MC the BodhiJivi

FROM GODHIJIVI TO BHODIJIVA: THE TROPHY DISCIPLE

MC’s story began the way all great tragedies begin: with purity, innocence, and a mother so central to his existence that the phrase “mother is his life partner” wasn’t metaphorical—it was a lifestyle. Godhiji wasn’t just the emotional core of the household; she was the gravitational field that prevented MC from floating off into the void of adulthood. Every decision he made, every step he took, and every breathtaking mistake he committed radiated from her like badly planned satellites.

As long as he remained in Godhiji’s lap—literal or symbolic—MC was the idealized Godhijivi: obedient, predictable, sheltered like an endangered species. But the universe, in its twisted sense of humour, eventually forced him to interact with people. And that’s where the spiral began.

He discovered early that he had a gift: the uncanny ability to treat human beings like apps. Install when needed, uninstall when bored, forget the password when guilt intruded. Utility-driven affection became his north star.

First was Whine-ah, the Veronica archetype—glamorous, demanding, and operating at a pitch only bats and insecure men could appreciate. She commanded every space she entered, including MC’s brain. He mistook her loudness for leadership, her insults for intimacy, and her demands for destiny. Eventually, when her drama became repetitive enough to feel like reruns, MC quietly closed the tab and never reopened it.

Then arrived Sa-Re-Sa, his Betty parallel—the girl who radiated kindness the way streetlamps radiate insects. She was warm, nurturing, dangerously forgiving. She listened to MC’s existential nonsense with genuine sympathy. Naturally, MC treated her like a comfort service one could access during emotional outages. He used her soft stability until he grew bored of being understood, then drifted away like a balloon released purely to watch it vanish.

Flame was different. Flame didn’t speak—she issued ruling orders. She didn’t date MC—she managed him. For a brief period, MC thrived under her micromanagement; being commanded made him feel relevant. But two weeks of intense scheduling later, he escaped the relationship by the only tactic he’d mastered: strategic disappearance. Flame replaced him with a calendar reminder and moved on.

As for Tom, the “brainless twit” he once dismissed casually—she evolved. Corporate life sharpened her, polished her, inflated her worth. Suddenly, she had a job title and people to boss around. MC tried to reenter her story, but Tom had achieved enlightenment in the form of zero availability. She politely ignored his attempts. Her emotional escape was so complete MC almost respected it.

Through all this, MC drifted through life with one absolute: mother is his life partner, the only relationship he didn’t sabotage, complicate, or outsource. She accepted him wholly, the one person who didn’t require spin, performance, or theatrics.

And then came the Guru.

The Guru didn’t levitate, didn’t glow, didn’t chant. What he did was something far more powerful—he curated disciples like luxury items. And MC, for reasons unknown to science or spirituality, became his trophy piece.

The Guru didn’t need MC. He displayed MC.

At gatherings, he would gesture to MC like someone unveiling limited-edition merchandise.
“This,” he would say, “is my disciple.”

Disciples around them assumed this meant MC was spiritually advanced. But the truth was simpler: MC matched the Guru’s aesthetic. His confused devotion, his wounded puppy energy, his ability to nod solemnly at cryptic statements—all of it contributed to his trophy appeal.

MC became the highlight of the Guru’s showcase. When donors visited, the Guru subtly positioned MC where the light hit him flatteringly. When rival spiritual leaders arrived, the Guru casually mentioned that MC had left all worldly attachments behind (excluding, of course, his mother, his temper, his issues, his inability to delete old texts, and every emotional dependency he ever nurtured).

MC, being MC, interpreted this display as divine favoritism. He mistook being a decorative asset for enlightenment. He believed the Guru saw potential in him. What the Guru actually saw was shelf value.

While other disciples did chores, meditated, cooked, cleaned, and tended the ashram gardens, MC had a different job: exist in the Guru’s vicinity looking spiritually promising. He sat like a well-trained statue beside the man during discourse. He nodded during silences. He widened his eyes on cue. He perfected the serene half-smile of someone trying to understand philosophy but mostly thinking about snacks.

He became Bhodijiva not through transformation, but through display—an accessory in the Guru’s Himalayan showroom of spiritually confused artifacts.

And yet, in rare moments of clarity, MC realized something profound:
Neither Whine-ah nor Sa-Re-Sa nor Flame nor Tom nor the countless humans he had cyclically used and abandoned ever truly claimed him.

Only two beings ever did:

Godhiji, because mother is his life partner.
The Guru, because a trophy without a shelf is just clutter.

And thus MC’s journey—from Godhijivi to Bhodijiva—was completed. Not through wisdom. Not through liberation. But through the discovery that he was not meant to understand the universe.

He was meant to accessorize it.

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