Tuesday, November 22, 2011



Happiness does not come easy to some. To a few it never comes. This is about those few.

I say about and not 'for' because to these few it doesn't matter. Nothing does. Only their prolonged existence does and that too only because it bothers them. It gets in their way. They are travelers. Traveling where, from where, with whom, how and why, are questions that they never ask and expect no answers. These few are at peace with following a broken dusty trail and knowing that they will not come across anyone, anything, along these forgotten paths, perhaps these paths don't even exist for the rest. They are bound by destiny to traverse these paths. Alone. Miserably. In pain. Alone.

There isn't anything good or bad about that. Things one has no control over can hardly ever be measured in terms such as good or bad. They just are. Nothing one can do about it. Nothing one can do to avoid it. It is that; unavoidable, a preset collision course in a loop. All one can do is move towards it and even that moving towards it, is not a choice. This is what these few, these travelers do. Move towards it without the consciousness of moving towards it. It is just a call they need to answer. An instinct they need to follow. Something growing inside them, the roots of which need to be found. Only, even these roots can't be seen, only felt, their mere existence, their rationale questioned by many but believed completely by these few. They are pulled towards it. And they cannot but allow themselves to be pulled towards it because without this they would be lost. Following these maze like, unending paths is the journey and the destiny. No food. No water. And no miraculous oasis. They wouldn't let themselves believe that there could be or would be one. No, this journey is not as frivolous as chasing a mirage. A mirage is something that seems to be, this, what these few chase, is. It is as real as them. As real as their beating hearts and throbbing heads. As real as their aching feet and broken backs. As real as the cries that put them to sleep and as real as the salty grainy residue on their cheeks when they wake up. It is real. Most can't see this. Most won't see this. Most will choose not to. But for these few it is the only reality that exists. The only truth worth pursuing. The only feeling worth following. Unquestioningly. Irrespective of where it would take them or lead them, even if that "where" is nowhere.

It is like a journey of belief that millions undertake. A pilgrimage. But the kind that is not done with feet and eyes and bodies alone. But one done by the soul. One where the body can be left behind. One where the body is left behind. It is like the craziness of a child running after a kite. It is that belief of getting to that kite before it gets caught in a fluttering, unsure branch of a tree and gets torn or hits the ground and gets trampled upon. It is like standing for endless hours in the rain for those two moments which will last forever. It is like listening to a song and becoming the song, becoming the words, the notes, the lifts and the falls. It is like standing in front of the graves of the ones you love, unblinking, talking and hearing them talk back. It is like dreaming. You never go to it. It comes to you. Every night, unfailingly. You don't get to choose it. It chooses you. It decides if you smile in your sleep or if you sweat with fear or if you curl up and wish for warmth.

These few know they must go on. No matter what. These few will go on. They don't know what else to do. No, they do not go on to find happiness so that they can claim it. They know that it has turned its back on them. They need to go on, hoping that one day, only if fleetingly, they would be face to face with it. Then perhaps they would be able to ask the one question, the burden of which equals the weight of restless days and sleepless nights. Perhaps then they would be able to look at happiness as they briefly cross paths and ask, "Why?" And then go on again. On those
paths. Even if alone. Miserably. In pain. Alone.