A READING EXPERIENCE AT A CALM MORNING

Rationally speaking, the emotion of happiness is something that everyone wants to have. The tenacious search of happiness started with the first man stepping on the planet earth, and till now, no one achieved complete happiness.

Interestingly, we all have our own unique ways to reach the focal point of happiness. From among us, some take wealth as a shortcut to happiness, some meet it in alienation, and some among the people. My story is different.

At early morning, as usual, I glanced in the books’ shelf and took one randomly. I went to a hotel nearby where I often go for breakfast. I shuffled through the pages of the book, scanning it curiously.

Naturally, as it happens, in a moment, I found myself carried away.   I found happiness  in each passage I read dressed in beautifully coined black-gold-lines. A fact to be shared: I bought this book many months ago, can’t remember the exact date. It is a book of extraordinary importance to me. There I found many things.  Editor's note on using the book is highly prolific, stimulating and impressive. I found it truly important for me.

There I found the eruption of emotions. Happiness was dancing in my heart, mind and in every nerve. Experiencing such states, we come to know that happiness is not caused simply by entertaining one’s whims, rather it is being in love with living. Happiness comes the way one thinks, it comes the way one chooses to do things, it is a harmonious consequence.

So: Days of Learning edited by L.J. Lewis, consists some essays written by legends, about their school days, reading and learning experiences. It is an attention capturing book. When you read the introduction, the thought immediately flows into your mind to recommend it to a friend.

Sense of dignity

It was the early morning; the sun was to rise upon heads after some time with its reverend beams. Shahal’s village was under attack by some invaders coming from the East. The whole village was silent. Everyone seemed to be sleeping or hiding in fear.

The dust was rising above and above, and the gleeful ocean tides seemed  tired; the beautiful mountains were flowing tears, and the dark cataract waterfalls were distinctly slow and almost vanishing, and a terrible gloom stretched on the whole Jungle.  The growing trees were suddenly calm and still as if foreseeing the signs of a fearful hurricane, and the wild dancing animals were surprised. The birds were wondering in dismay. They all were complaining; they all were recording their protests in their own languages. How suddenly they became virtually captive in their own centuries’ old land. They all wanted to know: Why are we being deceived, and harassed by those who claim themselves our brave guardians? They were judiciously furious.

Sadly enough, Shahal’s father disappeared from this world one rainy afternoon when he reached the age of seventy and one. Tradition says when a person dies and rain follows his death day it would be a sign that the man was generously virtuous. He was not willing to die because he wanted his son to have what he craved for but was unable to get: a university education. Shahal attended his father’s funeral ceremony as a thirteen year old child who was supposed to quit school soon to go to work full time to serve his family.  He was not shocked on the death of a remarkable father who lived his life so marvelously. He could not leave any material object for his family the day he died, but he left what an ideal father could leave for his son. He left his wisdom: his words which could help lead anyone to live a meaningful life with a strong will power.

Shahal was to replace his father and he did, accurately. His daily routine was to go grazing his flock of sheep in the far green jungle and bring along wood bricks when he returned at evening, which were used in the kitchen to cook food. Now he was a strong young man, 22 years old, with a thin beard, dressed nicely, and with an over-curving, and amazingly dreary mustache. His responsibilities were increasing day by day but he was unshaken. He was a poet like his father, and was a famous heartthrob of all grown up girls in his village and in the vicinity. He did not pay any attention to what was happening around; his was a different world. This night was a particular night, as he was tense for the first time in his life. He was worried as to what should be done in circumstances like this. He clearly noticed his life becoming a roller coaster running off track. He was studying his thoughts extensively with a formative introspection.

He went to bed to have some sleep. He lay on his bed. His heart lurched suddenly when he recalled the moments his father was lecturing him on the top of a mountain, where they were collecting their flock of sheep for a night stay. At that time, he was just nine years old. He visualized his father talking on different subjects. You don’t become an orphan when your parents die; you become an orphan when your land is captured by outsiders. Shahal could easily notice a shrewdly cautious light sparkling in his father’s eyes. …And you become a slave only when you’re not ready to resist the invaders. His voice was deep and very slow, and it seemed that he was picking words one by one as he used to pick pebbles one by one, and collect those together beautifully on the ground and then, pointing down toward them prudently say: they are little but together they can make a strong fort.

