Idyllic Thoughts

History always crumbles to dust. No matter how hard we try to cling on to it. I was watching the story of great kings and queens who once walked on this land, lived, loved, fought and died. No matter how greatly revered they were, their names vanish into thin air right in front of you. You can never hold onto them. That's how ephemeral greatness is, life is.

Reading 'Sophie's World' by Jostein Gaarder. He says, Thales is supposed to have said that 'all things are full of gods.' If I am not wrong, isn't our (Indian) belief of stones, trees, animals, birds and other beings as gods, a metaphor for the godliness of all things?

If I have another life, I would like to be born as a tree. Silent, calm and tall. Unwavering, perceptive, supportive. Constantly reviving itself. Shedding its old notions, making space for new ones.

I know photography, even the most creative and talented one, cannot capture the essence of an earthen lamp lit during deepavali. Its beauty silently seeps through all our senses. When I look at a diya, I feel our tradition must be the most beautiful one in the world. 

I still remember the day I brought a water lily from a deep pond between the fields. I was all of 11 years and didn't want it to wither away soon. So, despite mom's advice, I thought I could keep it alive by keeping its stalk immersed in a water-filled bottle on the parapet of the well in front of my house. The lily lived for 36 hours in the blistering hot coastal sun. When I came from school for lunch, I rushed to see the lily only to find it dry and drooping, sad that it was snatched away from its home and kin. I still remember the sorrow that pervaded my whole being. I kept trying to revive it for a day more until mom took it from me and threw it away. Then I remembered how, years later, I made fun of my young sister for planting a rose flower in the earth, watering it and checking every few minutes to see if a new plant came up. She was as innocent as I. And as hopeful.

"Wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end." Said Gabriel Garcia Marques in 'One hundred years of solitude.' Isn't truth too ephemeral at some point of time? It means the past might not be a lie, that memory may have a return, that every spring gone by can be recovered and love at its most tenacious and wildest form may not be ephemeral.

In all these years, I think I can safely say I have observed three kinds of people around me : those who think beyond their times to what their peers hesitate to even imagine - the Moderns; those who live in a time warp that keeps them hibernating in the age of their ancestors and refuse to accept societal changes - the Stagnants; those who observe the minds which are far advanced to them and imitate their thoughts, mannerisms and life, believing that by mere imitation, they too can live on par with the moderns - the Imitants. And I think none of these three understand the others, thus creating conflicts and chaos in the society.