A JOURNEY THROUGH MY BOOKS

 

A JOURNEY THROUGH MY BOOKS

Of late and even earlier as long back as six years, when I wrote my first book ‘I am just An Ordinary Man’ the need to understand ‘Who am I’ slowly intensified, and naturally, this took me back down the years to my childhood from where I tried to trace my journey to who I had become and ultimately what I will be in the years to come. This was an inward journey and it took me back over the years to that little boy who would sit on the banks of the river Thamirabarani, with the others and feel the flow of the cool waters caress and the little fishes which were in abundance, nibble his feet. This was a vacation which I looked forward to every year to spend some time at my ancestral home. The memories of these annual vacations still inhabit the recesses in my brain, to be called upon, to relish in solitude and remind me of my roots.

It was a passage from Alex Haley’s book ‘Roots’ that set the momentum for my second book ‘Darkness and Beyond – A Medley of Many Lives’ where the longest story is titled ‘Roots’ and in which I first travel back to my ancestral house with the intention of selling it and realizing that one cannot erase away the generations and cut yourself off from the reality of who you are. Haley in his book says –

“In all of us there is a hunger, marrow-deep, to know our heritage- to know who we are and where we have come from. Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning. No matter what our attainments in life, there is still a vacuum, an emptiness, and the most disquieting loneliness.” – Alex Haley, Roots

 

‘Roots’ is not autobiographical but a fictional biography of my grandfather and his times. Most of what is written about Sankara, my grandfather, is true. It is fictional in the sense that I was only a baby six months old and never seen him. I reproduce some passages from the first story ‘Roots’ in my book ‘Darkness and Beyond’ –

‘This is where my grandfather lived till the end of his days, and this is where my father said he wanted to settle down after retirement. It was not that I had come in search of my roots or to relive those moments of my childhood which I had spent here, for that was a long time ago. Now I was quite comfortable and satisfied with where I lived. The trip was primarily commercial as the house was lying unoccupied for a long time: for more than three years now. I wanted to explore the possibility of selling it for whatever it was worth’

‘I had felt a strange presence when I first entered the house. It was as if someone was beckoning me to come inside. Now as I sat there, I felt the presence once again; only this time it was stronger. Beyond the silence in that room, I could hear the chanting of Sanskrit shlokas (prayers) emanating from the puja shelf. I remembered it was here that my grandfather used to sit and do his daily worship. I imagined him sitting there with the vibhuti (sacred ash) smeared across his dark forehead with his eyes closed as if he was in a divine trance. I remembered sitting near and watching him. I was too young when he passed away. Whatever I knew of him was through my father, mother, and grandmother. Now as I sat there, he seemed to come alive and the house once again resonated to the sounds and voices of those years gone by.’

‘Now when I look back, it is with a deep sense of sadness that I remember him. To me, he symbolized the last of a lost generation, a generation that took pride in belonging, a generation proud of its roots, its temples, and its Gods. It was strange, but Sambasivam uncle’s last words to me “I do not know when or whether we shall meet again” keeps ringing in my years even to this day. It was as if he had decided that he would keep his date with destiny in the village of his birth and the house of his ancestors and that his ashes would also be consumed in the sacred waters of the Thamirabharani.’

 

‘Autumn Leaves’ in a sense is a continuation of ‘Roots’ depicting the disintegration of the joint family system and the movement away from the villages necessitated by the need to seek a source of livelihood and the presence of opportunities outside our comfort zone, in the process moving further away from where our roots lie –

I needed answers to pull me out of this angst. I decided that it has to start with understanding myself and for that, I needed to go back to where it all started, my parents. And that was what took me to India, to search for the great Banyan tree under whose shade generations had come and gone, the sacred Peepal under which the Buddha attained realization, the burning ghats of Varanasi where one understood the meaning of life and death and the heights of the Himalayas which promised a peep into the unknown. -Autumn Leaves

