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"

SaBr

Sabr, a tantalisingly beautiful urdu word, used to convey one of the most demanding human virtues - patience.

1111 days back was when they had started. On a journey that neither fully understood, that both were equally excited about. The beginning was the stuff that story-book romances are made of - two complete strangers cross paths in the midst of a crowd of people, their eyes meet, hesitant feelings start bubbling to the surface, an unknown force seems to pull them towards the same direction, the feeling that a larger destiny is pre-ordained for them keeps gnawing at the conscious.

But, as they say in Hindi, "Sabr keejiye". This is just the beginning of the beginning. Soon, they face the sort of tribulations that can rip any two people apart- getting to speak without interruptions is a luxury, the possibility of actually spending time together is nothing short of a miracle, noxious advice and admonitions are a given. Yet, from somewhere that they know not, they get the strength to look past these impediments and just focus on what they want-just each other.

Weeks turn into months, months into years, the tribulations only magnify. And yet, the roaring romance soars past them all. A global pandemic, that consumes much of the joy and prosperity in the world, comes as a godsend, to serve as the last barrier to overcome before they can be together for good. The celebrations are personal, the rituals are personal, the blessings are personal. But it doesn't matter because in the true sense of the word, they are finally in a little world of their own. 

Patience is the english word for Sabr. And patience is not just about the ability to wait-it is also about the ability to maintain an optimistic and cheerful attitude while waiting. A new phase has begun, but even that will not be without its share of trials. There are, undoubtedly, many delights waiting around the corner. But, they won't manifest without the omnipotent Sabr. After all, Sabr ka phal meetha hota hai !!

As that forgotten melody goes,

"Kya pyaar hai, kya hai nahi

Maine nahi poocha na

Ho tum mere, ya ho nahi

Maine nahi poocha na

Poocha nahi ye baar baar..."

Meditations

“I have taken myself out of the complexities, or maybe I have taken the complexities out of myself”

That was Marcus Aurelius, the grand old Roman, speaking through his “Meditations”. It is a sentiment I came across a long time back and which has come back to me after a long time.

The last few months have sped by in a flurry of activity-lots of work, renewing contact with many old acquaintances and friends, the re-advent of Delhi into my life. I have never particularly cozied up to Chandigarh, yet this was the one place that seemed over the last few months to give me the comfort of the anchor that I sought.

Up until today. Today I came across, again after a very long time, the one person who for me will always remain the one reason that I can never forget this city. Jasmine.

Her absence over the last few months left a void that I did not quite understand in the beginning. It felt as if all that I was being deprived of was a few inane games and a truckload of affection. Nothing that could not be substituted by drowning oneself in a quagmire of work or by seeking vicarious affectations from the world at large.

What I overlooked was the purity and honesty that came with all our frivolities. The fact that whether or not this child of five understood a word of what I was saying, she would always react with an unimaginable, inviolable sincerity. That despite the fact, or maybe because of it, that she did not understand my words, I would never have to think before unburdening myself to her.

Meeting her revived a lot of memories but even more, made me realise the futility of encumbering myself with the transparent banalities that we often seek refuge in. That though life may be a big thing, its joys and its essence are always found in the small things.

So, today, I shun the complexities, not knowing whether they made me up or I made them up. But certain of the fact, as the poet said, that;

“Sitaron ke aagey jahan aur bhi hain/Abhi ishq ke imtehaan aur bhi hain”

Kullu

"She wasn't doing a thing I could see, except standing there on the balcony railing, holding the universe together".

That was JD Salinger. Speaking perhaps about love. But for me, the words convey something somewhat different.

Standing outside the most morose and honest of all places, you witness two aged men-both with grey flowing beards, disheveled rags, coarse skin and weathered faces. Mendicants.The creases on their faces reflect the stern lives they have experienced. Yet, the composure on their faces reflects a measure of equanimity that is hard to mirror.

The sun shines bright through the descending rain. It is only a slight drizzle, not enough to even drown the gurgle of the river in the distance. The wafting breeze throws up a slight nip and one of them asks the other for a smoke. They are stretched languidly upon the damp grass, across the cobbled path from each other, contemplating the expressions of the other.

