Somebody who has been reading the void's typed scribbles, wanted to know the void's interpretation of what is happiness or rather true happiness. The Void's word is obviously not the final word and it should not be, but here it is again from a hotel room adding to the scribbles.
We need to be aware that the definitions are extremely subjective.
Happiness is a state of mind while a happy person is what the void would call as, a person who is temporarily in a favourable disposition to a given situation.
Sometimes we confuse pleasure with happiness. Pleasure is dependent on an object external to us.
Is a life without worry a happy life - well you could say so. As long as you dont have anything negative, by which the Void means, an event or stimulus which makes you sad like the death of a beloved one, or the loss of what you value most and if you have enough money, and the resources to lead your life you will not have the negative vibes that have been mentioned above, but still not necessary that you may be happy. Some people start using the word "bored" at such a stage.
Is running behind your dreams filled with activity going to keep you happy - it keeps you busy, your ego inflated and deflated according to the rhythms of what has been achieved and lost so you may be like the pendulum which swings from one end to another, and assuming that no external agency acts on this pendulum, at some point of time it comes to rest. Action may not bring happiness, but a happy person will need action, but remember this state need not be for ever because he is enjoying the pleasures of his or her action.
Now if i want to associate that state of rest of the pendulum to happiness, then this is what i prefer to call it "bliss" - where the mind is with itself, not dependent on any external source, the state which every religion describes as "I am".
In a worldly sense, if your talents and expectations are exactly balanced then you will not be unhappy.
But the fundamental question the void has, why should somebody want to get lost in the semantics of happiness and sadness. What if we learnt and understood life as a given and our body mind complex as a mere tool in the whole process. It is not a resigned state where you give up and remain a loser, but an extremely active state of a fully observant mind where you do everything with the fullest energy and joy and be true to what you have to do in a given role, then that process by itself is blissful, and a by-product of that process will be a happy human being.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
The English exam....
As always, the best part of the year in his life was the summer vacations. As a child, to be away from the hustle bustle of school, having to get up early, doing your homeworks, memorizing the lessons……..was the toughest and painstaking activity in his life. Anything which will keep him away from all these agonizing moments was a godsend and the summer vacations was just right for that and fast approaching..
The school was to close within a week. Normally he would have his holidays for atleast two months which would be spent in playing, playing and playing. Even food was not a priority. His exams were finished, and the results were to be declared before the vacation. He as ever, never cared for it, not because he was audacious, but he just never knew the importance of the exams, to him it was just another day but with slightly more reading at home and writing at school to be done. But one thing interesting happened in this year’s ritual of exams.
The first exam was always English and this was his favourite subject, the reason was the book had lots of stories which he loved to read. His teacher was a tall slim lady, with a very casual attitude which was less didactic and more friendly to the kids. But one thing with which she always used to make her presence felt was a wooden foot ruler, which she used to rotate as she walked. It was used not for drawing lines as she was only an English teacher, but she was innovative to find various other uses and one of them was to wrap the naughty kids on their knuckles, and every sensible child was afraid of that but not this kid. She used to teach the Christmas songs for the school carol with her wooden guitar and had a voice which was not very melodious but still nice to hear. She loved this boy for the mix of sharpness, and quick wit and at the same time his restlessness to get going, never minding the fact that teachers have to cater to the other kids too.
During the English exams, on the first day, in the morning , one of the questions asked them to quote a poetry from memory, but a child as he was, mistook it to be an oral session. He waited thinking that one of the teachers would come and ask him to recite and since nobody came to him to check his recitation, he folded his papers , submitted and coolly walked off, finishing everything but that question. And he went home, caring the least about what he had done, eager to have his lunch, and come back for the second paper in English which was a grammar session. His boots were always muddied however well it was polished, he just couldn’t help dirtying himself. His mother , a very tough lady, and who also looked tough, not in size but very expressive, for her the first thing was to check the question paper, before providing lunch. So much was her anxiety that she probably felt that she was examined and not the child. Maybe , because she used to be the catalyst to make this fellow sit and read, impatient as he was always. When she found that he had missed to quote from memory, she was aghast. The face, conveying the highest level of disappointment, and at the same time pitiful as she looked at the boy and asked “why did you not answer the quote from memory question?”
This frail 8 year old was emphatic in saying ‘No amma this is not to be written but just oral, maybe they will ask me in the afternoon, don’t worry’….. in his soft kiddish voice with innocence all over his face. After all he was a child, who didn’t understand why exams were even conducted, leave alone understanding what it meant to quote.
She asked “ Did Chandran paul answer it? What about Govindan? Did he write?
The kid said “I don’t know, I didn’t talk to them”
OK Just wait, I will go downstairs and check with Suganti” and so saying she went one floor below to the neighbour’s house.
The girl staying one floor below, Suganti was the kid’s class mate and she said
‘No auntie, we are supposed to write and I wrote it, I didn’t miss anything”.
This only added to the mother’s fury and disappointment. She also knew that her son had always performed better than this girl, and a kid doesn’t know if these checks are being done out of mistrust or anxiety. And sure enough he was confused, but that attitude of never to care, helped him.
She always used to mix the rice with curd for lunch and the small child would squat on the floor with his mother in the kitchen floor.. The red oxide coated floor, with pock marks here and there was rough but still the time with the mother when the whole atmosphere is silent, people either napping or at office, no vendors crying their throats out in the afternoon heat, it was just he and his mother. He would extend his hands and the mother would place rolls of the curdrice on his small palm and he would gulp it in no time. The best days of lunch were those when they had ‘sambar’ with drumsticks. She used to peel the drum sticks and mix the soft inner portion of the vegetable in his curd rice and he would love that
Today it was not just the food, but along came , words of reprimand , telling him to pay attention and bursts of questions “How can you be so inattentive? Should you not check with your teacher?” She never remembered that she was talking to a child, she was addressing her own concern, not understanding that, children are like that. Do we ever teach our children to pay attention to the beauties of life, the colors of dead leaves, the beauty of the setting sun, the twinkling of stars in a dark night the small things which make him a human, which teach him to be a human throughout his life not just physiologically, but psychologically as well, a complete human?
After lunch , the mother accompanied the child back to the school as it was within the quarters, a stone’s throw from the house. The corridor was crowded, kids moving here and there, so anxious, some of them reading , looking at those probably important things which they could forget, their faces so desperate as if their whole life depended on just one question or its answer, their small innocent minds, slowly getting to know the feel of corruption, competition , comparison, envy and jealousy as they begin to prepare their steps to enter the world which is filled with this filth , by and large.. And all parents teach the same thing – to compare yourself with a child in studies is not wrong, but a child doesn’t stop with that, he compares in every aspect. When that sense of comparison with another child or his living, affects or intrudes into the parents’ capability, that is taboo, which only adds to the confusion in the mind of that innocent child. To establish their attributes more strongly to prove to the society , that they are living upto the image which is acceptable to the society, and live that life of pseudo-security, and in a numb way pass it to the next generation.
