If death be kinder than life

"It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad."

~ C.S. Lewis, novelist, poet, academic, medievalist, literary critic, and essayist, born in Ireland.

I cannot recall who said: If it is one's fate to be a street-sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the host of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street-sweeper who did his job well.

Thus, in pursuit of this philosophy have I, always lived. Deeds that would ordinarily take a thousand lifetimes to fulfil, have I done in this one life: Actions that are mostly honourable, and some that are, ordained by primeval passions normally restrained by self-control; but uncontained and unable to resist as a whore would a rich customer. Living thus, made me feel the epitome of a complete man, without control over passion, eager to embrace and taste life - even if traditional wisdom of my country placed importance on the control of one's emotions.

As I write this, I realise that the world we live in is stranger than fiction. Did you know that we humans exist in different places at the same time, in different universes; however improbable it may sound to the uninitiated.

The trillions of atoms that make us are nothing but vibrations in ten dimensions; proving that, in the ultimate analysis, we are nothing but shaking, throbbing, trembling, oscillations.

You, me, and this universe, beautiful and unimaginably large as it may be, and all the varied life forms in it are, inevitably and inexorably connected to each other; even if improbable as it seems.

That someday we will go into the future to change the present, is an ever-evolving possibility. Yet, there still are innumerable questions that arise in my mind; questions that defy my mind, questions that trouble my sleep.

Questions, questions, and questions: Why do all humans, especially scientist and philosophers, struggle with the concept of time? Can science explain consciousness through physics? Is nature hiding the best-kept secrets from mortal man: mysteries that would remain as mysteries, never to be unravelled by us humans; or at least, not in the predictable future? I am aware that an unexamined life is not worth living. Yet, it seems, life after all is, "the art of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises" - Samuel Butler, the iconoclastic Victorian-era English author.

The mass of men - humanity - mostly lead lives of quiet despair and desperation. Hence, on a more mundane plane, I have many-a-times wondered if indeed the straight path of destiny some of us had chosen was the right one for our troubled life in troubled times. For those who have chosen thus - as if to prove the adage that misfortune never comes alone - infelicity had strewn the path of life at various interminable intervals for them to have more than their fair share of adversity.

The vile witch of chance, using the tricks she learnt from some base den of inequity, finagled a promise from fate to keep misery ever-present throughout their lives. In the process, some lost an essential part of their selves.

The wound such loss leaves will bleed, putrefy, and never heal while they are alive. They shall yearn for death with every ounce of their being and it will never claim them as wont. If only fate had not chosen them as its playthings, how different life for them would be. Destiny, however, is not a matter of chance. It is a matter of choice.

A man's character is, conditioned by his fate. During all our living, we are spinning our own fates; good or evil, never to be undone. Thus, fate, karma, or all of those things that happen to us for which we cannot readily ascribe a reason, is not preordained. It is a thing achieved through our deeds; and inevitably, I have found that there is never ever a right way, to do wrong things.

Therefore, it is best we live by one's right of conscience, and right actions. The essence of life is action; and actions determine fate's directions.

Swift and sure as an owl, a born assassin of the night, death will someday envelope all of us; and we will be reduced to nothing more than carrion for scavengers to feed on. For all our braggadocio, our ego, our trumpeted triumphs, the end is always in the surging implacable wave that is fate in the form of death. No man on earth, however strong and powerful, can escape its clutches.

Though we could not, in this life have controlled the events of our birth; we could and should, once born, control the hands of fate by our actions.

Because, once the hand of fate had moved by the actions of mortal man, and in that move, unless bound by the adage: live simply, love generously, care deeply, and speak kindly; it will necessarily contribute much misery for ourselves, and others. No man was ever wise by chance.

It is by questioning one's self one becomes wise, whereas the fool will question others. Thus, the thing about our choices is that after we have made them, they turn around and make us. However, though the possibility to control our actions is ever-present, for many-a-reasons, we fail. As adults, we could and should have striven to a higher standard of nobility and ethical behaviour; but we do not.

Hence, destiny, divines differently; and mortals, unable to grasp wisdom, remain mere pawns in the hands of fate, forbidden to move as they deem fit. Thus, we unwittingly fall into the trap laid by the mortal foe of admittedly inferior morality and the far superior cunning of fate.

However, may be it is late in life, but one need not submit tamely to cruel fate. Even in the late hour of our undoing, live on bravely, nobly, generous to a fault, and loyal unto death, until the fell hour. Perhaps things will change.

He who is not busy being born, is busy moving towards death. For many of us, for a long time, it would seem that life was finally about to begin - real life, the life worth living. But there were always some obstacles that needed to be attended first, before beginning the real life. Something to be got through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served in the service of children, a debt to be paid.

Then, once such obligations get over, life would begin, so we think; but it never dawns on us that these obstacles were the life; and through such obstacles, wisdom dawns. "Many a genius has been slow of growth. Oaks that flourish for a thousand years do not spring up into beauty like a reed," said George Henry Lewes, the English philosopher and critic of literature and theatre.

What it implies is that life is all about progressing slowly and steadily in the right path of nobility attending to our obligations. There are no short cuts even if it seems otherwise. In the final analysis, it is our conception of death, which decides our answers to all the questions life puts to us.

When death, the great reconciler, finally comes: it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity. When the time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death; so when their time comes, they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again, in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.

For even if death be kinder than life, as it would seem to many; try and live life as kindly as possible. For death is but a passing phase of life; a change of dress; a disrobing; and a birth into the unknown. Death is but a transformation.

See you this day next week. Until then, keep thinking; keep laughing.

Life is mostly about these two activities.

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