Musing on a Quiet Sunday evening | 26th Jul '09

It is a quiet Sunday evening. Remember the poem "Leisure" by Henry Davies. A senior colleague of mine introduced me to the poem. And like Davies, I wonder what life is about.

So here am I this Sunday evening, sitting by the big window overlooking the hills (with some green cover due to the rains) and enjoying the clouds passing by. I recollect that as a child, I would spend hours staring at the sky, the clouds, the stars and everything around. Contrast it with the life today which is spent in Bombay locals, laptop computers, books and sleep.

The other day, I was in conversation with a friend. I posed this question, which I pose to the blog too: what is the life that we will lead in time to come? My friends will laugh at me, but despite not being married, I wonder what will my kids grow in? Will they ever experience the joy of chasing a hen, of running after a cow and playing with her tail, of being kicked by a horse, of shooing away the birds that cover the sky the moment grain is spread out for drying?

A few years ago, my cousin had to take his son to a dairy to show him that milk indeed comes from cows and buffaloes. The little one picked up an argument with his school teacher who taught such nonsense, when he knew better - milk came from the Mother Dairy push button technology. Drop a small coin, and out pours the white liquid they call milk. I had laughed my guts out then, but come to think of it, I feel worried.

Every generation cribs about the forthcoming one. With that reality in mind and the realisation, I am not here to crib about the coming generation; but about my own generation. Actually, I am not going to crib - these are some of my own reflections - for myself - to make myself a bit more clear. In the process, if it helps you as a reader, so be it. The muse is for me.

So coming back: would I want to trade off my childhood to a Nintendo V (I didn't even know what it was till a few wise colleagues - wise after kids - of mine enlightened me). I remember that come winter, we would convert a part of our garden into an open air badminton court. It was time of great fun. A man would come over with a measuring tape and put some lime powder marking the court. Then the nets would be out and voila - we would all play badminton every evening as a family. The joy was in the game, and not to forget the fights between us siblings as to who would play first and for how long!!!

Maybe I was fortunate - to have been born and brought up in a rustic place. Perhaps that's the reason why I love rusticity. Why I associate 'civilisation' with plasticity. They are all meanings I give. I recognise my prejudices, but then I see that some of them are my preferences. Give me an option between a movie and sitting in the park, I would choose the latter. Offer me chocolate moose vs. a desi 'gulab jamun', you know by now what'll win hands down.

So why am I worried? Surely, one aspect is that the environment around has changed. But can I sit and crib about it? Is it fair? Is that not a choice I have made - a choice to be in the cacophony of a metropolis? Am I willing to admit, that other choice which possibly may be more affirming to me, may mean sacrificing a few other things that accompany city life - privacy, anonymity, comfort, opportunities and not to forget Godess Laxmi!

Maybe you'll say that I've got all the time in the world - what else will a single "unhooked" man do? Except be with himself. But then, the question does not get answered. Or are there ever any answers? Thus far, I don't think so - at best they are my tentative views. And in that moment, I take an option based on the limited view of life that I have. But seek I still must...

As I sign off, let me post the poem.

"LEISURE"

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

By Wm. Henry Davies.