And as she entered the building, the English teacher came out of the staff room. This child, completely indifferent, pitying his mother’s ignorance that it is not to be written but just an oral recitation was laughing to himself. Soon he was to realize that he was wrong. The English teacher came rushing out with an answer paper in her hand, and pulling the mother to one side, was murmuring something , in an extremely anxious tone. Her eyes wide open, her words spilling out faster than her mind could probably think, and the mother nodding her head, and adding something more….then they decided that the child could join the party. And here was this child, in his loose grey half pants and wrinkled white shirt, with just a pencil, rubber and pad, never reading or anxious, wondering at others. Calling him closer, the teacher gave a soft hit on his head with her knuckles. This came as a surprise to him. He starts thinking … “What do these people think? My mother asks me something, I answer her, she doesn’t understand the question, then she comes to school and talks to my teacher and after a while they call me just to give this knock? Why is this happening, of all people to me ?”
This is what happens when expectations run high. A small drop in performance, lets your spirit to such abysmal depths and you go down like a deflated balloon. Here it was the expectation and trust the teacher and the mother had in the child. The anxiety writ large on their faces when things didn’t happen their way. It seems, the English teacher who happened to be the supervisor in that hall where the kid wrote his exam in the morning, had been closely following him. It was a large room, the old fans with their whirring noise, small tables and chairs with their cute , yellow, light blue and green colors, as they wrote the exams. There was this lady attendant, a short dusky lady of about 5 feet, who moved around with a plastic tumbler of water if the kids or the teachers needed, and as she walked, her bare feet always scuffing the ground making that weird noise which left some of the kids with goosepimples on their skin.
As the kid was writing his answers, the teacher found that this was the only boy who would get a full hundred marks in a language exam. He was her favourite student. She was so thrilled that the first thing she did after the exam was to correct his sheet immediately. The teacher becomes a child for a moment here, her curiosity, gets the better of her, and this child begins to value the other child’s paper. Lo and behold, she finds that the answer to the question to quote from memory is not there. She must have probably read the paper again and again, to confirm if she had not missed it, but sure it was never there. Now her mood swings wildly…..from curiosity , to happiness as she was correcting it and then to disappointment on not finding it and then anger, as her expectations are not met, the transition steps are not so clearly defined in the mood swings unless time is spent on introspection. She hurriedly finished her meals and as soon as she saw the child and his mother, she gave vent to her emotions. The mother quickly, agreeing with the teacher, added her words of anger and disappointment, and they both parted ways, and the kid was asked to go to the class for his afternoon exams. The mother went home, and she looked happy and contented, but what had happened to bring about that change? The child never knew, but he was to know the reason very soon. In the meantime, the school bell rings in the distance, cutting sharply into the quietness of the summer afternoon, sending all the kids scattering back to their class rooms, and an ominous silence prevails again in the building.
In the afternoon , as he was writing his grammar paper, the English teacher walks in, tall and her face sweating in that humid afternoon in the poorly ventilated class room. As she was approaching the kid, he just looked up. He was really frightened, the teacher with her strong steady steps thudding as she came closer, with that look which could probably have burnt him to ashes, and she sat beside the boy for a moment and said….
“Look, I am giving you the morning’s paper again. Answer the quote from memory question here. Do this first and you can answer the grammar paper after that. Do you understand?”
The child was totally confused, never had this ever happened in his life, but again that didn’t matter, for he had the whole English book by heart, so what was it to just write a small poetry of 8 lines. It must have been two or three minutes, after the teacher gave him the morning’s paper and went to the back of the hall to wait. In his unique tone tinged with urgency there was a voice in that silent room that afternoon “miss…miss….miss”as he called the teacher. She looked back . Thinking that he was going to ask for something else, with her morning’s anger and disappointment not yet gone, she came hurriedly to him and almost shouting …
“Now what?”
“I finished the quote from memory miss”, the soft innocence speaking out as the thin tender hands extend to give the paper back.
She read through the paper, and that look on the teacher’s face is one which nobody can forget. It was like a lotus bud which was rapidly blooming into full glory , as if ready to meet the sun, displaying all her colors and splendor in the otherwise dirty pond and finally beaming.
She read through the answer, not a punctuation was missed, not a hyphen. It was as if she was reading the text book. Her face beaming with joy and wonder at this kid, who could be the most notorious and yet produce an answer sheet in English which scored a full hundred. Every child has its toy to fascinate itself. At that moment her toy was the child’s English paper, fascinated and deeply impressed, she gave a slight peck on this boy’s cheek, who was nonplussed and never understood anything of what was happening and went back to her room leaving the boy to continue with his work. She died to the morning only in the afternoon and hence lived with her conflicts and desperation for a short time in that afternoon.
But to the kid, nothing mattered, it was just another question to be answered which he did with the same ease and nonchalance as he did with any other question or subject. He didn’t care about the grades and never compared himself with others. Till then, he was dying to everything, which sustained the innocence which was his essential nature and thus he really lived. But not for long , as that was the time when he learnt to compare, and learnt all the aspects of life which corrupted the young mind – to compare, to be ambitious and to fight, and in the process losing touch with that beautiful flower of innocence, which was never to come back again. Never to be a human with that humaneness but just another assemblage of organs with the spirit of life to fight and survive. Sure enough he grew up, with all those qualities taking strong root in him and growing to be a well manured tree, all those traits which he acquired, were well fertilized and maintained by the system of society and family and lost those which was never to be lost. He will grow up to be a successful man in his career, but is that success in life?
The school was to close within a week. Normally he would have his holidays for atleast two months which would be spent in playing, playing and playing. Even food was not a priority. His exams were finished, and the results were to be declared before the vacation. He as ever, never cared for it, not because he was audacious, but he just never knew the importance of the exams, to him it was just another day but with slightly more reading at home and writing at school to be done. But one thing interesting happened in this year’s ritual of exams.
The first exam was always English and this was his favourite subject, the reason was the book had lots of stories which he loved to read. His teacher was a tall slim lady, with a very casual attitude which was less didactic and more friendly to the kids. But one thing with which she always used to make her presence felt was a wooden foot ruler, which she used to rotate as she walked. It was used not for drawing lines as she was only an English teacher, but she was innovative to find various other uses and one of them was to wrap the naughty kids on their knuckles, and every sensible child was afraid of that but not this kid. She used to teach the Christmas songs for the school carol with her wooden guitar and had a voice which was not very melodious but still nice to hear. She loved this boy for the mix of sharpness, and quick wit and at the same time his restlessness to get going, never minding the fact that teachers have to cater to the other kids too.
During the English exams, on the first day, in the morning , one of the questions asked them to quote a poetry from memory, but a child as he was, mistook it to be an oral session. He waited thinking that one of the teachers would come and ask him to recite and since nobody came to him to check his recitation, he folded his papers , submitted and coolly walked off, finishing everything but that question. And he went home, caring the least about what he had done, eager to have his lunch, and come back for the second paper in English which was a grammar session. His boots were always muddied however well it was polished, he just couldn’t help dirtying himself. His mother , a very tough lady, and who also looked tough, not in size but very expressive, for her the first thing was to check the question paper, before providing lunch. So much was her anxiety that she probably felt that she was examined and not the child. Maybe , because she used to be the catalyst to make this fellow sit and read, impatient as he was always. When she found that he had missed to quote from memory, she was aghast. The face, conveying the highest level of disappointment, and at the same time pitiful as she looked at the boy and asked “why did you not answer the quote from memory question?”
