Us

 “Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation”.

A sentiment echoed across time.  And yet, something which the closer we get to understanding, the farther it seems to slip.

They used to say of Alexander that his greatest flaw was that he never understood that it is not enough to conquer; you must know how to charm. They said the same of Curzon, that he had too much hubris. And they say the same for the millions of wretched souls who are accused of taking what they had for granted and realising its value only when it was snatched from them.

And at cursory glance, they seem to be correct. Only seem, mind you, for the moment you start digging deeper, you realise that what is often mistaken as a sign of callous indifference or smug disdain is actually one of the most basic human needs-the need to feel cherished, to feel important. Be it a prince or a pauper, every one of us relishes the thought that someone, somewhere, is waiting for us to call, to come home to, to just be there. But the tempestuous rascal that love is, it takes on a perverted form whereby we reverse roles and take this liberty with exactly those people whom we should be nurturing the most. We commit endless transgressions and justify them in the name of testing the bond. We pride ourselves on our carefree natures and devil-may-care attitudes, not realising that we are treading on very fine ice. And this macabre charade continues, passing back and forth between the two sides, till we stretch the bond to its utmost, right till the point of breaking.

The irony of life is that we never get to break the bond, no matter how much we stretch it. No, that is the prerogative of the others. And even the others don’t break it, for if they had the gumption to do so, there would never have been a bond in the first place. As Ghalib says, "Kabhi tu na tod sakta, agar ustawaar hota". 

So, if it’s not us and it’s not them, then how does this bond break? Who snaps it asunder and doesn’t feel the sting? The world. The world and its smug dictum that it is doing what we are too weak to do by ourselves. Way too much of popular fiction and media has told us that the universe conspires to bring us what we want. But experience seems to prove otherwise. Experience seems to show that beyond a meagre handful of relations cultivated across the span of a lifetime, most others enter our lives just because they did not have anything else to do at that point in their lives. It’s not that these people have mal-intent in their hearts. The problem is that they don’t have any intent. But as with all other fleeting entities, their allure is captivating, their concern seems legitimate, their opinions sound staunch.

And we sway. Too fatigued with the burdens we are carrying, we pass on this vicarious mantle onto them, to make what they will of our lives. Our lives. It seems like such a lovely thing to do, have someone around to comfort you and clean up the mess in your life. We cultivate a host of them around us and for a brief interlude, we are the world! The cynosure of every eye, the topic of every discussion, the fragile yet desirable ones. The moon is ours for just sixpence!

What we ignore is that this too shall pass. And very soon, it does. The novelty fades away first, then the excitement. Sometimes, we become conscious of imposing on other people’s lives, of distracting them from their cares. At other times, we are told that the worst has passed and we must learn to move on. And right here, the question hits us, how?

How do you move on? For the one person whom we could take these liberties with, whom we could throw tantrums at, who could understand our unspoken words, is the one person missing. The memories that only they remember and that only we admire, come back to haunt us. On the one hand is the desire to shun our vanity and concede. On the other is the shame of looking hapless in front of the people who are concerned for us but would mock our frailty. Which of these two paths we take is a very subjective and personal decision. There really cannot be any one way to decide. Yet, a little anecdote on native Cherokee wisdom seems pertinent here;

One evening, an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle between two wolves is inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, jealousy, envy, regret, greed, arrogance, resentment, ego and guilt. The other is Good. It is peace, love, hope, humility, compassion, empathy, serenity, joy and faith.” The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked, “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed” .

Here’s hoping that we learn to distinguish between the two wolves, know whom to feed, and nurture what we have before it slips away into the sands of time. For the greatest regret in life is for the deeds left undone and the words left unsaid. 

                           “A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 

a Loaf of Bread, a Jug of Wine and Thou 

Beside me singing in the Wilderness, 

Oh, Wilderness is Paradise now !!”

