by: Tushar Jain
A man is captive within himself. He dwells in a freedom which is confirmed to bounds, he breathes in an ambience ensnared to limits, he nurtures a shriveled valiance with the quaint promises of trepidation, he is infinite to his content and eternal only to his perception. He lives up to the demure equilibrium in his life and devours the inherited symmetric patterns of faith. His endeavors to abide the rudiments of life, to tread the arduous avenues with fervour, to encroach the realms and intervene the horizons, to be incorrigible, infallible, immaculate and to be the protagonist are just mere participants of his supreme urge to promote self. To him, self is the blatant proposition of an existence without ethics, the ideal definition of a life without morals and a pragmatic conclusion to all dubious queries that scrutinize a man’s caliber. Self moulds in a man the unabashed frame that ceases to succumb to fondle the woes of an impertinent macrocosm. It determines in a man the narcissism to occupy the vanity and hence cultivate reluctant perfection. Alas, self never makes a man weak, only too powerful to handle himself.
The motive should not be to defy the man, but to defy the self. To commit to a deed to which does not adhere the wails of a purpose, to pursue the delights of an unprejudiced cause, to wear the blame of impartiality, to abstain our principles and savour even a moment’s impudence, to bask in the abstemious cheer refraining our duties and to be truly independent in the sincere depth of the word - austerely shall compile a man’s mutiny.
When we bargain diligence without the peripheries of a foundation to blemish the piety, we intrude the thresholds of benignity, of forbearance – of divinity. Emphatic selflessness draws and augments the daunted palpability and causes to initiate the preamble of soul and the human torso. With the participle “I” confined, man ventures to scour the being for the “they” and hence, alters and adapts to the resonant verity that never before had stammered subsistence to him. He then empathizes the requisite virtue of sympathy, affection and zeal; words that had been condemned and abdicated to the morbid terrain of his addicted vocabulary and thus embellishes the pavement to his salvation. Eventually he also realizes that the gifts devoid of ambition when submitted to ardent performance are bearers not of bovine failure but instead perpetually pregnant for reasons too sublime to be dissipated in words. After all, to be divine is not to scavenge divinity, but to simply and actually not realize it at all…