The Plaster of Thought-Walls (Part 1)

Reflection: One.

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It is terribly difficult to accept when one must look upon the guilty—with boundless forgiveness. Some criminals cannot be punished—for the sake of innocent people entangled in their lives. Sometimes the very person I hold dearest loves that criminal blindly, trusts them, remains lost in dreams of spending a lifetime with them. When a beloved becomes so foolish, it is not easy to remain detached, indifferent. Yet what can I do? To try explaining would only make me the villain in their eyes. Still, the heart refuses silence, wants to invite trouble—oh! If only I could grab this stubborn mind and give it a good shake! The more my beloved pushes me away, the closer I draw near. I am amazed at my own shamelessness, yet feel not a trace of anger toward them. They believe they are happy in their ignorance. What is it to me if they find happiness in their own way? I know how fleeting this happiness of theirs will be. If only I could forget such a naive soul, render them a stranger, I would be saved. But that never happens. Forgetting is only pleasant when you finish reading new books and pick up an old one, unable to recall the story! A story you don’t remember is essentially new. Because you don’t remember, you can read the book again for the sake of remembering. How good it would be if certain events and memories in life could be embraced again like forgotten stories. How wonderful it would be if, upon seeing certain people, all that came before would fail to resurface—if I couldn’t draw them close like a new book, at least I wouldn’t have to retreat from myself in fear or disgust. Life is full of tears—how would it be if, forgetting old sorrows, life could pass with new tears and one or two old sorrows made new again? Like the useless hairpins that remain with women, stubborn piles of memory accumulate in the brain’s mysterious chambers. I can forget nothing; everything stays. This staying, this becoming clear before the eyes again and again, this infinite thirst to cling to the old—it drags life forward through the skillful performance of staying alive. Does such a life truly move forward?

Reflection: Two.

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Some people kill their children. Why? The very child they brought into this world with such struggle—why do they destroy it? How is this possible? Does this really happen? Yes, it does—for two reasons. First: if that child is considered illegitimate in society’s eyes—they kill with a smile, they don’t even need to be particularly cruel to commit abortion, a bit of cunning is enough. Second: if they are not mentally sound—why people do such things, how they do them, all of this defies explanation. Imagine a writer who, after enduring great agony all day to write what they have written, destroys everything before going to bed at night. Why would they do this? The creation of writing is much like giving birth to a child. Just as parents are the sole claimants of their child, the writer is the sole claimant of their writing. If there are truly two things in this world that can be called absolutely one’s own, they are one’s child and one’s creation. Neither can be transferred nor killed. We know of many writers who have willingly destroyed their manuscripts. Their mental state at those times cannot be said to have been entirely sound. Now, if someone destroys their child or their creation—not because it’s illegitimate, not due to mental instability, but simply through an error of mind—how can such a thing be accepted? Even with a sound mind, even entirely of one’s own volition, mistakes happen. The guilt and inner torment from a mistake that is one’s responsibility alone—how intense it can be, no one else can even imagine except the person themselves. To pay the price for such a mistake, a person can ultimately destroy themselves. Day after day, night after night, they remain mentally prepared to accept any form of punishment. There is no greater stubbornness than willingly keeping oneself in suffering. Through this one stubbornness, a person’s second birth occurs. It’s like a human being purified into a new form through rigorous, austere worship. What I had written over the past ten days—today, I don’t know why, I lost it all with just a press of a delete button. Nothing more than that—just an inadvertent press of a delete button can render countless extraordinary moments completely meaningless. No one will understand what state I am in. How difficult it is to bear this—those who are not involved in creation but only in enjoyment cannot even imagine in their worst nightmares. One piece of writing cannot be written twice in exactly the same way. After killing a child, you cannot give it life again; after destroying any creation, you cannot bring back exactly the same thing. Killing one’s writing, killing one’s child—both cause almost the same kind of pain. I have sworn to myself that for the next five days, I will sleep an average of 3-4 hours each day and spend the rest of the time writing. This is the punishment I give myself. I will do this. As long as I don’t simply die. The period of forgiveness will begin with the end of the period of punishment.

