Journey through Darkness

There are very few people who have access to the interior alleys of my life, especially of my past. It is so very frightening to let people walk through the narrow corridors of my tainted life, gathering moss all around, and smelling of filth and decay. My real self is so very different from the one which I pose before people, and there would be very few people who would be willing to accept my true self. Even some of my very close friends dare not walk through the dark alleys of my life, for fear they may have to look at me as someone very different from who they were used to, and that would be too frightening for them to believe, leave alone accept. Thus in most cases I would like everyone around me to believe that my true self is an exact copy of my exterior self. That is how I cheat the world around me.

I know that I have to keep doing this “cheating” for the sake of survival. I cannot afford to wash my dirty linen in public, what will others think about me? The world likes people who are fair-skinned, and it does not even mind people with colored faces; the world cannot accept people who are uncouth, rustic, who are closer to the earth. The world we live in cannot think of the heart of darkness or the darkness of the heart. It is amidst the thick darkness of the heart that I treasure some of the most precious secrets of my life, which is inaccessible to everyone I know of. Even some of my thick friends may not have access to this corner; it may be too frightening to visit this place, because here they might encounter the raw, natural I, and they may not even recognize me.

Yesterday as I was walking along the prestigious Park Street, on my evening brisk walk, I spotted one of the nuns, who was known to me. I went close to her and wished her, but she could not recognize me for quite a while, because she had seen me in my T-shirt and shorts, and she could not believe it was me. After a little while she recognized me, and said that I looked very different. And she was right, I looked very different. If this is the case for people to recognize me, how difficult it would be for them to recognize my real self? How would they respond were they to come to know the darkest secrets of my life, which of shrouded in mystery? Will they be able to accept the unholy, filthy, corrupt self of mine, which is far from the image I had been projecting to them?

There are just one or two people who were able to enter into the secret corners of my heart and have befriended the demon who bears my name; they have realized that this ferocious demon is not as cruel and horrendous as they thought it to be; there is a human heart to it, and it may be more human than several other human persons they know of. It is thanks to their presence that I am able to walk out even without putting on the cloth of a genteel man, who has been tamed by nature to be one of the finest of civilized men. But I cannot forget what had happened in the early years of my life, the different persons who had shaped me and molded me.

It is hard to safeguard the most treasured secrets of my life; I know that I cannot safeguard them all my life, though I had striven earnestly to protect them from men and women who really did not share my vision of life, and who did not want to share my life. But I don’t know how long I could do that, but one thing is for sure, soon I may lose control over these secrets, and they would become annals of every household, and I would see both praise and brickbats for my words and works. If someone dared to cut me into pieces and find my heart, he/she would realize that I had a heart which is so very human and tender, which cries for life, for a clear sky, for the full moon light, for the golden rays of the sun, for the unpolluted air of countryside, for clean waters of the stream… Life is wonderful really!

Pleasing Pleasantries

As we grow in age and wisdom, one of the most difficult truths for us to digest is that we are expected to dance according to the tunes of others; that ‘others’ may include anyone significant or insignificant, and they stand and stare at us at every unexpected corner of our life, and it is they who make our life quite miserable, if not unbearable. The funny side of this ‘drama’ is that we are expected to change our masks according to the kind of persons who expect and demand from us a particular kind of response, or a ‘performance’ to continue the analogy. Half our lives are spent changing the masks, coloring the glasses, and learning steps to please everyone around us. In the bargain, we fail to live life as it comes to us with a thousand hues and fragrance. When we realize what life is, it might be too late.

I don’t know from where we learn to cultivate the art of ‘pleasing’ everyone who matters in our society. As we join the primary school at the age of five, we begin to learn the rudiments of this art; when the teacher keeps an eye, we behave well, and as soon as the teacher moves to the other side, we begin to show our true color. So we learn to smile when the teacher turns to us, and frown at her back. We do the same at home too; and slowly we begin to say what pleases others. But you may ask me, is it wrong to please others? Of course, no. Sometimes it is possible our natural behavior or response may delight others, and that is a great gift. But if we begin to make people happy, going out of our way, bending our natural inborn qualities, that needs to be questioned.

