“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy; And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief. Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility: For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.” – K.Gibran.
Wandering away, I find the Shiva temple out.
It is mid October, and the season of winter at Kolkata is just starting. The whole city appears in coats, pullovers and comforters in public. Everything is changed due to the effect of the chilly weather. Tea-stalls beside the roads always boast a healthy crowd around them, and one could watch the hot vapour coming out of the kettle every time it came out of the stove. It is a fascinating scene to me. In the evening when I get out of my home and have a walk around lake places, I would watch those kettles and the hot vapour coming out of their mouths. And on very rare occasions, I would have one of those cups of tea. I would just stop in front of the stall and the lady at the stall would place the tea in a container of earth. It is good; tea tastes the same, sometimes even better when you have it in a container made of earth than plastic. It is the same stall where once I had an argument over the smoking issue. The lady of the stall remembers me well for that reason. Sometimes we have to speak out just an opinion to be remembered.
My destination remains the Shiva temple.
Men light up candle. Hold it in one hand and guard it with another. And the light from the candle lightens their face, in a way lightening the path of their lives. A man, who doesn’t have a candle, seeks from others. He seeks the light, he seeks the truth, and he seeks life. He seeks life in various forms- love, liking, relationships, happiness, friendship, money, recognition, and appraisal. A man, who doesn’t get light, gets distracted and dejected in the path of life; creates mistakes, known as crime. A man devoid of money becomes poor, turns into a thief in the eyes of the cruel society. But there remains another kind of a person, who instead of keeping the candle to him, gives away to help others. And my search remains confined to those people.
It is the same place, where once we had met in the times of Durga Puja. But I do not get back for mere a lady. My search remains confined to the answers of the questions of a soul. And also how our fates can intervene into our lives. Also why I do feel an attachment to the places which make me unhappy, to a place where neither I was born, nor I’ve ever been to. Why people in the world feel attachment to things they’ve never seen or known.
They told to trust the physician inside.
Much of our pains are self chosen. It is the medicine that burns our heart; it burns our soul to the extreme sufferings of the world. And by doing this, our soul becomes pure, ready to be delivered as the sacred feast of the God. The words of Gibran hover around my head and heart.
I see her on the way and step away. We are in a position when we can’t talk to each other anymore. I fake it. I fake every time I smile. I fake every time someone relates her to me. I write entries like ‘A time to move on’, ‘I am a free man’ but I get stuck somewhere each and every time. I quit.
I see this lady. She is not a beggar. But she is not any less than that. She has lost one of her legs; she would sit at the Charu Avenue, and sometimes beg for food (especially at the evening). She is old, and her face is wrinkled. She often talks with herself and that’s the reason people call her mad. She is perfectly alone in her world. She is living because of the pity these slum people show for her. I fear the day they will stop seeing her, she’ll die. But once again, it seems that neither her life has brought any charm to any person in the world, nor her death is going to bring any mourn to any one. Everyone in the world overlooks her. Oh, just when I speak these lines I remind of a girl whom I see sometimes helping her by giving bread. She is a nice looking girl, does have a pair of eyes which, when fixed to you, asks thousands of questions at your heart. She is nicely poised, well dressed and lonely. When we meet in the road, we look at each other, but do not talk at all. Once I saw her giving bread to the lady and I felt gratified to her and kept looking at her. She must have read that look in my eyes, and after that we kind of fond of each other. Yes, I haven’t seen her for over a month or two, but am hoping to see her soon.
I wake up in the midnight at the calling of someone shouting outside at the road. It’s a cold night. And it is unusual for someone to be at the road at this time. As I try to see from the balcony, I find the old lady at the road shouting.
I astonish. And then I hear the cry.
She is crying out loud. And all those gibberish words trying to make a point that she is feeling cold. It is terribly cold night outside. And she has literally nothing to wear at all.
My heart trembles. It does not tremble feeling the situation she is in, but because I hear the words she is using to show her circumstance.
“O baba go. O baba go. O baba go.”
Tell me, have you ever heard a beggar crying out loud from your bed in a winter night, you being covered by blankets, you have a fascinating bed, pillow, sheets covering you. And the person crying her heart out for covering, may be food and heat. Oh you will never hear it, will you? You might well use a word or two which will describe the state of the person, or you may curse the person a while, and fall asleep once again. Tell me anytime, if you have the courage to stand beside the lady that night, give her some food or shelter.
Well you have certainly seen the world, haven’t you? Yes there are worse, and you’ve seen them. Yes, it always happens this way.
I become deserted. It’s not just because nobody understands. But no one cares too. Some times I do feel that the words Pallabi had said were actually true. People in big cities do not have the time at all. Malls, multiplexes, the life itself has taken away all the caring for others. Oh, I have mentioned her once again. (Now that I must admit I have to try and forget her.)
My hatred for people ceased completely. Is this what people call maturity?
One day, when walking at the Charu Avenue, I hear the old lady murmuring to herself, and I overhear.
She took three names. And I still remember those names as I speak of these happenings.
“Nattu bhai, Radha mami, Moni mama…”
So she had relationships, at some point in her life. And probably more often than not, she recalls those times of happiness of her life. What a catastrophe it has been, to her life. Someone who had familiars once doesn’t have one at all. Devoid of one leg, no home; must be tough for her. My eyes become vacant when I think of these. I remember once I said to myself, in the world we live, we can not fancy about love and liking at all. There are sufferings, there is poverty, and there are diseases which leave people with a desire to die.
I admire Oscar Wilde for writing those lines, which I feel free to recall here.
“Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!”
Fantastically stated. Now this is why they say that much of our pains are self chosen.
Isn’t it obvious? I prefer not to elaborate.
The truth is that, each moment we live, is a pain to our life. And each and every moment we live, leads us to the ultimate pain and truth of life. Death. This is just the way a no one thinks about some shadowy corners of life. This is the story of a vagrant trying to find answers of the questions of his life. Trying to find what pain is.
Once I thanked someone by saying “…but this is because she simply is.”
May be sorrow, gloom and pain are just like that. They are beyond men, women, old, lonely persons, dying, distressed, and poor.
May be they simply are.
Dec '09
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