How does one evaluate oneself? How does one answer the question; why am I what I am? I believe that in my case the answer lies in the exploration of my past and delving deep into the chain of heuristic experiences (voluntary or involuntary) that have made me what I am to this day.
For a single child brought up in the intensive unit of parental care I think an oversimplified approach would be to evaluate the job my parents did in bringing me up, however conceited the idea may sound. Parenting is a behemoth task, and I am aware of being grossly under-qualified to evaluate it, especially when I am the product. However, for someone who thrives in doubt about ones own faculties/abilities/qualities, it is a smart idea; And, like most smart ideas there is a paucity of courage in it. It is like one of the numerous "Gandhi vs Bose" or "Jew vs Arab" pseudo-elitist discussions that one keeps hearing where people often cite examples that in reality invalidate the very point they are trying to make. Here, I may end up doing the same. So beware! The black sheep intends to blame the shepherd just as an asymmetric clay pot blames its clumsiness on the hands of the potter.
I believe myself to be phlegmatic. Definition: Not easily excited to action or display of emotion. Despite a seemingly moribund air about the word there is a certain aura attached to it that I am fond of. There is something warrior-like about the word despite its sense of ennui. Being phlegmatic helps me filter out the several discordant harmonics in life and concentrate on the fundamental tone. I have found it handy before examinations and interviews (irrespective of the outcome). I find it handy in a crowd where there is a struggle for oneupmanship, or in a group where one must rudder the flow of discussion while others go awry. I find it to be a balm whenever life throws a headache, or a heartache. One place where I have not found it has been on the cricket field, and there I have paid by failing miserably as a batsman despite having the talent. Being phlegmatic has had its downside too. I have run the risk of being a recluse in a group of friends. My silence has sounded ruder than a yell to people. It has been mistaken as "disinterest" when I have probably been the only one patiently listening. It is nonetheless an invisible cloak that I adorn to safeguard my individuality.
Its root cause may be that I have been a lone child in a family where reading is a primary avocation and emotions are expressed in trickles rather than deluges. More often that not I can remember my mother lying prostrate reading the bi-weekly edition of desh (a Bengali magazine) after completing the household chores even as the city enjoyed its summer siesta. I can remember my father (i.e. in the very little time that we have both been together at home) reading the newspaper or a novel with rapt attention with a hand behind his head as if to form the head-rest of an imaginary arm-chair. A mediocre work was always discussed and advised on, but never extolled. That has helped me tacitly evaluate myself and set a benchmark for my choice of things. So if I do not get overexcited by an average movie, song, game or conversation it is because my mind sets a higher-than-average threshold of titillation. A three hour game of tennis definitely makes me content about my ability, but fails to evince a rant about it to my friends.
I believe and enjoy things that are original. I detest movie remakes(across cultures, languages, and timelines), song remakes, plagiarized books, hackneyed jokes, copied phrases (passed on as ones own), copied styles(again across cultures, languages, and timelines) and mostly, copied ideologies. In this age of technology it is almost too easy to spot a lie but strangely difficult to discern it. For example, it does not take much time to see that the movie Sholay (despite its cult following and colossal standing in Indian cinema) is not an original movie. Nor are the bunch of Spaghetti Westerns from which it was partly stolen; but a handful of movies brilliantly envisioned by a director sitting far east in the land of the rising sun. This discovery does not make me hate Sholay, or the Westerns. However it saddens me that the original is seldom acknowledged its due. I am the type that places Irving and Mallory over Hillary and Norgay. I enjoy Bhupen Hazarika's Ganga as much as I enjoy Paul Robeson's Ol' Man River but only after I have known which precedes which and where the original originated.
This affinity for the "original" comes solely from the teachings of my mother. Ever since I was little boy, I have written my own essays, however unimaginative they may have sounded then while ma had kept a watchful eye on the grammar. She ensured that "guide books","test papers" and "notes" were never a part of my baggage (perhaps that is why I carried a lighter weight on my shoulders always). I have failed miserably in "copying" assignments to submit them "on-time" and have paid a heavy penalty in the form of corporal punishment, remarks, and reprimands. I have inevitably developed a compelling urge to stop mid-way whenever it turned out that the path I intended to traverse had already been traveled. Sometimes I feel like a woodpecker who invariably chooses a teak trunk to peck a hole.