This frail 8 year old was emphatic in saying ‘No amma this is not to be written but just oral, maybe they will ask me in the afternoon, don’t worry’….. in his soft kiddish voice with innocence all over his face. After all he was a child, who didn’t understand why exams were even conducted, leave alone understanding what it meant to quote.
She asked “ Did Chandran paul answer it? What about Govindan? Did he write?
The kid said “I don’t know, I didn’t talk to them”
OK Just wait, I will go downstairs and check with Suganti” and so saying she went one floor below to the neighbour’s house.
The girl staying one floor below, Suganti was the kid’s class mate and she said
‘No auntie, we are supposed to write and I wrote it, I didn’t miss anything”.
This only added to the mother’s fury and disappointment. She also knew that her son had always performed better than this girl, and a kid doesn’t know if these checks are being done out of mistrust or anxiety. And sure enough he was confused, but that attitude of never to care, helped him.
She always used to mix the rice with curd for lunch and the small child would squat on the floor with his mother in the kitchen floor.. The red oxide coated floor, with pock marks here and there was rough but still the time with the mother when the whole atmosphere is silent, people either napping or at office, no vendors crying their throats out in the afternoon heat, it was just he and his mother. He would extend his hands and the mother would place rolls of the curdrice on his small palm and he would gulp it in no time. The best days of lunch were those when they had ‘sambar’ with drumsticks. She used to peel the drum sticks and mix the soft inner portion of the vegetable in his curd rice and he would love that
Today it was not just the food, but along came , words of reprimand , telling him to pay attention and bursts of questions “How can you be so inattentive? Should you not check with your teacher?” She never remembered that she was talking to a child, she was addressing her own concern, not understanding that, children are like that. Do we ever teach our children to pay attention to the beauties of life, the colors of dead leaves, the beauty of the setting sun, the twinkling of stars in a dark night the small things which make him a human, which teach him to be a human throughout his life not just physiologically, but psychologically as well, a complete human?
After lunch , the mother accompanied the child back to the school as it was within the quarters, a stone’s throw from the house. The corridor was crowded, kids moving here and there, so anxious, some of them reading , looking at those probably important things which they could forget, their faces so desperate as if their whole life depended on just one question or its answer, their small innocent minds, slowly getting to know the feel of corruption, competition , comparison, envy and jealousy as they begin to prepare their steps to enter the world which is filled with this filth , by and large.. And all parents teach the same thing – to compare yourself with a child in studies is not wrong, but a child doesn’t stop with that, he compares in every aspect. When that sense of comparison with another child or his living, affects or intrudes into the parents’ capability, that is taboo, which only adds to the confusion in the mind of that innocent child. To establish their attributes more strongly to prove to the society , that they are living upto the image which is acceptable to the society, and live that life of pseudo-security, and in a numb way pass it to the next generation.
And as she entered the building, the English teacher came out of the staff room. This child, completely indifferent, pitying his mother’s ignorance that it is not to be written but just an oral recitation was laughing to himself. Soon he was to realize that he was wrong. The English teacher came rushing out with an answer paper in her hand, and pulling the mother to one side, was murmuring something , in an extremely anxious tone. Her eyes wide open, her words spilling out faster than her mind could probably think, and the mother nodding her head, and adding something more….then they decided that the child could join the party. And here was this child, in his loose grey half pants and wrinkled white shirt, with just a pencil, rubber and pad, never reading or anxious, wondering at others. Calling him closer, the teacher gave a soft hit on his head with her knuckles. This came as a surprise to him. He starts thinking … “What do these people think? My mother asks me something, I answer her, she doesn’t understand the question, then she comes to school and talks to my teacher and after a while they call me just to give this knock? Why is this happening, of all people to me ?”
This is what happens when expectations run high. A small drop in performance, lets your spirit to such abysmal depths and you go down like a deflated balloon. Here it was the expectation and trust the teacher and the mother had in the child. The anxiety writ large on their faces when things didn’t happen their way. It seems, the English teacher who happened to be the supervisor in that hall where the kid wrote his exam in the morning, had been closely following him. It was a large room, the old fans with their whirring noise, small tables and chairs with their cute , yellow, light blue and green colors, as they wrote the exams. There was this lady attendant, a short dusky lady of about 5 feet, who moved around with a plastic tumbler of water if the kids or the teachers needed, and as she walked, her bare feet always scuffing the ground making that weird noise which left some of the kids with goosepimples on their skin.
As the kid was writing his answers, the teacher found that this was the only boy who would get a full hundred marks in a language exam. He was her favourite student. She was so thrilled that the first thing she did after the exam was to correct his sheet immediately. The teacher becomes a child for a moment here, her curiosity, gets the better of her, and this child begins to value the other child’s paper. Lo and behold, she finds that the answer to the question to quote from memory is not there. She must have probably read the paper again and again, to confirm if she had not missed it, but sure it was never there. Now her mood swings wildly…..from curiosity , to happiness as she was correcting it and then to disappointment on not finding it and then anger, as her expectations are not met, the transition steps are not so clearly defined in the mood swings unless time is spent on introspection. She hurriedly finished her meals and as soon as she saw the child and his mother, she gave vent to her emotions. The mother quickly, agreeing with the teacher, added her words of anger and disappointment, and they both parted ways, and the kid was asked to go to the class for his afternoon exams. The mother went home, and she looked happy and contented, but what had happened to bring about that change? The child never knew, but he was to know the reason very soon. In the meantime, the school bell rings in the distance, cutting sharply into the quietness of the summer afternoon, sending all the kids scattering back to their class rooms, and an ominous silence prevails again in the building.
In the afternoon , as he was writing his grammar paper, the English teacher walks in, tall and her face sweating in that humid afternoon in the poorly ventilated class room. As she was approaching the kid, he just looked up. He was really frightened, the teacher with her strong steady steps thudding as she came closer, with that look which could probably have burnt him to ashes, and she sat beside the boy for a moment and said….
“Look, I am giving you the morning’s paper again. Answer the quote from memory question here. Do this first and you can answer the grammar paper after that. Do you understand?”
The child was totally confused, never had this ever happened in his life, but again that didn’t matter, for he had the whole English book by heart, so what was it to just write a small poetry of 8 lines. It must have been two or three minutes, after the teacher gave him the morning’s paper and went to the back of the hall to wait. In his unique tone tinged with urgency there was a voice in that silent room that afternoon “miss…miss….miss”as he called the teacher. She looked back . Thinking that he was going to ask for something else, with her morning’s anger and disappointment not yet gone, she came hurriedly to him and almost shouting …
“Now what?”