The seed for my book ‘Autumn Leaves – Seasons of Life’ was sown when I sat listening to Nat King Cole singing ‘Autumn leaves’. The hauntingly captivating voice captured the poignancy of loneliness and a lost love. The falling leaves symbolized the drifting away of relationships, of life itself. Autumn or the Fall had always fascinated me with its colors, but at the same time, there was a despondency that it would soon come to an end. When I asked two of my friends their views as to what Autumn symbolized for them, one said it was the full attainment of all that life can offer you, with all its colors it was a ‘beautiful life’. The second view was that it represented sadness, as after all this achievement, the leaves would turn brown and fall to the ground, a symbol of our approaching end. Two divergent ways of looking at life itself. While the first reveled in the present moment, the second despaired at the approaching darkness.

A quote from Ernest Hemingway- ‘You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.’

 

Ultimately it is through Mrityunjay that I arrive at an understanding of what it is to live. The Diary of Mrityunjay in a sense is a chronicle of a man’s search for a meaning in life –

‘I have learned my lessons. I have realized that the world is real and our existence a necessity.  Life and death are certainties and so is all the gamut of emotions that we experience on our journey. The earlier we accept this, the easier would it be to live. One does not learn by moving away. One learns by sticking it out and facing the truth of our fallibilities and that alone is the only way to overcome them. I have also realized that relationships are pure when there is understanding and acceptance. Relationships are based on trust and empathy, to support each other and being there for each other.’

The journey through my four books has taken six years, but it has opened my eyes to the need to understand where I came from, what I have been, and where I will be going.

I thank all those who have been there with me on this journey, encouraged, understood, and accepted me for what I am.

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SISYPHUS AND I

 

SISYPHUS AND I

I sat under the shade of the banyan tree gazing at the lone figure rolling a rock up the hill. The sun was blazing hot and I was the only human in sight other than the figure which was now halfway up the hill. When at last he reached what appeared to be his destination, after a few hours, he paused, as if the task had been accomplished. All the while I sat in the shade watching, wondering what would happen. It was not only curiosity on my part but it was also a welcome escape from the boredom which had engulfed me. He had been there for only a few minutes when the rock started rolling down and came to rest at the bottom of the hill to the place where it had originally lain. I saw him walking down the hill following the path that the rock had taken. Still, I sat, not moving, more out of lethargy and listlessness.

I perked up as soon as I saw him come down and walk towards the stone. I knew that he would once again start rolling it up the hill for I had watched the same exercise being repeated over and again for a considerable period of time now, from dawn till noon, and I guess I felt more exhausted than the subject who was under my observation. Out of sheer exasperation and as beads of perspiration trickled down my face, I decided to accost him.

 “Hello,” I called out.

For a minute he seemed perplexed and stopped in his tracks. He then slowly turned towards me.

“Who are you?” he asked, annoyed at my intrusion.

“I am sorry. I have been here, sitting under the shade of that banyan tree since morning and my attention was drawn to your seemingly endless motion,” I replied.

“You still haven’t told me who you are. Have you been sent by the Gods to spy on me? In that case, God help you,” he threatened.

“No, no, no!” I cried out, “in fact, I am just an ordinary man and am on a journey to understand the meaning of life. Seeing you has made me wonder as to whether this is what life is all about.”

“Ha, ha, ha! You are a fool if that is what you are searching for. I don’t mean to be harsh, but that is the truth,” he replied, a hint of arrogance in his demeanor.

“Sorry, but can I talk to you? Hope you have some time to spare?” I asked.

“Strictly speaking, no. I guess I can spare some time for you since you seem to have been waiting here for quite a while. Whatever you have to say, make it quick. I have to get back to my work soon. But first tell me who are you?” he asked.

“I told you that I am just an ordinary man. For the moment I think that would suffice as I do not have anything great to talk about myself. You can say I am a representative of the majority of the people living in this world. But I am curious. Who are you?” I asked after mustering up enough courage. Despite the fact that he was tall, muscular, handsome, and reminded me of the sculptures of the Greek Gods, there was something intimidating about him, a pent-up fury in his eyes.

