There are a few moments in life that stay with you and some that wither away. The word ‘present’ never made sense to me. The second that we just experienced is now the past, and the 'future' we are always chasing. In this journey of life, we keep following the future, but what is it? Just a mirage, when you feel you are closing in; it disappears and you see it further ahead. It is until the very end, that you finally reach it and as you fall in it, it reflects the moments that build up your life. Time, in the end, is comprised of just instances.
*
“And so he starts the journey again; the boy, the rebel, the anarchist. But where will he go?
'Who are you to question the ways of the old villagers, the wise and the truthful, the know all and be all. The signs of truth were given by them; the forest, the valley, the great mountain, and the river is all there is. Don’t question it boy.’
‘But the River must have an origin; like the trees have its roots, the river must have its source. It heals us and it nourishes us. Where does it all originate? I have to find the truth.’
‘Remember that if you leave, there is no turning back.’
But the boy had decided. Preconceived notions; this information we are exposed to and are bound by, is just a sickness. Other forms of sickness only corrupt the flesh, but these notions; they corrupt the mind. He had decided that he would not give up. He will fight and stand. He will live and find…”
Maya read the opening paragraph of my favorite story as she held the old weary book in one hand and my hand in her other, as I lay on the white bed with the smell of blood in the air.
“Don’t give up,’’ she said. “As the boy never did.”
When you are closer to death, the feeling of insignificance creeps in; though you get the more attention than you ever had in your life. Your family visits, your neighbors visit, your colleagues visit, old friends, new friends, old lovers, forgotten roommates, and half-remembered faces. It’s because lying on the bed twenty four hours a day, you are bound to think, amidst the stars, in a galaxy among millions others that a man is dying, like a speck of dust blown amongst others and then, just disappearing. I would suggest people dying not to put the discovery channel on, while waiting for the inevitable.And when you think, you go deeper, you think if you ever really have lived for yourself; or did you just live for the others. Did you not feel the rain because your mother said you would fall sick? Did you climb the mountain to feel the air on your face or to pose for a few photos? Do you call her your wife because you love her or because it’s written on paper? Why did the chicken really cross the road? In the end, there is no room for individuality.
And who cares about life anymore? I would rather have death visit me than one more of those half-forgotten faces bearing a smile that reeks of obligation. It’s only at the end you realize you never really had an identity; your life is distributed amongst others.
“I won’t.” I said with a smile.
*
“Systematic chaos. That’s all this is, a forest of concrete. It was not supposed to be this way. We were meant to live amongst trees and flowers, pluck the fruits of the trees and eat them raw, and what will the new generation know? They should learn to climb trees before jumping flyovers.’’
I said with a pinch of disappointment in my voice, as we all sat on the balcony of my 21st floor penthouse.
“Right Dad?”
“What do the doctors say? How…long?,” he asked with regret.
“They say they diagnosed it late, there is very little chance.”
“He won’t even admit himself in the hospital. He wouldn’t even take a chance with chemo.” Maya sobbed.
“There is no point in admitting myself. The rest of my days will vanish in a room on a white bed. I would rather be here, home, with our kid, with you.”
“And what would our kids say? Their dad gave up even without fighting? What example do you set for them?”
“Son, remember the story? You have to keep going, and find your way.”
“Chemo will only give me a little more time. It won’t save me.”
“Then just take it up until I die at the least.”
Maya went and hugged my mother as she burst into tears.
“A parent should never see her child die,” the old woman said.
I stood up and leaned against the balcony.
“Systematic chaos. That’s all this is; a forest of concrete.”
“The forest just went on and on as he followed along the bank of the river. Tired and broken he sat beneath a tree. With all the trees looking the same, he wondered if it really mattered if he would have sat underneath the next tree, or the previous one. They all looked pretty much the same. Is it of any significance that he chose this tree and not the other? Does this tree mark how long he has come forward in his journey for truth? Would this tree even matter when he reaches the final destination. Alas! Exhausted and tired minds thoughts. But just before sleeping in its shade, he took a sharp rock and put a mark on the tree.”
*
“The signs of life degrade now,
An empty bottle and a loaded ashtray,
A pen with ink, of no purpose,
Spots of Blue and Black, on once crisp papers.
But let us have an argument first,
What do you really consider the signs of life?
Degrading flesh or a degrading mind?
