Chapter 5: Excess Baggage

We walked past the high-end boutiques and duty-free shops, moving toward the food court. The terminal was a river of humanity. People rushing, people waiting, people sleeping on uncomfortable chairs.

As we walked, we observed the stream of passengers rushing toward their gates. I stopped. I watched a young mother struggling to manage an overstuffed rolling bag that looked ready to burst, a heavy diaper bag sliding off her shoulder, and a toddler crying at her feet. Next to her, a man in a sharp suit breezed by, carrying only a slim laptop sleeve and walking away whistling.

"Unfair, isn't it?" Vinod said, coming up beside me.

"What is?"

"Life," he said, gesturing to the woman. "Look at her. Burdened. Struggling. And that guy just glides through."

He turned to me, his expression darkening. The lightness from our previous conversation had evaporated. The "Problem of Evil" is a heavy cloud; it always blocks the sun eventually.

"Sir," he said, "you told me earlier that God is a Person. A loving Father. The 'Sun' behind the sunshine."

"I did."

"Then explain this," he said, sweeping his hand toward the terminal, toward the world. "Why is there so much suffering? Why am I rich while my driver, who is a better man than me, can barely feed his kids? Why do children get cancer? If God is a Person... is He a cruel Person? Or is He just bad at His job?"

It was the question. The one that turns atheists out of believers. The one that breaks hearts.

I watched the woman pause to wipe sweat from her forehead, trying to balance the sliding bags.

"Vinod," I said gently. "Look at her luggage again."

"I see it."

"Did the airline force her to carry all that on board?"

Vinod frowned. "What?"

"Did the security guard force her to stuff those bags so full? Did they chain them to her shoulders against her will?"

"No," Vinod said slowly. "She packed them."

"Exactly," I said. "She packed them at home. She chose to put in the heavy shoes, the extra toys, the attachments. She could have checked them in, let them go, but she held onto them. And now, on the journey, she has to carry the weight of those choices."

I pointed to the whistling man with the light bag. "And he? He packed light. He made different choices before the trip. Now he has an easier walk."

Vinod looked at me, skepticism written on his face. "You’re talking about Karma."

"I am talking about physics," I corrected. "Action and reaction. Newton's Third Law. It applies to atoms, and it applies to consciousness."

"But a child with cancer?" Vinod pressed, his voice tight. "When did a child pack that bag? In the womb?"

"We are travelers, Vinod," I reminded him. "Remember the train? Remember the redevelopment? This life is not our first trip. We have been on many flights."

I leaned against a pillar, watching the woman struggle to pull her bag around a corner.

"The baggage you see people carrying—the poverty, the disease, the bad luck—these are suitcases from a previous trip. We packed them ourselves, long ago. We accumulated the weight. We acted in anger, or we acted in love. And when we start a new life... we still have to drag that luggage with us."

Vinod stared at the travelers passing by. "So it’s my fault? All of it?"

"It is your responsibility," I said. "There is a difference. 'Fault' sounds like blame. 'Responsibility' means power. If you packed it, you can unpack it. If you created this destiny, you can create a new one."

"But it feels so cold," Vinod said softly. "A God who just watches us suffer under our own luggage? Where is the love in that?"

"The love," I said, "is that He stays with you."

I turned to him. "Imagine you are that woman struggling with the heavy bag. God doesn't force you to carry it alone. He is walking right next to you. He is the Super-Consciousness in your heart. He is whispering, 'Let me help you. Put the bag down. Turn to Me.'"

I touched his arm. "But we are stubborn, Vinod. We grip the handle. We say, 'No! It's mine! My anger, my greed, my attachments. I will carry it!' And so He waits. He walks beside us, trip after trip, life after life, waiting for us to ask for help."

Vinod looked back down the hallway. A kind stranger had finally stepped in to help the woman lift her bag. She was smiling now, relieved.

"He allows the suffering," I said quietly, "because the suffering is the only thing that makes us look for a way out. If the bag was always light, we would never want to leave the airport. We would stay here forever, sleeping on the plastic chairs, eating stale sandwiches, forgetting that we have a real Home to go to."

Vinod remained silent for a long time. The harshness of the "unjust world" seemed to soften in the logic of the analogy. It wasn't random chaos. It was a school. A harsh school, maybe, but one with rules.

"I have a lot of luggage," he murmured finally. "I can feel it. Not poverty... but other things. Anger. Pride."

"We all do," I said. "That is why we are travelers. We are only in this terminal because we are holding onto desires we want to fulfill. That is our luggage. As long as we hold onto it, we are forced to keep taking flights. But if we dropped it... we would be Home." I checked my watch. We still had over an hour before boarding.

I gestured toward the food court again. "Come. Let’s get that food. You cannot carry heavy bags on an empty stomach."

He managed a small smile. "No. I suppose you can't."

We walked on. But I noticed he walked a little differently now. He wasn't strutting like a man who owned the airport. He was walking carefully, like a man who knew he was packing his suitcase for the next flight with every step he took.

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Next: Read Chapter 6: The In-Flight Meal