Accept life as it is. By conveying this I do not mean to withdraw your fighting spirit. It should be there irrespective of inflicts evoke into your life. The greater the power of aggression the more the pain is!
Yes, I do say this because this is the way I understood life. Reality of Universe!
A clap, short but clear and distinct, pass on the virus of clapping and spread over the space around.
My tear was dribbling in through my cheeks. I was standing on the podium. The emotional outburst of a longstanding culmination. The victory. Joy and the cry too.
First tried in my teens, I uttered, a clear vivid memory! I failed to get promoted in standard VIII. It was a shock, to me and dad and mom. All were shattered and distressed. Though I didn't feel in the beginning, but the out turn was bad. In a middle-class society any failure always considered as a crime. Naturally, the side effects were as follows:
I was not adored anymore. I was not called by my old friends. I was restricted to mix with friends by their parent. Everybody stared at me. Even schoolmates avoided. But nothing changed me. I was happy. To concur over these hindrances I thought of writing, as this was the only skill I felt I could, and it was more charming and enjoyable. I was an avid reader of novels, magazines, and newspapers. I did have the ability to imagine. But imagination needs to be penned.
And the reality begins here. You need knowledge to pour words on paper, to make it beautiful and readable. I had put lots of paper in the waste-box and finally concluded daydreaming is not writing.
— No new clothes in the new year. No more magazines. And no more traveling during holidays. Dad declared in anger right after returning to home.
I stared at him from the next room, the door was open and through curtains I could easily see his face and the anger too. I didn't feel bad for clothes, but for books. Mom was silent. What could she do except to follow dad? Her heart was aching, tears flowed but unexposed hidden. It was midnight, we all went to bed except she. Dad was snoring, elder sister in the room next. Mom came up, adored me, her hand spread over my hair, and I pretended of sleeping. Her tearful drops slipped onto my face. Warm, salty, precious!
Silence. A deep pin drop silence over the auditorium.
— Sir, a young lady whispered.
The whisper brought me back to the reality from my teenage space. I was lost in energy, life energy. The place was filled with crowd, and they stood up without any reason.
I started again — What we call reality is our illusion. It is a bio-signal generated inside our body. “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” A quotation from a forgotten book and author once I had gone through. “Understanding life is reality. Death is the ultimate truth, but life is real. You cannot define real without life. Imitating, copying, dreaming all are based on the way life appeared to you, prevailed over you. The reality of Life! So live the life up to the fullest, transform dream into reality, so that, life can stay together with death. And you are released!”
With a short pause, I uttered loudly, in Ishavasya Upanishad we are taught -
purnamadah purnamidam purnaat purnamudachyate purnasya purnaamadaya purnameva vashishyate
The meaning: That is complete, this is complete. From that completeness comes this completeness. If we take away this completeness from that, only completeness remains.
Let me tell you my love story to understand this. Audience energised and I began — “All we follow our instincts in our younger ages. It might produce victory or pave us in despair. I too followed my instinct.”, I smiled and continued,“ I had fallen in love with a beautiful girl who resided in the same premise. We communicated through our eyes, smiled at each other, obviously unobserved by others. Moment she arrives to her balcony, I would briskly and silently arrive to mine. A cute exchange of love, untold and unheard by rest of the world. She sneaked slightly through saris and obstacles. Air whispered our languages and this carried over a period. A perfect teenage love in our days when love was considered a guilt.
I got a chance. It was a family get-together, we all were there including lake, hill, forest, and love. Even she drew toward me to hear my prayer, but I failed again. That was last day of my first love! She didn't turn ever. Didn't stand in that balcony again. Who could love a coward? I wrote a poem after that and still continuing.
My wife once read that and threw a sneaky crafty look on me. Albeit, I always believed my first love was the deep-rooted to make me whatever I am today, and had begun the journey toward completeness. I had not learned the craftsmanship of speech till then. No one taught me, it was only I, who learned with time. And I finished my speech with applause and awe.
There was a thick crowd in the lobby waiting to face me in 'Meet & Greet' session after this seminar based on Life and Reality. I was requested to deliver my realization in this Management School, which I accepted because of the principal who is my old friend. You can ignore all, but not an old friend.
— Sir autograph please?, the girl approach with a tender voice. She has a beautiful voice, must be a good singer I think. It is hard to refuse a sweet voice though I do not utter my thoughts in front of her. Sometime you need to be diplomatic that life did teach me.
Took the book from her and wrote — With best wishes and looked at her to write her name. She replied with gentility 'Leena'.
— Leena, I murmured, so you are Leena, I repeated.
The girl smiled, a meaningful slanted smile imitating with crafty adoration, answered softly but with gravitas, “Leena is my mother.”
— “Your mother! Is she here?” Though it was a curious question but I asked.
— “She is a single mother, a teacher in a boarding school, and I'm her adopted daughter, brought up in a remote village,” she retorted.
I was signing, but stopped with spontaneity of her answer and I stared at her and asked, “why didn't she marry?”
— Should she marry that coward? The girl replied.
She continued — You portray pictures through your words the way you feel to sell. Standing on the podium you once said, “you sell your personal life, but sell half-truth.”
I was silent. The girl continued, soft but huskily, “You haven't said about that kiss. You haven't portrayed your sensual talks inside the forest. You haven't said you didn't keep the promise that you wrote on love letters. Those are with me.”
Silence deepened. And she said firmly, “Okay, I admit sensuality is normal at that age, but cowardice!”
I nodded my head. Confused. Blank. What else I could do except hiding my face and looking down the floor and scratching on the beautifully stoned floor and thinking — Truth, the word Truth is winning over love or love over Truth.
How could I convince this girl about my cowardice? How could I convince that cowardice is a disease that was installed in my childhood. It was engraved during my childhood through slaps, shouts, and smacks.
I mumbled - Can we talk?
— “What do you want to talk? About completeness!”
Anger shone on her face, and she replied firmly, “Mom loved you, but I am ashamed that she loved a coward and a liar too! Thank God I am adopted!”
She sighs, She did not wait for my answer, turned and stepped ahead.
I continued thinking about completeness and reality.