Skip to main content

Another One of Those Dreadful Days

I am in Pune. There are rains. Rains came to Delhi and passed it by. I too ran off to Pune. I do not know why. There is such a severe stench of mendacity in the air which settles around this time of the year. A pretense of significance of my life in other lives around me, a pretense of significance of my life, in its own solitude. 

The city, which is always green and lush,  is violently green today. The airfield, the roads, the buildings- are all clean and washed and shiny. I did catch some drizzle outside the airport. Just a slight drizzle, failing miserably to clean the cobwebs on my soul. A soul that has aged years in last year. I finished Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre on the flight. 

The novel is a philosophical story wrapped around the search and eventual futility of existential meaning. I am always contemplative around the birthday (this I wrote last birthday - Why I Hate Birthdays?) . This birthday is even worse. While people claim that Forties is the new Twenties (some would even contend that Fifties is the new Thirties), I find even Forty-five an age where Birthdays are more dreadful and depressing than death. A sense of the Earth slipping away from under the earth, the sense of failure and futility sits heavy on the soul. 

"I wanted the moments of my life to follow one another in an orderly fashion like those of a life remembered. You might as well try to catch time by the tail." wrote Sartre. By this age, I know there is no order, no rhyme and often, no reason. I write, but not as much as I would want to. Health has nose-dived, after a vertical spike with two Half-Marathons run two years back. 

A novel sits half-written. It brushed too close to real life and I developed cold feet. What will I leave as legacy? What am I walking towards, stumbling from one night to another? Where is the resolution? Will it be a book? Struggling writer Antoine in Sartre's novel says- 

'It would have to be a book: I don't know how to do anything else. ...I don't know of which kind but you would have to guess, behind the printed words, behind the pages, something which didn't exist, which was above existence. ...It would have to be beautiful and hard as steel and make people ashamed of their existence. .But a time would have to come when the book would be written, would be behind me, and I think that a little of its light would fall over my past."

Sartre's hero finds optimism in the end, wading through the depressing pessimism across the story. I do not know what it will take to wipe out the obdurate pessimism in my life. But till it is their, Birthdays will continue scare me, annoy me and even in a depressing way disgust me. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

दो जोड़ी नन्ही आँखें

अनदेखे ख़्वाबों की दो जोड़ी नन्हीआँखें, जिन्होंने स्वप्न देखने की आयु से पूर्व दु:स्वप्न देख आँखें मूँद लीं। जो क़दम अभी चलना ही सीखे थे, लड़खड़ा कर थम गए। बचपन के घुटने पर लगी हर खरोंच, व्यस्कों के गाल पर एक तमाचा है। धर्म के आडंबरों से अछूता बाल मन जो मंदिरों और मस्जिदों को अपनी आत्मा में रखता था, धर्म की दरारों पर अपना नन्हा शव छोड़ निकल पड़ा। कहीं दूर,दग्ध शरीर के ताप से दूर, जब यह अकलुषित हृदय पहुँचा तो एक और निष्पाप दूधिया आत्मा दिखी, जिसकी पलकों के कोरों में उसकी आँखों के जैसे ही अविश्वास से सहमा हुआ अश्रु रूका था। एक दूसरे के गले लग कर दोनों बाल मन दरिया के टूटे बाँध की तरह बह निकले। घाव बाँटे, एक दूसरे के हृदय में चुभी धरती की किरचें निकाली और न देखे हुए स्वप्नों का श्राद्ध रचा। उसने थमती हिचकियों में अपना नाम बताया - ‘आसिफा’। और दुख के साथी की ठोड़ी थाम कर कहा - ‘मत रो, न्याय होगा।’ धरती की तरफ़ नन्ही गुलाबी उँगली दिखा कर कहा- “देख, भले लोग लड़ रहे है मेरे लिए, न्याय होगा। तेरे लिये भी लड़ रहे होंगे। तू मत रो” फिर बोली, “मैं पश्चिम से हूँ, तू पूरब से, पर हैं

Analyzing the Analysts- Failed Attempts to Understanding the Modi Magic

  " When a writer tries to explain too much, he is out of time before he begins. " wrote Isaac Bashevis Singer, 1978 Nobel Winning writer. As year wraps to an end and Bengal Elections are around the corner, Analysts are jumping over one another to analyze the way politics panned out over this Pandemic-ridden unfortunate and sad year.  When you go through most of the analysis, you find them dipping into the froth floating at the top. They often develop the hypothesis first then try to fit the data. This gap between interpretation and data leads to their conclusions mostly turning way off the mark. The most common and prevalent hypothesis that is being currently floated is that those who support Narendra Modi are some sort of fanatic army, which has no reason to support him and which are loyal to him in the most retrograde terms. For that very reason, Narendra Modi, in return, cares only about those who voted for him and no one else. While there is no proof of Narendra Modi app

That Evil Ignorance- Rahul Gandhi and his Everyday Questions

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” - Theodore Roosevelt, American President 1901-1909 Rahul Gandhi  has again asked as question as to why the Soldiers martyred in the cowardly attack of the Chinese in the Galwan Valley did not carry weapons (ignoring that the treaty si