A Quiet Book That Echoes Loudly

When I first finished reading Han Kang’s The Vegetarian, I felt unsettled. The prose was stark, the story disturbing, and the protagonist’s transformation bewildering. But as time passed, the novel lingered in my mind like a quiet echo.

Beneath its surface of psychological unraveling lies something else entirely: a spiritual undercurrent, subtle but powerful.

Madness or Ascension?

The story centers around Yeong-hye, a South Korean woman who, after a haunting dream, refuses to eat meat. This seemingly simple decision spirals into a full rejection of her body, her roles, and the human world around her.

Her family sees her transformation as stubbornness and then as mental illness. But the further I sat with the novel, the more I began to wonder what if her journey is not a descent into madness, but an ascent into something sacred?

Vegetarianism, Fasting, and Jain Philosophy

In Jainism, and more broadly across Indian spiritual traditions, vegetarianism is not a sign of defiance or dysfunction as showed in the book but it is a virtue. A commitment to ahimsa, or non-violence. A conscious choice to respect other living beings.

And then there’s Santhara: the Jain practice of fasting unto death, performed with serenity and detachment, often by elderly monks or nuns. Far from being viewed as morbid or insane, it is seen as a sacred farewell to the body, a final act of detachment.

A Mirror of Moksha

Yeong-hye’s behavior begins to echo these ideals. She gives up food, sex, speech, and her societal roles of wife, daughter, woman. Not in despair, but as a rejection of the violence and objectification she’s endured.

She wants to become a tree. To photosynthesize. To merge with nature and live without harm. “I don’t need food,” she says. “I absorb sunlight.” Her longing is not for death. It is for stillness. For peace. For a kind of moksha, freedom from the human world.

Who Gets to Define Madness?

Here’s the paradox:
A Jain monk who fasts unto death is revered.
Yeong-hye is institutionalized.

This contradiction forces us to ask: how much of what we call madness is shaped by cultural interpretation?

• A monk walking barefoot to avoid harming insects is considered enlightened.
• A woman in Seoul who stops eating and removes her bra is labeled mentally unstable.
• A monk fasting unto death is celebrated. A woman doing the same is sedated.

A Parable, Not a Tragedy

The Vegetarian may not be a tragedy after all. It could be a parable about the cost of non-conformity, about the quiet violence we normalize in human lives, and about the blurred line between suffering and transcendence.

Yeong-hye’s journey may not be named Santhara, but in spirit, it holds the same longing:

To cause no harm.
To leave the body behind.
To return to stillness.

Final Reflections

This novel made me reflect deeply on the power of perspective:

• Why is renunciation praised in saints and punished in women?
• Why are behaviors called “spiritual” in one context, “pathological” in another?
• Who decides whether someone is broken or becoming free?

So much of what we hold dear, our perspectives, even our sense of right and wrong, may be nothing more than conditioning shaped by the society we live in. And perhaps that’s why those beliefs shift in a different culture or country.

What one society reveres, another might call madness.

So then, is our perspective truly our own? Or merely a reflection of our conditioning?

The Vegetarian doesn’t offer easy answers. But it invites us to see the world differently.

Sometimes, what we call madness may just be misunderstood meaning.

Madness or Moksha? A Spiritual Reflection on The Vegetarian and Jainism was originally published in Be Yourself on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I used to be in love

With you,

I looked forward

To your visits

All I wished on my birthdays

Was for you

To grace me with your presence,

I loved the idea

Of bathing in the droplets

You showered on us.

I loved the idea

Of being stuck at home

With a book,

While you fell incessantly

Cleaning the roads,

And the dust that made home

On the buildings and trees,

Making everything around me,

My favourite shade of green.

I loved the idea,

Of being stuck at a place unknown

When you flooded the roads,

With a stranger

To start a new love story.

How times have changed

How I have changed

Now, I dread you.

For your presence means

No cook.

No help.

Managing household tasks,

All on my own.

It means constant chatter

Of a 4-year-old.

For a while, you love it,

But then you just want

To talk to yourself.

But more importantly,

Incessant rains mean

Ruined crops,

Houses flooded with water,

Drowning cattle,

Outbreak of diseases

And deaths all around.

When I was younger,

I romanticized you.

I wasn’t hyper-connected.

I didn’t read news.

I lived in the moment

And in the space surrounding me.

I was blissfully oblivious.

But now, with news & videos

I become painfully aware

Of the realities you bring us.

Was I more blessed

In my ignorance?

The idea of your incessant presence,

Oh rains..

Is no more a dream come true

It’s a nightmare realized.

When I fell out of love was originally published in Be Yourself on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Walking on a steep grey path
Going down,
Amongst lush green grass,
Adorned with flowers
Yellow, indigo, violet
Purple, pink, white.

Facing the mountains
Green, grey and white,
Covered in daises,
And covered in snow;
With the skies so blue
And the clouds so grey,
I wonder if this is
What heaven looks like.