“I finished the quote from memory miss”, the soft innocence speaking out as the thin tender hands extend to give the paper back.
She read through the paper, and that look on the teacher’s face is one which nobody can forget. It was like a lotus bud which was rapidly blooming into full glory , as if ready to meet the sun, displaying all her colors and splendor in the otherwise dirty pond and finally beaming.
She read through the answer, not a punctuation was missed, not a hyphen. It was as if she was reading the text book. Her face beaming with joy and wonder at this kid, who could be the most notorious and yet produce an answer sheet in English which scored a full hundred. Every child has its toy to fascinate itself. At that moment her toy was the child’s English paper, fascinated and deeply impressed, she gave a slight peck on this boy’s cheek, who was nonplussed and never understood anything of what was happening and went back to her room leaving the boy to continue with his work. She died to the morning only in the afternoon and hence lived with her conflicts and desperation for a short time in that afternoon.
But to the kid, nothing mattered, it was just another question to be answered which he did with the same ease and nonchalance as he did with any other question or subject. He didn’t care about the grades and never compared himself with others. Till then, he was dying to everything, which sustained the innocence which was his essential nature and thus he really lived. But not for long , as that was the time when he learnt to compare, and learnt all the aspects of life which corrupted the young mind – to compare, to be ambitious and to fight, and in the process losing touch with that beautiful flower of innocence, which was never to come back again. Never to be a human with that humaneness but just another assemblage of organs with the spirit of life to fight and survive. Sure enough he grew up, with all those qualities taking strong root in him and growing to be a well manured tree, all those traits which he acquired, were well fertilized and maintained by the system of society and family and lost those which was never to be lost. He will grow up to be a successful man in his career, but is that success in life?
Friday, 8 June 2007
The Reality of Time!
The evening bell rang, signaling the end of the day’s classes in school. He now had to go for his tuition class. His parents had put him into that extra class to make sure he did well in academics. For some reason, it was his last priority; he thought he wasn’t cutout for studies, least of all physics or math, or anything in science. His interest was in things which were supposedly abstract. Though science tried to touch upon them, he was convinced that science, at least as much as he knew of it, was not going to clear things up for him.
He sat on his cycle, and started the ride to his evening class, a muddy road lined with tall palm trees. Yonder lay a burial ground and every day as he crossed that route to his class, he would see at least one funeral procession. He became so used to it, that never did it fail to fascinate him. Some people laughing, others seriously talking something or the other, the priestly person, blowing the conch and clanging the bell, as if informing the world of the person’s departure, or probably informing the folks high up to make sure they were ready to receive this latest consignment, but it all happened so religiously. He would stand with this cycle, watching the procession pass, as the sound of the bell slowly faded………….interestingly he would think of Doppler’s effect as the sound faded away. Such a simple concept that it took somebody to observe it and be more explicit about such a basic concept.
As he reached the class, his physics teacher was waiting for him. There was no other student that day. The topic was about velocity, distance and time.
The three formulae associating, velocity, distance, and time, the physics teacher so lucidly explained and as he was elaborating and insisting that time was of utmost importance to understand these concepts, this boy’s mind began its quest.
“Sir got a doubt”!
“What is it”? Asked the teacher.
“What is time”? He asked after about one hour of the lesson.
The teacher was fuming.
“I have been croaking my throat for one hour and now you ask me what time is”? Yelled the teacher.
“Sir, sorry but please tell me what is time. All that you told me was about time and not time per se, so please explain” the boy quietly said.
Now the teacher held back for a minute, and realized that the kid had a point. Like in every physics class, he had explained that velocity is the distance traveled in a given time, and acceleration is the rate of change of velocity, each term was explained in terms of another term, but never was time which was the fundamental, explained, and now the boy got to it, so steadfast. His face gave the feeling that he didn’t care about anything else unless definition of time was clarified.
“OK, let me try” said the teacher and went on “the interval between two events is time”.
“So sir, does it mean that time itself is dependent on the second event and doesn’t exist by itself?”
The teacher was completely caught off guard. He didn’t know how to handle this, in his heart of heart he was happy that these questions weren’t raised in the class in front of so many others. He thought this boy to be so disinterested but now he realized that the seemingly callous boy was not what he seemed to be.
“Yes, I think so, but then you have the clock time, it is not dependent on any event” replied the teacher, a feeling of happiness that he could outwit the boy.
His head still looking at the cracked cemented floor, the boy smiled and said
“Is it so? But the clock has its two arms, and unless the arm moves from one point to another, you still cannot measure time, so don’t you feel there is a dependence on something else to measure time, even within the clock”?
“Sir, all along I heard you in the class, stressing the importance of the concept of time to define all the other concepts. Tell me something, what if there is no second event for a given first event. Does it mean that time ceases? Going back to what you said about the definition of time…….as the interval between two events……….. even mentally when I have a thought, and then another thought, between the two thoughts you say is the interval called time, am I right?” asked the boy.
“Yes….” He replied but he wasn’t sure any more regarding the direction of the conversation or the next question.
“So it implies that at some point of time, if there is no thought in a person, time ceases to exist for him isn’t it? If so is it OK to state that with no time existing, space also ceases to exist for him?
“Now why would you say space ceases to exist” asked the teacher, the roles were slightly getting reversed apparently.
“I think so because, if there is no time, then there is no movement, which means the second doesn’t exist, and space comes into existence only when the here and there exist, and with time gone, there is no here and consequently no there, so what is left?” asked the boy
“So what is left………..” asked the teacher his voice becoming a hoarse whisper.
The evening twilight slowly giving way to darkness and they could see the ghostly form of the tall trees dancing in the distance.
“Sorry sir; am not sure, that’s why am asking you, since you could explain time, I wanted to know from you about the concept of no-time” the boy said.
It was a very embarrassing position for the teacher, but at the same time, the boy’s question seemed to be valid, and he was a good teacher, and he respected the boy.
“Son, I don’t think I can answer the question of yours. Its not physics anymore we are talking about I think” he said.
The boy so young, innocent looking but the eyes could look through you, so penetrating yet soft, yearning to learn and touch the depths of void which very few minds dare to explore.
“Sir, shall I take leave?” he asked.
“OK boy, see you in school tomorrow” said the teacher.
He packed his bag and started pedaling, along the same route he had passed sometime ago, by now the funeral procession had reached the destination and he could see the pyre burning in glory, consuming every bit of the body fed into it. He stopped the cycle, resting one leg on the ground; while he relaxed in the cross bar of his cycle, observing the birds, flying back, the flames leaping into the sky, as if making a last ditch effort to deliver the body to the heavens up there. In his mind it ranted on,
“If there is no second, then is there no time and hence no space? If so then time and space are not real, as they don’t have an independent existence, so if that is the case what is left, there is no here and no there, and hence no distance or time, either mental or physical, what is that state, what is it that gives validity to these………..can I ever experience it, or to experience it, should I cease, if so can I articulate the experience after it…………” questions which never had an answer yet………
He sat on his cycle, and started the ride to his evening class, a muddy road lined with tall palm trees. Yonder lay a burial ground and every day as he crossed that route to his class, he would see at least one funeral procession. He became so used to it, that never did it fail to fascinate him. Some people laughing, others seriously talking something or the other, the priestly person, blowing the conch and clanging the bell, as if informing the world of the person’s departure, or probably informing the folks high up to make sure they were ready to receive this latest consignment, but it all happened so religiously. He would stand with this cycle, watching the procession pass, as the sound of the bell slowly faded………….interestingly he would think of Doppler’s effect as the sound faded away. Such a simple concept that it took somebody to observe it and be more explicit about such a basic concept.
