song of life

Life is made up of little experiences. Sometimes insignificant things teach us memorable lessons and give us important insights. Small events sometimes create big waves in our mind. We hardly ever stop reading and learning, even when we are at leisure, even when we are traveling. We keep on reading places and people. But sometimes it also happens that we read everything entirely wrong.

There are thousands of people who travel by Mumbai local everyday for their bread and butter. Or for mere bread only. This post is about one of hapless them.

This man was not particularly remarkable. He was just ordinary, not even very ordinary. I would hardly ever notice people like him. Perhaps no one would. But he climbed on and stood in front of me in the compartment. I didn't even find him worth ignoring. With a cursory glance I scanned his frail figure. Short, thin, dark-complexioned, mid-aged, he looked emaciated and worn-out by ages of drudgery and hardships. He carried a black hand-bag, like thousands of those who earn Rs. 2500 per month carry with them. His collar-bones peeped out from his dirty cream-colored shirt. I guessed he was unbearably feeble. One push and he went flying down the train. I wondered why it was so difficult to respect people like him unless they do something to prove themselves, and keep doing so before we forget. Their physical appearance often evoke a sickening sense of superiority or indifference in you, or contempt in other circumstances. I tried to imagine how dreadful it was to be like him, poor and ugly; like being a miserable bug, a body filled with pulp of insignificance. The whole world would seem unimaginably depressing and indescribably hopeless. Suddenly he turned his head and caught me staring at him. His eyes seemed grotesquely large through the thick glasses he wore. I started looking elsewhere. Perhaps he saw my face that was contorted with revulsion. You can't look in someone's eyes while thinking that about him.

I kept on thinking about this man. I imagined what would happen after he reached his place. Many dismal, dreary pictures floated over my eyes. I saw him walking through smoke and stench, avoiding the sight of goats being skinned and hanged by hooks, and mongrels with hungry dark eyes loitering about, negotiating pigs in the narrow streets and then stepping on the broken ‘S’ of bricks outside his door to save his shoes from getting muddy. I saw his dark, gloomy, stuffy place, the dimly lit bulb overhead, and the continuous buzz of house-flies. A wailing reminder over the cup of tea to get the umbrella repaired before the impending onslaught of Monsoon. I wondered if she loved him. It was a queer thought. I was not sure. Had anyone ever loved him? May be. But he was too poor to be loved, and too ugly to ever charm anyone. It is not easy for anyone to see an ugly man’s love; and not to mention, it is slightly embarrassing too. Love would surely feel awkward to be associated with a guy like him. Imagine a love story with ugly characters. Amusing idea isnt? After all it hardly mattered. A poor man’s love is as good as his hatred. You don’t take any of these things very seriously.

I kept on brooding till I started to feel uneasy; choked by my own thoughts. In a very short time I had taken too deep a plunge in his world and it was high time I came out of it. It was horrible to be there. For the first time I felt a gnawing sense of pity growing inside me for the poor man. What a wretched life he was living! No joy, no grace; I realized that the cross he was carrying on his feeble shoulders was too heavy for him, perhaps heavier than that of many of us. And he was damned to carry the burden of his ridiculous life with utmost seriousness. For a moment my heart went out for him.

Not many people were left in the compartment by the time I looked around again. I started looking at the scene outside, at running trees and houses, at grey sky and brown rails, to distract my mind. I was pained by his thoughts. And all of a sudden I heard his voice. I turned and found him singing, not loudly but his voice was certainly louder than a timid humming. It might sound ridiculous but I admit I was amazed to see that. It took me some time to believe what I saw. He was singing for God’s sake! What the hell was happening! I never see anyone (except beggers of course) singing in train. And of all the people him! Did he have any reason, any right to sing in the setting his life had placed him in? Was he not afraid of those troubles that chased him and those that waited for him at the next corner? Amnesia? Insanity? Why that insolent defiance?

All these thoughts passed my mind in a flash. Oblivious of my state of surprise, he behaved as if he was alone there, as if no one was there to see him, as if he was away from the reach of all those troubles that were instead troubling me. I admit I found myself dumbfounded for a while. All my sullen and twisted thoughts and here was the truth, right before me, singing in cheerful abandonment. Perhaps too plain and simple for my imagination. Perhaps far beyond its range.

There have been moments in my life when I give up my pursuit of analysis and allow myself to revel in my sweet defeat. It feels nice to be wrong sometimes. How pleasant and delightful it was to see him singing, with all his joy and grace! I felt so pleased to see that. What a blissful sense of relief it was! As if someone suddenly acquited me of some unknown guilt, released me from a painful burden. For a forgettable but overwhelming second I felt like believing in God. I know that the ecstasy of dreams can not be shared with others. There is nothing to share as such. Nothing happened actually. Nothing had changed anywhere but suddenly everything seemed so refreshing. It was like reinventing the meaning of life. It was like realizing that the most beautiful and most invaluable things in life are amply scattered around us, to be felt and enjoyed, absolutely for free. And no one is as poor as we imagine. It was not that I didn't know all this before. I surely did. But it is very easy to forget things like that.

I felt a growing sense of gratitude in me for the man who made that tune, to all who make music, to all artists who spread and preserve what is human in us so diligently through years of hard work. I saw the magic of music, its reach, its power, perhaps more clearly than ever. For some time this realization hung heavy in my mind that everyone in this world is equally happy or unhappy. Most of the differences between us are illusory. All of us are tormented by similar Sisyphean troubles and rescued by the divine Veena of Saraswati.
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