Their suffering is mine and ours

There are many incidents that people narrate about Sri Ramana Maharshi.  Even if they are not true, they have immense lessons on humanity itself.  One is this: In some context, Ramana Maharshi was asked, "what about others?"  To which he had the simplest of responses ever that says it all: There is no other.

The other is what empathy is about.

We are living through some extraordinarily difficult times all over the world, and the pain of the other is everywhere we turn to--the newspapers, television, Twitter, Facebook ... If we are lucky enough as of now, as I am, we are able to talk and write about it, fully aware that the virus could get to us too at some time.  If that happens, then we hope that others would empathize with us.

I have blogged in plenty about empathy.  Over the next few days, I will draw from them and re-post them.  Most of them had political messages that were often explicit.  When re-posting, I will edit out the political in order to stay focused on empathy during these challenging times.

Here's one from June 2017:
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As I pulled into the parking spot, I noticed her.

About thirty years old.  She was in the driver seat, with nobody else in her car.  The left hand held the smartphone to her ear, and the right hand was gesticulating, a lot.

And then I saw her face.

She was crying.

She then wiped away the tears that were flowing down.

What can this man do?  What can anyone do?

The world is a messy place.

While we can philosophize that our consciousness about ourselves and this world is nothing but a “user-illusion,” everyday life is not easy.  Our bodies ache.  Our minds ache.  She cries in the public, with her vehicle giving her a private space.  Most cry at home. Or even on Facebook.

I imagined walking up to her car and knocking on the window.  "Are you alright?"  She would probably say that she was fine.  "I'm ok, thank you."

Instead, I slowly got out of my car, and stole a glance at her.  She was gesticulating and crying.

"If she is there even when I return, I will check on her," I told myself.

I considered picking up a chocolate bar for the distraught one.  I decided against.

Her vehicle was gone when I returned.

I started driving back home.  The light turned red, and I stopped.

The homeless man held up his cardboard sign.  I acknowledged his presence with a nod.