A Separation

There is a beautiful scene in Asghar Farhadi's A Separation in which the daughter Termeh, looks silently through a window, at her mother who is about to leave the house. Termeh's parents are on the brink of a divorce. 
Having collected her stuff and grabbing a hold of her baggage, Termeh's mother throws a final glance at Termeh, then at Termeh's father and steps out the doorway. As soon as her mother steps out, Termeh turns to look at her father. She does not utter a word. She does not cry or let out a wail. She looks at her father in a state of helplessness. 

I was reminded of this scene two days ago when I came across the following incident on my way to office. 
A family of three was standing outside an apartment. The mother was attired in formal outfit with a handbag garlanding her shoulder. The father was in a casual outfit, carrying a little, excited girl in his arms who would have been around 3 years of age. The girl was playing with her mother and the father was a silent and happy spectator. Very soon, a Tempo traveler approached the family and the mother waved goodbye to the father and the daughter. I could notice the daughter's face slowly changing and as her eyes closed and her nose shrunk, I readied myself for a wail. And a moment later, it happened. 
For a few moments, the mother stood frozen between her daughter and the Tempo traveler. But the father convinced her to go ahead and walked inside the apartment, trying to console his uncontrollably crying daughter. 

I could not get the little girl's wail out of my head for sometime. Not because it was haunting but simply because it was unadulterated love. 
The little girl could not bear the separation from her mother for a mere 9-10 hours. 
I smiled thinking about this innocent possessiveness. But I also felt sad because of the realization that with age, our tolerable duration of separation increases. 
Days. Months. Years. Death.

I tried imagining how it would be if I had turned the 3-year-old girl during all the separations in my life. 
Maybe a few departures would not have happened. Maybe a few people would have stayed behind, preferring love over purpose. 
Would that make me a selfish person? Probably yes.
But I ask myself the question - Would I want to stay an understanding, selfless person storing a reservoir of longing or would I want to be a selfish, possessive person securing the physical proximity of my loved ones?
The answer is not clear.

I feel that as adults, we tune ourselves to let go of people easily. 

Maybe we need to put up a few more fights. Maybe we need to let out a few more wails.

Would that be wrong? Probably yes.

When you ask a 3-year-old girl what is wrong and what is right, she would say that lying is wrong and praying is right. But life would show you that she is right in a sense and wrong in another. 

So, why not be a 3-year-old girl for the rightful sense?!

As I think about this, I also recall a beautiful quote of Kahlil Gibran's.

And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

I would agree because I realized how much my mother meant to me only during the mornings and meals she was not beside me rather than on the days she was nearby. I realized how much a friend meant only during the evenings I was accompanying him in my memories rather than on the days we spent together in the present. 

Then, is separation necessary? Are we well off being empathetic 30-year-olds than being yearning 3-year-olds?

The answer is not clear.

Maybe that is why Termeh looked at her father in a state of helplessness. Maybe that is why she did not utter a word or let out a wail. Maybe she was torn between selfless love and a childish craving for closeness.

Asghar Farhadi is truly a genius.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

I looked at my left hand. My middle finger was missing. 
Strangely, I felt no pain. That night made me realize my anger's might.

I looked around. Four of my men stood covering me, firing hopelessly at the charging enemy troop.
The strength of the enemy troop was 43. We were 5 in number.

We had been 7 when we had set out from our camp. Two of my men now lay dead at my feet. As I looked at their bodies, my anger amplified. "Why did you have to follow my order?" I cried out, in my head. 
A bullet whizzed past me.
Bullets. Blood. Darkness. Death.
Standing there, I could hear my mother's lullaby. I could hear my lover's laughter and my enemy's hatred. I could hear my conscience shouting that I had wronged my men. 

We were not supposed to be surrounded by the enemy troop at that time. That had not been the plan. But who respects plans?
We, at our camp, would occasionally prepare false plans in order to mislead the enemies. Of late, I had started wondering if many of our plans had begun misleading even us. 
The two beautiful souls at my feet were a result of one such erroneous plan.

My commander had called me to his tent two hours earlier. 11:02 PM. 
"There has been a new development", he had started, "We have received orders from the high command to capture the enemy camp at RM before midnight."
I had remained silent.
"As per reliable sources, the strength of the enemy troop stationed there is 10 men. It should be a walk in the park for you and your team", he had added.
Silence.
"Assemble your men in the next 10 minutes", he had ended.
Silence.

What could I have said? That my men had had a long day? That my men deserved some rest? That my men were just men?
"For the country", my commander would have replied. 
We had all enlisted ourselves for the same reason during the start of the war - For the country. But we had all reached a point when we no longer understood if we loved it or hated it. 
We had fought and killed so much that in some days, we had lost the need for a reason to it all. We had reached a point wherein every morning, we arose, lifted our rifles, ran into the battlefield, shot down our enemies, and returned to our camp, wounded and exhausted. We had become so accustomed to the killing routine that most of us no longer remembered the dreams we had carried before we had enlisted ourselves. 

