I have come to conclude that it is the fate of a majority of blogs, diaries, journals, and the like to be written in great detail once the habit starts, and almost entirely forgotten about in due time. This blog, following two lengthy posts written for the sake of writing, has been left without an author since May. It is December now, and the year is drawing to a close. As I do year after year, I have kicked a few New Year's Resolutions up, with absolutely no pondering over their completion.
Maa phaleshu kadacana, after all. I have not lost my habits: my sentences persevere to be long, and annoying to most. Perhaps very little has happened, and even less that deserves to be written out on a blog.
Or has something happened? In fact, I wanted to script a memoir, an account of my life in the past months. On the reason for my hiatus (as distinct from the conclusion from the first sentence in this post), on what it has been like for Aravind Suresh, and on his continuing journey towards a greater purpose.
Before that, here is what I look like today.
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| People comment that I have grown slender. |
School went into session in June. What lay ahead of me was a year of getting up early and marching off to the bus stop with four and a half kilos of material on my shoulder. This albatross—whether you want it to be the school or the bag is up to you—would continue to haunt me for the next ten months, and so I concurred to make the most out of my time. I'm a sophomore now (
I'm in 10th standard, by Indian standards), and I had already read enough juvenile (read 'teen') literature to know that this year would be filled with as much fun and frolic as heartbreaks and disdain. I was prepared, or at least I thought I was.
Here is what I expected to come of these inglorious promises. Somebody to whom I was very close would ignore me for a month or two. I can make do with that, I thought. Perhaps, for a few days or weeks, the best of my friends would find a new acquaintance and pretend that I did not exist. What was to come of that, I thought and dismissed the idea. What happened, in reality, was exactly this, only the degree and duration of these events were several-fold greater.
On a lighter note, I was enlivened by the prospect of a science fair. A science fair! Well, the organisers preferred to call it a "conclave of young scientists", but I called it a science fair. It was happening far, far away, in Kharagpur, and should I enter the final round, I would go the northernmost I ever have in this hemisphere. The event was called off, however, and I wasn't really sad. Maybe I had come to the realisation that sorrow is a pointless emotion.
Upon turning fifteen, the thought that adulthood would come three years hence struck me. I still made my mother iron my shirts and do the laundry, but in three years, it would all be left to me, almost by law. I thought deeply about my state: that I still didn't know how to ride a bicycle, that I was still lazy to do my laundry myself, and all that. It was probably this tension that gave me a new-found attitude of perseverance. I currently boast of not having had a morsel of food in the past six months when I was out in the city by myself, which is an achievement as far as traditionally gluttonous Malayali boys are concerned.
And over these months, I became more and more conscious of myself. Questions of the description of "what am I doing?", "what am I supposed to do?" started to occur to me. Being spiritually inclined, the classic thoughts "who am I?", "where did I come from?", "where am I going?" did appear as well. So, I decided to dispel this existential crisis by starting a few good habits. For a few months, I found books to read, and read them. I worked out 25/30 days, having been pleasantly surprised at the sight of my
rudimentary six-packs. I also improved my Hindi skills and started a journey in music. I even performed a Carnatic
kirtanam. I have concurred to start attending music classes once the Boards are over.
Meanwhile, those "heartbreaks and disdain" did not seem to go away. Being ignored was an incomparably depressing feeling. I suppose it is for good measure. I wrote a very poetic analogy for this myself.
When you are a teenager, you are a soul in a perfect cube of stone. Perfect: not a single scratch, perfect corners. "Heartbreaks and disdain" are the games of children, who beat you with the tools that they find lying about. Initially, you are scratched here and there. Then whole parts of you break off. For some time, you are a disorderly piece of rock—a work of art that lies in ruin. But eventually, the stone is broken off completely, and you emerge from within. Liberty comes around. You are freed from bondage.
Aravind Suresh
That being my mantra, I was able to get over this sick feeling quite easily. I also found a safe haven in the musical traditions of North India. In fact, I have been playing countless songs from my favourite Dilli ki Qawwal Bachchon ka Gharana on Spotify, and then writing down the alfaaz (lyrics) and practising them. These evenings, the house resonates with choon mah dar arz-o-sama and kehna ghalat-ghalat toh chhupaana sahi-sahi. Music is indeed a bridge to the soul. In this musical journey, I picked up the philosophies of several Bhakti and Sufi thinkers: from Kabir to Poonthanam, from Rumi to Jami.
