A MEMORIAL SERVICE

It was early noon on an unusual February day. Unusual, because it was exceptionally pleasant for winter in Russia. Pleased with myself for leaving the hospital early, I leisurely walked back the short distance to my hostel, and couldn't help smiling at the pale winter sunshine. It wasn't long before spring would be here and the campus always looked lovely at that time of the year. As I approached my hostel, I saw a huge gathering just outside the university entrance. Curious, I walked up to see what was going on. After a few minutes of debate and confusion amongst the students, one of our senior professors solemnly informed us that the head of our pediatric department had passed away. It was then that I realized I was in fact standing in her impromptu memorial service.

Looking around, I spotted my rommie, who also happened to take a detour on her way to the hostel. Before long, the rector was speaking in memory of the deceased, but being at the outer end of the crowd meant that his passionate speech was almost inaudible to me. Not quite knowing what to do next, I just stood there and scanned the crowd. Everybody wore a grave look, but their body language gave them away. Tapping their feet rhythmically, they conveyed their boredom unawares.

I turned to look at my roomie and was surprised to find her looking back at me. She shot me an inquiring glance, suggesting subtly that perhaps we could leave. Somehow, I could not leave. I guess most of the students gathered wanted to leave, but all stood rooted to their spots. And the only thing that stopped us from leaving was our own inertia. It was just a question of who dared to leave first. The rest of us would invariably judge him and eventually follow suit. So was I afraid of being judged, or was I infact afraid of leading the crowd? Interesting conflict.

Perplexed as I often am by my thoughts, I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and finally went and stood next to my roomie. Neither of us said anything, and I picked up my trail of thoughts where it had last stopped. It must be something to do with the 'respect for the dead', I feebly told myself. But I wasn't convinced. Mildly irritated with myself, I continued to scan the crowd.

My irritation probably stemmed from the fact that I knew I was paying an ingenuine tribute. Just like everybody else. Our evolved species is always so immersed in pretending to be who we are not, that we don't really know who we are anymore. We consciously seek out our pretences and subconsciously master them till we've inhibited all our natural responses. We've sort of twisted Socrates' words - 'Be as you wish to Seem'

Why this obsessive-compulsive need to pretend? Why do we try so vehemently to portray ourselves as we are not, and simultaneously deny the counterfeit? Why do we stubbornly refuse to be ourselves? What are we so afraid of? Being judged? Being different? Being less acceptable in society?

The shrill sound of a distant siren reverted me to the memorial. What on earth was I doing there? Why was I continuing to engage myself in a self-deceptive act despite my deductions? And what right did I have to condemn those present when I wasn't any different from them? I stood there mindlessly like everybody else - too pretentious to walk away, and too proud to admit it.

Almost involuntarily, I tapped my roomie lightly on her shoulder and suggested that we leave. Her brows knitted together momentarily, but she nodded in approval. We left the memorial amongst indiscreet whispers and a few derisive stares. But I couldn't have cared less. There was a thin line between being compassionate and pretending to be compassionate. If anything, I knew I was on the right side of the line. As we walked back together, each lost in our own thoughts, I tried to figure out why did the memorial stir me so? Was it because of my obvious lack of compassion at another's loss? Or the practiced lack of a genuine response?

I finally reached my hostel - rich with an experience I'm yet to decipher, but not without the minutest streak of dejection. Something vague made me feel uneasy, almost guilty. I went around doing the mundane chores mechanically, while still pondering over the memorial and feeling delinquent. I had succeeded in being honest, but what about being humane? Didn't that count as well? I guess there's good reason we're never meant to witness our own memorial. Sometimes, ignorance IS bliss.

APPRECIATION

A brilliant mind once said that if you want to be remembered even after you're gone,do something worth writing or write something worth reading. And he knew exactly what he was talking about. As I ponder over this, Im surprised to realize that it all boils down to the one basic and much understated human need - appreciation. Whether we are baking a cake for our kids or trying out new recepies for our hubby, treating our friends to their fav restaurant, or meticulously tending to our garden, or simply writing annonymous blogs on abstract ideas, its the appreciation that we are really looking for, or rather asking for.

Most of the times we tend to consciously fool ourselves that the recepients' response is immaterial to us, although on rare occasions we are genuinely unaware of how eagerly we await their response. I guess that our denial of the need for appreciation is based on the subconcsious fear of rejection or the guilt of having an ulterior motive. Lets just say that doing something solely for the joy of doing it is something only the saints and sages can boast of. The rest of us mortals had better accept the fact that we are devoid of this virtue. We crave for a dose of appreciation way more than we would like to believe. Imagine a young lover who gifts his lady a lovely flower, but is met by a cool indifference. Any guesses what happens the next time said lover has an opportunity to present a gift? By my reckoning, there simply wont be a next time. Its vaguely on the lines of Newton's 3rd law. Every well-meant and selfless act of ours needs to be met with heartfelt appreciation. Think about it- our joy stems not just from the act itself, but from the acknowlegement of that act, from the appreciation of the effort. Ironic as it may seem, self-satisfaction is too intricately woven with appreciation.

Writers are no different. It doesnt matter whether they are amateurs or professionals. They write because they have the urge,the skill and ofcourse, the will to write. A sporadic writer friend of mine [thats the way he likes to call himself] once said to me that he writes only for himself, solely for the sake of writing. But at the same time he bears in mind that it has to be something that the reader can relate to. I like his funda, although im not entirely convinced by him. What beats me is that if we are indeed writing only for ourselves,why are we not satisfied by merely writing a personal diary? Why do we publish books or put up blogs? Why do we care to read the readers' comments? Why is the critics' approval our ultimate pride? What is it that truly motivates us, moves us? Sure, its the power of the pen that compels us. But deep down, its the promise of appreciation that propels us. Honestly speaking, none of us nurtures a magnanimous desire to write regardless of the feedback. Believe it or not, its our passion to be noticed even as amateurs, an ambition to achieve excellence and win appreciation, or perhaps its just our humble desire to be appreciated even if we do not excel.

Secrets....

Face to face,but miles away
So much to speak,but unable to say.

Distant memories in the sands of time forever lost,
Like the ground hidden beneath the winter frost.

Bit by bit the story shall unfold,
But secrets of this heart still remain untold.