I had left my commander's tent without a reply and had walked into the resting unit of my team. 3 of my men had been fast asleep and 3 had been on the verge of it. I had clapped my hands loud enough to get all of them on their feet in the next minute. I had briefed them about the mission and they had immediately begun dressing up, without a hint of a refusal. Watching them ready themselves up for a senseless mission, I had realized my mistake of having narrated them story after story of the victorious senseless missions I had been a part of. Their respect for me had extended to their want of following a similar path as mine. 
Ten minutes later, my men and I had walked out of the camp, obediently following orders and secretly wishing that our lives would one day matter as much as the country's pride.

A bullet whizzed past me.
Bullets. Blood. Darkness. Death.
Standing there, I could hear my mother's lullaby. I could hear my lover's laughter and my enemy's hatred. I could hear my conscience shouting that I had wronged my men. 
"Stop firing!" I ordered. My men lowered their rifles and turned towards me. 
"I am sorry", I admitted. A faint smile spread across each of their faces as the enemy's bullets blasted through their flesh and bones. One by one, they all fell beside me. 
I stood there with six beautiful souls resting at my feet. "If only I had not followed my commander's orders and if only they had not followed my orders", I repented. But if it had not been for my men and I, it would have been some other team under some other leader. 
When would this end? Why did man have to bring upon himself this destruction?
A bullet hit my forehead, ending my questions and my anger and my struggle. I fell slowly upon my men to crown a heap of bleeding and lifeless bodies, our heap serving as a symbol of man's stupidity.

Boom!
I snapped out of my imagination and returned to the present, at office.
Two of my teammates were ruthlessly keying in commands on their laptops. My laptop screen was blinking with a message from my onsite. "How much longer before you deliver the ad hocs?" was his question. I repeated the same to my teammates. "15 minutes", came one answer. "20 minutes", came another. I sent him the reply and I checked the time. 01:37 AM.
I rose from my chair and walked to the washroom to freshen up. I closed my eyes and splashed water on my face. As I opened my eyes, I noticed the sink turning red. 
And then I heard it - A feeble gunfire growing louder by the minute. 

The road to the top

Last Sunday, at around 8 AM, I was standing atop Nandi hills. The 10-member-group I had traveled with was some distance away, enjoying the aerial view. 
I was more interested with the view above my head. It made me feel closer to the universe. "Hey you! Are you somewhere out there?" I asked, looking above. I had a lengthy list of topics I wanted to talk about. I had a lengthier list of questions I wanted answers for. "I badly want to believe in you but you seem to be putting very less effort to convince me" I explained. A mild breeze blew in response.   

Before me, a lonely tree swayed. It had nothing special about it but I could sense a poignant poem dancing around its leaves. As I looked at it, I was reminded of 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams' that had played during the car ride to the top. 

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating

"You remind me of myself" I told the tree. It continued swaying - I took it as a smile in return. 
"Do you feel grateful for your life or do you feel it could have been better?" I asked the tree. The swaying stopped. Maybe it had not expected the question. Maybe the answer was a painful one. 

I asked myself the same question. Standing closer to the sky, surrounded by a group I loved - it seemed the right place at the right time for the question.
The journey had not been an easy one. But it had also made me meet travelers who had traversed harsher roads. "Why couldn't you have just made it easier for everyone?" I asked, looking above. This time, there was not even a breeze.
I thought about the roads I had crossed. I thought about the roads my friends had crossed. Each of our paths had been different, the starting points had been different, the fellow travelers and the unexpected shelters and the overwhelming hardships had been different. But somehow, we had all reached the same road now. 
Some of us had less baggage and some, more than one could carry. 
While I felt happy that we had all chanced upon this road, I also felt bad for not accompanying some of my fellow travelers upon their journeys. 
"You cannot accompany every traveler you meet. You have to travel your own journey. And not accompanying everyone does not also mean that you go around carrying them in your baggage. Always travel light" - I remembered a friend's advice. 

I thought about the journey that would have resulted had I taken alternate roads every time I had been presented with the option. Maybe I wouldn't have reached Nandi hills. Or maybe I would have reached Nandi hills but the group I had traveled with would have been an unknown crowd. 
I thought about the journeys that would have resulted had every member of my group taken alternate roads when he/she had been presented with the option. Maybe none of us would have reached Nandi hills. Or maybe we all would have reached the top and we all would have been strangers to one another. 
I couldn't help smiling thinking about the scenario. 
I also realized that the answer to my question lay in me wanting or not wanting the scenario to be a reality. 

Without thinking further, I walked ahead and joined my group. There was an ongoing discussion about the path to take to reach the other side of the hills. 
"Let's take that path. It seems more adventurous", shouted one friend, pointing to a steep, rocky road. "No! Let's take this route. This seems a better path to roll this guy down the hill, the next time he cracks a shitty joke", commented another friend, pointing to a route along the edge of the hill, and looking at the shitty-joke-guy standing beside him with a sheepish smile. One friend seemed more interested in selfies than in the discussion. And another friend seemed more interested in recording the beauty of the aerial view from all possible angles.
As I looked at the group, I couldn't help smiling. I had gotten my answer unlike the tree. 
I looked above and gently whispered, 'Thank you!'. 
Few seconds later, a mild breeze started. The lonely tree behind me swayed, smiling.