Sharma Robin - The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

The Secret Letters
of The Monk
Who Sold His
Ferrari

ROBIN SHARMA

Go as far as you can see. When you get there,
youll be able to see farther.
Thomas Carlyle

M Y WORDLESS GUIDE was moving quickly ahead of me, as if he too disliked being down here. The tunnel was damp, and dimly lit. The bones of six million Parisians were entombed in this place

Suddenly the young man stopped at the entranceway of a new tunnel. It was separated from the one we had followed by a piece of rusted iron fencing. The tunnel was dark. My guide moved the fence to one side and turned into the blackness. He paused and looked behind at me, making sure I was following. I moved uncertainly out of the anemic light as his back disappeared in front of me. I took a few more steps. Then my foot knocked against something. A wooden rattle filled the air, and I froze. As I did, light flared around me. My guide had snapped on his flashlight. Suddenly I wished he hadnt. The gruesome orderliness was gone. Bones were everywherescattered across the floor around our feet, cascading from loose stacks against the walls. The glare from the flashlight caught on waves of dust and tendrils of cobwebs that hung from the ceiling.

a cest pour vous, said my guide. He thrust the flashlight at me. As I took it, he brushed past me.

What I began to call out.

Before I could finish my question, the man snapped, Il vous rencontrera ici. And then he was gone, leaving me alone, fifty feet underground, a solitary human being standing in a sea of the dead.

I T WAS ONE OF THOSE DAYS you find yourself wishing was over before youve got even ten minutes into it. It started when my eyes opened and I noticed an alarming amount of sunlight seeping in under the bedroom blinds. You know, an eight-a.m. amount of lightnot a seven-a.m. amount of light. My alarm had not gone off. That realization was followed by twenty minutes of panicked cursing and shouting and crying (my six-year-old son did the crying) as I careened around the house, from bathroom to kitchen to front door, trying to gather all the ridiculous bits of stuff Adam and I needed for the rest of our day. As I pulled up in front of his school forty-five minutes later, Adam shot me a reproachful look.

Mom says if you keep dropping me off late at school on Mondays, I wont be able to stay over Sunday nights anymore.

Oh, boy.

Last time, I said. Last time, I promise.

Adam was sliding out of the car now, a doubtful expression on his face.

Here, I said, holding up a bulging plastic bag. Dont forget your lunch.

Keep it, Adam said, not looking at me. Im not allowed to bring peanut butter to school.

And then he turned on his heel and raced through the deserted school playground. Poor kid, I thought as I watched his little legs pumping toward the front door. Nothing worse than heading into school late, everyone already in class, the national anthem blaring through the hallways. That and no lunch to boot.

I threw the plastic bag onto the passenger seat and sighed. Another custodial weekend had come to an inglorious end. I had, apparently, failed spectacularly as a husband. Now it appeared that I would fail with equal flamboyance as a separated dad. From the moment I picked Adam up, I seemed to provide an unending series of disappointments. Despite the fact that all week I felt Adams absence like a missing limb, I invariably arrived late on Fridays. The promised treat of pizza and a movie was dampened by the tuna sandwich that Annisha made Adam eat as his dinner hour came and went. And then there was my phone, which chirped incessantly, like it had a bad case of hiccups. It beeped during the movie, and when I was tucking Adam into bed. It beeped during our breakfast of slightly burned pancakes, and while we walked to the park. It beeped as we picked up takeout burgers, and all through story time. Of course the beeping wasnt the real problem. The real problem was that I kept picking the thing up. I checked my messages; I sent responses; I talked on the phone. And with each interruption, Adam became a little quieter, a little more distant. It broke my heart, yet the thought of ignoring the thing, or turning it off, made my palms sweat.

As I raced to work, I brooded about the botched weekend. When Annisha had announced that she wanted a trial separation, it felt like someone had backed over me with a truck. She had been complaining for years that I never spent time with her or Adam; that I was too caught up with work, too busy with my own life to be part of theirs.

But how, I argued, does leaving me fix any of that? If you want to see more of me, why are you making sure that you see less?

She had, after all, said she still loved me. Said she wanted me to have a good relationship with my son.

But by the time I had moved into my own apartment, I was bruised and bitter. I had promised to try to spend more time at home. I had even begged off a company golf tournament and a client dinner. But Annisha said that I was only tinkeringI wasnt committed to fixing what was wrong. Every time I thought of those words, I clenched my teeth. Couldnt Annisha see how demanding my work was? Couldnt she see how important it was for me to keep moving ahead? If I hadnt been putting in the kind of hours I was, we wouldnt have our great house, or the cars, or the awesome big-screen TVs. Well, okay, I admit itAnnisha didnt give a damn about the TVs. But, still.

I made a promise to myself thenI will be a great separated dad. Ill lavish attention on Adam; Ill go to all the school events; Ill be available to drive him to swimming or karate; Ill read him books. When he phones at night, Ill have all the time in the world to talk with him. Ill listen to his problems, give advice and share jokes. Ill help him with homework, and Ill even learn to play those annoying video games he likes. Ill have a wonderful relationship with my son, even if I cant have one with my wife. And Ill show Annisha that Im not just tinkering.

The first few weeks apart, I think I did pretty well. In some ways, it wasnt so hard. But I was shocked by how much I missed both of them. I would wake up in my apartment and listen for the tiny voice I knew wasnt there. I would pace around at night thinking, This is the time when I might be reading a bedtime story. This is when I might give Adam his good-night hug. And This is the moment I would be crawling into bed with Annisha, the moment I would be holding her in my arms. The weekends couldnt come soon enough for me.

But as the months ticked on, those thoughts began to fade. Or, more truly, they were crowded out by everything else. I would bring work home each evening or stay at work late. When Adam called, Id be tapping away on my computer and hearing only every other sentence. Whole weeks would go by without me thinking once about what he might be doing during the days. When the school break came, I realized that I hadnt booked any time off to spend with him. Then I scheduled a client dinner on the night of Adams spring school concert. I also forgot to take him for his six-month dental cleaning, even though Annisha had reminded me just the week before. And I started to show up late on Fridays. This weekend was just another installment of quality time that was anything but.