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There was privilege in having an average life, she rationalized. Not needing to process extreme highs or lows meant security.
This is our work, in service of all those that need us.” “Bare necessities and humble lives,” Tulsi said, repeating their philosophy on materialism. “We’re comfortable,” Devi added. “We don’t need more.” You don’t. Tulsi regretted her inner voice. She did want more. Not shoes or handbags. But . . . that was the problem. She didn’t know. It was the most irritating kind of discontent, one without aim or goal.
Most people had interests, ambitions, motivations. Tulsi pursued nothing, merely went in whatever direction she was pointed toward. She had interests. What she lacked was passion.
Tulsi believed in the work. She just didn’t want to commit her whole life to serving others. Her grandmother and mom had done nothing else, and they’d impressed on Tulsi that it was the calling all the women who came before them had answered. Tulsi often wondered if any of them had been restless, reluctant. Wished for something more.
“What was one thing that interested you and one thing that bored you during the day?”
How could she explain when she didn’t know how? That there had been a gap, a missing part that had always made her wonder. It was the unknown that had beckoned her. She sat again. She didn’t know what she wanted in life, because she’d known only half of who she was.
