This Journey #1 Imperfections

                

            I have been meaning to write this for a long time now. Often, I would just start with the title – and it would always be this – “What has been this journey like?” Then, the title would turn into a little fly, buzz around me, crash into my body at a thousand spots, turn my skin slimy and sticky, annoy me in a thousand ways – and I would prefer closing my eyes to sleep rather than opening them into a bright world. It was mainly because I, being an imperfect person and knowing myself, knew more about my vices than about my virtues. Who would want to write and tell the world about their vices?

I have always been a nervous person. Naturally, I try to present the best of myself to the world, and I believe that the small world I inhabit sees me in a light which is generally positive. On the other hand, this person that I am has to live with me all the time – even in my sleep, when I sneak around hither and thither, play with things, in abnormal positions and awkward conditions, searching for wings which are less mechanical and more fleshy – and I know that in every new thing I do, I have to face one or the other of my weaknesses. Thus, I live in an imperfect world where I am myself the most imperfect thing.

Perfection of all dimensions might not be attainable, but it remains the motive of life anyway. What is the metric of self-worth? For a person who is well aware of their inadequacies, general or specific self-improvement can be a very potent source of self-gratification. When you are bad at sports, have been bullied over it countless times or have even skipped entire days of school for the reason, imagine the sense of satisfaction you will get if you win a chance medal at a sport you were forced to play – you might even start playing it more often. The social factor invariably plays its part here. I have heard from countless people, on countless occasions, to not lend ear to what the society thinks of me – have even told myself so, and continue to believe in the idiom wholeheartedly, without a sliver of doubt – but there is a huge grey zone where self-measurement ends, and the self itself starts scrutinising ourselves from the eyes of the society.

What to do then? Better close your eyes to your imperfections, create a bubble around yourself, accept no criticism, or rather give no opportunity for criticism – by doing nothing. Thus, I did not write. Today, I sit down, finally finding an occasion which is not at all perfect for writing. It is an important day tomorrow, and I need to prepare myself for that. It is already 11:52 P.M. The night sky outside is devoid of any stars and it has poured incessantly in Bengaluru since the noon. That last line might seem romantic, but it is not that kind of rain that creates sound – that soothes you, asks you to come to the bed and write, all the while sitting beside you with its peaceful accordion. It is a silent rain, the one you just know is there – the one people wish would go away. I am in a hotel room. The A.C. is set at 24 degrees and it is just the right bit of cold. Far away, my family is sleeping, hopefully peacefully. The other, small, family has been agitated. More than to myself, this note is addressed to that small family.

Long ago, I sat similarly on an August night. It was my desk at home. My father was in the hospital, freshly bedridden from a stroke. My mother was with him. In my mind, there was the reverberance of a few words – “life has changed”. Two weeks later, I was working at a school as a biology teacher. Some of my students were just a few months younger than me. I took better jobs in the future but lost the best one of them just before the pandemic struck. A year of unemployment brought nightmarish thoughts and unimaginable tensions, but the ship weathered the storm. Another year, a better job, but the continuing search for meaningfulness. I had already started some preparation for civil services and continued on with that in whatever time I could manage. I could not qualify the examination in the first attempt. I did qualify it in the second attempt, but it could have been much better. Even with respect to this attempt, my candidature is provisional and there is still some chance that I might come out of this with absolutely nothing material in my hands. In the middle of all this, I lost my father. The family lost all happiness in the entire period. We just had ourselves to hold on to. My mother went through unimaginable suffering and hardships, coming down to actions that can be equalled to some honourable forms of begging – all for her children, being the smallest beneficiary herself.

But happiness did find its way. Or rather we found our way to happiness every now and then. What else keeps us alive?

Everything has been bittersweet. Everything is bittersweet – always. At the end, it all sums up to how you take the bitter part. Often, we underestimate the sweetness of things, choose to willingly ignore those sweet moments – or, more often, in the melancholy of life’s bitterness, the small, faded, sweetness disappears. At this point, if I say that one must hold on to hope and choose to see the brighter side of things, it will be cliché. Some might tell me that I am in no position to demand that from others, for my own condition is far better than the majority. The distinction comes from the fact that I have seen bad days and that maybe I would have said that same thing in the heart of darkness, in the worst of the times - it always gets better. And again, in saying that, I do not take the role of a great person. I am just your next-door human – a survivor. When I would found it difficult to survive, to see the brighter side of things, I would have asked you to help me see it. There is so much light that we cannot see.

We are all survivors. We have survived. We have survived others. Even greater, we have survived ourselves. What bigger enemy can a person possibly have, than their own mind? Survival is life. Survival is also animal. For humans, there is always a step ahead. We do not just wish to survive; we wish to leave survival behind. For most of humanity today, survival means more than the physical survival. Over the last century, our greatest leap has probably not been to the Moon, but from the lowest rung of Maslow’s pyramid to the higher ones. This is the struggle against faults and imperfections. This struggle is life, it is glory.

That struggle continues. When will that be completed? I hope it does. No glory for me till then.