As he reached the class, his physics teacher was waiting for him. There was no other student that day. The topic was about velocity, distance and time.
The three formulae associating, velocity, distance, and time, the physics teacher so lucidly explained and as he was elaborating and insisting that time was of utmost importance to understand these concepts, this boy’s mind began its quest.
“Sir got a doubt”!
“What is it”? Asked the teacher.
“What is time”? He asked after about one hour of the lesson.
The teacher was fuming.
“I have been croaking my throat for one hour and now you ask me what time is”? Yelled the teacher.
“Sir, sorry but please tell me what is time. All that you told me was about time and not time per se, so please explain” the boy quietly said.
Now the teacher held back for a minute, and realized that the kid had a point. Like in every physics class, he had explained that velocity is the distance traveled in a given time, and acceleration is the rate of change of velocity, each term was explained in terms of another term, but never was time which was the fundamental, explained, and now the boy got to it, so steadfast. His face gave the feeling that he didn’t care about anything else unless definition of time was clarified.
“OK, let me try” said the teacher and went on “the interval between two events is time”.
“So sir, does it mean that time itself is dependent on the second event and doesn’t exist by itself?”
The teacher was completely caught off guard. He didn’t know how to handle this, in his heart of heart he was happy that these questions weren’t raised in the class in front of so many others. He thought this boy to be so disinterested but now he realized that the seemingly callous boy was not what he seemed to be.
“Yes, I think so, but then you have the clock time, it is not dependent on any event” replied the teacher, a feeling of happiness that he could outwit the boy.
His head still looking at the cracked cemented floor, the boy smiled and said
“Is it so? But the clock has its two arms, and unless the arm moves from one point to another, you still cannot measure time, so don’t you feel there is a dependence on something else to measure time, even within the clock”?
“Sir, all along I heard you in the class, stressing the importance of the concept of time to define all the other concepts. Tell me something, what if there is no second event for a given first event. Does it mean that time ceases? Going back to what you said about the definition of time…….as the interval between two events……….. even mentally when I have a thought, and then another thought, between the two thoughts you say is the interval called time, am I right?” asked the boy.
“Yes….” He replied but he wasn’t sure any more regarding the direction of the conversation or the next question.
“So it implies that at some point of time, if there is no thought in a person, time ceases to exist for him isn’t it? If so is it OK to state that with no time existing, space also ceases to exist for him?
“Now why would you say space ceases to exist” asked the teacher, the roles were slightly getting reversed apparently.
“I think so because, if there is no time, then there is no movement, which means the second doesn’t exist, and space comes into existence only when the here and there exist, and with time gone, there is no here and consequently no there, so what is left?” asked the boy
“So what is left………..” asked the teacher his voice becoming a hoarse whisper.
The evening twilight slowly giving way to darkness and they could see the ghostly form of the tall trees dancing in the distance.
“Sorry sir; am not sure, that’s why am asking you, since you could explain time, I wanted to know from you about the concept of no-time” the boy said.
It was a very embarrassing position for the teacher, but at the same time, the boy’s question seemed to be valid, and he was a good teacher, and he respected the boy.
“Son, I don’t think I can answer the question of yours. Its not physics anymore we are talking about I think” he said.
The boy so young, innocent looking but the eyes could look through you, so penetrating yet soft, yearning to learn and touch the depths of void which very few minds dare to explore.
“Sir, shall I take leave?” he asked.
“OK boy, see you in school tomorrow” said the teacher.
He packed his bag and started pedaling, along the same route he had passed sometime ago, by now the funeral procession had reached the destination and he could see the pyre burning in glory, consuming every bit of the body fed into it. He stopped the cycle, resting one leg on the ground; while he relaxed in the cross bar of his cycle, observing the birds, flying back, the flames leaping into the sky, as if making a last ditch effort to deliver the body to the heavens up there. In his mind it ranted on,
“If there is no second, then is there no time and hence no space? If so then time and space are not real, as they don’t have an independent existence, so if that is the case what is left, there is no here and no there, and hence no distance or time, either mental or physical, what is that state, what is it that gives validity to these………..can I ever experience it, or to experience it, should I cease, if so can I articulate the experience after it…………” questions which never had an answer yet………
Reflections in twilight....
He was traveling in another country on a business trip to meet with some of the heads of business to sort out certain issues. The running around from one factory to another due to the tightly scheduled meetings in that crazy traffic was maddening. But that particular drive for one hour to a factory away from the city to a far flung suburb was different. He had been mouthing “thank you” to quite a few people, all of them the who’s who in that country in those two or three days. Sitting in the back of the car, that drive of more than an hour raised a question, one which he felt was very important.
The road was not too bad, some pot holes, small ditches, making the drive a bit bumpy, but to over come these inconveniences, was the sight of the vast expanse of water extending on both side, seemingly endless. Extending up to the limits of human vision, and ending in the horizon was a treat to watch. Rain water had collected in an otherwise dry area, which was a brick making area, and had transformed the place into one of richness. He wound down the glass, the silence inside the car broken by the whir of the powered window, slowly as the gush of the wind disturbed the stillness inside.
Have I ever been thankful? Do I understand the meaning of thankfulness? What does it mean to be thankful? Do I really or have I really thanked anybody ever? The sunset not visible as the sky was terribly overcast, the lights of the city in the far distance seemed like the twinkle of stars. The placid lake disturbed by the wind causing ripples on the surface and the oar of a small fishing boat as it penetrated the surface. It was a means of livelihood for the people there and it was seasonal.
Not much of traffic, an occasional cycle rickshaw would pass with its bell ringing, the puller really having sweated his life out for the day, his eyes tired and shoulders drooping, sweat dripping down, but he continued seemingly oblivious to this. You never knew if he earned enough to feed himself and his family.
What was it to be thankful? His brother had taught him what death was, which he would not have known otherwise, his wife who gave up her career for him and never demanding, the neighbouring girl in trichy where he once lived who showed what it was to be unconditional, his other brother who helped him to understand how spineless this guy in the car was when he needed help long back in life, this other girl who flew the skies with her feet on the ground, very down to earth, who showed what spontaneity meant, his kids who exposed the violence in him.