He looked at me with an amused look and said “I really don’t know how that is going to solve your problem. But since you seem so persuasive, I will tell you. My name is Sisyphus”.

“Sisyphus? I have heard that name before. Oh yes, now I remember. When I was reading stories from Greek mythology, I did come across a character named Sisyphus. Maybe you were named after him,” I said.

“What do you mean named after him? I am he, I am that Sisyphus,” he replied with a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. But how is it possible? If what you say is true, then you must be at least five thousand years old,” I said.

“How does it matter whether I am a thousand years or just a day old? Isn’t it all the same?”

“I am just curious, since it’s midday and you do not appear to slacken and stop this senseless exercise,” I said.

“You find my actions absurd?” he retorted.

“No, no. Not like that. You seem to be repeating the same thing over and over again,” I said.

“The sun and the moon have been doing the same thing day in and day out, ever since this world came into existence. So, what’s the big deal? My actions are similar to what they have been doing”.

“But they are heavenly bodies and not subject to our laws. You are still a human being, I presume.”

“Heaven and Hell, I have seen them all. They are no different from this world. And the Gods, they are no different from the human. They get angry and curse you if you go against their wishes and try to exercise your freewill. They reward you when you appease them through offerings by way of gold and sacrifice. Tell me how different is it from what you have here? But you see over the course of time I have gotten used to this routine. Now it does not affect me,” he replied.

“I don’t believe that. There must have been times when you had questioned the futility of your actions?” I asked.

There was a prolonged silence, I waited. I could see that he was in deep thought. I was sure that something disturbed him.

Breaking the silence, Sisyphus said “Initially I did not mind it. Of late I have wondered what was the purpose of all this. But the reality dawned on me that I did not have a choice as I had been punished by the Gods,” he replied.

“But don’t you realize that you are now an immortal and cannot die? Well, that must have banished all the fear of death,” I said.

He gave me a curious look and then laughed, and asked “Don’t you want to be an immortal also?”

I was caught off guard. I had never dwelt on the subject of immortality before. I was puzzled by the suddenness of his question and stared at him.

“Well take it from me, you are better off as you are. But tell me how you live, and what is it that you look forward to? We can then talk of immortality,” he said.

“Like any other human being in this world. I do my duties,” I replied.

“And what might they be?” Sisyphus continued.

“Well I look after my family, earn my living and father children. Of course, I want to achieve something and be somebody of consequence,” I replied.

“And why should that be?” he pursued relentlessly.

“I want my existence to mean something, something authentic,” I replied again.

“And do you think you have achieved something, and do you believe that you have enough time to achieve all that you want to? Do you have a goal?” he asked.

“I really don’t know. Every time I achieve something, it fades away, and I relentlessly chase other goals.”

“Let me ask you what your typical day is like?”

“That’s not really a question. I get up in the morning when the sun rises, have my breakfast, go to my place of work, have lunch, come back, relax, have dinner and then go to sleep as the night settles down,” I replied.

“And you want to carry on doing this endlessly?” he asked again.

“What else? Is there really a choice? These are the basic actions to keep us living,” I replied.

“Do you think there will be an end to this? I guess that you will grow old, maybe sickness strikes you, and one day your life comes to end. You die.”

“Yes, I guess that is what will happen?”

“Then why did you break the routine and come all this way and sit under the banyan tree? Is it because you found that it was absurd to carry on like this?” he asked.

“Yes, it is something like that,” I answered.

Suddenly he laughed and said “I know you are puzzled. You really do not know what it is to be an immortal. Believe me, immortality is a curse,” he said.

“But tell me truthfully, why did you have to leave a life you were leading and come over here, sit under that tree, doing nothing? I cannot understand. Were you also cursed by the Gods?” he continued.

“No, no, our Gods do not curse nor bless. They just watch the fun. You see if we ask them a question, they say that the answers have all been laid down in the scriptures and it’s our lookout how we interpret and live. In that sense, they do not interfere like your Gods. There are many others like me. Day in and day out we have been reduced to doing the same thing,” I replied.

