Man is Just a Ritual
- Apr 16
- 5 min read
A deep dialogue between Basu, a weary seeker, and Madhukar, a serene hermit in the hills of Yelmadagi.
---
It is early morning. Mist hangs over the trees. A stone path winds through wildflowers toward a humble mud hut shaded by an old banyan tree. Basu, dusty from his journey, approaches Madhukar, who is seated quietly, grinding soaked millets on a flat stone.
---
BASU:
Madhukar… I walked for hours to ask you something. But now that I’m here, the question feels silly.
MADHUKAR (without looking up):
Then ask it. The questions that survive the journey are rarely silly.
BASU:
I don’t know how to say it elegantly, but—
I feel like everything we do…
eating, greeting, grieving, talking, even appreciating beauty—
it’s all just rituals.
Not in the religious sense, but…
empty repetitions we dress up as meaning.
MADHUKAR (smiles faintly):
Not silly at all.
That’s the first intelligent ache of awakening.
When you realize the world isn’t random—
it’s ritualistic.
Not because someone designed it that way,
but because humans need rhythm to hold chaos.
---
I. THE RITUAL OF BEGINNINGS
BASU:
So even this—me coming here, sitting at your feet, seeking answers—
This too is a ritual?
MADHUKAR:
Yes.
The ritual of seeking.
You’re not the first to sit there.
They all begin the same—
dusty, thirsty, full of questions.
It’s how we honor the sacred hunger.
Even your body has rituals.
Heartbeat. Breath. Sleep.
Digestion is ritual. Menstruation. Tears. Touch.
The beginning of everything you call “life”
is a ritual.
Even birth is a choreography of cries, cuts, and cords.
BASU:
Then… meaning is not in the content, but in the rhythm?
We repeat to remember?
We ritualize to not drown in chaos?
MADHUKAR:
Yes.
Rituals are how the soul speaks to the unknown.
Like a language older than language.
---
II. RITUALS OF THE EVERYDAY
BASU:
But why do we even greet each other the same way every day?
Ask how you are, smile the same smile, drink the same tea?
Why do we sit at the same spots, tell the same jokes?
Are we… afraid of freshness?
MADHUKAR:
We’re not afraid of freshness.
We’re afraid of emptiness.
And repetition masks emptiness beautifully.
The tea is a ritual.
Not for thirst—
but for returning.
To self. To comfort. To familiarity.
People ask “how are you?” not to get an answer—
but to say:
“I see you. I remember you. I still have a place for you.”
When a man sits in his old chair, staring out,
it’s not because he loves the view—
he’s entering a sacred rhythm where the world slows down.
It’s a way of praying without speaking.
---
III. RITUALS OF LOVE
BASU:
So even love is a ritual?
MADHUKAR:
Especially love.
The way you hold hands.
The goodnight kisses.
The scent of her scarf.
The pet names. The shared silences.
None of these are necessary for survival—
but we do them because love dies without ritual.
The moment lovers stop repeating their private rhythms,
they become strangers.
BASU:
That’s true…
My wife and I—we used to hum the same old song while cooking.
We haven’t done that in years.
Maybe love didn’t leave—
we just forgot its rituals.
MADHUKAR (softly):
Yes.
Love doesn’t end.
It just dries up in the absence of water.
Rituals are the water.
---
IV. RITUALS OF MODERN LIFE
BASU:
Then what about the rituals we didn’t choose?
Checking phones every 5 minutes.
Reading news that changes nothing.
Posting pictures for people we don’t know.
Are those rituals too?
MADHUKAR:
Yes, but they are hollow ones.
Rituals without roots.
Addictions are distorted rituals.
They mimic presence but multiply absence.
When you perform a ritual without awareness,
it becomes compulsion.
When done with ego, it becomes performance.
When done with love, it becomes worship.
When done with presence, it becomes liberation.
---
V. RITUALS OF GRIEF AND DEATH
BASU:
And grief?
Why do we light lamps, wear white, gather, chant, cry?
Why do we cremate in a certain way, pour ashes in a river?
MADHUKAR:
Because grief is too vast to comprehend.
Ritual shrinks the ocean to a cup.
It says:
“I don’t know how to live after this,
but I can light this lamp.”
It gives you something to do
when you can no longer be.
That’s what humans need in grief—
something to do,
because the pain is too much to simply hold.
---
VI. THE SACRED AND THE PROFANE
BASU:
But some rituals feel sacred,
and others just feel mechanical.
MADHUKAR:
Not the ritual,
but your presence makes it sacred.
Sweeping the floor, if done fully, becomes prayer.
A temple visit, done mindlessly, becomes tourism.
Sacredness is not in place or object.
It’s in how fully you show up.
---
VII. EVEN REBELLION IS RITUAL
BASU:
Then is anything outside ritual?
What about rebellion?
Breaking norms? Disrupting routines?
MADHUKAR:
Even rebellion follows a rhythm.
Every generation invents its own version.
Torn jeans. Loud music. New pronouns.
It’s all a ritual of defiance—
a way to say:
“I want to be seen differently.”
Even when we leave a tradition—
we begin another.
---
VIII. THE ULTIMATE RITUAL
BASU:
Then what’s the highest ritual, Madhukar?
The one that heals, anchors, liberates?
MADHUKAR (gazing at the morning light):
The ritual of witnessing.
To simply be present with whatever is—
without interference, judgment, or reaction.
That is the rarest ritual of all.
To sit with your breath.
To observe a leaf fall.
To witness your pain without needing to fix it.
To watch a thought come and go.
To live your life like a slow prayer.
That is the ritual that makes all others meaningful.
---
BASU (eyes moist):
Then all my life I have been ritualizing unconsciously.
Now I wish to live each act as if I’m bowing to the Infinite.
MADHUKAR (placing hand on Basu’s shoulder):
Then let that be your only ritual—
To remember what you are doing while you’re doing it.
Peeling a fruit.
Pouring water.
Tying your shoelaces.
Making love.
Saying goodbye.
Be present. That is enough.
---
The sun rises fully now. The grinding stone is clean. A gentle wind passes through the banyan leaves like a choir of whispering monks. Neither of them speaks again for a long time. Because even silence, when shared, is a ritual.
---
"Rehearsed Like Hell"
they wake up,
stretch like it’s a brand-new idea,
sip tea like it’s holy,
scratch their bellies with the seriousness of war.
they smile the smile they practiced in mirrors,
nod like gods of politeness,
ask “how are you?” and don’t care about the answer.
they die on repeat—
in boardrooms, bedrooms, bathrooms.
even their rebellion smells scheduled.
even their silence has script.
and if you scream,
they’ll say,
“that’s not how we do things here.”
i’ve seen rats more honest.
at least rats don’t pretend
to be enlightened while chewing through the same wire
every damn night.
