Past and present, now and then
Writing is difficult. It requires much more than dedication and purpose. Earlier, I was soaked in the impression that writing makes a person cowardly. Hiding behind the armour of a page, jousting with a pen, and taking shade under the cloud of words — what comprises literature also breaks down to an individual quest for distance. Very similar to the desire of wanting to go on a trek but also being afraid of sunburn. Writing bridges the gap between being involved and being removed. Although I actively write — both for a living as well as on living — I can’t fully claim the orbit of being a writer. A part of me tells me that I am ripe enough to go beyond one-liners, pun-filled jokes and concise paragraph. But then, a part of me tells me that I am yet miles away from getting the right distance.
Cough.
Cough.
The emphasis on pulmonary problems is paramount as of now, particularly in the NCR belt. With the weather seemingly plucked out of a Jim Jarmusch movie, there is a dark undertone to the way we are supposed to suck in air. It’s the same story every passing year. Diwali firecrackers. Crop stub burnings. Unchecked vehicular exertions by Dilliwallahs. Politicians in neighbouring states passing the blame because coming up with a solid plan — the way developed cities do — is out of syllabus. In such a hopeless scenario, this city should pray for two possibilities: heavy downpour or light snowfall.
After watching affable movies like Ratatouille (2007), one can be excused for feeling bad for these rodents. Apart from doing a great service to the urban areas they inhabit — by cleaning the mess with their strong gastric acid, and helping scientists in medical advancements — they are also dubiously known for spreading health scare. As a result, their reputation gnaws on a thin line of acceptance. Personally, I have no problem with them. My sympathy remains rooted in a story about a guy who notices a rat in his house but instead of seeing it as a pest, he decides to keep the s silent. Going forward, he regularly feeds him only to notice one day that his pet has invited in a friend. A girlfriend, we presume.
My parents have been married for 32 years now. In other words, the fact that they don’t like each other doesn’t bother them anymore. I hold immense respect for such long-gamers. For whatever reason, societal or otherwise, they are together in a world running short on patience. In the near future, we’ll be missing such couples. Although familiarity do breed contempt, it’s a miracle how marriages don’t often extend to murder. Think about it. You’ve lived with a person long enough to know them through and through and yet you choose to live with them one more day. Why?
In a populous country like India, with an economy more agrarian than it openly admits, and agriculture growing at a paltry 2% — Israel, with 60% desert, projects a growth rate of 7% already — one can only wonder how important are our farmers. In a global village of a world, how are we supposed to keep people interested in the soil? Especially when their neighbours are more interested in the concrete? I am not going to mention the distressing stat of farmer suicide but at what point are we going to make farming cool and farmers, cooler? If we don’t succeed in this mission, then as a society, we deserve the chemicals that we consume in the name of food. Also, there’s nothing poetic about a farmer hanging himself to death on the branch of a tree whose seed was sown by his grandfather.
As we evolve with time, we turn more immune to the vagaries of change. Not very long ago, you were lithe. Now, you are sedentary. You used to be a slow reader. Now, you can use ‘avid’ as a favourite adjective for yourself. You once resented those who panicked. You are the most panicky person in room today. So, yes, with every passing, we garb on new characters. If there was a cure for what we were once, there is no way we will ever escape what we are going to become. And somewhere in this dilemma lies our true self.
Some of us live in the present. Some of us dwell on the past. Some of us create the future. We are all doing just fine. In many capacities, we are guilty of all the three verdicts. We just don’t know when. Being a nostalgic soul, I keep looking backward for answers. Why did this happen? Where did I go wrong? Etc. In spite of this admission, I can never come close to the mantle of good ol’ memories the way my maternal uncle did. Every time we visited our village, he regaled the same story: how he was Sharad Pawar’s best friend in Baramati back in the early 60s, and how he used to call him “Shetty anna”, before musing about all the abstract possibilities of him making it big in life had he continued being his friend. Unfortunately, there is no return from such some memory lanes.
Everything that we can humanly think of had already been thought of before. Despite this discouraging precedent, it’s necessary we continue to think ahead and come up with reasons to breathe life into our ideas. Unless we do so, we won’t be able to gain ground and thus remove our old skins. There is no such thing as an original thought but that doesn’t mean we should stop thinking. With our collective effort, we might just crack the code of existence.