I believe myself to be agnostic. Definition: A person who denies or doubts the possibility of ultimate knowledge in some area of study. I respect god with my limited understanding of what the word actually means. But i like to read about Socrates, Galileo, Buddha, Newton, Keller, Archimedes and others who have had a greater impact on mankind and the world as a whole than god. Why then do I visit the Dakshineswar Kali temple or the Belur Math ever so often? Stories have fascinated me ever since I was a child. And if those stories had characters who have been real in life, the urge to associate myself with the places where they dwelt or the things that they built/used have been overpowering. So, I prefer a quiet corner of the temple yard where i can sit and wonder how a semi-literate man could have had such an impact on the elites of an entire generation, and continue to do so after a century of his death. I prefer to ruminate on myriad subjects as the clamour of shandhya aarati fills the air. I prefer such behaviour over standing in queue for an hour to have a glimpse of the idol.
As a child I have visited many places of worship with my father. The temples of Bishnupur where we have sat together on torrid afternoons hearing the cuckoo sing or the kingfisher wail from high above. Or witnessed a squirrel making a ball to cushion a newly discovered home among the temple's million crevices. At the Jagannath temple in Puri we have together witnessed a courageous devotee climb the gargantuan structure with bare hands and feet to change the saffron flag on a full moon night. On my father's shoulders I have stood to look beyond the crowd. Never have I felt the urge to fall in that crowd and bow in obeisance to the idol to feel the presence of god. That feeling has come to me easily, and my father always made sure it was not through the illusion of a ritual. I have visited churches and mosques later in life without his shoulders to stand on. And here too, I have not felt the need of a ritual to find myself in the presence of a powerful yet less-understood force.
I love humour especially when it is sardonic. When I was in the sixth standard, my class teacher caught me at a mischief. After a polite reprimand, she had said to me, "Saptarshi, you have a good sense of humour." That was when I first heard the word "humour". It has played an essential role in my life. In my spare time, I plot to ridicule everyone around me, including myself. I like to plan it well, and catch an innocent prey napping. I especially like the pompous ones who have their nose in the cloud and are unable to see the cow-dung they are about to tread on. They are the best! Once again, I inherit it from my father. Sometimes I feel if we were of the same age what a team we would have made! Do not mistake me to be insensitive. I care for the people I make fun of. I care especially to find their threshold of tolerance. It is around that threshold that one must keep prodding until the bubble bursts and the celebrations start! To laugh, one just has to look around to see a world full of funny people. At times I wonder why there was only one Sukumar Roy! The man just looked around, wrote what he saw, had a good laugh, and left! Sometimes the line between genius and ordinary is so thin that one can easily mistake one for the other.
I believe that I am irresponsible. It is something I regularly feel and fight with. It comes naturally to me and is perhaps a direct consequence of having responsible and duty-bond parents. Whenever a responsibility has come my way it has failed to reach me, because it has been already dealt with, not by me. I find that in my solitary world I am fairly responsible ( at least for myself). But In the presence of a wife or a parent I pass it on like a hot potato. I am not good with grocery bills, electric bills, gas bills, phone bills or even dollar bills. I can barely distinguish one from the other. I feel my brain cringe at the mention of the stock market and cannot bring myself to develop interest in the art of making money. All the while I stay not only fully aware of my lack of love for the lucre but also my lack of resolve to shun the comfort that it brings along. I am also socially irresponsible. I do not reply to emails (I however will reply to mails if someone cares to write me one), I do not reply to phone calls, I seldom reply to Facebook comments and "likes". However I remember each one of the emails, call, comments and likes and attach more importance (than an average human) to them by ruminating time and again over why I did not reply. Occasionally, I feel this surge within to redeem myself. It is then that I reply to a six-month old email, or a month old comment, long after their relevance have been lost in time. It is a folly I live with in harmony.
I believe I have opinions that I voice only to myself. I believe it is one of those genetic strains that has skipped a generation since both my parents have strong opinions and have no inhibitions in voicing them. I however am different. I do not care to spend words on an audience that is unwilling to listen. It makes me look hypocritical. If I strongly believe something, why do I not voice it? This behavior originated from several heuristic experience through which I learned that more often than not opinionated people eat their own words. I am a firm believer in the Shakespearean adage, "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." So even when I am sure that something is bad, I am open to counter-arguments that may prove it to be otherwise. Hence the behaviour.
Why I am what I am is a question one asks in a constant endeavour to discover oneself. Today, I may not have spelunker-ed anything new about myself, but I am modestly content with the effort. As I said, I hate being lost in the crowd. It would be sad if I moved forward in life with my eyes set on the Moon and never saw the Sixpence lying at my feet.
