The Buddha’s Bowl and the Kancil
My car is at Ah Huat’s shop today, getting fixed—engine oil changed, the parking light repaired, the busted back tyre replaced, and whatever else it needs. All of it, I’m told, will be FOC—free of charge. It’s my friend’s doing, the same friend who, not long ago, insisted I go with him for a medical check-up. He knew I was reluctant—afraid, perhaps, to learn if something terminal might be quietly lurking within me.
So yesterday I went to see him. I told him honestly: if he really wants to help, fix my car. Get me back on the road again. That would do me more good than anything a doctor could prescribe. I need to move, I said. I need to be mobile, not stagnant. And this morning, the car is in his shop, and I’m driving his Kancil in the meantime.
The idea of going to the East Coast feels slimmer by the day. The monsoon season has begun its annual havoc, floods swallowing roads and villages. The thought of being stuck in the middle of nowhere—no thanks. So perhaps I’ll head to the retreat at SRI LOVELY Organic Farm in Sik, Belantik again, once my car is ready and I can gather some money. Or maybe I’ll just stay here and do some serious printmaking. But first, the car needs fixing. Then I need to pay the road tax before it expires on the 27th. Only then can I decide the next step.
In the meantime, I’ve been doing the dishes at the restaurant where I live—just to keep myself busy, useful. No one was hired to do them, so the pile just sat there, inviting health inspectors or worse. And since I eat there for free and serve as the night watchman, I thought—why not? It keeps the gossipers at bay, too. It’s easy for Malays to talk when you’re a little different from the rest of the 'ummah'. But it's alright. I do the dishes, and it feels like the right thing to do.
Why am I writing about all these little, seemingly insignificant moments? Why bother?
Because when you get closer to the grave, you start wanting to come clean. You want to understand what this whole thing has been about—this journey, this life. Blogging has become a calling, a way to unravel the threads of my own mystery. It’s my legacy, in a way. A long, winding record of how I’ve squandered, survived, stumbled, and sometimes soared through the last sixty-odd years.
I’m in a lull now. In between. Waiting. And in this in-between space, I write about what I’ve neglected to say. Like: how do I survive without a job? What do I do when there’s no internet, no distractions, just me and the ticking clock?
I do. I do whatever needs doing. Priorities guide me. Fix the car first—figure out how to pay later. Pride? It had to go. Humiliation? Earned. Once, my ego wouldn’t tolerate the idea of asking for help. I was always the giver. I took pride in that. But when you hit bottom, sometimes you’ve got to learn to ask. To beg, if you must. To sell, to barter, to let go of the illusion of control.
This is the lesson of the Buddha’s Bowl—a lesson in humility. A reminder that we all have needs, and it’s okay to admit it. “Ask, and it shall be given.” That’s been true for me, more often than not.
And in return, I give back—quietly. In ways that need no applause, no mention. Because when you start bragging, the ego creeps back in.
What is life if we cannot share, even the little things? The trivial bits, the daily grind, the odd jobs and small kindnesses? We get lost in our own heads, thinking the world revolves around us. We believe the rich are invincible, untouched by death or defeat. But there is no giving and no receiving. There is only the interplay of beings, all dancing in this strange realm of Samsara.
The greatest gift is the gift of awareness—the realization that we, too, will one day be on the receiving end.
“And now you ask in your heart, ‘How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?’
Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,
But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.
For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,
And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love,
And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees.”
— Khalil Gibran, The Prophet
“When you ask for what you need and receive what people and the world have to give, you open up pathways you couldn’t see before, stimulate your imagination in ways that could not happen before, and have energy that was not previously available to you.”
— Amanda Owen, The Power of Receiving
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