Then, as moments pass,
It starts to rain.

The roads turn black
And the greens turn darker.

The winds sway the flowers,
First gently and then hard.

The flowers fall,
The grass struggles,
And so do I,
As I try to traverse
The steep uphill road
Amidst unrelenting rains
And breakneck winds
To reach back home.

The view that once was
Clear and pretty,
Now turns hazy.

The charming path
Becomes tough to traverse.

This heaven on earth is,
Blessed by rains
Or cursed by it?

Is happiness always
Followed by tears
And vice versa?

Do all achievements
Come with struggles
And vice versa?

Is beauty always
Accompanied by thorns
And vice versa?

As I make my way home
Drenching and cold
I realize
I went to enjoy the views
But came back learning
Life lessons.

P.S.: This poem was written in Haute Nendaz, near Zermatt, when flash floods had hit Zermatt.

Circle of life was originally published in iPoetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am a storyteller,
Weaving tales of love.

Gathering personalities,
I weave characters.

Gathering feelings,
I weave emotions.

Gathering colours and landscapes,
I create a new world.

Characters visit the world of fiction.

They meet,
And they fall in love.

They immortalize,
A once-forgotten fantasy.

I am a storyteller,
Living in a world of fantasies,
Through the words on the screen,
And the ink on paper.

I create a hundred lives,
And bid them adieu,
When their time is up.

I may be a creator,
But as time passes,
My characters create me.

Now and then,
I lose myself.

Am I a version of the character?
Or is the character a version of me?

I live a thousand lives
And I die a hundred times.

I fall in love every monsoon.

I am hurt every winter
And I reunite with my lover every summer.

My role changes,
My story changes,
And as do my circumstances,
Every year.

I live a hundred lives
In one lifetime.

I am a storyteller.

Story of a storyteller was originally published in iPoetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sitting on the rocks

Amongst the greens,

With sprinkles of

Yellow and purple flowers,

Overlooking a blue lake,

Surrounded by mountains.

The cool air

Caresses my face,

The wind blows my hair,

The clouds and fog

Make this world seem dream-like.

The only sounds I hear are

Of a quacking duck

And the innumerable waterfalls

That surround me.

Their water touches the lake

And creates waves

Of different designs.

The ducks come and go.

The clouds pass by,

The wind blows them on.

As if in a hurry,

To reach somewhere.

But I here sit,

Still as a statue

Absorbing this moment,

My surroundings,

And all my random thoughts

Of love, loss and life,

Of who I was

And who I have become,

Before I go back

To my life

That’s like the wind

In a constant hurry,

Before I go back

To my life

Of constant chatter

And running around.

P.S.: This poem was written at Oescheninsee, a lake in Switzerland betwee Grindelwald and Zermatt.

Oescheninsee was originally published in Be Yourself on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sitting in the airplane,

Finding shapes,

Not in the stars of the sky,

But in lights of a city.

Sometimes I see a star

And sometimes a pot.

But it is when I start seeing

Letters and faces

of the people I love,

That I realize

I see the reflection outside

Of what I am inside.

Not just in the lights of the city,

But in my judgements,

In my interpretations

Of words, people & places.

So next time,

When a loved one,

Or a stranger

Shows anger

Or uses harsh words,

Instead of becoming upset

I will empathize,

And know that

It’s not about me,

It’s about them.

Reflections was originally published in iPoetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

To be a river
Or a rock,
I wonder,
As I observe them both
In this heavenly abode called the Himalayas.

If I were to be a river,
I would see wonderful sights,
Every passing second of my life.

I would go with the flow,
Unhindered by the stones or rocks,
Not weighed down
By the people or society
By bonds or relations.

I could keep moving on.

But, I need to keep moving
I won’t be able to stop,
To admire a sight,
Or talk to a rock.

But if I were to be a stone
I would get to observe,
Not multiple places,
But the same place
As time passes by
As generations evolve,
As buildings rise,
As humanity advances
I get to see history being made.

I would sit in my meditative state
And take it all in.

I would have everything I need
Warm sunshine on my face
Cool water on my back
And soft earth under my feet.

But, I would be stuck,
In the same place,
As time passes by me
And I become a mere observer.

Only watching,
Never contributing.

If I were to be a river
I would need to keep moving,
I would also cross
Hundreds of thousands
Of rocks and hurdles.

I would see the nature, the forests,
The temples, the yogis,
The good, the bad,
But I would never get time
To think about any of it,
To meditate
To be one with my surroundings.

My purity might even be lost on the way.

I would struggle and run
And fall on my face with force
But eventually,
I would leave the dirt behind.
I would get a chance,
To complete my journey,
And finally merge
Into the cosmic consciousness
Of the large sea.

I wonder,
What should I do?

Enjoy the past, present, and the future,
But be stuck in a lifetime
Like a rock?

Or struggle each day,
Face the knowns and unknowns
And complete my journey
For this life,
To eventually merge,
Into the cosmic consciousness
Like a river?

