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.
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.
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