Thought: Three.

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Boys, and many girls too—some alone, some in pairs, some in groups… some ‘undefined.’ On Messenger, when someone keeps saying give me a selfie, give me a selfie, I wonder: what does a person’s mind truly want to see, again and again? Someone who matters to them, someone special, someone they find beautiful to look at. That’s how it should be, isn’t it? But if someone I don’t know, someone unfamiliar, pesters me for selfies—what should I make of this? Even with a profile full of pictures, they keep demanding selfies. Should I take a romantic shot in the dark, smiling mysteriously, and send it off? If they only want to see me, then let them see with their mind’s eye! If someone could truly see with their mind’s eye, would they go mad demanding selfies? Must I believe that someone who never appears in the mind’s eye still yearns to see me repeatedly in photographs? Do they want to see me, or do they want to see something special about me—something they can’t openly ask for now but will one day blurt out? Some moment when I won’t be able to say ‘no’? Whether they get it or not, their joy lies in asking for these selfies! Though some find peace in giving them too. Let them ask from those who give—why me!? When someone wants a selfie, keeps wanting it but doesn’t get it, they’re not just frustrated by wanting to see but being unable to—rather, a kind of ego works within them, the ego that flares up the moment it hears ‘no.’ And when ego awakens, wisdom flees. But honestly, I’m simply not the kind of person anyone needs to win against through ego. Anyone who engages in ego games with someone as tree-like as me is quite foolish. Sometimes when asking, they say: I like you, I want to see you, that’s why I’m asking for a selfie. I say, very good. Could I know a reason or two for this liking? They start saying all sorts of things. They think life gets entangled through verbal cleverness. Lucky I understand so little! Otherwise, I’d try to comprehend all that. And once I understood, I’d believe it all! I used to be terribly naive. There are many kinds of naivety, let me tell you one kind… I would blend with people in my own way. I didn’t understand that both giving and receiving love are transgression and torment. To love means to get trapped. Being trapped is what hurts! Let the heart love, let it touch everything, let it receive touch too—only, let it not get trapped in anything—that’s where joy lies! When trapped, invisible obligations arise, the joy of love gets destroyed. But not letting oneself get trapped isn’t so easy. So now I’ve learned how to be in a way that people won’t love me, will dislike me—that’s how I remain. I stay, I express myself in such a way that there’s no reason for anyone to feel love upon seeing me. Looking in the mirror with great care, I always keep myself in a state unsuitable for falling in love with. Even then, if someone says they’ve fallen in love with me, I smile sweetly to myself and say: that’s not love, that’s lust—it’s such a simple calculation, you understand it too, you just don’t want to understand. I say it in such a way that ‘lust’ stays trapped within my lips. Boys become aroused just hearing the word ‘lust’! Those boys whom many girls give their love to—I want to grab them and ask: Sir, how do you bear so much human love? Don’t you suffer? How did so much space come to exist in that heart of yours?

Doesn’t such a vast heart diminish you day by day? The poor soul who finds space in that heart—does she knowingly claim that space, aware that in that very heart, at that very moment, she is merely one among many, not the only one?

Thought: Four.

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One day. A very close friend—at least, that’s what I thought—called me. Suddenly! He never calls! What could he need?

Ring ring ring…….

Hello! How are you doing, man?

I’m here, getting by. How about you?

I’m fine. Though Mom’s a bit unwell, taking her for a checkup today…….

(He wouldn’t let me finish……..)

Listen, that thing I told you about—when will you do it?

What did you tell me?

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(He casually reminded me.)

What’s wrong with you, tell me!? Before marriage you did all sorts of things with different girls. Now you have a wife at home, moreover, she’s expecting! When will you give her time, instead of…….have you chewed up and swallowed your conscience, brother!? Don’t you think sin and death exist? Please stop doing these things!

