118 GQ.COM.AU FEBRUARY 2017
Itriedtoformulateanygoodreasonwhy
nottodestroyallofourmothballedphones.
Icouldhearmyself,tryingtoparent, and
yet I was so dopey with fatigue.
“I don’t think it’s a great idea,” I said.
“Thanks, Dad!” he blurted.
“OK... What?”
“We’ll be careful!”
Ididn’thaveanyfightinme,fellbackon
mypillow,drooling.IcouldpictureiPhones
tumblingarse-over-titfromgreatheights,
screenssmashing.Idaresaymyannoyance
faded, imagining my son doing violence to
technology,freeinghimselfofallthatdigital
anxiety,theFOMO-spasmsofunhappiness.
Ihopedthatonedayhemightlookback
and think that this was the moment the
revolutionbegan.Afterall,ifstudiesare
right,themoredigitallyconnectedweare,
themoreisolationanddoomweseemtofeel.
WhatIadmiredmostinmysonwashis
unconsciousdesiretosmashoneofthegods
ofouraddiction.Ifanything,I’dcomeover
11,000km in part to kill my phone, too. And
to defrag my mind. Not just from the neon
bombardmentofourconsumerismbutin
fullawarenessthatwe’veenteredanewera
ofseemingnoreturn:ofrandomshootings,
nastypoliticsanddailytragedy.Wasit
even possible to find the gate back to some
simpler Garden? So my pilgrimage possessed
its own slightly cockamamie aspiration:
I was wondering if, in this modern world
ofours,onemighthavetheaudacitytostart
acontagionbypursuingaFOMO-lessstate
ofretrobliss?Tocureourillsbyvisiting
amonkonhismountaintopinNepal,in
searchofthekeystoultimatehappiness.
In Nepal, then, happiness first manifested
itselfasaKathmandutaxidriver.Bumping
over the dirt-packed byways of Boudha to themonastery, he kept yelling his “hellos” out
the open window of his tiny Maruti Suzuki.
Travellingatthespeedofaturtle,wepassed
amakeshifttentvillage–madeofmaterial
leftbehindbytheUN–peoplestillhomeless
from the 2015 earthquake. We hit a pothole,
andmyheadsmackedtheceiling.Hewas
smiling in the rearview mirror, not at my
injury–justbecausehecouldn’tstopsmiling.
Thewholethingseemedlikeafilmin
whichtheprotagonistemergesfromaland
ofslateandsnow,afteralonghibernal
slumber, to a world of bright colours and
flutteringprayerflags.Butitwasn’tall
wonder.Throughthewindow,too,appeared
pilesofrubbleandscaffoldedbuildings,other
structures cracked and abandoned. A haze
ofairpollution–mostlydust–settledthickly
inthevalley,badenoughthatpeople wore
bandanas over their mouths.
Asitturnedout,themonkIwassearching
forwasn’tjustanymonk.Hisnamewas
MatthieuRicard.Afewweeksearlier,I’d
beenhalf-listeningtothenewsinmykitchen,
lettingitwashoverme–allbulletsand
belittlements–andperkedupatthewords
‘happiestmanintheworld’.Ididn’tcatch
hisnamethatfirsttime.Buthowcouldyou
notgooglethat?Howcouldyounotwonder
whathe’dfoundinourmodern onslaught to
be so damn happy about?
TheHappyOne–thisMatthieu–had
writtenaslewofbooks,includingonecalled
Happiness.Iorderedit.Readit.Therewas
nothing softheaded or self-helpy about it.
Hispictureappearedonthebackflap,abald
man,tryingdespitehimselftolookalittle
serious. But the flicker in his eyes and curve
of his mouth were saying, “Nope, can’t do it.”
He couldn’t control his own bemusement.
“Happiness is a skill,” he wrote. “Skillsmustbelearned.”BorntoafamousFrench
intellectualfather–inahomewherethe
likesofIgorStravinskyandLuisBuñuel
cameandwent–Ricardhadturnedhis
backonboththelifeofabon vivantParisian
andacareerasacellulargeneticistatthe
PasteurInstitute,anddisappearedintothe
monasteriesandmountainsofnorthern
Indiain1972,attheageof26,tostudyat
thefeetofthegreatBuddhistmasterswho’d
fledTibet.(Hislastgreatteacher,Dilgo
KhyentseRinpoche,hadlived30yearsin
acaveandstood7ft.)Now,at70,Ricard
wasaninternationalstar,askedtodo350
eventsayearandcountlessinterviews.He
crisscrossed the globe, hobnobbed with the
DalaiLama.Thedemandsonhistimewere
ridiculous, and increasingly kept him from
importantmonk-ythingssuchasmeditating
and kindnessing and combating all bad global
karmawithgoodkarma,superhero-monk-
style. He said he’d writtenHappinessas a
responsetothequestionofamanwho’drisen
fromthecrowdataneventinHongKong
andasked,“Canyougiveme one reason why
Ishouldgoonliving?”
Starkasthatquestionwas,2016raised
abevyofstarkquestionsaboutourown
humanity.InParisandOrlando,Niceand
Istanbul,theworldwasbadlyshakenup.
We were tossed headfirst into a growing
maelstrom of violence, both physical and
verbal.Howcouldhappinessflourishina
suckyworld?Andhowcouldwefinditagain?
Onawhim,I’dsentRicardanemail,and
tomysurpriseheardrightback.He,too,felt
we’d reached a critical moment, and that it
wasimportanttorevisitanotherquestion
he’dposedinhisbook:“Arewesupposedto
come to terms with unhappiness rather than
makeagenuineandintelligentattemptto
untangle happiness from suffering?”
Happiness was “a flourishing”, he said,
aluminoussortofwellbeingknownin
Sanskrit assukha.Itresided,rightthere,
withinus.Butwehadtofindawaytofree
andnurtureit.Toquitourgrasping.This
sukha,ifmetabolised,wasall-powerful.With
it, the Buddhists believed, walls could fall,
life itself might be resanctified.
Perhapsitsoundedsillyandimpossible
–perhapsnot–butwhenheansweredmy
email,“Yes,come,”Iwasonaplanebefore
hecouldtaketheinvitationback.
When we arrived at the Shechen
monastery,Ilookedforamannamed
Sanjeev.Hewastheonewhowasgoingto
givemealift,toreachtheHappyOneon
hismountain.Sanjeev,whowasn’tamonk,
wasinchargeofwhatRicardhadpartially
helpedtobuild–avastoperationatthe
monasterythatincludedahealthclinicand
school, a centre for the sacred arts, and 500MyfirstnightinKathmanduIwas
startledfromadeadman’ssleepbythe
ringingofmyphone.Ifumbledforit,
bracingmyselffortheworst.Itwasmy
youngestson.“Hi,Dad,”hesaidcheerily.
He’dfoundapileofantiquesmartphones
(fromthelatenoughties)inaclosetand
wantedtoknowifheandafriendcould
drop them from his bedroom window, in
orderto“explodethem”on our driveway.
It was important, he said.