He laughed again and this time louder. It echoed around all the rocks and hillocks surrounding us.

“So, your state is no different than mine. Then why did you call mine a senseless exercise?”

“I did say that, yes. And as I speak to you now, I am more convinced that it is so. You see yours is a futile exercise and there does not seem to be any end to your state of being. You do not have an option. For me, though my present condition is absurd, it cannot last forever since as mortals we die. We have a choice,” I said.

“You mean to say that as a mortal, you have a choice and as an immortal, I do not,” he asked.

“Exactly”.

“You mean there is no redemption for me?” he asked. His tone betraying an inkling of self-doubt.

“That depends on you. As long as you believe you are an immortal there is no redemption. In your own words, you said ‘Immortality is a curse’. Now looking at you I believe it is indeed so. But I believe that you can still beat it,” I said.

“And how is that?”

“A wise man once told me that when you are faced with the absurdity of life there are only two options. You end your life by committing suicide or rebel against the forces that seek to control you. His idea of the rebel is one who searches for order and clarity, and in the process comes into conflict with the universe. Maybe it is this conflict which would take him nearer to understanding this life. But I guess you do not have the option of ending your life since you are an immortal,” I said.

“So, you want me to stop what I have been doing all this while and go and sit under the tree and contemplate? Zeus will be enraged and punish me again, maybe something worse,” he replied.

“Does it really matter? You would make him sit up and take notice of what’s happening. Maybe he is waiting for you to think. In any case, something will happen, and that is better than continue in the state you exist now, till eternity.”

He remained silent and looked around him, maybe for the first time. I knew he was confused. For the first time since I came to sit under the banyan tree and then talk to Sisyphus, I saw the inklings of clarity dawn on me. Immortality was not unending existence, being exempt from death, but ultimately accepting one’s mortality and transcending death through an authentic and meaningful existence.

This was what I was waiting for. I decided that I should leave him to his thoughts which had for the first time occurred to him since he started rolling the rock up the hill.

“Is life really meaningless?” he asked me.

“It’s for you to find out. Now I shall leave.”

As I started walking back, I turned to look at him one last time. There he was sitting under the banyan tree and looking towards the top of the hill. Maybe contemplating on ways to overcome his predicament. Maybe it was for the first time he had moved away from the rock, lightening the burden he had been carrying for so long. I was sure he would find a solution.

I had found mine.

Image courtesy - sisyphus by thechewu watch digital art mixed media fantasy sisyphus 

 

 

 

 

 

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A QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE –2 THE REALITY OF AGING AND CAREGIVING

 

A QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE –2

THE REALITY OF AGING AND CAREGIVING

 ‘I and my wife, at last, visited the old age home in our locality for donating all the old clothes that we had been accumulating over the past few years. Though my wife had been reminding me from time to time, my inertia had got the better of my altruistic motives. It had come to a point where there was no more space in the house to store them. Our intentions were good but the execution was flawed. We had been postponing this due to sheer lethargy, and that is how all the good things that you want to do never get done. It requires tremendous effort to veer away from the normal course of leading our lives and take up an activity that would require us to compromise on many of the comforts we have been enjoying. I realized that I was all talk and no action, despite my self- proclaimed empathy. I have avoided the beggars, on the streets, on the doorsteps of the temples, at the traffic junctions, and when they tap on my car windows. I avoid looking at them because I feel uncomfortable. You are really not sure as to who is a genuine sufferer and who a fake. You do not want to be taken for a ride. What is the option if you really feel and want to contribute to the alleviation of this suffering with whatever resources you have with you? I keep asking myself as to how and what difference I could make. I have always shied away from taking the final step.’

This is an extract from my book ‘I AM JUST AN ORDINARY MAN’ published six years ago. If you ask me how far I have proceeded thereafter, the reply is, not much. Whenever I read what I have written it’s with a sense of unease. It’s all words and no deeds- a question of conscience perhaps? Or rather pangs of conscience.