For a single child brought up in the intensive unit of parental care I think an oversimplified approach would be to evaluate the job my parents did in bringing me up, however conceited the idea may sound. Parenting is a behemoth task, and I am aware of being grossly under-qualified to evaluate it, especially when I am the product. However, for someone who thrives in doubt about ones own faculties/abilities/qualities, it is a smart idea; And, like most smart ideas there is a paucity of courage in it. It is like one of the numerous "Gandhi vs Bose" or "Jew vs Arab" pseudo-elitist discussions that one keeps hearing where people often cite examples that in reality invalidate the very point they are trying to make. Here, I may end up doing the same. So beware! The black sheep intends to blame the shepherd just as an asymmetric clay pot blames its clumsiness on the hands of the potter.
I believe myself to be phlegmatic. Definition: Not easily excited to action or display of emotion. Despite a seemingly moribund air about the word there is a certain aura attached to it that I am fond of. There is something warrior-like about the word despite its sense of ennui. Being phlegmatic helps me filter out the several discordant harmonics in life and concentrate on the fundamental tone. I have found it handy before examinations and interviews (irrespective of the outcome). I find it handy in a crowd where there is a struggle for oneupmanship, or in a group where one must rudder the flow of discussion while others go awry. I find it to be a balm whenever life throws a headache, or a heartache. One place where I have not found it has been on the cricket field, and there I have paid by failing miserably as a batsman despite having the talent. Being phlegmatic has had its downside too. I have run the risk of being a recluse in a group of friends. My silence has sounded ruder than a yell to people. It has been mistaken as "disinterest" when I have probably been the only one patiently listening. It is nonetheless an invisible cloak that I adorn to safeguard my individuality.
Its root cause may be that I have been a lone child in a family where reading is a primary avocation and emotions are expressed in trickles rather than deluges. More often that not I can remember my mother lying prostrate reading the bi-weekly edition of desh (a Bengali magazine) after completing the household chores even as the city enjoyed its summer siesta. I can remember my father (i.e. in the very little time that we have both been together at home) reading the newspaper or a novel with rapt attention with a hand behind his head as if to form the head-rest of an imaginary arm-chair. A mediocre work was always discussed and advised on, but never extolled. That has helped me tacitly evaluate myself and set a benchmark for my choice of things. So if I do not get overexcited by an average movie, song, game or conversation it is because my mind sets a higher-than-average threshold of titillation. A three hour game of tennis definitely makes me content about my ability, but fails to evince a rant about it to my friends.
I believe and enjoy things that are original. I detest movie remakes(across cultures, languages, and timelines), song remakes, plagiarized books, hackneyed jokes, copied phrases (passed on as ones own), copied styles(again across cultures, languages, and timelines) and mostly, copied ideologies. In this age of technology it is almost too easy to spot a lie but strangely difficult to discern it. For example, it does not take much time to see that the movie Sholay (despite its cult following and colossal standing in Indian cinema) is not an original movie. Nor are the bunch of Spaghetti Westerns from which it was partly stolen; but a handful of movies brilliantly envisioned by a director sitting far east in the land of the rising sun. This discovery does not make me hate Sholay, or the Westerns. However it saddens me that the original is seldom acknowledged its due. I am the type that places Irving and Mallory over Hillary and Norgay. I enjoy Bhupen Hazarika's Ganga as much as I enjoy Paul Robeson's Ol' Man River but only after I have known which precedes which and where the original originated.
This affinity for the "original" comes solely from the teachings of my mother. Ever since I was little boy, I have written my own essays, however unimaginative they may have sounded then while ma had kept a watchful eye on the grammar. She ensured that "guide books","test papers" and "notes" were never a part of my baggage (perhaps that is why I carried a lighter weight on my shoulders always). I have failed miserably in "copying" assignments to submit them "on-time" and have paid a heavy penalty in the form of corporal punishment, remarks, and reprimands. I have inevitably developed a compelling urge to stop mid-way whenever it turned out that the path I intended to traverse had already been traveled. Sometimes I feel like a woodpecker who invariably chooses a teak trunk to peck a hole.
I believe myself to be agnostic. Definition: A person who denies or doubts the possibility of ultimate knowledge in some area of study. I respect god with my limited understanding of what the word actually means. But i like to read about Socrates, Galileo, Buddha, Newton, Keller, Archimedes and others who have had a greater impact on mankind and the world as a whole than god. Why then do I visit the Dakshineswar Kali temple or the Belur Math ever so often? Stories have fascinated me ever since I was a child. And if those stories had characters who have been real in life, the urge to associate myself with the places where they dwelt or the things that they built/used have been overpowering. So, I prefer a quiet corner of the temple yard where i can sit and wonder how a semi-literate man could have had such an impact on the elites of an entire generation, and continue to do so after a century of his death. I prefer to ruminate on myriad subjects as the clamour of shandhya aarati fills the air. I prefer such behaviour over standing in queue for an hour to have a glimpse of the idol.
