Transit

A couple of days back, I’d been leafing through my English book one final time before picking up the metaphorical quill and vomiting what little information I had managed to feed into my peanut-sized-brain over the last couple of hours, over the next couple of hours. Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Vomiting is a natural process and shouldn’t be judged, but academical vomiting is- and they watch you vomit, and then grade you over it. Your character is judged upon it, and so is your future- all because of one time you threw up. Okay, I need to go slow with the whole vomiting thing. It’s getting rather repulsive and disgusting. But you get my point. I was simply revising.

The pre-board preparation had left me wrecked with little understanding of time and how I was to distribute it. It was difficult- preparing in the moment, in a month four months away for an examination that people had managed to build up enough for it to be a constant dead weight on my conscience, mental health and schedule. My final destination, the inscription of ink on mass produced sheets of the board examination frightened me.

The previous night of the exam in question, I’d barely gotten sleep. Again. I’d slept at around three, and woken up around five- planned, to, well. I accidentally fell asleep until six but honestly, my paper went fine. But, I digress. Over the exams, in order to complete my average 22-chaptered syllabi, I had gone to the limits of sleeping for no more than one and a half hour once. My meals were centred around studying. On certain days, the only break I took was a half an hour in which I’d lie down and wonder how to distribute my syllabus throughout the day.

Perhaps I was at fault. While one may argue I was working incredibly hard during the exams- I was- I hadn’t quite done the same over the year. I had been so involved in the moments of laughter, debate or texting, my trips on the keyboard or my sister’s departure and some other happenings had kept me afloat over the actual happenings of the moment. Nothing felt real. And so, the difference between priorities, possibilities and realities had faded to an extremity, so much so that I felt like a root dangling from the aged arms of the banyan tree- part of an immense multitude of opportunity, seeing the ground beneath me, having strangers pass me or a kid whack me but I could not reach the ground. I could not be a part of it all. Although I’d tried to- just work to my final destination. The ground was all where I wanted to be- so trust me, the fact that I needed to study was crystal clear to me. I only craved my goal. Whether or not I worked for it is a separate topic but it was all I craved.

As I sometimes grip the warmth of a coffee mug (To the disappointment of I’m sure quite a few people who know me I’ve developed a liking for coffee- although the number of times I’ve had it can still be counted on my fingers, much to the disappointment of some friends of mine who are concrete coffee addicts.) it intrigues me as to how much humans avoid moments. They tend to escape on the swift vehicles of thought or even action- distracting themselves from pain, emotion. The moment is where we are, where are meant to be and where we should be yet it is all where we want to be. I wonder why that is.

Destiny provides us with a myriad of opportunities for us to consider each moment complete- every emotion that we feel is so incredible intense that it feels staggeringly real. Yet, we acknowledge them not. 

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women, merely players. You must’ve heard this poem of Shakespeare’s. I quite agree to it- but with a different take, I must make it relevant to the blog, you know. Don’t want tomatoes thrown at me.

What use would be a play without the happenings? What use would be a grand dialogue tying up all loose ends without there being any in the first place? Isn’t it appalling how the conventional way of life prescribes a person to marry, settle down, have kids, accumulate a sufficient amount of wealth to fulfil all material purposes so one can ‘die peacefully’? Why do we always work towards a certain final destination? To a goal, or to a happening?

Think about it. Have you ever sat down to simply- write? Without an idea in mind. Stroking the elegant plastic, allowing a million thoughts to flow. Allowing a story to write itself? One may argue that this is not the way these things are to be done but that’s not quite true. That’s why writing styles like pantsing and concepts like momento mori exist.

Indeed, this may seem like an effort to justify the fact that I had not studied over the year but there’s no justification for not putting in the apt effort. I wouldn’t try and do that. It’s not fair. But what I’m trying to say is, not everything need be done for one particular goal. A convention. It’s an illusion for whether or not one is truly allowed to have accomplished that goal sometimes simply does not depend on us- fate plays a major role. One day, they’re all there. The other day, a face might be lost or perhaps, a million. But the thing is, my effort at any point couldn’t and shouldn’t be incomplete. A word or two learnt should be a word or two learnt, not a mere portion of a vast scheme of things to say. 

People wanting to change their bodies for whatever reasons appreciate never the stages in between. It is the final destination they seek. And that’s quite disturbing because natural instincts don’t want it to be that way. That’s the one way it’s not supposed to be.

I’m terrible at explaining. But what I’m trying to say is- You’re genuinely doing enough. If you do more, it’ll still be just enough and the same goes for if you go ahead and do less. It all depends on what needs be done and what is done. What has be done is out of the question for I fail to understand why you would beat yourself up for something that’s already occurred.

The final destination seems utterly beautiful on the map. A cross intriguing, a hill behind which dances the daybreak enticing. A castle enchanting. But the view of the clouds from the sky in the flight is an utter demarcation of beauty in itself. You may not lay in bed with your grandchildren at your feet but those few moments you spent in ’93 with the daily newspaper in your hands as you sipped chai smilingly were still satisfactory enough.

We truly, truly need to stop being so perfectionistic. So hard on ourselves. We are fragile- afflicted with holes in our throats and a scratch to the skin. A word may bring tears to the eyes. We’re fragile, yet we expect the hardest and pretty much impossible from ourselves- perfection. It is an illusion. Chase yourself if you chase after it, don’t join the chase- too far along a particular obsession we often decide not to go back. Let sense affect you before it’s too late. Having the view that final destinations being all that matters is disturbing.

You can still have a goal and have completed each moment. You need to work towards that book that’ll make you smile but glance at the yellowing paper- isn’t each sentence beautiful already?

We overrate finality. We underrate the process- transit, if you will.

Quoting my mother’s bio on Osdotme, “Forever on the journey of self-purification.” I like how she’s smiling beside that. Makes me think she’s okay with it and she is. Love you, mumma.

You know, the apt way to end this would be to write an enormously insightful paragraph concisely explaining whatever nonsense I have spewed in the past many words. But I won’t do so.

For me, the transit seems enough. Take it, or leave it.

Or well, neither. The mere thought of taking or leaving it seems to me to be enough. You’re in the process of taking it.

 Transit is all that counts. Absolutely the only thing that does. 

AN: Massive amounts of love to all those who graced this mere ragged piece of cloth made out of strings of my words a write-up with their immensely valuable time, blessings and love. I really love you all so much. And I really miss you, too. Jai Sri Hari!