An encounter with an Enlightened Comic

“Laughter is a gift that appears when an attentive mind remains light-hearted. It is the response to a precious moment of a mini-awakening, when a mind recognizes its own distortions and blind spots.”

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The last time I visited India, I had the opportunity to visit the town of Puttaparthi, the headquarters of Sathya Sai Baba. Sai Baba is a particularly interesting character among the throngs of gurus and saints that hail from the Indian subcontinent. 

I was in India in 2007 to attend the wedding of my cousin’s daughter in the bustling city of Benglaru, a high tech center in the Indian state of Karnataka. After the wedding, we visited my mother’s ancestral home in Bellary, a hundred kilometers from Puttaparthi. 

While there I announced that I intended to go to Puttaparthi to see this modern day saint in the flesh. As an American born Indian with nary a grasp of the local languages of Kannada and Telegu, my cousins knew that I would need some assistance in arranging the visit. 

They still remembered what happened during my first visit to India seventeen years earlier. I wandered away from our group on a busy street. An impoverished man asked for some money. I handed him a 10 rupee note which at the time was worth $1, exactly what I would have given someone in the states asking for spare change. A minute later I was surrounded by a small crowd of people of all ages. I gave away all the money I had in my pocket, about two hundred Rupees in total. Suddenly, someone grabbed my wrist and briskly pulled me away.

It was my cousin. He thrust me into a waiting taxi and the driver cursed the mob that surrounded his car yelling at them and us. My cousin looked at me with wild-eyed astonishment when I informed him I had been handing out 10 Rupee notes.

“Don’t tell Aunty about this please,” he said. He was worried that his mother would admonish him for letting me, an American-born bleeding heart (who was even more hopelessly naive than he could have imagined), out of his sight.

My cousins had no interest in babysitting me on a road trip. Fortunately for them, my uncle, in his late seventies, volunteered to accompany me on the three hour car ride to the neighboring state of Andhra Pradesh to see Sai Baba.

Baba is believed by many to be the latest of a series of incarnations of a singular, advanced soul. In photographs as well as in person he always appears as a smiling man, adorned in ochre robes with an unmistakable halo of black, intensely curly hair. 

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Some members of my extended family had recounted remarkable personal interactions with Sai Baba decades ago. A distant cousin of mine was granted a highly sought after personal meeting with the Indian saint soon after he had lost his wife and children in a tragic accident. I was told that Sai Baba was aware of what happened without ever having been informed.

I also knew of several people who, convinced that this person was an avatar of the Hindu God Vishnu himself, visited his ashram in Puttaparthi daily for a week hoping to be invited to speak to him directly. When their desired encounter did not manifest, they left disappointed yet their faith that this person was God in the flesh remained untrammeled. 

Unlike other so-called saints from my motherland, Sai Baba was known far and wide not only for his philanthropic activities but for his alleged magical ability to materialize objects from thin air. I was told that he could rub his fingers together and gold jewelry would appear. He would more commonly materialize vibuthi (vee-boo-thee), or sacred ash, from his fingertips.

Some years prior, a family friend brought back a handful of packets of neatly wrapped vibuthi that had purportedly been brought into existence from Baba’s will/prestidigitation. I was given one of these packets. The ash, I was told, had powerful healing energy.

The packet of ash remained untouched on a bookshelf for years until one day, frustrated with a severe case of tennis elbow that showed no improvement despite months of massage and physical therapy, I decided to open the packet and smear the gray ash on my elbow more out of curiosity than anything else. To my astonishment, the pain largely subsided after a few hours. Earlier that morning, I could not turn a doorknob without wincing. The next day I was on the tennis court ripping backhands pain-free.

Could this have just been the placebo effect? My training in medicine and science led me immediately to this hypothesis. There was no other rational explanation. The problem with this perspective is that I honestly didn’t believe anything would happen. How could there be a placebo effect if I didn’t think it would work in the first place?

I eventually dismissed the whole thing as something that would eventually be explained scientifically. Years later, when I was in some proximity to his home I was compelled to see Sai Baba with my own eyes. Maybe I could get more insight into this mini miracle that I experienced myself.

My cousins hired a car and driver and my uncle and I climbed in the back of the old Ambassador taxi cab for the jarring, three hour ride to the bustling community of Puthaparthi where we found lodging in a local hotel, close to the ashram where Sai Baba appeared each day to bless his devotees.

I had pictured Puthaparthi to be bucolic, similar to how I imagined “Deer Park” in Sarnath where the Buddha delivered his first teachings to princes and paupers alike. I was shocked to see that Sai Baba’s headquarters was a bustling town filled with restaurants and stores selling Sai Baba tchotchkes and brass statues. We had dinner and the three of us (I, my uncle and the taxi driver) climbed into the stiff king-sized bed and fell asleep. Apparently feeding and lodging the driver was customary in these kinds of excursions, my uncle explained.

The next morning we set out to see Baba in the flesh. We filed into a large hall with stone pillars and floor and sat and waited for him to arrive. He eventually did, about an hour later. By that time I was in excruciating pain. I am particularly ill-equipped physically to sit cross-legged, something that has been a point of considerable embarrassment when in these kinds of situations—including the ceremony of my first marriage. 

