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To Live Or Not To Live

Years ago, I traveled to the Piazza di Spagna in Rome in search of John Keats. Never mind that it was approaching his 100th death anniversary, I simply had to meet him.

To reconcile with this desperation, I stood at the Spanish Steps before deciding to walk to the Keats-Shelley Museum — a homage to the GOATS of Romantic literature.

Keats’ room, where he lived and died, is tiny. So small that with both arms stretched out you can actually touch the walls. There’s a small bed, a little writing table, and a fireplace. The ceiling is carved and painted with white daisies on a blue background, and a large window faces the bottom of the Spanish Steps. Those were his last visuals as he succumbed to tuberculosis at 25.

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” No wonder he spoke about the eternal truth in these words.

Every year, from the vantage point of the temporal dimension, I question the value of my existence and whether I’m living well. I was not always like this.

I was going to live a reckless life safe for my parents who are alive. Disappointment is a burden I cannot carry at my age. I’ve also come a long way because I’m not naïve anymore. I used to think that the world would love me back if I gave it enough love. But, I still keep hearing it say, “I told you so.”

To prevent myself from self-destructing, I had to turn to writing. Now, it’s a matter of daily sustenance. It helps me turn my existential despair into transcendence. Of course, I hope my words can become your escape too.

I’ve a lot left to do, so I’m grateful for each new year I get. Like I want to tell a few women and men in the world to not place their bets on their face but on the quality of their mind. I love fake eyebrows more than fake people, but does that mean I live my truth every day? Does all this inquiry into life make me a perfect human being? And make me morally superior?

Not by a long shot. I’ve strayed from my dharma plenty of times. Once I rolled down the window at a traffic stop and blew kisses at four Mexican men in a truck to give them the joy of attention because they were making cat calls and waving at me.

After the lights turned green and it was my time to get the car back alive, I found my cheeks turn red with horror. But I redeemed myself by thinking that I was being Kryptonite to those lonely men, and was simply giving them some momentary joy in their hard lives.

Global inequality isn’t just an idea for me. It’s one of those universal existential truths, like the lack of objective meaning and the inevitability of death. I carry the moral dissonance of my own privilege, moving through life with both love and rage. That, I suppose, is the lifelong conundrum of my existence.

That’s why I want my life to be an elegy to the invisible amongst us. The only superpower I ask the Universe is the ability to see the struggle behind their eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, all’s not lost. Oscar Wilde said that we’re all in the gutter, but only a few of us are looking at the stars. So, if we’re the one looking at the stars, it’s our duty to point to others near us to look up.

Those mountains that are casting shadows are the ones we’re trying to climb. We must take off the coat of many colors to find the light within us. As we reconcile beauty with injustice, we will continue celebrating humanity’s radical act of staying tender in a world that keeps trying to harden us.

And what’s the use of a revolution on the outside without any evolution on the inside? So practice self-reflection. Have a Satsanga with your silence every day. And I urge you to lean into your greatness, and speak only to breathe life into others.

The words on Keats’ tombstone are, “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.” It was a line he had personally requested his friends to mark on his tombstone as he lay dying. In essence, it reflects our primal fear of being forgotten, as writing in water leaves no lasting mark.

Whether my writing leaves a mark or not, I will write. So, to the reader, you could be doing anything with your life, but here you are. For that, I’m grateful. To my loved ones and friends, thank you for making joy tangible with your wild laughter.

And how can I end without showing my gratitude to the Mother.

No matter how I feel, I can crawl back into nature’s cradle and feel better instantly. As I age, I understand the importance of what the 5 elements offer us. That’s why I spend my time more wisely now. If it’s offering me a visual of cotton candy clouds, I stop on the side of the road to devour them.

And to my mom, thank you for loving me like I wasn’t ordinary. For reading me poetry of men and women who went onto become mad (now, that’s a story for another day). When I was feeling sad, telling you about my friends who never knew a mother’s love, you said, “It’s okay, fortunately they don’t know what they missed.” I can’t tell you how deeply that comforted me. I love how you roast me and challenge my every aspiration so I can do better. Amma, I want us to keep each other in our dreams, so we can remain there for eternity.

Here’s my final plea. The spiritual legend Adi Sankara at 32, and John Keats at 25 gave the world something to hold onto in their own worldly realms. We must do what we can with the time we are left with.

So what’s a birthday when there’s a festival in my heart every damn day?

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Time’s Open Mouth

Adi Shankaracharya writes about the fleeting nature of life in Bhaja Govindam

आयुः क्षीणं प्रतिदिनं यति पश्यतां लोक,
कालो जगत् भक्षयतेऽनुवेलम्।
विद्युच्चलमायुर्जगत्सर्वमेतत्,
तस्मात्समं ब्रह्मणि नित्यं निविशताम्॥

“Every day, life slips away before our eyes.
Time’s mouth is wide open – it consumes our ambitions, bodies, empires.
Our existence is as fleeting as a lightning flash.
So instead of clinging to what’s temporary, root yourself in what doesn’t change – awareness, truth, love, the eternal Brahman.”

–

Featured Image

Me, at two and a half years old, wearing a yellow dress trimmed with black lace, lovingly stitched by my aunt.

–

The Spanish Steps

When Life Happens, You Write

When you’re a writer-at-large, you let life happen to you. That way, you let your eyes steal everything that you see, put a spin on it and spill onto paper / machine some “stream of consciousness” kinda cool stuff. And if I am a true writer-at-large, it’s only fair that I must observe, muse and write about it.