I would see wonderful sights,
Every passing second of my life.
I would go with the flow,
Unhindered by the stones or rocks,
Not weighed down
By the people or society
By bonds or relations.

I could keep moving on.
But, I need to keep moving
I won’t be able to stop,
To admire a sight,
Or talk to a rock.

But if I were to be a stone
I would get to observe,
Not multiple places,
But the same place
As time passes by
As generations evolve,
As buildings rise,
As humanity advances
I get to see history being made.
I have everything I need
Warm sunshine on my face
Cool water on my back
And soft earth under my feet.
But, I am stuck,

In the same place,

As time passes by me

And I become a mere observer.

Only watching,

Never contributing.

If I were to be a river

While I would need to keep moving,
I would also cross
Hundreds of thousands
Of rocks and hurdles.
I would see the nature, the forests,
The temples, the yogis,
the good, the bad.
My purity might even be lost on the way.
I would struggle and run
And fall on my face with force
But eventually,

I would leave the dirt behind.

I would get a chance,

To complete my journey,
And finally merge
Into the cosmic consciousness
Of the large sea.

I wonder,

What should I do?
Enjoy the past, present and the future
But be stuck in a lifetime
Like a rock?
Or struggle each day,
Face the knowns and unknowns
And complete my journey
To merge into the cosmic consciousness
Like a river?

To Be a River or A Rock? was originally published in iPoetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Nestled in the Himalayas,
Surrounded by pines and snow,
I sit in this warm heaven,
Of water and rum.

Lying in the jacuzzi
With the water so hot,
My body feels warm,
But my nose freezes up.

The vapour rises
And spreads around me,
Like clouds in the sky,
Only these vapours,
Warm and light,
Instead of making me shiver,
Envelop me in their being.

Tall regal windows
By the yellow pool chairs,
Under the large yellow chandelier,
That brightens up this warm cocoon,
Looking onto this heaven
Of mountains and pines
Of snow and vapour.

As I lay warm and spent
And close my eyes,
I wonder
If this is a dream or life.
I startle and open my eyes
Fearing it will be gone
And it is gone
But not in the poof of a dream
But in the cover of clouds
That promise snow
In the very near now.

Running Hot & Cold was originally published in iPoetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

How do I summarise
This charming little town?

Whichever road you take,
The well-known one
Or the path untaken,
You come upon a square,
With lovely cafés.

You find everything you want
In this charming little town.
From large chains
To small boutiques,
From old-world trains
To luxury cars,
From red-roofed houses
And old world architecture
To new-age shops,
From ice creams
To beers.

And if all that wasn’t enough
We chanced upon a garden,
More like a forest
Filled with trees
And a meadow in between.

Teenagers play new games,
And the elderly reunite,
As I sit on its antique bench
And take in the beauty of Graz,
With a cappuccino in my hand.

And then, when I think
I have seen it all, I find,
A wonderful peak
With the most mesmerising view
Of this charming city.

A hike to the top,
Arduous but beautiful,
Is rewarded with a vibe
That I have rarely experienced,
Of locals picnicking
On a Monday evening
With beer and chips,
Some dancing,
Some flirting,
And some chatting.

While others like me,
Simply enjoying
With a beer in hand,
The views unfolding,
Of the sunset across the sky;
The winds blowing my words,
And taking it to the city square;
The beats and the music,
Of the live band;
The new beginnings
Of Friendships and loves,
New bonds being formed
Between mothers and daughters;
And the celebration of life & love
By families and strangers.

Graz was originally published in iPoetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A city that reminds me

Of a town,

Vienna,

The one with cool winds

And cooler heads.

On a Sunday,

Everyone gets a break,

The city shuts down,

As if on a curfew.

No shoppers or eaters

Roaming on the streets,

All establishments shut

And everyone stays home.

For an outsider

Vienna seems forlorn,

Like their city did during the lockdown.

But for insiders,

It is a paradise

As they enjoy time with family

At home.

Even on a Monday,

There is no hurry,

No running behind a bus or a train

No speed walking down the pathways.

Those going to the office or school,

Stroll at their pace,

Enjoying the winds

And the sun,

And their coffee in breaks.

They work at their pace

Enjoying the task at hand,

Undisturbed by the distractions,

As if in a mystic flow.

They cycle, calm and slow,

Not in a hurry to reach their destination

For them, the journey

Seems to be their destination.

Not formal wear,

No big cars or big frills

Just them in their shorts and ts

Going about their day

Like it’s a treat.

Living their lives

In a pause,

They teach me

How to take a break,

And learn how to walk slow,

To enjoy every moment,

Whether on vacation,

Or at work.

They teach me

To lessen my agendas

To leave behind the past

And let the future rest

To be in the present,

In this here and now.

I learn to sit still,

Immerse myself in the now,

Enjoy my surroundings,

And the words I read;

Stopping for a coffee

Every now and then.

Vienna was originally published in iPoetry on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.