Non Mihi,Non Tibi,Sed Nobis

Once upon a time, there was a boy. Intelligent, caring, sensitive and ambitious. When he came of age, he fell in love with a girl who adored him with an equal intensity. Together, they fashioned for themselves a life of unparalleled harmony-a small piece of heaven removed from the cares of the world, filled with the ecstasy and exuberance that love inspires. As they grew older together, they unconsciously gave form to one of the most hauntingly beautiful romances ever. But nothing lasts forever. And at the tender age of 37, the wife died during childbirth. Given his stature and his appeal, everybody expected the husband to find a new consort and move on with what remained of the day. 

But they had grossly undermined his love for her. So grief-stricken was he by her irrevocable absence that he almost gave up on life itself. His ambitions met with a premature demise, he barely ate and all the little pleasures which once had given him so much joy now merely served as reminders of a paradise lost forever. He aged overnight and paced endlessly in his disconsolate state, trying to comprehend why providence had chosen him for this tragedy. Why do we meet someone when fate has already decreed that we must part before the association bears its full fruition? 

And then he remembered his promise to her-that he would not let the world forget about her, about them. As the Greeks said, “Non mihi, non tibi, sed nobis”. Not for you, not for me, but for us. Suddenly, gone was the morose frame of mind, the lethargy and the indolence. Replaced with a definite vision as it was, it gave him hope and a sense of purpose. 

And thus started the construction of a memorial for his wife. It would take 20 long years before it was unveiled to the world but history stands testament that not a single day went by when the Emperor himself did not visit the site to personally supervise its progress. And thus was created the monument that Tagore so famously described as “a teardrop on the cheek of time”. The Taj Mahal. Not just India’s most famous cultural icon, not just a marvel in marble. A reminder. A reminder of one man’s undying love for a woman who had not been with him for over two decades. 

That is the stuff love stories and fairytales are made of. Or so we would think. But then let us for a moment consider also the story of a man as far removed from Shah Jahan as can be imagined. A poor labourer in a small village in India’s poorest state of Bihar. Not in a bygone century but in this very century, infact in our own times.

The story starts again with a well-possessed boy falling in love with a girl and striving to give her more than he can reach for. They are happy together until the cruel hands of fate snatch her away forever. After the customary turpitude brought about by the bereavement, this husband too started pondering over why providence had been so unmerciful. His wife had been unwell for a long time and was undergoing continuous treatment at the nearby health centre. She had suffered paroxysms of pain in the past too but he had always been able to get her to the doctor in time. This last time, however, he had gotten there a little too late. 

The reason was simple-between the village and the health centre stood a hill which doubled the travelling time. Had the hill been absent, she might have been saved. Armed with this clarity of vision, he knocked on the door of every official who could have sanctioned a road to be cut through the mountainside. And always, the answer was a sympathetic but firm no-the government could not afford to waste money on a needless project, and that too in the memory of an unaccomodated individual.

But they too had undermined his love for her. He did not have the wealth of an Emperor or the luxury of an empire at his disposal. What he did have was just four things-an undying love, a clarity of purpose, a shovel and a spade. 

And thus started the construction of a memorial for his wife. Armed with his meagre tools and the ferocity of his determination, this one man started cutting away at the mountainside. Alone and single-handedly, he started his herculean task and kept at it doggedly till even the mountain made way for him and he was able to cut a road across it. By some mischievous quirk of fate, he too took 20 years to complete his labour of love. The government took due notice of his feat and the road was metalled soon thereafter. The Chief Minister of Bihar invited him for the inauguration of the road-a standing testimony to the ecstasy and exuberance that love inspires. Baba Dashrath Manjhi died soon thereafter. 

The road still stands. A teardrop on the sands of time. Not just another macadam road in India’s forgotten hinterlands, not just another instance of asphalt on rock. A reminder. A reminder of one man’s undying love for a woman who had not been with him for over two decades.

"Absence diminishes small passions and increases great ones,

 as the wind blows out the candle and fans the bonfire"