He was presenting his thoughts very clearly as usual. Force must be faced with little tricks,” he cautioned, you can’t beat an elephant when you stand in front of him. Then he was watching very far, pausing. His stature could convey that he was a strong man both physically and mentally. If you want to break that strong stony rock, he was pointing his finger toward a nearby rock, you need persistent strength, along with that a hammer and a nail, and most importantly the techniques for how to climb and break it. His hands were clasped together. He was relaxed and speaking his mind and heart out to his one and only son, Shahal. A person who lives in the jungle must know the language it speaks; it provides all sort of news that you require and predicts about every bad and good omen. His tone was happy. By watching the sky I can tell you when it would rain. He was confident and his gestures were matching with what he was saying. The trees tell me whether I’m in danger or I’m safe. He cleared his throat. The colors of the mountains talk to me, and the flowing wind whispers to me. He was talking like an old alchemist.

The sun was disappearing, and the shadows of the mountains and trees were forecasting the night’s arrival. The flowing wind was cold but calm, and the birds were flying to reach their homes. No one can enslave you, his voice became harsh and his brows frowned, unless you are prepared to be enslaved. Never bent your back, he put greater emphasis on his words, and never obey your oppressor, never ever. He looked in the eyes of his growing son and said, One loses every thing when he loses his land. Then he does not have much choice. He loses his right to dream, to talk, to wear, to walk out, and even to sleep at home merrily.

Far away in the distance, there could be heard the sound of a sweet music, beautifully matching with the deep darkness of the night. All the creatures were singing, and their voices created a musical sound, which was so rare one could hear in the jungle at night, nowhere else.  You should not work to achieve a record of public prominence, he said, his eyes fixed on the ground, but to obtain a prominent place for your public on the world stage.  He stood up, putting his hands around his waist, as if he was going to give a finishing touch to something very integral that he longed to accomplish. One’s actions should invite the public to get to know him rather than one’s empty rhetoric. He finished the line swiftly. His hold on his words was strong and his thoughts were realistically fascinating. In the long run of life, he put his hands together, observing his fingers closely, one must be a man who is inhabited by a lasting vision, almost possessed by it. Now he was talking like a compelling intellectual who was generous enough to transfer as much knowledge and wisdom as possible. Adversity is a great teacher, he continued. Only by traveling on smooth roads one does not gain strength sufficiently. One has to be a man emerged out of difficulties.

He had abundant experience of life and world. This world is a big university, his voice became more convincing, from which you can not get a degree until you are ready to die for a just cause. He was a person living in a village which was deprived of all facilities, but his understanding of worldly affairs was generally all-encompassing. Each line poured out of his mouth carried a profound effect. He was discussing things at great length like a well-informed and world-renowned professor on general politics and philosophy of life. You should not believe a truly just cause will succeed on its own and does not need power to back it up, that would be foolish. Silence prevailed. Things work differently in the real world, he sighed deeply, you can promote and obtain a just cause only through the exercise of power, he stressed.

It seemed that he was getting his son prepared mentally for the potential upcoming challenges in the long and short run of life. His outlook of life was clearer than that of a great teacher. He was a prolific person, extensively experienced. Shahal was greatly amazed at his father’s lively wit. He noticed cleverly that his father was giving him lectures with authority on different subjects that one could never hear from a highly experienced college teacher. His father was teaching him that life is not so easy, and that the time to gain strength is during his flouring young years. He was learning more from sitting on the mountain top with a person who never saw the boundary line of a school than his school-teacher. You can win only by acting, he said, picking up another topic, better than just thinking so. It is how you act that really counts, not winning or failing.

Precisely, never accept defeat. Get up when you get knocked down with more vigorous strength. his face was showing that he was remembering something good that happened in the distant past and was pleasing him. Don’t be lazy or selfish, act up to your capabilities wherever you are or whomever you are with. He was talking frankly without seeking any approval. He knew what he said. There was a tender loving care in his voice. His face was sometimes a smiling one and sometimes a threatening one. He possessed all the necessary qualities required for a public leader or speaker. He was an old person; wrinkles were clear on his face, but his thoughts were young and vibrant. One would not remain comfortable without praising him.

The night was over. Shahal’s eyes opened with the voice of a crow. He was happy with his night’s dream. He fetched a kettle full of water and washed his face while thinking about how to convince his mother of his intentions. He had made up his mind either to crush the invading enemy or get finished while protecting his soil. It was surprising to see his mother standing in front of him holding his father’s well-praised gun in her hands, with a smiling face. Sangeen was a wise mother. She had already read her son’s face as an ordinary mother could. She knew what was boiling in his head. Your intention is what must be of a real man. A mother always prays that her son would be brave enough to protect the honor of the place he lives in. Better to die for your people, for your land. She was talking daringly. Her face was shining with a modest smile. She was fearless and brave. Sangeen was famous in her village for her generosity. She was not thinking that she might lose her only son.

