Is constant disillusionment a good thing?

A friend told me something that got me thinking. 

“Involvement with anything requires the creation of an illusion around that thing”

Put simply, if you get involved in anything, you will need to ascribe excess meanings to that thing which it does not possess. So, you are ultimately creating an illusion. 

The word illusion has some negative connotations, but that fit in with the worldview my friend possesses. He likes to keep a constant state of disillusionment with regard to all things. Not surprisingly, this can make him seem like both an idealist and a cynic depending on whether he is advocating an idea or rejecting it. 

I got to thinking about it, and it seemed true. No matter what we get involved with, be it politics, activism, work, sports or relationships, we keep adding meaning to those things. Continued unchecked, this could lead to us being blind about some unsavoury factors of the object in question, and thus, when we become cognisant of these factors, it can be a painful experience.

Think of a relationship that broke up because one party was in denial about the other party’s obsessive need for validation. Or when an activist realises that his superiors have duped him and were just looking for power. It seems better to constantly disillusion yourself to avoid any pitfalls.  

However, over the last few weeks, I’ve realised that this position isn’t as tenable as it appears on the surface. For one thing, the constant disillusionment has the risk of itself becoming an obsession. Being unable to partake in any illusion, the person might be forced to withdraw from any activity that requires an amount of commitment. There is also a sense of depression and apathy in this position which seems like floating on the sea without an anchor. 

I also feel that partaking in illusions is something that is unique to mankind, and something that we must experience, for better or worse. We must be able to know the joy of rushing headlong into something, risks and fears be damned. That fearless certainty and joy of dedication to an illusion is an experience that I feel is necessary. 

But what about the risk of fanaticism towards the illusion? 

I feel it is better to heed the words of French social theorist, Michel Foucault,

“My point is not that everything is bad, but that everything is dangerous, which is not exactly the same as bad.  If everything is dangerous, then we always have something to do.”

This view seems close to or the same as the previous view, except the part where Foucault says “we always have something to do”

This makes the stand an active one by default. We must challenge every assumption we have made, consider no truth sacred, but also remember to be active, to not stop our work, whatever it may be for. If we see an activity worth doing, we must do it. The key point is that we must not let the activity go unquestioned, but questioning an activity must not mean that we refuse to participate in it altogether. 

This brings me to my conclusion: We must question our assumptions and activities, but not reduce ourselves to questioning machines. Instead of apathy, we must be ready for active involvement in the world.

A breath of cold air

Have you ever smelled cold air?

It is an unique smell, a beautiful smell, one that carries you away from yourself, one that you insist on filling your lungs with, and mourns the fact that you can't hold onto.

It belongs to the mountains, and it is to the mountains you must go to truly know it.

Travellers, do you understand which smell I'm talking about?

The one that isn't of flowers, or trees or the grass beneath your feet. It can't be sought out and found. It will reveal itself to you, when you're ready for it.

Travellers, do you remember that smell I'm talking about?

The one that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

The one that, when you've just woken up, comes in with the first cold breeze through the open window.

The one that is distinguishable among the thick smells of the tea you hold in your hand and the clay ovens in the local houses, whose smoke rises among the hills in thinner and thinner wisps as morning arrives.

The one that, if you're really lucky, you'll smell a whiff of it in a passing gust of wind, exactly at noon.

The one that catches you as unguarded as when the evening, which suddenly throws a blanket over the mountains, rushing the darkness in as the sun retires for the night.

The one that you smell at night, when you've finished your dinner, and you stand by the dhaaba at the edge of the road by the cliff, and wonder why the food back in the city never tastes this good, and the city beneath you twinkles, tiny lights in a darkness darker than the night sky, which glows above you with the light of uncountable stars.

You can get a small taste of it even in the city, but it is rare, and precious, and your soul calls out for the mountains when you smell it.

Travellers, surely you know this smell I'm talking about. If you do not, keep on journeying, it is waiting for you.

And if you recognise it, and you grow restless for the mountains yet again, come, let us travel together.

And if we do not meet, find another companion, for such travels are always better with a true companion; or travel alone, but travel you must; and when you catch that elusive aroma again, know that we are with you.

