by Manjit Handa
Why are you watching TV? Why so many movies? Why are you wearing black? Why did you not eat? Why are you not in bed? Why did you not study well during exams? So many questions they ask. Then we sulk. More questions. Why does it happen only to me?
And then we blame the stars and the circumstances. And then, we start wishing. If only I was born somewhere else, some other house, some other city, some other place, any place but this. . .
Why did you not buy a good gift for me? Why don’t you express enough love? Why can’t you be like my friend’s companion? Why do you act weird when with company? Why do you dress shabbily? More questions again, and the wishful thinking. If only I was married to someone else. If only he/she had someone understanding. If only I could make more money and make everyone happy. Why does it always happen to me? Oh it’s the stars. . .
Life passes. We pass sulking. And then the compunctions. I could have been a writer, but then I had kids. I could have been a painter but then I was juggling two jobs. I could be a journalist but my parents wanted me to be a doctor.
Life was not written before our initiation. She came with us; before that she did not exist, neither for me, nor you. She writes what we want Her to. The pen, we give. Then we carry out life and she keeps writing—obedient servant. What did we carry out, that is the question? Was it our love for something? Or what they wanted us to do? The quality of the paperback will depend on whether the soul was an ingredient or not? If not, it will be pulp. For it to be a classic, find the soul, the calling--pursue it. When you find your true love, there is no time for misgivings. There are no stars and we become destined to be what we want to be. It is always about wanting. If we don’t have something, we did not want it enough and love it that much.
What do you know of Love except the name?
Love has a hundred forms of pride and disdain,
and is gained by a hundred means of persuasion.
Since Love is loyal, it purchases one who is loyal:
it has no interest in a disloyal companion.
Rumi, ‘Love’
So be it.
Lovingly,
Manjit