No word can replace the other. No man can replace the other. Rodain was a brilliant husband; a brave protector, a kind and virtuous person. She looked toward the little garden with a serious face which was exposing that she had been well-groomed for such circumstances. I saw beauty in danger. I watched beautiful flowers ceasing. I tasted adversity and I tasted the happiest moments too. Shahal was watching his mother talking fluently in a philosophic tone. She was usually silent. As you know, your people are dispersed. The first possible thing you would do is: call them for unity. She came closer, placing a loving motherly touch on Shahal’s face. She held his hand firmly.Your conscience and determination deserves praise and I’m proud that I gave birth to a brave son like you. She paused to choose reasonable words, keeping the situation in view. You must let your people know what you’re fighting for. Shahal knew what she said deserved due consideration. She was always a supportive mother. Your father would do the same that you want to do. she forced her mind to put her ideas more expertly into few words to save time. I know. In her usual pragmatic approach, she put her words this way, to avoid any confusion. You can fight alone; but having your people by your side, you can fight better. her tone was intelligently helpful. She hugged her son, and handed over the gun. Shahal knelt down to touch his saintly mother’s feet but she held his shoulders, and kissed him on his forehead.   

Shahal went inside the cottage to soothe his sister. She was brave, but watching her only brother going on battle ground, she could not muster up courage. She hugged her brother enthusiastically and handed over his necessary objects. She slapped his back and whispered, Go and kill the enemy. She was emotional.  

Shahal could not forget the wise words his parents uttered to him. He went to his people and addressed them clearly. You’re being surrounded by an enemy. You people have to eliminate your mutual enmity to fight the invaders. He was short and to the point. We must demonstrate today that we are builders, not breakers. He engaged them in witty repartee. He held everyone he met in rapt attention with his uncommon intelligence. His father’s brilliant words never let him down, whenever he faced any difficulty. Once my father observed how great the enemy might be in number does not matter, what matters is your unity and strength. So, today we need to demonstrate that strength, today we must be one. Today we have to stand like a strong stony rock in front of the enemy. his voice was serious and impressive. His words were brief but moving.

Shahal started toward the enemy. People marched behind him and he noticed them. The sound produced by their foot steps was breaking the silence. As he mounted the little hill, he hoisted his gun and announced to the enemy in a precise but penetrating speech, You are here to win a people and occupy its centuries’ old land, and we are here to shatter your sinister intentions. You are here to achieve victory and we are here to celebrate your defeat. You are here to sabotage and we are here to save. Words were flowing out of his mouth like the wind. He was displaying his brilliant effervescence and insight.  His words were warming the blood of his people, and they were becoming more enthusiastic and committed.

This village has stood the test of time. Many attacked to plunder but all faced the same fate. The brave protectors never allowed them to succeed in their mission. Now he was addressing his people. They were attentive. He relaxed his broad shoulders, put his one hand straightly down and drew forward the other hand, directing it toward the village graveyard, and said with a smiling face, Today the difference is once they fought and today their sons will fight.’Praising the timely unity of his people, he said, There was at first no one ready to fight, and now I see a group of committed comrades standing alert to crush the enemy. This spirit shows that the invaders are defeated, he expressed determinedly. I played on the soil and became a young man. It is the place where my father sleeps. He was challenging the attackers. How can a son allow his sleeping father to be disturbed, dishonored? You are here to defeat the unbeatable. His tone became sarcastic toward the enemy. 

Shahal was running out of time. He knew the enemy had already prepared for attacking them. He cleverly picked some spectacular shooters among his people he knew the best. He instructed the rest in what to do, then launched his attack on the enemy. His men were alert and clever shooters. The gunshots continued for three days without any pause. At last, Shahal’s brave comrades succeeded in breaking the lines of the enemy with constant organized efforts. They were ten times fewer in number than the enemy, but they were united and committed. They fought up to their capabilities. The attackers were forced to flee, and some were held hostage and left later. It was a fascinating fight, shouted a villager with a thrilled voice. Everyone was happy. Everyone was whispering Shahal is victorious. Sangeen came and hugged her son, and praised the way the people had fought.