As a child I have visited many places of worship with my father. The temples of Bishnupur where we have sat together on torrid afternoons hearing the cuckoo sing or the kingfisher wail from high above. Or witnessed a squirrel making a ball to cushion a newly discovered home among the temple's million crevices. At the Jagannath temple in Puri we have together witnessed a courageous devotee climb the gargantuan structure with bare hands and feet to change the saffron flag on a full moon night. On my father's shoulders I have stood to look beyond the crowd. Never have I felt the urge to fall in that crowd and bow in obeisance to the idol to feel the presence of god. That feeling has come to me easily, and my father always made sure it was not through the illusion of a ritual. I have visited churches and mosques later in life without his shoulders to stand on. And here too, I have not felt the need of a ritual to find myself in the presence of a powerful yet less-understood force.
I love humour especially when it is sardonic. When I was in the sixth standard, my class teacher caught me at a mischief. After a polite reprimand, she had said to me, "Saptarshi, you have a good sense of humour." That was when I first heard the word "humour". It has played an essential role in my life. In my spare time, I plot to ridicule everyone around me, including myself. I like to plan it well, and catch an innocent prey napping. I especially like the pompous ones who have their nose in the cloud and are unable to see the cow-dung they are about to tread on. They are the best! Once again, I inherit it from my father. Sometimes I feel if we were of the same age what a team we would have made! Do not mistake me to be insensitive. I care for the people I make fun of. I care especially to find their threshold of tolerance. It is around that threshold that one must keep prodding until the bubble bursts and the celebrations start! To laugh, one just has to look around to see a world full of funny people. At times I wonder why there was only one Sukumar Roy! The man just looked around, wrote what he saw, had a good laugh, and left! Sometimes the line between genius and ordinary is so thin that one can easily mistake one for the other.
I believe that I am irresponsible. It is something I regularly feel and fight with. It comes naturally to me and is perhaps a direct consequence of having responsible and duty-bond parents. Whenever a responsibility has come my way it has failed to reach me, because it has been already dealt with, not by me. I find that in my solitary world I am fairly responsible ( at least for myself). But In the presence of a wife or a parent I pass it on like a hot potato. I am not good with grocery bills, electric bills, gas bills, phone bills or even dollar bills. I can barely distinguish one from the other. I feel my brain cringe at the mention of the stock market and cannot bring myself to develop interest in the art of making money. All the while I stay not only fully aware of my lack of love for the lucre but also my lack of resolve to shun the comfort that it brings along. I am also socially irresponsible. I do not reply to emails (I however will reply to mails if someone cares to write me one), I do not reply to phone calls, I seldom reply to Facebook comments and "likes". However I remember each one of the emails, call, comments and likes and attach more importance (than an average human) to them by ruminating time and again over why I did not reply. Occasionally, I feel this surge within to redeem myself. It is then that I reply to a six-month old email, or a month old comment, long after their relevance have been lost in time. It is a folly I live with in harmony.
I believe I have opinions that I voice only to myself. I believe it is one of those genetic strains that has skipped a generation since both my parents have strong opinions and have no inhibitions in voicing them. I however am different. I do not care to spend words on an audience that is unwilling to listen. It makes me look hypocritical. If I strongly believe something, why do I not voice it? This behavior originated from several heuristic experience through which I learned that more often than not opinionated people eat their own words. I am a firm believer in the Shakespearean adage, "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." So even when I am sure that something is bad, I am open to counter-arguments that may prove it to be otherwise. Hence the behaviour.
Why I am what I am is a question one asks in a constant endeavour to discover oneself. Today, I may not have spelunker-ed anything new about myself, but I am modestly content with the effort. As I said, I hate being lost in the crowd. It would be sad if I moved forward in life with my eyes set on the Moon and never saw the Sixpence lying at my feet.
1 comment:
Different Faculties are being kept hidden in different tiny 'caves'in the brain of a human being and all these faculties 'collectively'forms the Persona of a man.As prospector like cave digger,occasional digging of these caves drags the digger and confronts him with his 'image'to enable him to make an assessment.
Although the'Die is Cast'and as well'Habit is the second nature'yet this practice is likely to help and guide him to control and modify his future actions.Good and Keep Going.
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