The response is a firm no. The reason is the accusation of parsimony. The beseecher falls silent, visibly crestfallen. The would-be benefactor rolls a beedi across his fingers, relishing its rough texture and makes to light it. Then pauses. Digs into his pocket. Fishes out another beedi, looks wistfully at it, pulls himself onto his feet and walks across. He doesn’t say a word, but the smile on his face as he lights the two with a single match conveys it all.

To the outside world, they are old and battered. But not, perhaps, to each other. Perhaps they know each other as they always were. Perhaps they know each other’s hearts, share private jokes, remember feuds and secrets, griefs and joys. For this moment, if not in others, they are brothers. They shall never grow old in each others eyes, always remain the mischievous, timid, protective confidants that they always have been. They live outside the touch of time. 

To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

 And the temples of his Gods.

Mukhtasar

My tryst with that liltingly beautiful language known as Urdu began years ago, as a response to a challenge that was never proffered. And the redemption has been wholesome, in full measure but not substantial in the slightest!

Beginning as a foray into only the easiest of couplets, it soon evolved towards a deliberate selection of the most delectable nuances of its poetry. Ruminations on love, cogitations about life, perplexity at emotions-Urdu always presented an inexorable repertoire to encompass and articulate the most nebulous of thoughts.

Even better have been the words that it has compelled me to revisit, words that we all mostly know of but usually employ in their more ordinary and diluted avatars. Words such as aafaat, nazakat, simatnaa, khwahish, adaa, bahaar, gulistaan, fateh, maat....an endless list of hauntingly beautiful words. Other languages might have words that are better than them and are worse than them but rarely such that are just the same.

One such word is the one that forms the title to this post-Mukhtasar. It conveys a very simple meaning, yet in an unforgettably beautiful cadence-the syllables gurgle forth with each enunciation, eliciting the commensurate sentiment even as they tumble forth from the lips.

And with due deference to the context that initiated this train of thought, here is Frost’s take on the theme;

"Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length" 

Luna Inter Minores

I have had the privilege of being taught by a score of stalwarts in my sojourns across the length and breadth of my country. I remember many of them and try to remember some of the things they taught me.

One person who I found myself reminiscing about very recently is a teacher who I never had the privilege of meeting in a class but who nonetheless has left an indelible mark on my perceptions of his subject. It was many years back that I had sought admission for his course but since I had arrived a little late, was denied entrance. I could have taken admission elsewhere but he commanded such an inviolable stature that I chose to tutor myself with borrowed notes of his class rather than opting for another teacher.

I remember vividly those winter afternoons when I would sit by myself and eagerly peruse another set of photocopied notes. The genius of his pedagogy was such that even in that solitude, the words would spring forth from the paper as if he himself was guiding me through the nuances of the subject. They were always concise, simple and unimpeachably well-structured.

It was during one such lesson that I came upon his elucidation of the Constitutional position of the Prime Minister of India. We all know that considered in a purely theoretical form, the PM is a part of the Council of Ministers who aid and advise the President of India in running the affairs of the country. Yet, the PM is also the Head of this Council, the “Prime” minister. Various authors have described him as the “chief of the government”, the “leader of the majority party in Parliament”, the “executive head of the govt.” etc. etc. All of them are correct, but none puts it across in a manner that is not just perfect but also unforgettable.

All, that is, except Sir. He described it in three simple words, “Luna Inter Minores”. The Little Moon among the Stars. Affirming the fact that while the PM is an equal amongst his contemporaries in the Council of Ministers, he is a little more equal than the others. A first among equals.

It’s been years since I first read this description but never has it faded from my memory. And with each recollection, it establishes anew the power a teacher holds in our lives.

An anecdote I remember in this connection relates to Alexander The Great and his tutor Aristotle. They were out hunting and had gotten separated from the main party. While trying to find their way back, they came across a river in spate, with no bridge in sight. Aristotle was of the opinion that he should cross over first and then secure Alexander’s safe passage with the help of a rope. But even before he could move, Alexander had waded into the river, struggled across to the other bank and thrown a rope back to help Aristotle cross.

When Aristotle reached the other bank, he was livid for he saw Alexander’s action as rash and a needless risk for the King to take with his own life. Alexander, however, not only placated him but paid him a genuine homage when he humbly said that had a misfortune befallen him, the world would have lost but one Alexander; had the same misfortune befallen the teacher, the world would have lost countless Alexanders.

Thank you Sir, not just for teaching us but for giving us an education.