Shahal’s sister, Shari came later as usual, and hugged her brother affectionately. She was carefully listening what the people were saying, and she disapproved. She held her brother’s hand tightly and chanted to the mob to be silent. With a loud voice she said,Victorious is the village, not Shahal. Her gesture surprised everyone.  She seemed quite happy and her mind very active. Shahal’s face was showing approval and her mother was comfortable. She was happy watching her daughter demonstrating wisdom and insight. When trouble thickened around this village, you people clung to each other, endeavored, and dissipated the clouds of darkness, causing peace to return to our hearts. Words could not fail her. She was exposing her prudence. Unity worked like a charm. Let us promise to let not our unity wither on the vine. Let this village always be victorious. She was expressing the inexpressible. Shari was 16 years-old with a bright face and a quick smile, old enough to remember her father’s words. One’s sense of honor and justice must oblige one, once her father remarked, to speak out sincerely, frankly, and fearlessly. It was clear more than crystal that she could avail the opportunity and collect the reward for her brother, but she did not prove to be an opportunist. Her honest gestures pleased not only her brother and mother but amused and produced a profound sense of consciousness in every one.

The sun, like an old man, had disappeared behind dark clouds, but was performing its duty as usual; the chirping of the birds could be heard. The people were anxiously moving toward their cottages. The beautiful colours of the mountains seemed to reappear and the trees started waving their wings. There was a sense of happiness in the whole jungle. Shahal, his sister Shari, and their mother Sangeen were observing this wonderful joyous scene. The sacred ties of affection were renewed. Suddenly there was lightening, and an old shepherd shouted from upon a nearby hill, warning that a slow wind was approaching the village. The wind came and it was gone. The sky was dripping slowly. Shahal and his family sat around a little burning fire, warming their hands. He thought, There is no end; the end is another start in actuality. Life returned beautifully to the village once again. 

A misconception among readers

There is found a great misconception among most of the common readers about the writers who are nonconformists or rebels in nature and whom the readers prefer to read.

It is generally observed that people are hasty; they often take things extremely emotionally or want them to happen in a rush. This issue of the prevalent misunderstanding which is unique in its nature evoked my curiosity to write upon this illusion in order to further a formal discussion.

There come many occasions in the flow of life that the readers treat a writer of this nature disgracefully when they find him talking against the existing culture, great society, rules, traditions and obsolete conventions besides remaining in their circles or boundaries while explaining his thoughts or taking support from the same tradition to illustrate his ideas.

Interestingly, sometimes reading such a writer’s works, the readers lose their temper, finding it within the traditional gestures or against their expectations, and throw the collection away without maintaining a formally accepted positive outlook and clear observation of the circumstances or events chronicled by the writer. It leads to an emotional rupture and breakdown because the reader takes the writer as a manipulator or hypocrite. It might be a lovely complaint (as a lover makes in presence of his/her beloved to get more attention) but it is possibly one which is completely unreasonable or unwisely.

It is obviously noted that they expect from such writers to represent a sharp and an absolute break with the tradition which is impossible in different ways reasonably. Firstly, it must be clearly known that such a writer wants the society to be reformed. As for example in the works of novelists, like D.H. Lawrence and E.M. Forster, it can be easily judged that they wanted to reform ‘the great society.’ But they could not totally remain unconventional. Every writer wants to analyze the disease of modern civilization and search for a possible cure, as did Huxley, Maugham, and Somerset.

Realistically arguing, it is very difficult to challenge the very fundamentals, the very basis of the existing beliefs and ways. A reader must feel this abundant difficulty a writer faces when he stands against ‘the great society’. Furthermore, the reader must realize that a writer is quite conscious of his age and desires it to be reflected in his words. But he needs the time, and space and mostly the moral support of the people.

A common reader must consider some important points before fighting or breaking up the reader-writer relation or bond.

 1- He must know there are some aspects and values in the existing traditions, productive and reasonable, which is what forces a writer or an intellectual to include them instead of throwing them away.

2- He should clearly realize that change is a slow and painful process which takes time to happen; seconds are not enough to bring about a change whether that is social, political or regarding the existing traditions and beliefs. It takes much time and effort to change the thousands of hundred years’ old conditioned minds and that is why the writer tries to change them layer by layer or slowly.

3- A writer is an individual and he faces a lot of challenges while questioning the existing norms and mores, and sometimes he faces death threats from the fundamentalists as a deviator, so it takes a lot of time to earn enough attention from the general public.