Soar in the endless ethers of love, beloved!

SS taken from Penguin's Website

When I awoke today at nine in the morning, an urgent desire enveloped me, there was this need to drink in the day to the last drop. No, It doesn’t happen to me everyday. I was in a good mood, almost content, and yet this desire lingered, leaving me hungry for more. I got a call from the Amazon delivery man while I made myself a tea. Anticipating a delivery for an item I had returned the previous day, something I did not wish to be replaced, I was surprised to hear, "It's a book." 

Japanese Death Poems. Written by Zen monks and haiku poets on the verge of death. 

I was delighted as I opened the package—the kind of delight that fills your body with a tranquil, physical peace. Yes. Siddhartha had the mentioned this book a few months ago. I thought it was him. To my surprise, it was someone else. “You said you will buy it. You sent it to yourself then,” he answered. It was not for the first time a book had mysteriously found its way to me. The last time it happened with the famous Viktor Frankl book. A cop from Kashmir had mentioned the book, also an exiled from the very same land, and curiously, it arrived in my hands courtesy of a soldier who had served in the troubled valley. Without reading a single death poem, I found myself simply cradling the book, smiling in its presence, letting the dying in me die in peace.

Today was the day of cinema. I returned to the movie I had started to watch the previous night—"Surviving Desire." A brilliantly poetic film that posed profound questions, delving into the essence of love and faith. It opened with the reading of a timeless paragraph from Dostoevsky’s The Karamazov Brothers. What struck me was the serendipity—I happened to be currently engrossed in reading this very book, and I had recently highlighted the very paragraph featured in the film.

This cinematic beauty explored the lives of people immersed in literature. In my perception, they were akin to coastal dwellers, with literature serving as their vast sea. They couldn't exist without it; the sea was an integral part of their being, their body and soul, permeating both their external and internal lives.

“The main thing is to abhor dishonesty, any kind of dishonesty, but above all, dishonesty with regard to your own self. Be aware of your dishonesty and ponder it every hour, every minute of the day. Never be squeamish, both with regard to yourself and others; what appears to you disgusting in yourself is cleansed by the very fact that you have acknowledged it within yourself. Avoid giving in to fear too, since all fear is only the consequence of falsity. Never be afraid of your own faint-heartedness in the endeavour to love, nor even too fearful of any bad actions that you may commit in the course of that endeavour,” says the Starets to the lady of little faith.

In the afternoon, I headed to a nearby multiplex to catch a Malayalam film, "Kaathal: The Core," translating to 'Love: the core,' directed by someone named Jeo Baby. What a cinematic gem it turned out to be! As I settled into the small auditorium and the opening credits rolled, the poignant and fulfilling background score gripped me so intensely that I could have believed it alone constituted the entirety of the film. However, I was in for a profound experience as I absorbed the entire movie as if unwrapping a cherished gift—indeed a gift from a friend from Kanyakumari who insisted I must watch it. Am I ever grateful that he did? 

Upon leaving the theater, tears silently tracing down my face, and my heart brimming with love and gratitude, I found myself unable to shake off thoughts of Dostoevsky once again. 

Why, you might wonder? One simple reason: the film refrained from casting anyone as a hero or a villain, and, of course, for the poignant presence of the church. Also, the film insists on honesty. Honesty to oneself above all. Without honesty, what can really be achieved? Not love, nor compassion. Compassion originates in honesty. Omana Mathew is kind to everyone because she is honest to herself. While Mathew Devassy and his father end up being inconsiderate and cruel towards Omana, despite being gentle people, becuase they are not honest to themselves. The narrative has been crafted with an abundance of kindness that effortlessly soothes one's frayed edges. It very gently tells you to embrace yourself without being hard on others. Functioning like a mirror, the film reflects your position without issuing a decree, allowing you to trace your path back to your forgotten self, your core, which is made of love. The film ends with a beautiful song that says: Soar in the endless ethers of love, beloved! What more one can desire for, after one has returned to their core?  

Enveloped in the soothing aftermath of this healing cinematic experience, I return home to my desk, only to receive another message from Siddhartha. "This got sent to me." It's the cover and a brief description of a book. Oh Siddhartha! A wave of nameless emotions washes over me, leaving me feeling dizzy. This book, his memoir, is set to be released soon. While I've been aware of this fact, seeing the cover makes me tremble. I have witnessed how this book has consumed him. It's not just a book; labeling it as such feels like an understatement. It's something more profound. What is it? His life? No, it's beyond that. "A meditation on the nature of memory, A Long Season of Ashes is a book about a boy's journey of self-discovery," as the description succinctly puts it? The boy walking towards the core of everything—his heart, his home, humanity. Yes, pretty close, and yet I’m convinced of the need to define it more accurately. 

The author of this book is the one who has taught me a form of magic—the very magic I just experienced in the auditorium: kindness. I have yet to encounter a person more compassionate than him. I am certain that this book stands as one of the most significant works on the human condition, transcending the realms of narratives on Kashmir and life in exile. Siddhartha's compassion, stemming from his honest and sincere quest to unravel his loss and suffering, which he shares with his people, is what grants his work a life and light of its own.

Within the pages of this book, I eagerly anticipate discovering the art of enduring pain and practicing kindness. I'll be walking in the footsteps of a 14-year-old boy from the coast of literature, who has consistently prioritised compassion above his pain. Now, he has fallen so silent that he becomes a safe space allowing you to hear your own inner voice. He transforms into a mirror, inviting you to recognise your own exile in his, and revealing your own gentle heart in the reflection of his kindness.