The Four Ashramas of Life

Four different pairs of hands reached for chopsticks. They belonged to four generations of one family, sitting down to the evening meal at an old wooden table.

Four bowls of rice sent up steam.

At one corner, the small grandchild, about eight years old, ate with head bent over a notebook, mouthing a lesson not yet learned by heart. Beside the child, the young father held a crying baby in one arm and picked clumsily at his food with the other hand, unable to sit still for a single minute. Across from them, the grandfather ate slowly, now and then looking over his children and grandchildren, with the eyes of a man getting ready to hand something on. And at the head of the table sat the eldest woman, quiet, with only one small bowl of rice and a few vegetables in front of her. Hers was still the most peaceful face at the table.

The grandmother, the young father's mother, sat in the middle and looked slowly around the table.

And she realized something.

She had once heard it said that a human life passes through four stages. Hindus call these four stages the four ashramas. In Sanskrit, ashrama originally means a place of rest, a stopping place on a journey. And strangely, right here at this table, all four stages were sitting together.

She looked first at the eight-year-old grandchild.

The child was in the first stage, called Brahmacharya, the stage of the student. The notebook lay open beside the rice bowl. Question followed question. Everything fell into the child's head the way water sinks into dry earth, soaking up all that the grown-ups said. This was the age of teachers, of discipline, of practicing how to do what is right. The ancients said this stage was for paying a debt of knowledge: study hard, so that one day the student knows how to give back.

Then she looked at the young father, the busiest person at the table.

He was in the second stage, called Grihastha, the stage of the householder. A small child, a job, aging parents, all at once. He was the first to rise and the last to sleep. And this, by the old teaching, was the most important of all four stages. Without the householder, no one at this table would have rice to eat. The child could study because of him. The old could rest in comfort because of him.

In this very stage, people pursue all four great aims of a human life. They live by what is right, earn the wealth that feeds the family, nurture love, and keep one corner of the spirit turned toward something higher.

Grihastha is often the stage that is hardest to love. But without it, no other stage could stand.

She looked at the grandfather, eating slowly, his eyes warm.

He was in the third stage, called Vanaprastha. His children had grown. Grandchildren had been born. He had begun to step back one pace, not out of weariness, but because he knew the time had come to hand over the work. The name of this stage comes from the word vana, which means forest. He did not have to go into a real forest. Rather, his heart had begun to turn inward, gently letting go of things he once held tight, so that the young could step forward. It was a quiet readiness, without a single sigh.

And last, she looked at the eldest woman at the head of the table.

The old woman was in the fourth stage, called Sannyasa. She carried very little. She needed very little. Before her sat only a small bowl of rice. Yet she was the most at peace of anyone there. This was not a leaving of anyone. It was an arrival. She had lived enough, loved enough, given enough, and so her heart was now wide and clear, like still water. She sat there, close to her children and grandchildren, and yet seemed to be touching something very far away and very deep.

The grandmother sat in the middle of the table, silent.

Four people at one table. Four stages of one journey.

Vietnamese has a lovely phrase for a scene like this: tứ đại đồng đường, four generations under one roof. To her, it was the most vivid picture of the four ashramas. The child was learning. The father was carrying. The grandfather was stepping back. The eldest woman was at peace. No stage stood above another. No bowl of rice was more precious than another.

They were simply four different chapters of one lovely story.

And the evening meal kept steaming, holding all four chapters together, warm beneath one roof.