I stand before the statue. It is one of those hot summer afternoons. But Buddha’s face is smiling. His face ever so benign, ever so calm, as if it is saying, ‘you are welcome.’

‘So Siddhartha,’ I ask. ‘You are sitting up there on that high pedestal. Or is it that they have made you sit up there. They have made you God. Just imagine, you who remained silent when the question of God’s existence came up, himself becoming a God and worshipped. They seek your support and your guidance and what do you do? Just smile?’

‘O Siddhartha, I pity you because you cannot do anything. You cannot even run away.’

‘You had everything a man could dream of even in his wildest dreams—a prosperous kingdom, thousands of men to die at one command, a doting father, a caring wife and a son who had not even taken his first step. Yet leaving all of them was easy.’

‘But now, can you run away, Siddhartha?’

Buddha continues to smile. It is still benign but his eyes are indifferent. Looking nowhere in particular, they convey a sense of detachment, participating not even in the worshipper’s travails.

‘Tell me Siddhartha, why are you so indifferent? Have you grown weary of your seekers? I remember your last words—be light unto yourself—and they come in hordes seeking guidance from you. They unburden themselves before you and then leave.’

‘I am sure you must have become tired of your worshippers. Listening to their problems day in and day out is an uphill task—the foolishness of day to day existence and the wearied haggard souls crying for solace in any form.’

‘But don’t you feel the need to unburden yourself? Don’t you have any friends, Siddhartha? It could be quite lonely at the top and mighty boring listening to the absurdities of your seekers. But I wonder if you have a choice now.’

‘So be remain seated on that high pedestal which has become so elevated that everything below looks small, even petty. And get bored to death?’

Saying this I leave. It is still very hot outside but Delhi’s road is as usual busy. I feel dizzy not with nausea or with the heat but from the utter foolishness of living. It grips me by my neck. I want to speak, scream and shout my throat out, but the sound hardly escapes.

Slowly I reach for my bike, kick-start it haltingly, shift gears and take the road. I drive slowly and watch the concourse of humanity. Each single one of them look lost, moving towards their destination as if by habit perforce.

Suddenly I realise if Buddha were here, he would have revelled in this. For him the journey would have been as spectacular as the destination. Just then doubt grips me. Or is that he is above all this, indifferent to the journeys and the destinations, unaffected by the joys and the occupations? Or is it the attitude—stoic yet participative? It reminds me of the Buddha at the Tibetan Monastery near Inter State Bus Terminus. I knew he would still be smiling.