Why we belong to our shadows
Sometimes, we question things that aren’t meant to be questioned. Concepts like love, selflessness, purpose, destiny, and so on. The problem here is, there are no straightforward answers. Only theories. Random hypotheses. And then some more theories. In the end, you end up with more questions than answers. Personally, I’ve grown comfortable with questions, and yet, there are moments when I seek a succinct answer. For what it’s worth, the chase is important. If you don’t find what you are looking for, keep looking for things that seek you.
The other day, a well-wisher asked me who will care for me when I am old and tired (the premise being, I don’t have any children and neither does my brother). I generally circumvent such hypothetical situations with something dry and witty but this time around, I thought of a pragmatic response. I explained to him that the strays will be there for me. If I live long enough to afford loneliness, then chances are that I might seek the company of the many street dogs and cats and cows and whatnot. I care deeply for them and I am certain that over the next 2-3 decades, I’d be spending a significant portion of my time and resources towards them.
I inherited my affection for strays from my mother. She inculcated this sense of pain and neglect they must be suffering on a daily basis because of us. Which makes me wonder, as I grow older, that perhaps there is an element of selfishness in my love towards them. Maybe, just maybe, I worry about the street dogs because I strongly believe in reincarnation. What if I am born a helpless bird in my next birth? Who is going to feed me? Who is going to going to put me back in my nest? Who is going to protect me from the harsh world? Maybe if I manage to help a few of them in this life, the deal might get sweeter for me in my next life. Who knows?
If somebody told you that your mother has only five months left, what would you change? Rather, how would you change your life? Or better still, how would you change her life? It goes without saying you’d try your best to make the most of those 150 days. But here’s the catch: some people don’t need to be told that their mom or dad have only five months to live. They make the most of their time together anyway. They fully understand that we are here on this planet for a very limited edition. Such souls have already unlocked the greatest gift of all: moments worth revisiting with a smile later.
Some things are broken. Some things are rotten. The wisdom lies in spotting the difference between the two. In our infinite stupidity, we tend to confuse broken stuff with rotten and vice versa. Not everything is broken. Not everything is rotten. More often than not, people don’t know what they are talking about. A lot gets said and very little gets experienced even though we are highly emotional being. Yes, there is a way to build a dam around our sentiments but who is going to differentiate?
My dad watches everything on the TV but has no idea. Doesn’t matter whether it’s Tamil news or a Marathi serial or Malayalam thriller or Hindi rubbish. He just leans back and watches intently. If I were to interrupt him and ask “What is this movie all about?”, he wouldn’t entertain me. He’d either maintain silence or respond with something like “I don’t know.” And if I rebut by asking “Why are you watching when you’ve got no idea what’s going on?”, he will retort, “Why, is there a quiz on what I’ve watched?” Fair point.
Everyday is a struggle for those who refuse to learn from their past. Or at least other’s past. There is nothing to learn from the future anyway. We are trapped on an ever-rising mountain of the past that we are supposed to master. Almost everything appears novel but nothing is new. It’s just a loop of events happening in different contexts. No wonder you feel tired when your nape hits the pillow at night but you can’t sleep instantly. You are in debt and that bothers you. Deep inside, you are well aware of your endless possibilities. You know you are fully capable of turning a new leaf. You can make it. Just a matter of real commitment. After all, you don’t owe anyone anything except to the person you were supposed to become.
Whenever your existence puts you under the spotlight, simply perform. Do it. You are not alone if you are mumbling your lines. You are not alone if you are trembling in secret. It’s OK. Nobody is winning this game in the end. The whole world’s a stage and most of us have forgotten our roles. Our shadows don’t belong to us. We belong to our shadows. The spotlight is not real either.