Oh nonsense rubbish!…….I’m hanging up…….

(Click.)

Indeed, such things happen. If one refuses to have sex, not a single word can be spoken! Whether my mother died or lived, no one cares. There isn’t even time to ask with basic courtesy. I am alive, after all, alive with full capacity for sex. He has a wife, his wife is ill, their child awaits to see the light of this world—he cannot have sex with his wife, how long will he silently endure this and go on living? Alas, let’s leave the wife aside—how many men find fulfillment with just their own wives? Still, can’t one even consider the unborn child? The heart may understand, but desire does not—yet is this what we call manhood? Alas! I wonder if such a day might come in life when, before taking a breath, one must hear: tell me if you’ll have sex, or else you cannot breathe. The day will come when breath must be bought at the price of sex. Even if one dies gasping for air, it matters not—even before becoming a corpse, one must have sex! I have an extremely beautiful friend who has no leg, but she walks quite skillfully with a steel prosthetic. She’s a person of exquisite taste, enjoys life, has wonderful thoughts, keeps herself immaculate, uploads extraordinary photographs—four days after meeting her, a boy tells her “I love you,” on the sixth day says “let’s sleep together,” and when she refuses, on the seventh day he blocks her, they have a “breakup.” Forget love—separation before even meeting! How easily “masculine love” runs out when sex is denied! A girl with no leg can be slept with, but cannot be loved. The cheapest and most trivial word in the world—breakup. I know of one romance where, counting love and breakup together, it’s been going on for two years—the acquaintance lasted one month, the physical relationship five months, and the rest of the time has been breakup. Even when the breakup happened long ago, both continue satisfying bodily demands in secret privacy—I know of such cases too. When I ask why, my friend says, I loved him once! What I’m doing, am I not doing it out of love? How easy it is to make love an excuse! Hypocrisy is always acceptable, popular. I think the poor prostitute became untouchable, outcaste, contemptible in our eyes simply for not saying “I love you”!

Reflection: Five.

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Sleep itself is such a thing—it breaks precisely at the tone of a message from someone whose message I never want to receive—it shatters at a call from someone whose very name makes my skin crawl. The one whose message I long for, whose call I crave all day long, even when my eyes ache from staring at the mobile screen—from them, not even by mistake does anything arrive. From them, suddenly one day, a call comes—only at that exact moment when I’m nowhere near my phone. Later, even if I die trying to call back, I can never reach them. Some people are so utterly shameless that I often feel like throwing down a challenge to those who conquer Everest: if you can, try scaling the mountain of these people’s shamelessness and show us how brave you truly are! Some people possess such infinite talent for continuous annoyance that sometimes I think Facebook’s team will be compelled to consider adding a stranglehold feature to Messenger! Smartphones should have a provision not for hurling abuses at them, but for grabbing their heads in high-compression mode and continuously flushing them! I feel such pity for people who try to extract love by force—if love could be magically transformed into two-and-five rupee notes, none of them would have to return empty-handed. It’s not that everyone who can’t give alms to a beggar lacks money—many simply can’t because they don’t have small change. Similarly, it’s not that everyone who can’t give love lacks a heart—many simply can’t because they don’t possess a cheap heart. Those with cheap hearts assume everyone else’s heart is cheap too. There’s only one difference between annoying people and street beggars—some beggars have self-respect and don’t stand shamelessly in front of you even after you’ve said “sorry.”

Reflection: Six.

