Pain Makes Me Not Me

(My Brief, Subcutaneous Dramatics — reposted from Facebook)

Pain has its special place in me. For one thing, it’s always there. My pleasure dreams are the only exception. Even there…once in a while…pain sneaks in, slithering like a Biblical snake.

Pain makes me numb. But I’m not numb all the time. Periodically, I’m as excited as a drug addict. Or, inspired as a kirtan dancer in a trance. And then, it’s all downhill from there.

(Now, this would be a perfect place for an expletive…but I’m too phony to show my arousal…especially in front of you, my carefully, industriously-sought-out select group of friends. Pretending modesty too long the phony-feudal Indian way, I’ve become ridiculously, like, ridiculous.)

Pain makes me not me. That is, it transforms me into something else: it drives me to do things I normally don’t do: good, potentially great, bad, ugly, or gutterly slimy. And I know God has not given me the kind of power that would make the blue Buddha lotus bloom out of muck. Heck, having been through a likely two-thirds of my life, I know Van Gogh, Oscar Wilde, Balzac, Nazrul Islam or Jibanananda Das did not reincarnate in this morose five-foot-five. It’s a majorly mundane mortality prepping to strike the final “one, two, three…done” strike, before it all ends. Sounds depressing? Great. It means I done it well.

In the opening sequence of this dramatics (see the following blog) — brief but purposefully-hopefully intense wordorgasmilistics, I brought up the ever-going duel between the divine and the devil in me. I’m sad to report back: it’s for real. I’m even sadder to do a follow-up: the devil is winning out. I tend to think that in spite of being the unblossomed blue lotus me shaking-struggling out of the muck, with help from my dreaming-sacrificing parents, indulgent-caring siblings, admiring-adoring lifelong friends and an ever-forgiving couple of co-habitants, I turned out to be someone who dared an inner spirituality with an almost miraculous awakening half-way through life that spirituality-driven social reformers, politicians and human rights soldiers demanded some dedicated time from me to justify my otherwise meaningless existence. Yet, the mentor never came to hold my hand and show me the way. Without the guru and guiding light, the once-quality building blocks never really built. They slowly perforated, crumbled, and fell apart.

Meanwhile, goose-chasing, time passed. Sky turned blue to scarlet to dark evening. It stopped moving. Finally, the meaninglessness, the void, the stupor took over. The lotus defoliated.

Now, that’s a long, perplexing message packed with a few decades of raw, pressure-cooker emotion.

My time has always been short, and it’s going to be even shorter. I know it. I feel it. Not that your time is going to grow either. Yet, is there any space for sharing? Not sure. I like to talk, and I like to talk to people I think would listen, at least for a few minutes before I bore them to death. Five minutes is up now.

(Actually, I don’t like expletives at all. I think they’re ugly. That’s where I do not belong. Will never do.)

Don’t worry. I know you don’t. Just in case you do, don’t.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

___

(Originally written on 12th January, 2011. Revised today. Never know: could revise soon again.)