It is the journey.

Harold and Maude (1971)

Some look at life as full of doom and gloom, as a purposeless one. Whichever path one takes, we know what the final destination is, and the path leading to it can be paved with shrapnel and pain. Nietzschean and many existentialist philosophers perpetuate this idea. On the other end of the spectrum, others whose sole purpose of life is to savour the joy of being born as a human being push it to the tilt. They view the boon of birth as a gift on a platter to enjoy with no boundaries.

The truth must be lying somewhere in between - between nihilism and hedonism. There must be a purpose in our existence, perhaps to somehow leave a tiny mark of legacy, no matter how small, in a small way to propel our loved ones, family or community forward. A community, hence a country, is, after all, is made of subunits of families. So, improvements in families will sequentially propel the human race forward. 

We should probably get our cues about life from the words of the Stoics and Epicureans. In their minds, we have only this one life to do what we can whilst finding pleasure within all of the aches and pains it has to offer.

This 1971 film, made at the end of the time of flower power, must have been an assessment of the liberal care-free perception of society versus the traditional convention-abiding outlook of the community. It was a satire of society we live in, which involves 'groupthink' as determined by authoritative figures - religion, psychology, family, military.

This cult-following offering recently celebrated its 50th anniversary. It is a dark comedy about a death-obsessed 19-year-old young man who falls in love with a happy-go-lucky 80-year old lady. Yes, 80 years old.  Harold, brought up in a privileged background by a narcissistic single mother, grows bored with life. He is preoccupied with death and religiously attends funerals, even of unknown people, just to be closer to death. He has a warped sense of humour, sometimes faking himself hanging or cutting off his own limb. His mother's attempts at keeping him entertained with gifts and new girlfriends proved futile.

So Harold found himself quite at home with a chance meeting with Maude at a random funeral. Her care-less attitude and total disregard for the rule of law excited him. Their little escapade turned out to be a sort of coming-of-age phase for Harold as Maude shows him all the small things that make one appreciate the reason for living. Harold looks at funerals as the final destination we are all edging to as Maude looked at them as a moment to reflect the time of their existence. I guess the film's message is to accept death as an essential and inevitable recurring process that regenerates life.

The memorable scene in this movie is the one in a field of daisies. Maude said she would like to change to a sunflower most of all as they are so tall and simple. Harold replied that he would like to be one of the daises because "they are all alike". Maude turned to Harold and explained that they are not.  

"Some are smaller, some are fatter. Some grow to the left, some to the right. Some even have lost some petals. All kinds of observable differences". Harold could suddenly see the truth in her observation. The camera pans way back to show that Harold and Maude were standing in a graveyard. The gravestones were identical to the daises in one perspective. Even though the stones were all carved to look similar, they signify different lives lived - happy, sad, abrupt, or long. But the ending, the final destination, nevertheless, is the same.

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Make up your mind and move on...

Waiting for Godot (play, book)
Writer: Samuel Beckett

Thanks to MEV for the suggestion; for helping me in my journey to crack open my hard shell of ignorance. 

Albert Camus and Samuel Beckett fall into the same category of philosophers-writers who lived through World War 2-ravaged France to build a very nihilistic view of life's purpose. Samuel Beckett, an Irishman, who spent a good portion of his life in France, can be credited to have started the 'theatre of absurdism' and received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1969 for his books and drama.

The life that is laid in front of us is apparently meaningless. In this tragi-comic play, we are shown as headless chickens running, not knowing what to do and not knowing what is expected of us. We are so fickle, always losing track of our purpose and get swooned over easily by events around us. We eagerly await instructions from people in authority without an iota of a clue about the right thing to do. But we wait and follow like sheep, correctly or otherwise.

The play narrates a conversation between two tramps, Vladimir and Estragon, who await mysterious Godot's arrival. It seems that Godot is very elusive, does not keep to his word and has no qualms keeping his men waiting. Vladimir and Estragon, in their endless wait, have to do things to pass the time. They encounter Pozzo, a rich man, and his slave, Lucky, who traverse their path. They realise that their miserable lives are much better than that of the slave, but still, they are unhappy. They keep on waiting for Godot hoping to get instructions from him.

That is life as we know it. We are clueless about why we are here, why we are alive, what is our mission. We create stories trying to justify our existence. We are not convinced and need validation from someone, anyone. We grope in the dark, making along. This aimless journey is so long and arduous.  

Like Sisyphus, we are cursed to be doing the same repetitive unending chore. The boulder pushed with so much exertion, and determination just rolls down just as it hits the pinnacle. His job is repeated and repeated yet again. Sisyphus can just call it a day and call it quits. Sisyphus knows he is destined to do throughout his life. He has to find happiness and purpose in life within that miserable ordeal. Life is tough, but he has to find joy and fulfilment within that wretched circumstances. 

Looking at this paradigm, we can distract ourselves into doing things that take our mind off of what happens at the end of it all. The indulgence in primal pleasures, intoxicants, flesh and music remain possible options. One desirable alternative could be the dissipation in art forms. It numbs the pain but at the same time, open up the mind to gaze at our lives from different perspectives. We can be leaders and serve society or delve deep into science to uplift mankind. The bottom line is that this is our existence, we have to accept it and make sense of it all and make our own conclusion.

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Sculpted by devotion?

@PawanDurani This Brahmana is from Melukote. Carries water for abhisheka from the Pushkarani down below to the Yoga Narasimha temple atop a hill. A steep climb of 300 steps, plus added distance from Pushkarani. He has been at it for decades now, 4-5 times every day. Body sculpted by devotion.

https://twitter.com/Tasveer_wala/status/949470952240250881

This is more than a mere photo story. The servant of God takes upon himself his divine duty to carry water up to the temple. In simple terms, he is the modern-day Sisyphus. He carries the heavy load of water up the hill every day without actually having a target. He would never be able to fill up the hill or have a deadline when his repetitive duty would end. He takes the 'job' as his Dharma, his reason for his existence. He carries on this selfless and endless mission with the primary gain of finishing his job. He has to find happiness within the act of completing the job, knowing very well that the monotonous and arduous task needs to be repeated, again and again. Perhaps, it is just better for him to continue the duty at hand subserviently, without asking the meaning of it all. Look at him. He displays the full glory of the beneficial effects of his physical exertion, a well-crafted body and probably pink of health. He may look forward to continuing his job the next day, thinking that there would be no one to continue his legacy.

Would things still be the same if he were to overthink and starts automating? What if he begins outsourcing, delegating or hiring to do the same? What if he devises hydraulics? The physical work may be done,, but the fringe benefits? Perhaps that would explain the meaningless (in our minds), repetitive chanting and rituals associated with religious practices -to stay focused. Whether the physical act of doing the chore has any definitive meaning, that is another question. It is not the action but the effects. Just thinking...

Thanks, AqS and SK for tickling my mind.

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