When I wrote about the old age home, it was a home for the destitute. People who have been abandoned by their near and dear ones, to be taken care of in homes set up by some charitable trust.

I had earlier made a review of a book ‘Being Mortal’ by Atul Gawande. This book disturbs you. It lays bare the reality of aging and increasing dependence. In the chapter ‘Dependence’ Gawande says “It is not death that the very old tell me they fear. It is what happens short of death – losing their hearing, their memory, their best friends, their way of life.” He says we do not think about the eventuality that most of us will spend significant periods of our lives too reduced and debilitated to live independently. As a result, most of us are unprepared for it.

 In the beginning of his book, Gawande talks about his grandfather who lived till the age of a hundred and ten years and ultimately passed away surrounded by a large family in the midst of the people he loved and in his home. He says “My father’s father had the kind of traditional old age that from a Western perspective, seems idyllic” He continues “But in my grandfather’s world, how he wanted to live was his choice, and the family’s role was to make it possible”. In a splintered world this is definitely an idyllic if not an impossible situation.

In ‘The Philosophy of Loyalty” written by a Harvard Philosopher Josiah Royce, Royce wanted to understand why simply existing – why being merely housed and fed and safe and alive – seems empty and meaningless to us. What more is it that we need in order to feel that life is worthwhile? The answer he believed is that we all seek a cause beyond ourselves. This was to him, an intrinsic human need.

Those who have read my book ‘Darkness and Beyond’ will be able to connect the following narration with the story ‘Waiting for Deliverance’ in the book -

Sometime ago I dropped in at my friend’s place as it was some time since I had seen him (all this while I was waiting for an opportunity to visit him). When I enquired about his mother, he took me to her room where I found her lying on a cot totally immobilized. There was a nurse in attendance. My friend then told me “She has been like that for more than a year now, partially paralyzed and failing eyesight. Of course, over the years she had been suffering from a slow deterioration of her mental faculties. Though she can recollect certain things from the past, the present to her never really embeds itself in her memory”. When my friend told her my name there was a faint acknowledgment with her movable hand. When I leaned close to her, she said in a faint voice “why God does not take me away, why does he make me wait like this?”

We now have hospices, palliative care and assisted living for those whose children can afford it and have the inclination to do so. At the higher end of the spectrum, we have senior homes where you find those who have opted to be there and have the resources to do so. They come in two categories – those who treasure their own space and live within a community as they age, and those, whose near and dear ones are in a faraway land for whom it is possible to come down and meet them once a while. In these cases, despite the loneliness of living alone, there is always the comfort that there is someone and a sense of belonging. What about the destitute you find on the street? The luckier ones are those who have been taken to the doorstep and abandoned thereafter. What about the man on the street? Left to himself on the pavements, living on the scraps and leftovers and the charity of passersby, too infirm to do any sort of labor that could sustain him to an extent, to one day disappear: an inconsequential existence. Is it possible to alleviate or decrease such an existence, or do we just let it be, for we convince ourselves that’s what life is about? A philosophical musing indeed! As long as poverty exists the disparity in the quality of life will continue. But in a country as diverse and populated as ours to what extent can these disparities be removed? Is it possible? It is a Catch-22 situation. But should it be? Can something be done collectively? There are of course individuals who from their own experiences of tending to an aged parent or a spouse, strive to find ways and means of improving the quality of life of the old and infirm. A welfare state should address this problem for as the years progress the gravity of the situation will only increase, with an aging population. It is not only a question of Individual conscience but in the larger scheme of things it is a Question of Collective Conscience

That day before I left, my friend said “It is very difficult watching her suffer like this. I should not say this, but the truth is I am also waiting for her to pass away so that she is spared of further agony.” I felt sad for him.

This brings us to another question – When there are no means of extending life even when it is known that the patients have passed beyond a stage where subjecting them to painful processes will only end up in extending the suffering without allowing them to go in peace, is Euthanasia an answer? Another question of conscience perhaps?

