On my Hiatus

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.

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.


All these adventures (misadventures, rather) aside, let me come to the present moment. This morning, I and the class were greeted on WhatsApp by the premature announcement of the dates of the Board Exams. These exams are a big event for Indian students.
The preparations start at the end of the ninth form. For the past nine years, we are indoctrinated in the utter importance of these exams. Once the tenth form dawns, a Section 144 is imposed. Cable connections are cut down to news channels and reality shows. Internet curfews are regular. Many of us have our phones taken away and our WiFi cut off. The musicians among us quit music school, our value education classes are cut down, and our PT periods are mercilessly thieved by Maths teachers. Even the grandest Communists sport explicit tilakams and exhibit the aura of a temple. Souls call their sources.
My exams begin on February 24, about two months from now. Study sessions will be stepped up. My hobbies will have to wait. The bicycle that my aunt gifted me will see disuse. My riyaaz will cease. Choon mah dar arz-o-sama will have to wait until March. I might not even find time to write this blog. I have become a busy person, who will have to turn away from pleasure and the little things in hopes of a greater truth. A greater purpose? The grades in the exams will let me choose a subject of my choice in Junior year. Once I pass out of Senior year, with good grades, I will get into a college that I should like. There, I will study something that reaps dividends and earn a job, which I should like. I need not like living at any point of this journey.
And it is truly upon coming across this pondering that something dawned on me. The true meaning of the title of Arundhati Roy's novel The God of Small Things. Isn't that where divinity truly is? In the relentless search for a greater purpose, I have truly forgotten that the human purpose is simply to live. The greater purpose is achievable. It is not impossible for a human being. Given I put in enough effort, I can work wonders. But at what cost? What truly matters—the greater purpose, or the purposes within?
And as such, I have come to a concurrence. There is no reformation. Choon mah dar arz-o-sama and my daily riyaaz will not stop, nor will my weekly trips to the riverside or my daily attempts at riding that bicycle. Because when will these be irrelevant? I have to study, for I value my education, but why must I do it at the cost of my personal satisfaction?

Let me go back to the first paragraph of this post. "My continuing journey for a greater purpose" has yet to cease. Yet I have earned an important gem on this journey: that more than the purpose, it is how I traverse the journey that matters. That is the true source of happiness.

Yours,
Aravind Suresh