One of the
many quotes that has refused to fade from my memory is Thomas Gray’s couplet in
his classical poem, Elegy written in a
country churchyard, which I studied decades ago.
Full
many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And
waste its sweetness on the desert air.
When the lines
dug their roots into the limbic system of my being even before I had thought
about my career, little did I realise that it was going to be an oracle in my
life.
I believe each
one of us is a centre of power. Our
individuality, our uniqueness, our very identity is that power. Given the appropriate ambience, that power
will unfold and spread a beautiful fragrance. Deprived of the ambience, it may droop and
drop into dust having achieved little more than existing vacuously.
Is the
existence of the flower in the desert, “unseen”, a mere “waste”? That’s an interesting question which touches
the realms of metaphysics. Does anything
even exist unless perceived by someone? Unless
fondled by someone? The flower in the
desert is born, lives a day or two or even more, and then withers and
dies. It just disappears. Has it existed? How do you know that it has?
The flower has
left no mark on anyone’s psyche. That’s
how most people vanish from the planet, having left nothing to be remembered
by. Like the simple country folk in Gray’s
churchyard.
Yet each one
of us is a unique creature that has the potential to leave memorable imprints
somewhere. Most of us are debilitated by
our own environment, mostly the people that populate the environment.
When I
realised like Jean-Paul Sartre that “hell is other people” I woke up to an
epiphany, to a special self-discovery. I
saw the real faces behind masks.
Suddenly godmen metamorphosed into gadflies. Many religious people who tried to reform or
redeem my soul shed their masks and revealed blood-dripping grins.
There are the innocuous
people drifting on dusty lanes outside paradises reserved for the shrewd and
the privileged. I always belonged to
those lanes. The moment of that
realisation was my deliverance.
To vanish without a trace - will it be bad or good....I wonder too....In Jodi Picoult's book The Storyteller, Sage, the protagonist is horrified thinking of the countless victims of Nazi cruelty who died without leaving a single imprint on the mind of their murderer - this comes at a point when Josef, the former SS soldier is narrating to her the effect of a toddler's death - she speculates on the invisibility, the ineffectiveness of the death of 'others' - where are they? Coming to the second part of your post, hell is other people - makes me think - Are we heaven for our own souls and hell for others....?
ReplyDeleteThe book example you provided is apt. The murderer learns nothing and precisely because of that the victim's sacrifice becomes futile in spite of its visibility. Invisibility may save you from victimisation at best!
DeleteYes, I'm sure I was a hell to quite a lot of people. Clash of hells!
gr8 lines Sir !
ReplyDeleteCheers!
Deletenice article
ReplyDelete