You may wonder why this post comes right on the back of the earlier post. The reason lies in my lethargy. "Clinging on" was written quite some days back as I thought of the many successful people that had passed through my life. But then I never got down to posting it. I guess it does not matter. This is after all my private space. I write when I can, when I wish to.
And the one thing that I saw common to all of those successful men and women was this extra-ordinary desire to move on, every day, every moment. With a great sense of anticipation of some important destination that they had locked into their auto-navigation system, often behaving like memory-less beings wherever the situation called for it.
And this piece is being written as I look sometimes wistfully and sometimes emptily through the wet windows of the second class coach, as the dangling creepers lining the face of the laterite walls outside caress the sides of the rattling coach. For some strange reason the swaying delicate creepers and the dirty and rain washed coach reminded me of the helpless, delicate and lachrymose heroines of our movies who have to subject themselves to filthy, yet powerful men who thrust themselves upon the woman with all their rugged coarseness.
This is has how it has been, every time I boarded a train to leave Trivandrum. It has always rained, as if it was part of the city's customary farewell package to me, with the clouds adding to the O' Henry-esque gray within me and without.
The difference this time though was that I had decided to make an earnest attempt to leave an important part of me behind: The longing to go back and call the few friends from the past that I had been trying to keep up with.
The friends were all from my school. They were part of the past that I was trying hard to cling on to. Some fifteen years back I had reached out to them for the first time after many years of absence from Trivandrum. It was part of my slow realisation that the race for corporate success did not excite me any more. And in the style of the Beatles, I wanted to get back to where I once belonged.
There was much warm requital from many of them. I was overjoyed at the response of my friends. I felt like the proverbial prodigal.
But soon, with every passing trip, their eagerness started fading away. As did the numbers of people who would return my phone calls or who would be interested in meeting up. Finally, one or two remained, who would make an attempt to keep up and meet. And then disappointingly enough over the past three trips I realised that even those faithfuls seem to have started getting weary of it all.
As I thought about my numerous attempts to go from clutching on to memories to clinging on to people and places, I realised that there was something amiss in the whole experience. Somewhere I seemed to have missed the possibility that my desire have been one-sided. The requital may not have been as enduring as I thought it was going to be.
And so I realised the significance of what I had heard in many a spiritual discourse: The importance of letting go. I realised I did not have an answer to why I had the desire to cling on. But I knew the time had come to let go.
With a sad deliberateness I pulled out my antique mobile phone and started deleting a number of phone numbers from the rudimentary contact list I had put together over the past twelve years or so. My heart felt heavy, even after I had deleted all those numbers. But somehow I knew it would pass. Those men who gave those discourses ought to have known.
And the one thing that I saw common to all of those successful men and women was this extra-ordinary desire to move on, every day, every moment. With a great sense of anticipation of some important destination that they had locked into their auto-navigation system, often behaving like memory-less beings wherever the situation called for it.
And this piece is being written as I look sometimes wistfully and sometimes emptily through the wet windows of the second class coach, as the dangling creepers lining the face of the laterite walls outside caress the sides of the rattling coach. For some strange reason the swaying delicate creepers and the dirty and rain washed coach reminded me of the helpless, delicate and lachrymose heroines of our movies who have to subject themselves to filthy, yet powerful men who thrust themselves upon the woman with all their rugged coarseness.
This is has how it has been, every time I boarded a train to leave Trivandrum. It has always rained, as if it was part of the city's customary farewell package to me, with the clouds adding to the O' Henry-esque gray within me and without.
The difference this time though was that I had decided to make an earnest attempt to leave an important part of me behind: The longing to go back and call the few friends from the past that I had been trying to keep up with.
The friends were all from my school. They were part of the past that I was trying hard to cling on to. Some fifteen years back I had reached out to them for the first time after many years of absence from Trivandrum. It was part of my slow realisation that the race for corporate success did not excite me any more. And in the style of the Beatles, I wanted to get back to where I once belonged.
There was much warm requital from many of them. I was overjoyed at the response of my friends. I felt like the proverbial prodigal.
But soon, with every passing trip, their eagerness started fading away. As did the numbers of people who would return my phone calls or who would be interested in meeting up. Finally, one or two remained, who would make an attempt to keep up and meet. And then disappointingly enough over the past three trips I realised that even those faithfuls seem to have started getting weary of it all.
As I thought about my numerous attempts to go from clutching on to memories to clinging on to people and places, I realised that there was something amiss in the whole experience. Somewhere I seemed to have missed the possibility that my desire have been one-sided. The requital may not have been as enduring as I thought it was going to be.
And so I realised the significance of what I had heard in many a spiritual discourse: The importance of letting go. I realised I did not have an answer to why I had the desire to cling on. But I knew the time had come to let go.
With a sad deliberateness I pulled out my antique mobile phone and started deleting a number of phone numbers from the rudimentary contact list I had put together over the past twelve years or so. My heart felt heavy, even after I had deleted all those numbers. But somehow I knew it would pass. Those men who gave those discourses ought to have known.
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