The art of letting go

I have heard people mention several a times that the whole point of life was to let go of it, piece by piece and person by person. To gain many a things through hard labour and then silently watch it being squandered away. The withering away is to life what ever birth and growth will ever be, in fact it is more to life than birth would be. It is what completes and fulfils life. It is the final act of redemption, the last nuance of liberation.

A wise man had once said that a man starts to die the moment he is born, that his life is but a eventful journey to his grave. But life is more than the slow withering away, isn't it? Life is not the indeterminate decaying of self, it is not a subtle dance to death.

During the short tenancy upon this earth it is true that we must at many times learn to let go. Every time something dear and near to us dematerializes, one has to cope survive the vast vacuum it leaves behind. But always the real challenge is to acknowledge it's transiency, even when one knows what that is lost is lost and no longer ones to cry over. The real challenge is to accept that something's no more and no longer worth saddening over.

Hence the art of letting go remains the final art to master. Why we find it so difficult to grasp, must come from the fact that we had all our lives tried to for go the truth and establish its permanence. We always believe that what we have will remain, we always believe that our grandfather who is 95 now and sick over a decade will never die. Thus with futile belief we make a facet and wear it so often that it becomes an integral part of us. It is with attachment that we wield our life and this is the cause of all our great fears.

To learn to let go one must understand that life is more than these bonds. I make no claim of afterlife and nor of some superior understanding of the spiritual realm, all I know is this one life and all my assumptions stems from a need to understand it. When all you have is just one life, it seems inexplicably expensive to waste it in any way. The truth about letting go is hence very selfish in natural. To let go is to take upon one's life a responsibility of one's life, to live it with a greed beyond compare.

The guru granth sahib asks us to celebrate the mystic reunion and not to be sad in the final absolution of a dear one's existence. But to let go is not always about death, more dreadful is it when we have to let go of someone on our own and is not forced upon us. They are by all means necessary and though not as imposing as death may be are still very much necessary. The act of some one leaving for good, not so much as bothering to say farewell is deafening to the soul. Yet you know very well that it is just as necessary.

I pretend not to preach but yet the alien perfection betrays my pretensions  What ever it may be and however I say it, the truth about letting go is simple, you simply have to. The art of letting go is hence simple as well,  at least in principle. The art of letting go is to refrain from clutching on, it is to let go with entirety and not to force upon one's self the separation. To Let the tide of time unite and dissociate at will. That is the art of letting go.

The Little Big Things

Every journey is a new experience, no matter how often, no matter how short they tend to be. It’s not the journey that matters, not as much as the people we get to meet and life we get to experience. Every dawn and every dusk brings along with it a hoard of experiences that are just waiting to be discovered. This is the story of just one of the many interesting people I got to meet in my numerous journeys that made me realise that life is not something sacred; it is what happens right in front of our eyes, everyday. Don’t for one second think that I am an adept traveller, the sad truth is that I started travelling out of necessity and though I prefer the familiar comforts of my writing desk it has given me a chance to experience life as it is, raw and unadulterated.

It must be in one of those dreary Friday evenings that keep coming up every week, offering a strange intoxicating mix of anticipation, relief and happiness that this happened. I was supposedly going home after a week’s hectic schedule and it was literally killing me that I had to wait further for it to happen. I have had a practise of going with a couple of really goods friends; we have been travelling home together since we were travelling home at all. But today they had to pack and they were late, late enough to let me fend on my own. The necessities of the travel insisted that I find a suitable mode of transportation, an autorikshaw ( for those of you unfamiliar with the word, it is a three wheeled public transport vehicle in black and yellow or either, refer any Bollywood flick to know more . It’s easy to spot and hard to forget, for us it’s just a way of life like taxi is to New Yorkers.) is what I had in mind. It was not hard to find one, certainly not on a Friday.

Okay! That matters too!

Soon I landed a certain driver who was more than just willing to take us to the railway station that we needed to get, but since my friends were still packing I had to wait for them to come. Poor chap readily agreed to wait along with me; I must say he was a jolly good fellow to spend time with. Now just for the record I had to wait a good 45 minutes for my friends to come and hence being late for all the right trains. But then again that gave me this rather valuable lesson in life.

The little ones knows much more about little things than us!

The long wait let us on the streets with nothing much top do but talk, though a practical lover of silence I would always like some company at times. He insisted on talking as he would occasionally blurt out some random question or the other (like does every one speak English in the campus) and so and so. I did take a liking to him. Things didn’t get any interesting till a friend of his dropped by and they got talking. The truth is I never intended to eavesdrop on those guys as I was happily trotting away in my own imaginary world. The startling reminiscence of innocence in their routine chat drew my attention to them and their conversations. He was talking about his luck and I was instantly interested in knowing what lady luck has bestowed upon him, the truth was it was me, rather us. I realised then how much it meant for them to have the weekly trips that we made, our travels were more essential to them than it were ever to them.

In their casual conversation lied an unmistakable scent of innocence that is otherwise unseen and unheard of today. He was talking about how lucky he was to have gotten customers that day and how he and friends were celebrating in their free time yesterday and so and so. Its not what they talked that made it important, its how is said it, how with a smile and a attitude to match he made it seem that the very basic things in life were something else entirely. Its how his words and the sentences they formed transcended what would have been just a ordinary life into a story worth talking about, a life worthy of mention. In the simplest sense he taught me how life is in every little thing we do. And what I learnt sitting under the bright evening sun on a concrete sidewall by a rather crowded piece of asphalt.