But the paradox of the drama is that often we communicate to the people just the opposite message than the one we wish them to have about us. When a young lady refuses to meet a man she likes and loves at the railway station, as she embarks on a journey, just because she is afraid someone might catch her with the man, and spread rumors about her personality and character, that only shows that she is obsessed with her good name! But what is this ‘good name’ imply? The very people who may praise her for her serious dealings with men, will also soon accuse her for being so cold and indifferent towards human relationships. Ultimately we all need to learn the lesson that we cannot dance to the tune of others for too long.

While trying to please others, we may lose our peace and sanity, and live in a fool’s paradise, thinking that others have such a noble opinion about us; but the opinions of the people about me can change within moments. After all, how long can we live our lives for others? When we are confronted with the bitter reality, that all our efforts to please others is in vain, then we may begin to live our lives fully and wholly, irrespective of what others think and say about us. That is when we may have the real satisfaction of savoring life in its natural form. It is then that we may be able to see the blue sky and be absorbed by it; we may listen to the song of the bird and forget the worldly worries, the scent of the commonplace flower may take us to another world, far beyond human imagination.

The sooner we realize the need to stop playing to the tune of others, the better it is for us, to really appreciate what life can offer to us. Millions of people who lived lives for others for several decades had not achieved anything more than an animal; such a life is not worth living. The moment I begin to live my life irrespective of others, my friends, relatives, my associates, I own my life as it unfolds before me, and there cannot be anyone coming between me and my life. It is between me and my life; it is very personal and sacred; I cannot allow anyone, however close they may be, to come between me and my life. It is then that I can drown all the masks I had been making all my years, and face life and reality with my naked eye, and present to the world my naked body, as I entered into the world.

Once upon a time

Story-telling is an art, and not all are capable of telling a story, be it real or fiction, in an engaging way. Nor is it easy for one to learn this art; but lucky is the one who can tell a story meaningfully and engage a person or persons. This art can be likened to that of painting; here one is required to pain with words, the seemingly lifeless words becoming alive with the feelings, sentiments, breath of life blown into them by the narrator. Once the canvass is full of color, one may not even see a picture, but an array of color so soothing that the viewer may even forget the central object of the art work! Such is the work of art that story-telling involves one into! And fortunately this has been one of the favorites of our foreparents, and I was fortunate to listen to at least a handful of stories from my grandmothers, and some of them are still ringing in my ears.

But why have I landed into the art of story-telling? This is one art I love a lot; I like to tell stories, both borrowed and creation of my mind. Sometimes these stories pop up in my mind when I least expect them; when I find myself helpless, a dose of story is enough to change the situation. But some of the great masters I have come across in life have had a million stories up their sleeves, and they have left behind a rich repertois of stories that I find myself so small in front of them. To enjoy a story is also part of the art of story-telling; here one tells the story to oneself, translating the words on a page into living words.

There is nothing called good and bad stories, and I wonder if there are first class stories and third class stories; they all depend on how they are expressed. But when a story-idea is ripe, it may be capable of enthralling the reader and the narrator beyond all expectation. I have developed a way of measuring the influence of a story in me, by observing deep within how long the story has stayed in my mind. If I wake up the following morning and still realize that I remember the story, then I can tell that it has the potential to touch others too.

But I cannot forget the one man in history, who can be considered an ace story-teller, and many of his stories have become the skeleton of many blockbusters in the Hollyhood. Jesus the Nazarene. His stories touched the core of one’s heart, and they still disturb many men and women in our societies; and such are the stories which I would like to go back again and again to draw strength and sustenance from. Another man who loved to tell stories is Anthony de Mello, and his books are full of stories, some of which are too profound for me to digest.

There are a few stories, which have become part of my psyche, and whenever I think of them (and a couple of them were told by my grandmother), something in me stands up; there are stories which were related to our social status, and it is possible they may die with me. But there is a desire deep within me to fill my world with stories that not only entertain, but also take the listeners to their inner selves, where they can meet their true selves, without the need to put on a mask or hide the ugly part of their selves. That is the tip of the iceberg of my mission.