I intend to examine this – ‘A Question of Conscience – Euthanasia’ in my next post.

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THE DIARY OF MRITYUNJAY - A JOURNEY'S END

THE DIARY OF MRITYUNJAY

“We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way,

begin no day where we have ended another day;

 and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.

 Even while the earth sleeps, we travel.

 We are the seeds of the tenacious plant,

 and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart

 that we are given to the wind and are scattered.

- Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

                                         --------

                                From, The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to all those known and unknown faces who never returned home after the Kedarnath disaster which occurred on the 16^thJune 2013. To their families who live with the scars left behind by those traumatic days.

PREFACE

 ‘It is very difficult to accept one’s mortality. But that is the truth; one day we shall cease to be. I have never believed in divine interventions or an afterlife, for these only tend to distract you from the present reality – that we live, and should at every moment be aware that life is what you make of it.’ This is a passage from the story ‘Enigma’ in my last book ‘Autumn Leaves – Seasons of Life’. In ‘The Diary of Mrityunjay’ I have continued to explore further, this train of thought. All the three books before this have been an exploration, whether it be an inward journey to understand oneself or an outward reach into the lives of people hoping for a beyond of the darkness that threatens to engulf them and overcoming the looming reality of aging and loneliness. But I have never ended in despair. It has always been my belief that the angst which creeps into our lives at some point or the other can be overcome through an acceptance of the temporality of life. This of course is easier said than done, for no one wants to be erased into nothingness. It is when faced with the futility of living a life that has an end, which sets us on a search for a meaning to our existence. Is it therefore preferable to spend our lives in contemplation of a certain end or soak ourselves in the wonders of creation and understand the world we live in, to the utmost?

I reproduce a passage from Hermann Hesse’s book ‘Narcissus and Goldmund’ which aptly describes the dilemma we face in trying to immortalize ourselves- ‘He thought the fear of death was perhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at life's instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts, we know that we too are transitory, and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do.’

It has taken me a longer time to complete this book than the other three books, for I had to read and reread it several times while writing, to make sure there was clarity and continuance in my thought process. But I am happy that I have been able to arrive at answers to some of the questions that have plagued me over the years, and I believe that these are also reflections of the thoughts that occupy the minds of everyone.

That is why Mrityunjay, which means ‘Conqueror of death’, is symbolic with our bid to immortality.

For more than a year, after my third book ‘Autumn Leaves – Seasons of Life’ was published, I did not write much. Even the postings in my blog were few and far between. A certain listlessness had taken hold of me and I found it difficult to break out. It was as if I had exhausted myself and was bereft of any new thought that I could transcribe into the written word. I did nothing and waited. It was then that I happened to see a documentary on the Kedarnath disaster that took place in June 2013. That rekindled the angst I had felt while reading about it at that time, especially so, because a colleague and his wife never returned. I was aware that friends and relations still hoped for a miracle that would bring them back, even months after their disappearance. Six years have gone by and though the wounds would have healed by now, the scars will remain, and the memory of those traumatic days will continue to haunt.

This was the trigger that made me write this book. It has nothing to do with any individual or event and is a fictionalized account of one man’s journey through the midst of this disaster, in search of a meaning in life, and the redemption of a woman traumatized by past relationships.

INTRODUCTION

Mrityunjay literally means ‘Conqueror of death’. This is also a name by which the God Shiva is referred to. The name of the protagonist in the book was a natural outcome of the fact that the genesis of the book is the Kedarnath tragedy and the ruling deity in the temple is Shiva.

 Ahalya was the first name that came to my mind when developing the character of a woman who had been a victim of circumstances and her own frailty, undergoes the trauma of guilt and betrayal, the consequences of which make her distance herself from further relationships, and in her own words she had become ‘numb and cold as a stone’. In the Ramayana the story of Ahalya is narrated. Ahalya is punished for her perceived infidelity by her husband the Sage Gautama to become a stone and remain so till her redemption by Rama. There have been various interpretations of Ahalya’s story by different authors, but the principal question that remains is as to how far Ahalya alone was responsible for her predicament. Weren’t the men in her life more to be blamed for her sufferance? The Ahalya in this book meets her redeemer in Mrityunjay. There is no resemblance to the story in the epic Ramayana, except the concept of a wronged woman.