Fiction: The Cardboard box

                                                 The Cardboard Box

There are moments in a person’s life when one feels as if their entire life is worth only a handful of things. Mr. Singh was living that moment. Sitting on a bench in the railway station, he was staring at the cardboard box he held in his hands. And he felt that his entire life was contained in that one box. His worth, value, talent, education, in fact all the things that made him the person he was seemed to be cramped into that one little box. And his life was untidy at the moment, if the organization of the box was anything to go by.

The contents of this box were nothing special; a few papers, pens, pencils, a photo frame and a few other items filled up its depths. These trivial objects however were of great interest at thee present moment. , for Mr. Singh had been fired from his job half an hour ago, and this box contained items from his now bare office desk.

We must pity poor Mr. Singh, jobless and sitting alone at the railway station. But why was he at the railway station of all places? This was something he didn't know himself. Mr. Singh clearly remembered the moment when he received the order of termination and he knew that he was in a railway station, but how and why he got there was a mystery. And that was the question Mr. Singh was trying to answer himself. It is good to keep the mind busy.

It was 6:15 when there was an announcement. An express train would pass through the station, and passengers were to keep a safe distance. Mr. Singh was suddenly stuck by this announcement. An idea emerged: suicide. What if he had come here to kill himself? It was possible; losing his job was a great shock. Perhaps his inner mind had decided that death was the best solution to his predicament. That was why he had arrived here with such grogginess. Mr. Singh blinked as he tried to follow his reasoning. Would he be wise to kill himself? He had a wife and child at home. Getting a new job, at his age was difficult under present circumstances. His savings were marginal and his precious little savings wouldn't last long. Even borrowing wouldn't work. How would he pay the money back? The more he though about his situation, the more hopeless it seemed, and he began to convince himself that death was the best option.

Heartless? Leaving the family behind? Perhaps. But Mr. Singh had never been blessed with a happy married life; the priest’s mantras during the ceremony had never taken their effect.

He knew that his wife was attracted to other men, and he knew of one whom she fancied particularly. Death would liberate her to remarry with her person of desire. The child? She was still young, and would gradually adjust to the change.

Mr. Singh was now convinced of his reasoning. Setting the box aside, he looked at the lines. Shiny, black iron that stretched on for miles. Soon the train would arrive; one jump and it would be over. Mr. Singh got up and walked to the edge of the station. He could see the train’s headlight at a distance. He stepped back a few paces, and then braced himself.

The train let out a horn and with it Mr. Singh had a worrying thought. What if he failed in his attempt? Trains often slow down while crossing stations and the drivers were on high alert. What if the driver saw him and slowed down, leading to only injuries? He couldn’t afford to pay hospital bills now. It would make things worse. No, he decided that he needed a more sure way, one that would guarantee death.

He stood thoughtfully and watched the train go by He didn’t note its speed. His reverie was broken by the sight of a man standing on the road adjacent to the station. He had a sign that said “Best Rat poison”.

Poison. This was a sure method. Death would be painful but certain. All he needed to do was to consume it in a secluded spot and his body would not be discovered for days.

Mr. Singh began making his way towards the man. He was nearly there and about to take out his wallet when a new complication arose. What if the poison was ineffective? His body might manage to flush out the toxins and he would have wasted ten good rupees. And what if someone found him and took him to the hospital? No, it was the same dilemma again.

Mr. Singh began going through other alternatives in his mind. Gun? Rope? Fire?

Fire. He could use a smoke now. Mr. Singh reached inside his pocket and found his cigarettes there, but he was shocked to see that his expensive lighter, a gift from a friend, was missing. He began frantically checking his pockets as sweat formed on his brow.

Where could he have put it?  Where? Of course! Mr. Singh slapped his forehead in exasperation. The box. He had left it inside the box. Mr. Singh began sweating as he realized that he had left the box at the station. He looked quickly to where he previously was, but he couldn’t spot it in the darkness.

Mr. Singh rushed over the fence, over the tracks and onto the station. His box was untouched. He quickly checked if everything was in order; it was. Heaving a sigh of relief he picked it up. He lit up his cigarette and walked homewards, single mindedly wondering what the wife would be cooking today.

Somak

9/11/10