The morning was as ordinary as any other in Murudeshwar, a coastal town cradled by the Arabian Sea and watched over by the towering statue of Lord Shiva. It was the kind of day where the horizon blurred with mist, and the waves kissed the shore with a rhythm only the ocean knew. The temple bells chimed softly in the distance, their melody weaving through the sound of the crashing waves.
I had just finished my early morning prayers at the Murudeshwar temple, a daily ritual that connected me to something larger than myself, something timeless. As I walked down the temple steps, my mind was preoccupied with the mundane worries of life—work, family, and the endless cycle of responsibilities that seemed to weigh heavier each day.
My destination was Bhatkal, the nearest city. The bus to Bhatkal was a reliable, if not particularly comfortable, means of transport. The bus stop, where I often found myself waiting, was a simple, unremarkable structure, nestled between a small tea stall and an old banyan tree that had seen more monsoons than anyone could remember. The bus stop was a place of routine, where time moved sluggishly, and the only things that seemed to change were the faces of the travelers.
On this particular morning, as I approached the bus stop, I noticed an old man sitting on the bench, a crumpled newspaper in his hands. He was dressed in a dhoti and kurta, his long white beard giving him the appearance of a sage. His eyes, however, twinkled with a mischievousness that belied his age. There was something about him—an air of contentment, a sense of being completely at ease with the world—that drew me to him.
He looked up as I approached and smiled, a wide, toothy grin that seemed to hold a thousand untold stories. “Namaskara,” he greeted me, his voice warm and welcoming.
“Namaskara,” I replied, slightly taken aback by his cheerful demeanor. Most people at the bus stop were too preoccupied with their own thoughts to engage in conversation, but this old man seemed different.
“Waiting for the bus to Bhatkal, eh?” he asked, folding his newspaper and setting it aside.
“Yes,” I said, sitting down on the bench beside him. “I work there, as a teacher.”
“Ah, a noble profession,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Teaching is the foundation of society, you know. But tell me, what do you teach?”
“Mathematics,” I replied, though I was beginning to feel like I was the one being taught something.
“Mathematics!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “The language of the universe! But tell me, do you teach your students how to laugh?”
“Laugh?” I echoed, confused by his question. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Ah, you see,” he said, leaning in closer, “life is full of absurdities, and the only way to truly live is to learn how to laugh at them. Numbers are important, yes, but what good are they if you cannot find joy in the simple, nonsensical moments that life throws your way?”
I looked at him, trying to make sense of his words. He seemed to be speaking in riddles, yet there was a truth in his eyes that I couldn’t deny.
“Let me tell you a story,” he said, settling back into the bench as if he had all the time in the world. “There was once a king who was very wise, but he was also very serious. He believed that life was a serious affair, and that everything had to have a purpose. One day, a jester came to his court and told him a joke. The king did not laugh. The jester, seeing this, tried again, but still, the king did not laugh. Finally, the jester said, ‘Your Majesty, if you cannot laugh at life, then life will laugh at you.’ And with that, the jester walked away, leaving the king to ponder his words.”
I chuckled at the story, though I wasn’t sure if it was out of amusement or confusion. “So, did the king ever learn to laugh?” I asked.
The old man smiled again, that same toothy grin that seemed to hold the answers to all of life’s mysteries. “That, my friend, is up to you to decide. You see, life is not about finding all the answers, but about enjoying the journey, with all its twists and turns. And sometimes, the best way to enjoy it is to simply laugh.”
Just then, the bus to Bhatkal pulled up, its brakes screeching as it came to a stop. The conductor leaned out of the door and called for passengers. I stood up, ready to board, but the old man remained seated, his eyes twinkling with that same mischievousness.
“Aren’t you coming?” I asked, half expecting him to get up and join me.
He shook his head. “No, no. I’m not going anywhere. My journey is right here, at this bus stop. You go on ahead. And remember, don’t take life too seriously. Learn to laugh, even when it doesn’t make sense.”
I nodded, a strange sense of peace washing over me. As I boarded the bus and took my seat, I watched the old man fade into the distance, his figure growing smaller and smaller as the bus pulled away.
For the rest of the day, his words echoed in my mind. I thought about the absurdities of life, the little moments that often went unnoticed because I was too caught up in the seriousness of it all. I thought about the times when I could have laughed, but chose not to because it didn’t seem appropriate. And I wondered, how many more moments would I let pass by without a smile, without a laugh?
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, but I never forgot the old man at the bus stop. His words became a mantra for me, a reminder to find joy in the everyday absurdities of life. Whenever I found myself getting too serious, too caught up in the worries of the world, I would think of his toothy grin and his mischievous eyes, and I would laugh.
I started sharing his stories with my students, teaching them not just about numbers, but about life. I taught them that it’s okay to make mistakes, that it’s okay to be silly sometimes, and that it’s okay to laugh, even when things don’t make sense. I noticed a change in them, a lightness in their step, a sparkle in their eyes. And I realized that the old man was right—life is so much more enjoyable when you learn to laugh at its absurdities.
One day, as I was walking back from school, I decided to stop by the bus stop. The old man was there, sitting on the same bench, a crumpled newspaper in his hands. He looked up as I approached and smiled that same wide, toothy grin.
“Ah, my friend!” he greeted me warmly. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been well,” I replied, sitting down beside him. “I’ve been laughing more, just as you taught me.”
“Good, good,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Laughter is the best medicine, after all. And what about your students? Are they laughing too?”
“They are,” I said with a smile. “Thanks to you.”
He chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to carry the wisdom of the ages. “Remember, my friend, life is a journey, not a destination. And the journey is much more enjoyable when you learn to laugh along the way.”
We sat there for a while, watching the world go by. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the town of Murudeshwar. The temple bells chimed in the distance, their melody blending with the sound of the waves. And as I sat there, beside this eccentric old philosopher, I realized that I had found something precious—an appreciation for the simple, absurd moments that make life so wonderfully unpredictable.
As the bus to Bhatkal pulled up, I stood to leave, but the old man remained seated, just as he had that first day. I looked at him one last time, his figure bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. And as the bus pulled away, I found myself laughing—not at anything in particular, but at the sheer beauty of life and all its absurdities.
The old man at the bus stop had taught me more than any book or classroom ever could. He had taught me to laugh, to find joy in the little things, and to embrace the unpredictability of life. And for that, I would always be grateful.
As I watched Murudeshwar fade into the distance, I knew that I would carry his wisdom with me wherever I went. Life, after all, is too short to be taken seriously. And sometimes, the best thing you can do is simply sit back, relax, and laugh at the absurdity of it all.