To all these people whose company and association he enjoyed collectively and in private and who helped him to understand himself, had he ever been thankful? Not as a protocol and mere verbiage but an unsaid and honest sense of thankfulness. He was not sure. He knew one thing though, that he had been a hypocrite, could not express his softer feelings, lest he be considered a weakling. The car slowly heading into a bridge and the span of water extending for maybe four or five kilometers, the on coming headlights trying to pierce the resistive darkness of the imminent nightfall.
This reverie interrupted by his colleague.
“Sir, will this factory be passed?” His decisions were of utmost significance for the business and the job endowed him with lot of power, but he never let it get into his head, at least till then.
“I don’t think so, I will recommend a holiday probably, unless they change” and he kept quiet. His posture probably conveyed his reluctance to talk and the other person didn’t pursue the discussion further. The chimneys of the brick kilns stood defiantly in the lake, in anticipation of the dry season, when they would be active. Now they were quite and ready to be consumed by the darkness. There was so much of life in that surrounding stillness. A group of people clapping, singing and enjoying a boat ride. A young couple sitting on the bank enjoying nature’s romance.
When am I thankful? A mere shake of the hands and the extension of the lips would mean nothing, rather it is a stressful act, if I don’t want to do it. Is thankfulness devoid of humility? He had addressed a group of workers that afternoon in another factory. That factory had had a lot of problems and he had recommended a pull out earlier, later it was a conditional approval and things were supposed to have improved. He had visited the factory and while speaking to them, he felt thankful. He could realize the difference. Standing in front of nothing less than one thousand workers, most of them living below poverty line, his job had given him an opportunity to change things for them and it had. The conditions in the factory were better, payment regularity had improved and the feedback from the workers was in conformance to what he had seen. They were happy and he felt that upsurge, definitely not one of personal pride, but a deep sense of satisfaction, and there was a flash of thankfulness to his organization, which let him do something for a fellow human being, a sense of wholesomeness, no fragmentation, a sense of total integration from within.
The car passed through what seemed to be a market place, people selling flowers, cyclists riding with scant regard to rules, roadside hawkers busy, the petromax lights throwing light into the otherwise dark road.
Crossing his right leg over his left and leaning back, closing the windows, listening to the hum of the car’s aircon, he realized he had not been thankful generally, except to the organizations he worked for, as he enjoyed what he did and the opportunity they gave him. He had been selfish.
To thank a driver with the same intensity as you would thank a boss, to thank life for having brought him in touch with such nice people as much as to thank death which takes you to the tomorrow, His wife who had literally given up what was close to her, his brother who made him stronger by teaching him to die and yet be alive and the other who made him aware of his weakness, the two women who showed what friendship is all about, his kids who exposed the dark side in him. The very act of acknowledging their contribution was by itself an act of thanking. It is not something which can be expressed in words; it cannot be repaid or settled for life is not a statement of accounts.
Thinking about this, his eyes still closed, he again had the same feeling as he felt in the factory. It was effortless, a feeling that seemed to make him burst, an outcome of understanding what he was. As he opened his eyes, the dark sky with an occasional star, the dim moonlight reflected on the rippled water, the immensity of that moment and the sense of insignificance he felt after that introspection, that understanding, unbiased and honest, when he realized that he owed a lot to the spirit of life, to a stray dog or a beggar, or a small plant and the fact that he was endowed with the capability and free will to do so, made him understand what it was to be thankful. Not to hold but let go, not to bind or be bound but to set free, to be aware of the unmoving center, like the center of the hub in a wheel which is always at rest even as the periphery moves, acknowledging all happenings and to be aware of himself in all his interactions and relationships just as a mirror reflected the fact without warranting an interpretation, from that center would arise thankfulness, humility and love.
There was no need to verbalize for it was that drive, that expanse of water, and that stunning stillness which showed him who he was. He was thankful to the settling darkness which ironically reflected him so clearly. It is probably not a one time response, to lead a thankful life is a life of prayer, one of meditation with all senses open and alert, of love and holism. Thanking all of life in all its diverse forms and not begging; is what he felt at that moment as being really a life of gratitude.
As he arrived at the hotel and stepped out of the car, he genuinely thanked the driver, for he was a part of the exposure in the dark.
The road was not too bad, some pot holes, small ditches, making the drive a bit bumpy, but to over come these inconveniences, was the sight of the vast expanse of water extending on both side, seemingly endless. Extending up to the limits of human vision, and ending in the horizon was a treat to watch. Rain water had collected in an otherwise dry area, which was a brick making area, and had transformed the place into one of richness. He wound down the glass, the silence inside the car broken by the whir of the powered window, slowly as the gush of the wind disturbed the stillness inside.
Have I ever been thankful? Do I understand the meaning of thankfulness? What does it mean to be thankful? Do I really or have I really thanked anybody ever? The sunset not visible as the sky was terribly overcast, the lights of the city in the far distance seemed like the twinkle of stars. The placid lake disturbed by the wind causing ripples on the surface and the oar of a small fishing boat as it penetrated the surface. It was a means of livelihood for the people there and it was seasonal.
Not much of traffic, an occasional cycle rickshaw would pass with its bell ringing, the puller really having sweated his life out for the day, his eyes tired and shoulders drooping, sweat dripping down, but he continued seemingly oblivious to this. You never knew if he earned enough to feed himself and his family.
What was it to be thankful? His brother had taught him what death was, which he would not have known otherwise, his wife who gave up her career for him and never demanding, the neighbouring girl in trichy where he once lived who showed what it was to be unconditional, his other brother who helped him to understand how spineless this guy in the car was when he needed help long back in life, this other girl who flew the skies with her feet on the ground, very down to earth, who showed what spontaneity meant, his kids who exposed the violence in him.
To all these people whose company and association he enjoyed collectively and in private and who helped him to understand himself, had he ever been thankful? Not as a protocol and mere verbiage but an unsaid and honest sense of thankfulness. He was not sure. He knew one thing though, that he had been a hypocrite, could not express his softer feelings, lest he be considered a weakling. The car slowly heading into a bridge and the span of water extending for maybe four or five kilometers, the on coming headlights trying to pierce the resistive darkness of the imminent nightfall.
This reverie interrupted by his colleague.
“Sir, will this factory be passed?” His decisions were of utmost significance for the business and the job endowed him with lot of power, but he never let it get into his head, at least till then.
“I don’t think so, I will recommend a holiday probably, unless they change” and he kept quiet. His posture probably conveyed his reluctance to talk and the other person didn’t pursue the discussion further. The chimneys of the brick kilns stood defiantly in the lake, in anticipation of the dry season, when they would be active. Now they were quite and ready to be consumed by the darkness. There was so much of life in that surrounding stillness. A group of people clapping, singing and enjoying a boat ride. A young couple sitting on the bank enjoying nature’s romance.
