A New Ritual
A few thoughts crossed my mind over the unique journey from Belgaum to Mapusa via Tilari - a rickety bus, a beautiful sunset, thin hilly mud tracks masquerading as roads, hair-pin curves, and an indomitable woman to my left. Penning them down. Will I look at them later?
Isn't it ironic that we, who largely depend for survival on plants, plants that are rooted to their spot, have begun to value speed above all else?
While sitting at the door of a train, it is better to keep your foot on the top foot rest, for a better grip. It leaves your hands pretty free.
Why are my eyes glazing over? Why are they not absorbing? What is it that is running on in my mind? Why can't I stay still and just be?
Isn't every farmer, every cobbler, every barber an entrepreneur? Doesn't he deserve the same respect, the same encouragement, the same cheer as the celebrated ones? Maybe more?
What do aspirations mean? For a small, sleepy village on the crest of the Ghats, what is in their mind?What are their dreams? What do they look forward to? Are we really that similar, me and them? Are we really that different?
Is wretchedness inside of us? Like beauty? Or does it derive its existence from comparison? Is beauty also a result of comparison? Is their any absolute in this universe? Isn't everything relative? Then why are so stuck up on being right and wrong? Aren't the definitions constantly shifting?
And here's a thought that is striking me while writing this post down - 'Why the focus on the outside? On others? Isn't this comparison too? Or the means of an escape?'