On the 16^th June 2013, the temple town of Kedarnath was devastated by the floodwaters of the Mandakini and the Saraswathi due to heavy rains in the area and the overflow from the Chorabari lake. Hundreds of people lost their lives, and more were reported missing; not to talk about the near-total decimation of what was once a thriving temple town. It’s in the backdrop of this disaster that the story of Mrityunjay is set. Mrityunjay who is on a search for a purpose in life, comes face to face with his own mortality and ends up realizing that ‘the purpose of life is a philosophical question. We spend our lives trying to find an answer, but this eludes us time and again. When you think you have found an answer, a new dimension opens. So, there is really no end’.

 It’s also the story of Ahalya who suffers from the trauma of betrayal in her earlier relationships and finds in Mrityunjay, the redeemer who pulls her out of the morass she had fallen into and gives a new direction to her life.

Apart from the slew of characters who form part of Mrityunjay’s journey, the river plays an important role in the book. The creative force of its serenity and the destructive nature of its turbulence on its journey to merge with the ocean are but allegorical representations of our journey through life.

In his book ‘The Hindu View of Life’ Dr. S. Radhakrishnan writes-

Life is like a game of bridge. We did not frame the rules and we cannot control the dealing. The cards are dealt out to us, whether they be good or bad, but we can play the game well or play it badly. A skillful player may have a poor hand and yet win the game. A bad player may have a good hand and yet make a mess of it. Our life is a mixture of necessity and freedom, chance and choice. We may not change events, but we can change our approach to events.

There is scope for the exercise of free will within the boundaries of the cards dealt to us and the rules of the game over which we have no control. This would explain the circumstances of our birth and the constraints which we seek to overcome. The dealer of the cards is always a mystery. Is it God?

The four lines in the poem, ‘Little Gidding’ from T.S. Eliot’s ‘Four Quartets’, aptly sums up what I have tried to portray in this book ‘The Diary of Mrityunjay’.

‘We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.’

DRIFTER

Drifter

Drifter,

You peacefully make your way,

Across ephemeral heights,

Look down,

This mortal tries to reach you,

Shed a tear or two,

Cleanse him,

His frivolous fantasies,

Have stained and stirred his whim.

Drifter,

You drift away endlessly,

Showering on distant views,

Like a lover, your nectar;

Whilst he a balloon bloats,

Rises high,

In newfound power;

Punctured,

Falls down dead and dry,

An autumn leaf from the sky.

Drifter,

Sometimes ominous, in grayish form,

You burst into tears and seek,

To reform,

Our brownish parched pastures,

To dress in verdant cloaks,

While he in rapture,

Squeezes out little saltish drops,

To revive in vain those visions lost

Drifter,

I gaze above,

Your whiskers white,

With silent wisdom,

Makes me shiver.

As my ignorance heightens,

Assumes appalling attitudes,

Dumbfounded, I bow my head,

On the guillotine,

Awaiting my execution.

A QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE - 1

A QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE - 1

Few days ago, while on a chat with a good old friend, he made an observation ‘You at times come across as very hesitant to hit the nail on its head just to avoid the possibility of someone getting hurt’. I accepted that it could be true. Of course, in the process, I asked myself where I stand. This followed a video which he had sent, a disturbing one about the migrants who were on the way back to their homes far away, forced by the present situation and the general apathy shown towards their plight, though there were words galore expressing sympathy, deeds were few. I write this as I sit safe and comfortable within the confines of my apartment. I can afford to do that because this is my home and I am assured of the care and attention of dear ones. Yes, I am appalled at what is happening outside. But how concerned am I? A question of conscience? Well, I had to accept that as long as nothing happens to my dear and near ones and I am safe, I can afford to speculate on the travails of the common man on the street, leave alone the larger problem and the tragedy of the migrant, and sympathize.