To lose your breath or to lose a passion?
The signs of life degrade now,
An empty page and a loaded revolver,
A body with blood, of no purpose,
Spots of red, on once crisp papers.”
I read the poem out loud to Maya, searching for that one expression a writer always searches for.
“You certainly are in the spirit of us getting married. Thank you for spreading the happiness.” She looked a little annoyed.
“There is a separation between my personal and professional life. I am ecstatic about us getting married but I am not happy about me having no job or a publication.”
“Don’t worry. I know it’s right around the corner”
“How long is the road?”
“Did the boy ask how long the stretch of the river bank was?”
“I’m pretty sure he did.”
“Just be calm. It will happen soon.”
“How do you say it with such ease?”
“Cause some things you just know.”
“‘How long is this river?’ The boy shouted, and the forest echoed his words. There seemed to be no end. The river was just flowing and flowing and flowing. Sometimes he wanted to throw himself in the river, so that the water will take him to the village; his village, back to his mother. They will surely accept him.
And so, he wandered and he pondered, and he realized pretty soon, there was only one way now; opposite to the flow. It would defy common sense, but he wasn’t common. He was extra ordinary. And so he will keep on going, because he knew that he was right and everyone else a fool. How was he so sure? Because some things you just know.”
*
Like touch is cherished the most after separation, victory after you are on the verge of defeat, death when pain exceeds, the true value of sun comes out on a cold winter morning.
Grandma and I were sitting in our lawn, at noon on a cold December day. She was peeling oranges with her paper-like skin, and nerves bulging out of her hands, trying her best to peel it all in one go. Like a kid smiling at the orange, she succeeded at stripping the orange from its peel in one go. She kept the orange peel beside her safely.
“Happiness is a state of mind.” She repeated what my grandfather used to say often.
“It’s difficult to stay happy in times of sorrow though.”
“Oh, it takes time to have this state of satisfaction. Some days will be tough and some days will be tougher, but you have to reason with yourself. Does it really matter in this circle of life? You have to ask yourself.”
Maybe old people really are wise.
“But what if you can’t get something you really need, grandma?”
“Oh life is full of ironies my son, it only gives you something when you completely lose the desire for it.Your Grandfather was in the war. The enemy captured him, but he managed to escape, he ran through jungles and kept running, never finding another living soul to help him. And he ran with the desire to live, and he ran a little more. But one day his strength vanished, both physically and mentally, and he stopped and gave up on surviving and living. That night, a rescue team found him sleeping under a tree dreaming about death. If he would have kept running, the rescue team would have never found him.”
She removed the wrinkles of the orange one by one with patience and gave it all to me unselfishly.
“’I give up. The sole of my feet is ruptured and the soul of my heart broken. Curse the river, curse the villagers and curse my fate. This is the end for me,’ the boy said with sourness in his voice. He advanced up the river throwing stones in it with vengeance, and as he looked down to find another stone and looked back up, he saw something shining far away. It was surely his destination. And so, he ran and he ran faster, until he reached the source of all the light. He stood there in amaze not believing what he saw. The river was flowing from here and there was nothing further. He stood there beside the lake where this river originated.”
*
On a hot Sunday morning, my father and Iwere travelling to an orchard in the city outskirts.
“Papa, I see a puddle of water ahead of us. How could this be? It hasn’t rained for months. It’s impossible.”
“Just wait for a second and look at it again.” He grinned as he spoke.
“Where did the water disappear to? I was sure it was there. Oh I see it again, but farther. What is happening?”
“Hahaha, it’s just one of the phenomena of nature and science, my son. It’s called a mirage; an illusion. When you grow up, you will understand it clearly. But right now, I can tell you one thing. The mirage is like the future. You keep following it and following it, until it you see it further ahead. The journey is all that there is.”
And so he stopped the car and told me that he had to go. So I bid him goodbye and went forward, seeing myself grow up, as I walked towards this puddle of water; this shining lake.
“So the boy moved towards the lake and looked down. It looked crystal clear; a mirror so fine. And he looked down and saw his reflection in it. He saw his satisfied face in the glass and then drowned himself within; where the lake showed him his whole journey, and the moments that mattered the most and it took him all the way; back to the start.
And so he starts his journey again; the boy, the rebel, the anarchist. But where will he go?”