I was restless and couldn’t wait to leave and stretch my legs and back. Baba was too far away for me to see clearly. I didn’t see the point of remaining contorted on the uncompromising, cushionless floor while straining to see him. I quietly left some time later.

I wandered the streets outside the ashram. I felt safe among the throngs of tourists. I was, however, deeply disappointed. I was hoping for a more intimate connection with Baba. I wanted to see him materialize something so that I could debunk the stories of his magical powers. I also entertained the possibility that he could look me in the eye from a distance and speak to me telepathically. Maybe if I had stayed longer? Curse these inflexible hips!

While strolling the streets I contemplated my situation. Did I really come eleven thousand miles to get within 150 feet of Sai Baba only to leave because of some physical discomfort while others waited for days hoping to catch his attention? I was more disappointed in myself than anything else.

At some point, a young man barely out of his teens stopped his scooter next to me. “Come. Come here! I will take you!”

“Where?”, I asked.

I didn’t understand what he said, but it didn’t matter. I was overtaken by a desire to comply without asking for details. I calmly took my seat on the back of the scooter, and held his shoulders as we sped off at a reckless clip. Within a minute or two I realized that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back on my own yet for some reason I wasn’t concerned. 

He stopped in front of a small compound just a few kilometers from the center of town. I followed him through an unlocked gate. There were a few chickens clucking about. Some young children were chasing them around while their mothers merrily chatted on the porch of one of the small bungalows. Nobody paid any attention to us.

In the center of the courtyard grew an enormous mango tree.

My anonymous chauffeur led me to the biggest structure in the compound.

“Go inside. She is there.”

“She? You mean Baba?” I asked excitedly.

He smiled and left.

Not knowing what else to do, I opened the door and entered. A dozen people were seated on the floor in quiet meditation. They were seated in a circle. An Indian woman who appeared to be in her fifties opened her eyes and silently gestured that I should sit on a cushion at her side. She was of particularly dark complexion and dressed in a pink sari. She seemed to be leading the group.

I took my seat, grateful for the cushion, a privilege that no one else enjoyed. Everyone remained motionless with contented smiles on their faces. A short while later, the leader exhaled audibly. Then, a woman on her right began speaking in a language I couldn’t identify. I think it was Bengali.

I didn’t understand anything, except that she seemed to be telling a story. Some people started to giggle and then, as she finished, laughter filled the room.

An elderly man then spoke, this time in Telegu, a language I can understand somewhat. I couldn’t catch all the details but it became clear that this person was also telling a story which also ended in chuckles. They were telling jokes. Judging from the responses, they were apparently very good.

They were going around the circle, each person taking a turn. I didn’t understand much of what was being said, but I couldn’t help laughing along with these strangers.

It eventually dawned on me that I might be asked to participate. What would be an appropriate joke for such an occasion? My mind went blank. Finally, when all eyes turned to me I began, in English, hoping for the best:

“A woman gets bad news from her doctor. He tells her that she has only six months to live.”

Half the room started to giggle. I assumed that they didn’t understand English and were caught up in the conviviality of the moment. I continued…

“‘’WHAT?!’, she exclaimed, ‘That’s terrible! Is there anything I can do?’’”

More snickers.

“‘Yes’, the doctor said, ‘you can marry an accountant’”.

A few laughed openly. Confused, I looked at the woman next to me. She smiled broadly and nodded me on.

“‘’An accountant? Why? Will that give me more time?’”

By this time nearly everyone in the room was laughing so hard they were crying. I had to nearly shout to deliver the punch-line:

“‘No. But it will seem longer.’”

There was a pause and then a second later the room exploded. One woman ended up on her back with her hands on her face. A few were on their hands and knees. Some of the children poked their heads in to see what was going on. It took a few minutes for things to calm down. Eventually everyone rose and acknowledged each other in silence and took their leave.

The leader remained seated and gestured for me to stay. She turned and spoke to me in perfect English delivered in a crisp British accent. (I am recounting what was said to the best of my recollection):

“Laughter is rarely recognized for its immense value in Self-Realization. It is a gift that appears when an attentive mind remains light-hearted. It is the response to a precious moment of a mini-awakening, when a mind recognizes its own distortions and blind spots.

The punchline, when optimally delivered and interpreted, demonstrates how two concepts that were considered independent and unrelated are, in fact, intimately conjoined in ways that instantly become obvious but were, until a moment before, completely invisible.

Awareness of connection, any connection, is a step towards the divine reality that all is one, that everything is connected. The greater the attention and the less the identification with the idea of separate self, the more powerful the body and mind’s response to the gift.

Jokes can be pointers. Their power is in their content, their relevance to the human condition, the manner in which they are delivered and, just as importantly, the vibration of those who receive them. 

Who does not appreciate the sensation of laughter? Who would not enjoy the satisfaction of offering such a gift to others? In that sense, the gift is shared by both the comic and the audience.