Depending on the day you are having and the situation you are dealing with, you are either in Krishna mode (extrinsic) or in Arjuna mode (intrinsic). Folks like Alain de Botton are always in Krishna mode whereas Stephen Curry is always in Arjuna mode. The former will tell you exactly what needs to be done whereas the latter will show you how it gets done pronto. Commoners like you and me falsely assume that we don’t fall in either mode. Well, big mistake. It’s either this or that, depending on where you are right now.
During my early days on Twitter in 2008, I came across this term virat Hindu used disparagingly by some popular folks. It took me a while to acknowledge that it practically means “proud Hindu” and for reasons unexplained, it was not alright for Hindus to feel proud about their belief system (whereas others were totally encouraged). Interestingly, the decline of this internet term coincided with the rise of Virat Kohli. Just like how desi parents (re)started naming their sons Prem after Maine Pyaar Kiya became a hit in 1989. For about two decades, they avoided it simply because the word resonated with Prem the villain in Bollywood movies. This is how the politics of words play out in the Hindu fold. Very superficial and little adherence to logic. On the same track, it’d be fascinating to see Hindus reclaim the word bhakt because it’s not a benign word. Yes, andhbhakti (superstition) is unwelcome but that’s not what is going on. Thanks to social media, bhakt has turned into a slur. In essence, it means devotion and comes from the Sanskrit root bhaja meaning “to participate wholeheartedly”, also, the spine of Adi Shankaracharya’s timeless Bhaja Govinda song. As you travel northward, this devotional root keeps tweaking like a river. By the time it reaches Punjab, it becomes bhaga, reminding us of Bhagat Singh. An average Hindu, irrespective of their leaning, should ideally interject when bhakt is being used in an insulting manner. It’s all about concessions.
One of the most fascinating features of India is its lingual dissonance. Despite having hundreds of languages and thousands of dialects, the politics of language can’t be escaped here. In this country, a person can grow up in Mumbai or Chennai but would refuse to speak a sentence in Marathi/Tamil. This same person would move to Paris or Berlin and pick up French/German within a year. Quite a miracle, nein? There is not even a North-South divide: Virat Kohli and MS Dhoni have played for Bangalore and Chennai respectively for almost two decades but can’t conduct an interview in the local language even if their lives depended on it. In stark contrast, a Swedish footballer would move to Inter Milan and face media questions in Italian within a few months. I find our lackadaisical attitude towards language intriguing. How is it possible that Sonia Gandhi and Katrina Kaif simply fail to get their Hindi accent right, especially in an ecosystem where their communications matter a lot, and that too after spending decades in the game? I am yet to find a popular parallel in any other country or culture. Lastly, it’s ironic how some proud Tamils claim to be anti-Hindi only to move to Gulf countries and learn this very language for convenience’s sake.
Speaking of languages and the love it quietly demands, one can softly notice that between Indians and Pakistanis, Urdu leads a one way traffic. I am yet to come across Pakistanis (online, obviously) who appreciate deep words from Hindi or quote a poem by a Hindi poet. You are more likely to see Indians admiring poetry by Pakistani greats like Jaun Elia, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Ahmed Faraz, etc. Perhaps this fuels the fact that Urdu was born in India and hence it’s a matter of courtesy to appreciate what deserves to be appreciated irrespective of modern political borders.
I learned driving pretty late in life (around the age of 34) and recently, I drove a JCB for a few yards on an open field.
Guy: “You know how to drive a car, right?”
Me: “Yes, I’ve been driving for the past 5 years.”
Guy: “Oh great, this is nothing like that.”
Talk to your friends about their parents and you will notice a trend: every second friend’s parents’ siblings were bad to them. You will hear sad sagas like brothers defrauding on promised money, property or worse. In fact, this is the only thing that connects almost every family in India regardless of their geographic distances. In all these stories, your/your friend’s parents are the good guys and the rest are vile, vile people. In fairness, this is not statistically possible. If everyone is getting cheated by their siblings, then who are the bad guys? Which brings me to a solid conclusion: we are victims of the stories we lived as well as the stories we told ourselves to appear innocent.
🦊🌻
Loved it