal, meaning "the festival of Tamils". A holiday would mean a time to rejoice for students and employees alike. It is a day when we can go out, have fun, take a break, buy new clothes and wear them to show off like dandy peacocks. Some people are so obnoxiously obsessed with the phrase, “dress sense”, that they can’t help making remarks upon coming across every queerly dressed individual. There and then, this man comes up to us in his torn old, but clean shirt and pants, barefooted, wearing a bright smile on his face and wishes us, “Happy Pongal”. He had the same calm, content look upon his face. The fact that he was too poor to afford new clothes didn’t bother him. He might not look beautiful, but his garden sure did, especially for the occasion. He was proud of it.

He didn’t do much work apart from gardening. His afternoons are spent talking to the sweepers and caretakers about the ongoing events in the campus and the world beyond.

The grin on his face, spread from one ear to the ear, on seeing people turn up each new semester after the long holidays gives me the impression that he enjoys the company of the younger folks, especially the lively, youthful students. He seems to be very happy and content to be around, picking weeds and watering the plants.

Each day when I see that guy, I just feel like raising my hand up in the air in submission and sheer exasperation. How can a person be so poor and yet be so happy? None-the-less, his presence warms my heart. There is hope yet for us. He was all that I had ever read about. He was all that most men had always wanted to be. He has no great demands; just a few needs here and there. But he is happy.

Oscar Wilde remarked that there are only two problems in life; not getting what you want, and getting it. This man wants nothing. This man answered all my questions on the matter. Happiness is not as elusive as it seems. Contentment lies in us. Too often have I heard from my peers that it everything is useless; too often have I heard that life has no meaning and that the purpose of life itself is only to end. To all those conceited, hypocritical suckers who give up in life and resort to pernicious drug habits, I would say, life does not suck. Life is the way it is. Accept it and be content. Happiness seeps in somehow.

  A view of my hostel.. the quadrangle and the garden..