When am I thankful? A mere shake of the hands and the extension of the lips would mean nothing, rather it is a stressful act, if I don’t want to do it. Is thankfulness devoid of humility? He had addressed a group of workers that afternoon in another factory. That factory had had a lot of problems and he had recommended a pull out earlier, later it was a conditional approval and things were supposed to have improved. He had visited the factory and while speaking to them, he felt thankful. He could realize the difference. Standing in front of nothing less than one thousand workers, most of them living below poverty line, his job had given him an opportunity to change things for them and it had. The conditions in the factory were better, payment regularity had improved and the feedback from the workers was in conformance to what he had seen. They were happy and he felt that upsurge, definitely not one of personal pride, but a deep sense of satisfaction, and there was a flash of thankfulness to his organization, which let him do something for a fellow human being, a sense of wholesomeness, no fragmentation, a sense of total integration from within.
The car passed through what seemed to be a market place, people selling flowers, cyclists riding with scant regard to rules, roadside hawkers busy, the petromax lights throwing light into the otherwise dark road.
Crossing his right leg over his left and leaning back, closing the windows, listening to the hum of the car’s aircon, he realized he had not been thankful generally, except to the organizations he worked for, as he enjoyed what he did and the opportunity they gave him. He had been selfish.
To thank a driver with the same intensity as you would thank a boss, to thank life for having brought him in touch with such nice people as much as to thank death which takes you to the tomorrow, His wife who had literally given up what was close to her, his brother who made him stronger by teaching him to die and yet be alive and the other who made him aware of his weakness, the two women who showed what friendship is all about, his kids who exposed the dark side in him. The very act of acknowledging their contribution was by itself an act of thanking. It is not something which can be expressed in words; it cannot be repaid or settled for life is not a statement of accounts.
Thinking about this, his eyes still closed, he again had the same feeling as he felt in the factory. It was effortless, a feeling that seemed to make him burst, an outcome of understanding what he was. As he opened his eyes, the dark sky with an occasional star, the dim moonlight reflected on the rippled water, the immensity of that moment and the sense of insignificance he felt after that introspection, that understanding, unbiased and honest, when he realized that he owed a lot to the spirit of life, to a stray dog or a beggar, or a small plant and the fact that he was endowed with the capability and free will to do so, made him understand what it was to be thankful. Not to hold but let go, not to bind or be bound but to set free, to be aware of the unmoving center, like the center of the hub in a wheel which is always at rest even as the periphery moves, acknowledging all happenings and to be aware of himself in all his interactions and relationships just as a mirror reflected the fact without warranting an interpretation, from that center would arise thankfulness, humility and love.
There was no need to verbalize for it was that drive, that expanse of water, and that stunning stillness which showed him who he was. He was thankful to the settling darkness which ironically reflected him so clearly. It is probably not a one time response, to lead a thankful life is a life of prayer, one of meditation with all senses open and alert, of love and holism. Thanking all of life in all its diverse forms and not begging; is what he felt at that moment as being really a life of gratitude.
As he arrived at the hotel and stepped out of the car, he genuinely thanked the driver, for he was a part of the exposure in the dark.
The Void
Folks this is not about me THE VOID but something similar............
in case somebody wanted to write to me, please do so to sthiagarajan@levi.com
in case somebody wanted to write to me, please do so to sthiagarajan@levi.com
A highly energetic person, very ambitious about career. The desire to achieve and work being so strong that sometimes, the basic objective of life itself wasn’t clear to him, but still he was successful in his job. He had a great assignment, which once in a while took him to great places in the beautiful land of Bavaria. The country famous for its beer and beer drinkers, and the efficiency of the work force there. The city is a commercial, manufacturing, and transportation center situated in a vineyard area. It is a major railroad junction and a river port and is served by an international airport. Principal manufactures of the area include motor vehicles, printed materials, electrical and photographic equipment, precision instruments, machinery, textiles, beverages, chemicals, and metal and wood products. The place he visited so often in that part of Germany, stuttgart was a place of great activity during the war years. But now it was quiet, the focus more on a peaceful existence. The same factories which produced the killing machines during the war years were now put to more productive use for mankind .
He was a small cog in the wheel, yet an important one. Like every other assignment, he went this time as well, for just a fortnight. The company gave him a nice apartment to stay in, a cozy two room flat, the balcony on the backside opening out to a lawn, and trees, swaying gently, the leaves yellowing slowly with the onset of winter. As you stood there you could listen to the birds, and the noise of the vehicles raging on the road in the front as the chill breeze hit your bones. The metallic clangs of the tram as it occasionally passed the house………otherwise it was silent, a cold silence at that time of the year. Yet he liked it to be away from the onerous routine back at home. It wasn’t that he didn’t like things back at home, but it is human to stay away from monotony for a while, and once variety becomes a painful repetition you get back to your old way of life till the wheel comes a full circle.
He had a nice friendly colleague in that office, and enjoyed his company at work and outside, be it going for a dinner or just for a casual talk. It was just being together during work and at times after work as well. There was nothing as a motive in that interaction, just a natural relationship when you are in an organization working with others, the only difference was that there weren’t many other people to interact with in this specific assignment. They had an opportunity to go for a drive on one week end, in the German Autobahn, meet with his family, do some casual sightseeing, and get back. Nothing more, and after another week of work, he got back home.
The weather back home being humid, where chaos is a way of life, and anything orderly would confuse people, even people at home, the demands and the apathy……despite he being a part of it was nevertheless; a slight setback. Though he wasn’t new to any of this, always something better overwhelms you with its awesomeness and anything at the other end of the spectrum could take you to depressive depths. Unless you are strong enough, you would succumb to either or both of them. Added to all this was some other nag. He knew what it was. For some unknown reason, he felt that he was missing him, his colleague in the other country. Honestly with no other reason to be attracted, here he was, still missing him and very stupidly felt guilty about it.
So when nothing really attracts you, why would you miss somebody? Being impressed with a particular behaviour is not something which will make you miss him or her. You may want to emulate, you may be appreciative of it, but will you miss the person or should you? And is there a reason to be guilty about it?
So what is it to miss somebody or something? A sense where everything seems so familiar in your immediate surrounding where you are now, yet not so maddening and you feel out of place in your own environs. What is the validity to this, if at all there is one? Is the verbalization “I miss” an insult to the beauty or the goodness you enjoyed? A captive victim would nurture hopes of escape, a torture victim would nurture hopes of easeful respite but when you say you miss and you lose your ultimate sanctuary for however short a period, then what are you hoping for at that moment?
What causes that emptiness or temporary void? Is it a yearning internally to retain that beauty of a relationship or interaction of the past? It doesn’t cause an eternal sorrow as there is nothing which doesn’t level out over time. We generally say we miss what we don’t have. We never miss what we have. Is that lack of “missingness” due to a sense of insouciance or lack of appreciation. When we miss, there is a certain freshness, eagerness, a painful waiting for the meeting to happen again or to go through the same experience, and to re-live that goodness, but once we get to be successful in achieving that desire, we don’t feel that pang or pain. There is a certain richness, and a kind of softness like fresh snow to that feeling, no bias no hatred, but a willingness to yield and compromise with that person or event or relationship. The same sense of openness doesn’t exist with the near and dear, regardless of it being a human or an inanimate object or even the nature around us. Distance heals, distance in terms of time and space but distance also seems to hurt like the invisible depression in space created by the heavier objects which tend to hold or pull the smaller ones around them. In physics it is gravity, in human relationships, is it synonymous with “the missing”? – the pleasantly painful pull…..