The joke is a teaching. The comic is the teacher. Here, like everywhere in this human experience, we are given the opportunity to teach and to learn from each other.

Your contribution was delightful.”

She went on to explain why the group responded so positively to my joke about accountants. The chortle from the sangha at the opening line of the joke emerged from the recognition of the part of the mind that believes that time is absolute and we have only so much of it.

This false belief gets propagated through the generations by those to whom we have handed over the final say in this matter. To those who reside in the comfort of knowing that we are ultimately limitless beings whose existence continues after the death of the physical body, the idea of time takes on a completely different significance.

She explained that the doctor offered more comedy by introducing the idea of the accountant, a reminder that we have built a world that requires us to be fastidious about numbers and quantities. We have a planetary consciousness that is built on the foundation of money. We have reified the concept of money by exchanging it for things that are real and useful like land, food, materials and, most importantly, time–a concept that has a far different significance for the group.

She explained:

“There is undeniable utility in this. However the masses have tragically allowed their governments to pay for things by creating new money without openly looking at what the inevitable consequences will be. Humanity will unavoidably spend more and more of their precious lives chasing Rupees, dollars and quid while wondering why things continue to become more expensive. Yet we maintain that we couldn’t survive without the system that we have built. Undoubtedly we know what the outcome will be, but we suppress it, like an alcoholic who knows that he is drinking himself to death.

We have built a world where accountants are invaluable and are compensated well. Stop and really consider that for a moment. Does it make you want to cry? Laugh? Or does it not even remotely strike you as mentionable?

If it is the latter, most people would view you as boring.”

I raised an eyebrow.

 “Does that seem unduly harsh?”, she asked with a smile.

“It isn’t my perspective, it’s your perspective. That’s the backbone of your joke, after all. What kind of person would choose a vocation that is centered around a system that is so tragically flawed in its conception? Would you wish to spend the last six months of your incarnation with them?”

She went on:

“Finally, the punchline, ‘... it will seem longer’ reminded me of how often I once found myself in dreadfully boring situations in life and how much effort I made to avoid such periods. Yet when faced with the illusion of our end many may entertain drudgery as a better choice! Recognizing the insanity of our thinking is a fine reminder to realign with the present moment!”

She looked deeply and warmly into my eyes and placed her palms together in gratitude.

I was embarrassed. I explained that I did not intend to convey any such deep meaning. It was just supposed to be a joke about accountants and the stereotype they carry.

“That is of no concern. Of more importance is to see where you are judging yourself at this moment!”

She concluded:

“Our practice is the cultivation of pure attention that is broad and uncentered. The kind of attention that emerges in the few moments before the punchline is uttered. The anticipation of something wonderful that is about to happen is what entices us to focus. Comedy can be the vehicle that carries us to that state effortlessly.

But the real magic is in the instant before laughter is released. Imagine the moments after the punchline is delivered but prior to the bodily response that is laughter. Feel it in your body. It’s different for everyone. Where do you feel it? What does it feel like to you?

Those in our sangha find themselves in that state regularly, because, you see, they are constantly aware of how quickly and often their thoughts veer away from their baseline experience of reality while in a state of pure attention.

We honor the edge that all will eventually step over.”

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“Laughter is a gift that appears when an attentive mind remains light-hearted. It is the response to a precious moment of a mini-awakening, when a mind recognizes its own distortions and blind spots.”

Those words have intrigued me from the start. These days, I find them even more impactful. We are living in a world of distortions and blind spots. Are we lacking in light-heartedness?

Personally, I am convinced that there are those with malicious intent who wield great influence over the masses. However, the majority of people are not enslaved by traps set by the malevolent as much as they are ensnared by their own misconceptions of tragedies that are unfolding at a breakneck pace.

How do we regard those who are satisfied with the status quo, with those who apprehend the existing state of affairs with standards of acceptability that drop daily?

I fear that if we are not careful, our frustration with our brothers and sisters who are mired in faulty systems of thought will birth seeds of intolerance and hate on a massive scale, if it isn’t happening already. It is these kind of emotions that often get exploited by forces, both seen and unseen, to divide us into factions that are far easier to manage and control.

The only way to counter a narrative that uses fear and deception to divide is to unite and connect. I don’t see how we can succeed if we sacrifice our own senses of humor in the process.

There is untold suffering taking place on the planet, suffering that I believe could be alleviated or even eliminated entirely if we could come to a collective understanding of what is really happening and why. That’s the only way we are going to fix things.

‘Red-pilling’ and ‘global awakening’ are some of the common tropes that are used to describe the phenomenon that we are witnessing right now. It may be also useful to frame this as a joke, a very long one that has been played on humanity, and one that is culminating as we speak. Some of us have already gotten it. Others are getting it. I am confident that many, many more will soon put it together. Are we witnessing the few moments of magic before the mini realization?

What would the Enlightened Comic have to say right about now? I think she would smile and say something like this:

“Remain attentive. Remember who you are. Very serious things are happening right now, but don’t take yourself too seriously. Tell jokes. Listen to them. Remember what laughter feels like. Act from there.”