For Aisha .
One of the first writers
who ever influenced me was Suryakant Thripathi Nirala. A Khadi Boli
Hindi writer. He was a novelist and a poet. I would not be surprised
if Indians are not familiar with his name. We are not used to reading
our own writers. But he was the first soul, who ever evoked any sort
of feeling for mankind or humanity in me . His sarcasm, his humour,
his narration of poverty or his narration about rain. He was one of
those souls who was among the poor India,who connected themselves
with the rural part of India. He was not a mere spectator, he was
part of them. Everything had something to offer. I was introduced to
him in my 8th grade. I remember him cos Aisha ( my sister) also had
similar feelings evoked when she first encountered him.
Aisha and I have spent
hours discussing about him. we still do. We think off him as our own
relative. Someone who belonged to us, someone who understood us and
someone who had similar things to say about life. His own life was a
mess, as any other tragic life story, he too died in poverty. He
struggled all his life, he wrote all his life and never got
recognition. Yes, maybe its the romanticism with poverty that touched
us so much.
But surya has always been
a part of us.
He once a wrote a poem
about a beggar. Bhikshuk ( in Khadi boli- Hindi). It was more of a
narrative-descriptive style. He wrote his movements, his cries, his
sorrows and about his hunger. It was very clear, surya would never
want to exchange his lifestyle with the bhikshuk.
Nevertheless Surya died a
similar death. He died in starvation.
But the poem was
something, it moved me, and it did the same to my sister.
But is it just the
fact that, we can never understand these souls and only narrate about
them ?
I have always been
fascinated by lives of struggling artists, be it painters, novelists,
writers, poet, artists. Struggle and poverty was something I always
longed for. But I was always a far away distanced reader. I could not
even imagine being in their place, living those lives, I have
romanticised these notions in my head thousands of times, but even
thinking about those lives scares me. Somerset Maugham, another
author whose works kept me away from realities. An excellent writer
who made millions out of narrating the lives of struggling and
romanticised personalities. He was always the narrator and he always
maintained the distance. He did emerge in their lives here and there.
He too had his romantic flings with this lifestyle. But he maintained
his life, his real life. He was always able to get out of it.
Naguib Mahfouz, I was
introduced to his works 2 weeks ago. and he flirted with poverty of
Cairo, he himself was a product of this poverty. He made the death
and birth in this poverty circle as a matter of statistics. then
again, he became a narrator, he tried getting out of it. He never
tried living it. he felt all the compassion in the world for them,
for himself. But he had seen it and he was not bit moved by the
romantic angle about it. Why AM I suddenly writing about these souls,
Maybe because I am reaching a point in life. Where I am forced to
think about all those principles and their practical application. The
wonderful analytical mind feels like analysing this current dilemma
of my heart and brain.
Am I similar to these
authors, Was I also destined to just narrate these stories and not
understand them ?
Walking around the
streets of Cairo, I saw poverty . Its not that I had never witnessed
it before. But a year abroad and then a brief fling with Istanbul did
make me momentarily forget it. Somehow, this time I felt it, apathy
was yet to arrive and I was feeling awkward. I started flinching
every-time someone asked me for money. It did make me feel awkward.
As an Indian, am ashamed
to say this, but am not moved by poverty. I see people, I see beggars
and just like the locals I continue with my life. One has to
understand our background before making faces for this apathy. I was
brought up in cities. We witness beggars everyday. They are like
signboards, some people use them as reminders to work hard, some use
them as signposts for finding out local places. A beggar plays a very
important role in the Hindu circle of life. It keeps reminding us
that in order to escape the life of a beggar one has to be good in
this life. Yes, The Karma is somehow intertwined with this. There is
another notion, where beggars are thought to be lazy, where poverty
is the result of one's working ethics. Yes, Indians have spent a lot
of philosophical energy on the issue of beggary. We even have
legislations discussing this situation. But humanity and kindness had
never played a role in it.
I can count on my hands,
the number of times I have actually helped anyone on the streets, to
be precise a beggar on the street. Once in Delhi, twice in Bangalore,
once in London . Thats it. I have always consoled myself saying that
I am just a student and I cant help them. I cant finish the poverty
of the world alone and have always moved on. But I always had money.
I always wanted to help. And I know a lot of souls like me, who have
the same problem, and never lifted a finger to help.
I once was a Christian
and somehow in every catechism class there was this undertone of
helping the poor. I was taught by Missionary of charity sisters. I
have high respect for Mother Teresa. But those lessons were
restricted to the area of my class, it never went beyond it.
I always had the
Christian guilt. I still have it. I cant seem to enjoy life, I still
feel awkward about enjoying luxuries. I still think if I deserve any
of it. And it took me a long time to realise that this guilt could be
traced back to Adam's original sin. Church always reminded me that I
was a sinner. And I had to do something to achieve paradise. I
stopped practising the religion 6 years back, but the guilt remained.
One of the main reasons why I still cling to Fyodor Dostoevsky
novels. He brings those memories, his works reinstate this guilt,
those principles. He brings back the memories of poverty that I had
tried hard to forget.
I am still struggling and
I still keep thinking, is there a paradise after this ? Life is
pretty unfair. How is anyone chosen for a better life. Some people
struggle, some people give in. some people have it easy and some
people need to fight. I hate thinking that destiny works. I hate
admitting that some are plain lucky.
Maybe its the dilemma one
is supposed to live with. Yes, I am just philosophising.. and its
easier to do that in a Blog...
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