The pain seems to be more beautiful at times and pleasurable that we cherish and live in it. Sometimes a feeling of guilt comes in when you miss a person. The cause for this resting deep probably in a set of lopsided values. It is not wrong to miss or feel the absence of a person, or is it? Every experience has a certain beauty in it. The long felt desire to recapture the past moments of beauty creates the pain as is the case with anything where psychological effort comes into play. In that process to recapture you miss out the present. Neither the pleasure of the past satisfies you as we can never reach it, and it remains a mirage, and the effort to regain it, takes you away from the present beauty, so what is left is a void which gets filled with frustration. This probably takes us away from our immediate surrounding in all its forms so what is left is a sense of loneliness………….We probably miss ourselves when we say we miss. To be aware of ourselves and our interactions in the present is probably to not miss.
When would I not miss? Only when am full, complete. When can I be complete or full? Only when am aware of myself and the present and that means not to live in the dead past, which means not to miss the past. A seemingly ridiculous juxtaposition, when the past is gone, it is so obvious that you can’t miss it anymore, you can only miss the present or the future, so why do we miss the past? So is there an effort required not to miss or is it just to be your natural self in the now, oblivious to the dead? Do we have to spend any energy to be at ease? When we get to meet the same person again, would we talk about the past and live in a regurgitated pool or in the current freshness?
When we are not the same psychologically at different times of a given day, how can we tacitly assume that the other person whom we supposedly “miss” is going to let us enjoy the same experience always, or what is the guarantee that an exactly similar interaction will provide us the same experience. Is that not a bit presumptive? It is a rich feeling to feel the void, live it, see it getting filled and emptied and filled again as a continuous cycle rather than just retain the emptiness, for nature fills all gaps in her own way.
He was a small cog in the wheel, yet an important one. Like every other assignment, he went this time as well, for just a fortnight. The company gave him a nice apartment to stay in, a cozy two room flat, the balcony on the backside opening out to a lawn, and trees, swaying gently, the leaves yellowing slowly with the onset of winter. As you stood there you could listen to the birds, and the noise of the vehicles raging on the road in the front as the chill breeze hit your bones. The metallic clangs of the tram as it occasionally passed the house………otherwise it was silent, a cold silence at that time of the year. Yet he liked it to be away from the onerous routine back at home. It wasn’t that he didn’t like things back at home, but it is human to stay away from monotony for a while, and once variety becomes a painful repetition you get back to your old way of life till the wheel comes a full circle.
He had a nice friendly colleague in that office, and enjoyed his company at work and outside, be it going for a dinner or just for a casual talk. It was just being together during work and at times after work as well. There was nothing as a motive in that interaction, just a natural relationship when you are in an organization working with others, the only difference was that there weren’t many other people to interact with in this specific assignment. They had an opportunity to go for a drive on one week end, in the German Autobahn, meet with his family, do some casual sightseeing, and get back. Nothing more, and after another week of work, he got back home.
The weather back home being humid, where chaos is a way of life, and anything orderly would confuse people, even people at home, the demands and the apathy……despite he being a part of it was nevertheless; a slight setback. Though he wasn’t new to any of this, always something better overwhelms you with its awesomeness and anything at the other end of the spectrum could take you to depressive depths. Unless you are strong enough, you would succumb to either or both of them. Added to all this was some other nag. He knew what it was. For some unknown reason, he felt that he was missing him, his colleague in the other country. Honestly with no other reason to be attracted, here he was, still missing him and very stupidly felt guilty about it.
So when nothing really attracts you, why would you miss somebody? Being impressed with a particular behaviour is not something which will make you miss him or her. You may want to emulate, you may be appreciative of it, but will you miss the person or should you? And is there a reason to be guilty about it?
So what is it to miss somebody or something? A sense where everything seems so familiar in your immediate surrounding where you are now, yet not so maddening and you feel out of place in your own environs. What is the validity to this, if at all there is one? Is the verbalization “I miss” an insult to the beauty or the goodness you enjoyed? A captive victim would nurture hopes of escape, a torture victim would nurture hopes of easeful respite but when you say you miss and you lose your ultimate sanctuary for however short a period, then what are you hoping for at that moment?
What causes that emptiness or temporary void? Is it a yearning internally to retain that beauty of a relationship or interaction of the past? It doesn’t cause an eternal sorrow as there is nothing which doesn’t level out over time. We generally say we miss what we don’t have. We never miss what we have. Is that lack of “missingness” due to a sense of insouciance or lack of appreciation. When we miss, there is a certain freshness, eagerness, a painful waiting for the meeting to happen again or to go through the same experience, and to re-live that goodness, but once we get to be successful in achieving that desire, we don’t feel that pang or pain. There is a certain richness, and a kind of softness like fresh snow to that feeling, no bias no hatred, but a willingness to yield and compromise with that person or event or relationship. The same sense of openness doesn’t exist with the near and dear, regardless of it being a human or an inanimate object or even the nature around us. Distance heals, distance in terms of time and space but distance also seems to hurt like the invisible depression in space created by the heavier objects which tend to hold or pull the smaller ones around them. In physics it is gravity, in human relationships, is it synonymous with “the missing”? – the pleasantly painful pull…..
The pain seems to be more beautiful at times and pleasurable that we cherish and live in it. Sometimes a feeling of guilt comes in when you miss a person. The cause for this resting deep probably in a set of lopsided values. It is not wrong to miss or feel the absence of a person, or is it? Every experience has a certain beauty in it. The long felt desire to recapture the past moments of beauty creates the pain as is the case with anything where psychological effort comes into play. In that process to recapture you miss out the present. Neither the pleasure of the past satisfies you as we can never reach it, and it remains a mirage, and the effort to regain it, takes you away from the present beauty, so what is left is a void which gets filled with frustration. This probably takes us away from our immediate surrounding in all its forms so what is left is a sense of loneliness………….We probably miss ourselves when we say we miss. To be aware of ourselves and our interactions in the present is probably to not miss.
When would I not miss? Only when am full, complete. When can I be complete or full? Only when am aware of myself and the present and that means not to live in the dead past, which means not to miss the past. A seemingly ridiculous juxtaposition, when the past is gone, it is so obvious that you can’t miss it anymore, you can only miss the present or the future, so why do we miss the past? So is there an effort required not to miss or is it just to be your natural self in the now, oblivious to the dead? Do we have to spend any energy to be at ease? When we get to meet the same person again, would we talk about the past and live in a regurgitated pool or in the current freshness?
When we are not the same psychologically at different times of a given day, how can we tacitly assume that the other person whom we supposedly “miss” is going to let us enjoy the same experience always, or what is the guarantee that an exactly similar interaction will provide us the same experience. Is that not a bit presumptive? It is a rich feeling to feel the void, live it, see it getting filled and emptied and filled again as a continuous cycle rather than just retain the emptiness, for nature fills all gaps in her own way.
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