Simon Bolivar’s last words
were “How do we get out of this labyrinth of suffering?”
That this world is a pitless
labyrinth is not a fact I can dispute. But I did question Mr. Bolivar if I was,
in fact, suffering.
The answer was a resounding
yes. And not just me, but the world around me suffered from an unnamed plague.
Our momentary happiness lasted for too short a period of time to heal the
wounds from the battles we waged. We suffered from common cold, from homework,
from poverty and from avarice. We suffered for love, for ambition, for one
parents and our children. We suffered from our perpetual quest to be happy, and
then happier.
The materialist suffered from his love of all things luxurious,
and the hermit from his disillusionment. (I have always thought that it must be
indeed a deep gash of suffering that compelled people to leave all).
We suffer so much that
suffering comes to us the same way breathing does- in a naturally lithe flow.
My mother often asked me why
my writing always sounded despondent, dark and cynical, and I always dismissed
her claims saying that children always sounded despondent, dark and cynical to
their parents.
It was, however, silently
stated that I wrote only when I felt despondency in my views. I was a victim to
the populist ideology which dictated that suffering triggered creativity and
art. And every time we rejoiced in a song, a dance or a heartbreakingly
poignant piece of writing, we celebrated this suffering of the artist who
crafted it.
Clearly, it must be a strange
kind of God who underwent a strange kind of suffering to have created us – his
spawns of sufferers.
Having justified that I was
really, truly and ceremoniously suffering, I came to realize that Mr. Bolivar
has asked a valid, if dramatic, question. How do I not suffer? How do I get
out?
John Green suggested that I
forgive. Now, I have never been too generous with my “It’s okay’s” so it is a
genuinely hard proposition.
Add to that the dilemma of
who do I forgive. My parents – who had made the champion of all mistakes by
bringing me to this world? My friends, who as disillusioned and lost and lonely
as I was? People who I had loved and been betrayed by? The society – a bitch
who had laid down the rules to which I had to conform else I would be rejected?
Words like Fate, Destiny and Ego which
forever stood before me?
It is, as you can see, an
exhaustible list. But I could not forgive them all for a different reason than just
large numbers.
Forgiveness implied a blame
to be put on something or someone, and I did not blame any of the above for
whatever they had done. It wasn't a noble sentiment that brought out this
response, but essentially the self centered mind which had learnt to take credit
for all things done to it, even by externalities. (Look at me, already passing
on the blame!)
At this rate, I realized I
had no one else to forgive but myself, but there was only pity I harbored
towards my unfortunate existence and I couldn't find any blame, even when I searched.
This forgiveness thing was
obviously not going work for me, so I turned to The Buddha’s philosophies.
Asceticism, as I have already stated, seemed like another abyss of suffering to
me, for it was in my nature to yearn for rosiness and I wasn't really sure if
giving it all up was in fashion these days.
What could I do?
I could love and hate but
loving and hating were just different names of suffering.
I (surprise, surprise)
suffered when I couldn’t find an answer to the question. I suffered for
Simon Bolivar, but more for myself. Bolivar had died. I still had this life
to get through.
Annoyance, I learnt, bred
more suffering. Why couldn’t Simon just say how?
And then it dawned.
But of course he answered
the question. The only way to get out of this labyrinth of suffering was to
die. I didn’t matter what context we died in, for we all essentially died in a
battle that we waged against ourselves, not unlike Bolivar.
To stop the endless cycle of
suffering we had to pull ourselves away and the only way to do so was to stop
breathing.
This sounds like a
despondent, dark and cynical suicide note. But it isn't, you see? I am, of
course, taking of the long term and of a world where dying were as easy as
sleeping. And I am going to live a good 60 years to figure out another answer.
Until then, if you do make
the mistake of asking me how do we get out of this labyrinth of suffering-
I’ll tell you – you can’t.