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In the ocean of humanity, amidst countless crowds of people—perhaps, sometimes even breathing becomes difficult. Yet still, how terribly alone each person is! Some knowingly alone, others unknowingly so. There are many people who have someone to inquire after them, whose every moment passes in anticipation of that someone’s phone call, spending hours upon hours staring unblinkingly at their phone screen, yet that someone never, not even by mistake, ever checks on them. They too are alone, deeply, deeply alone! Then again, some people choose to be alone just to see how it feels. The landlord uncle returned from abroad after almost five months. Really, all this time, can two people manage to stay apart from each other? I understand the children have grown up, perhaps the feelings aren’t the same as before, but still… five months! It’s not as if he couldn’t afford to come home. When you’re far away, how well does love endure? Don’t you want to see the person you love? I think if I could attach a CCTV camera to my beloved, how wonderful that would be! And that’s exactly what should happen! Surely everyone must desperately want to see their beloved all the time. They say I’m devoid of feelings and emotions. Yet this very me sometimes thinks of sticking a CCTV camera to her hair with scotch tape. Though I suppose the camera could be turned off during bathroom visits! Ha ha ha! Yet people, even when they have the opportunity to be close, choose to stay distant, merely maintaining wire-to-wire contact and assuming they’re showing plenty of love regularly. How long can love nurtured only through wires and cables truly touch the heart faithfully? Whatever the state of the mind, when someone asks “How are you?” on the phone, you have to say “I’m fine.” There’s no bigger lie than “I’m fine.” People want to hear this lie. We blurt out “I’m fine” without a moment’s thought, as if we knew we’d be asked such a question, so the answer was ready beforehand. It’s not news of our own well-being—it’s so the person asking can feel good hearing it. This is something everyone understands, yet pretends not to understand in order to remain comfortably deluded. I can’t accept that people stay well for others’ sake throughout their lives. True love is selfless—but for how long? To what extent? Doesn’t love want anything at all? I think about these things, and my head just hangs there in confusion. I’ve created a restart button inside my mind. I press it firmly and convince myself that at the end of the day, everyone lives for themselves. This is the only wisdom for keeping love for others alive. Being well, keeping others well, loving—all of these exist only if you yourself survive, isn’t that right?

Thought: Seven.

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Well, about that checkup you were supposed to get—have you done it? If not, get it done quickly. Otherwise you’ll find that it’s gotten so late that you can no longer manage it yourself, and your brother, friend, or someone else will have to run around for you. When someone becomes seriously ill—so ill that they must depend on another person’s will and whim—that other person, no matter how close they may be, gradually reduces their affection for the sick person. This is a cruel truth. Surely you don’t want that to happen in your life. I too had thought I’d see a doctor today. How blissfully I’m wandering around with symptoms of all sorts of serious diseases! Sometimes, even if I died and lay there at home, no one would understand anything. Mother would call out for a while and think I’d fallen asleep! You know, one has to do everything for oneself! No one else will do it. Living alone has brought me to such a state that just a few days ago, I even had hand surgery by myself! What happened when I went—that’s a story for another day. I don’t feel like going to the doctor for several reasons… 50% is fear—what if something or other shows up in the tests! Whatever is in my body, let it stay there! They’re not about to kill me right now anyway. My peace lies in not knowing about them… 20% is attachment to money—I’m telling the truth, even if you go to the doctor with lots of money, they’ll send you home utterly penniless, even for a simple fever! You’ll see—this little viral fever happens, and the doctor sahib, with infinite compassion and responsibility, prescribes cancer tests! The patient has to pay—what’s his tension?… 10% is laziness. The doctor’s chamber? Oh yes, yes! I’ll go tomorrow, let me sleep a bit today instead… 10% is using illness as an excuse. Right when it’s time to go to the doctor, somehow my body starts feeling so terrible that I think I simply won’t be able to go… 5%—not liking the doctor. I’m telling the truth! If I don’t genuinely like the doctor as a human being, I end up saying everything backwards when I get to the chamber. The rest—discomfort. I always see doctors alone; I can’t talk about my illness in front of anyone, I remain in a kind of unease. Of course, the doctor himself is also ‘someone’—but that doesn’t occur to me. Going to the doctor, sometimes I have to say such things that when I remember them later, I cover my eyes in shame! When walking on the streets, if I see any male doctor, he looks like that doctor to whom I’ve unhesitatingly told all my secret matters. What shame, what shame!