The Rabid Dog

When I was a kid, around 6 or 7 years of age, I remember reading this children's magazine called Tinkle. I was quite enamored of it, in fact. Where Chandamama, Balhans, Parag, Nandan and Lotpot were all great, Tinkle was its own league. I used to go to the library to read it because it wasn't easily available for delivery like the other magazines in our town. I still can't believe that with his super modest means, my father had gotten me subscriptions to all of the children's magazines I ever wanted. He just wanted me to read. Comics he was a little less keen on, but magazines, as many as you wanted. These magazines would get delivered with the newspaper. Waiting to unfold the paper in the morning hoping today was the day when one of the magazines would be delivered was a joy like no other.

It should then, I hope, come to you as no surprise that even now I read Tinkle on Kindle. Usually, it's no more than 4-5 min but when I open my Kindle, I can't seem to not open Tinkle and read a few pages.

And so I read this beautiful story in it the other day. As follows, in my own words:

A lion was walking through the forest with his young cub. Out of nowhere, a rabid dog appeared at the edge of the path, barking furiously, foaming at the mouth, snarling in their direction. The lion did not so much as turn his head. He continued walking with regal calm, his cub trotting beside him.

After some distance, the cub looked up at his father, puzzled and a little embarrassed. "Papa," he said, "You are the king of the jungle. We are mighty lions. Why are we putting up with him? Why don't you teach him a lesson?"

The lion stopped, his magnificent mane flowing serenely like the gentle waves of the ocean on a calm morning.

"Tell me, my son," he said with tenderness, "What glory is there in defeating a mad dog? Tomorrow, when the other animals see me, they will not say, 'There goes the mighty lion.' They will say, 'There goes the lion who fought a rabid dog.'"

We live in a world that constantly tempts us into battles. It could be a snide comment on social media or a relative's curt remark. It might be an old friend who has somehow turned into an old wound or a stranger who cut you off in traffic and seemed eager to settle a karmic debt right then and there. The truth is that the world is full of barking dogs, and most of them are not even rabid. They are merely bored, or hurting, or starved for attention.

The question then is not whether you can respond. You can. You are intelligent, articulate, perfectly capable of demolishing the offender with one well-placed sentence. The real question is, should you? Should you bother? And more importantly: what will it cost you?

Here is something I have learned: every battle we fight, even the ones we win, takes something from us. Time. Energy. Sleep. Even resources. A part of us remains on that battlefield long after the fight is over, picking through the rubble, replaying the scene, and sharpening retorts for next time.

I would suggest that if the prize is not worth that price, we have not won. We have merely lost more slowly.

In our limited time on this planet, we only have so much bandwidth to do whatever it is that we want to do. And so it pays to pick our battles carefully. Most battles are not worthy of your time and energy. Don't get into them. If you are going to step onto the battlefield, it'd better be the battle of your life.

One afternoon, Nasrudin's neighbour came running to him in great agitation.

"Mulla!" He said, "The butcher in the bazaar called you an idiot, a lowlife, in front of everyone! Why aren't you confronting him?"
Mulla kept cleaning his teacup, and said, "When a dog barks at the moon, does the moon bark back?"
"Of course not.”
"And what happens to the dog?" Mulla asked.
"Well, he keeps barking, I suppose. Until he tires himself out."
"And what happens to the moon?"
"Nothing. It keeps shining."
"Exactly," Mulla said and poured the tea. "You see, the butcher needs me to bark. He wants me to come running into the bazaar, red-faced and shouting, so that the crowd will look between us and wonder which is the dog and which is the moon. But if I do not bark, he is only a man howling at the sky. And all the sky has to do is be sky."
"Besides," he continued. "When my donkey kicks me, I don't kick it back."

The world will always have its butchers, its mad dogs, its kicking donkeys. They are not always a problem to be solved. If anything, think of them as part of the scenery. Our work is not to silence them, for we cannot, but to remember, in their presence, who we are.

Just to be clear, I am not asking you to withdraw from life or become a pushover who shrugs at every injustice. I am not saying don't fight. I am saying pick your battles carefully. After all, the point is not to fight nothing but to fight for something. And that something had better be worth the cost, in my humble opinion.

If you are going to spend your one precious life suffering (and you will, for suffering, however optional, remains a primary clause in the contract of being human) then at least suffer for something magnificent. Suffer for your dharma. Suffer for the person you love. Suffer for the work that makes your soul sing. Suffer for the children whose lives you can shape. Suffer for your own awakening.

What wisdom, much less glory, is there in suffering for the rabid dog at the side of the road? The whole idea is to know yourself so well, so unshakably, that no amount of barking can convince you to forget.

When you remember that you are a lion, the dogs become irrelevant. You stop feeling the urge to prove what is already obvious to anyone with eyes to see.

So before you let anything unravel you, simply ask yourself: is this worth my roar?

Peace.
Swami