I understood what he meant when he said that I am hesitant to hit the nail on the head. Yes, that’s true. I have always kept away from being judgmental, but in the process, my writings have always tended towards exploring an individual’s anxiety rather than taking a stand on the plight of the individual in what at most times comes across as an indifferent world. Of course, as an individual, I am bound by my own limitations of physical strength and more importantly, I find it is the lack of will on my part to actively involve myself in the only way I know – writing. How much can I contribute to raising a general awareness? I am not a reformer nor am I a man of much consequence, but I realize that it requires a will greater than the individual’s, a collective will, and determination of the powers that are, in this case, the Government. It’s also true that you require two hands to clap, but one is enough to slap. That perhaps is the only way I can describe Democracy and Dictatorship. We abhor Authoritarianism for it treads on the individual’s freedom. We are still to describe what exactly is an individual’s freedom. Man is a social animal (well, that’s the adage), but how much of your freedom are you willing to sacrifice to prove that you are indeed a social animal. This is another question of conscience. One can never discount the fact that over the ages there have been (they still are) individuals whose overwhelming concern was/is for the general good. But a majority of us sit back and let them do their work, applauding perhaps, and most time finding holes to justify our own inability to come up with solutions. Introspection, the will to change, and last but not the least, active participation is what is needed.

I remember that long time ago I wrote some poems, out of the sheer angst that I felt arising out of youthful idealism. They have now been confined to the pages of a collection of a book of poems that I titled ‘Secrets of the Soul’. There are a few lines which I reproduce here -

 The old man sits,

His hands no longer outstretched,

But held over his head,

In a vain attempt,

To shelter from the rain.

There are no trees in this city,

No roof for this old man,

As he waits,

For the rain to stop,

On the pavement.

The rain stops,

The night grows cold:  From Ominous Patterns

There is a long poem titled ‘The Refugee’ which I have posted earlier in my blog so I am reproducing only a few lines here–

I toil to lighten,

That everlasting hunger.

And the nights I retire,

Into that world of dreams,

Myself in the midst,

Of all those past scenes.

But dear sir, this I know,

I am waiting for the day,

The day I have to go”

With these words he moved,

Back to the world of dreams.

He had taken refuge.

‘Fragments’ which you could even term as a question of conscience-

“How can I a living earn?”

I hear the leper cry,

But I wait for him to pass me by.

The truth is he is right,

And I am aware of his plight.

But I stay still,

Unmoved,

Silent and straight as that hill.

I reproduced the above only to highlight the fact that we all have similar questions of conscience. We have felt, but moved on, like the last four lines of the last poem. Recognition of a problem does not solve it. Somewhere along the way we become too involved with ourselves and let all those feelings bury themselves deep inside us. It is time for us to dig them out and evaluate where we stand. Maybe we shall find our way to authenticity.

Coming back to where we started, the Migrant. The video was disturbing, but not judgmental, for it depicted a reality as it exists, leaving the rest as a ‘Question of Conscience’. Herds or rather hordes, whichever way you want to classify them, the first is a large group of animals and the second a large group of people with their families. So it is correct to say hordes of migrants making their way back to their homes far away – some bundled in vehicles and others not so lucky on foot with blisters bursting, desperate to be in their homes (which they had left for sustenance), to be again with their near and dear ones, not knowing whether they will reach their destination, but willing to risk even their lives in trying, rather than die of starvation in an alien land.

When I first mentioned herd, it was only because the first reaction was a herd of sheep. But the difference was that they were shepherded and sure of reaching their destination. But the second and more morbid picture was that of cattle herded into a truck taking them to the abattoir.

The migrant problem will exist as long as the problem of poverty, scarcity, and security exist in the country. I know that this is not a problem that can be solved overnight in a country as populated and diverse as ours. The problem will exist, but can we make it more comfortable and welcome to all those people who have left their homes to be with us, for the reality is we need them as much as they need us.