Love. And All That Jazz.

Screech. The rickshaw comes to a sudden halt. 'Oh thank god', she thinks as she gets down and pays the rickshaw puller waiting (im)patiently. The Black Gate looms over her like a friendly elder welcoming her into the daily ritual of life. Ritual. 'Funny, how after three months, College has become a ritual', she muses as she unconsciously checks her hair, her clothes and glances at her mobile while fretting over how late she is for the first class. As usual. Sigh. The vagaries of life. The myna on the nearby tree is chirping with a sweetness that unrestricted freedom and abandon brings. She quickens her pace, mentally picturing 'how she looks' to the dozen people or so lounging about in the corridors and is about to enter the transparent, hallowed chambers of the classroom, when it happens. A flash of red. The swing of books. A glance of the eye. A hesitation. A wonderment. And hidden behind those eyes, a momentous sparkle. That seems to draw her in and churns her out.

Bang. The door rushes back to its place, angered and frustrated by the indecision of the Hand that wields the handle. The owner of the Hand, however, is confused and mudddled. The moment, if it ever existed beyond her imagination. is gone. She is forced to come back. Back to the noisy corridor with people bustling about and shouting at each other. Back to her staring at the grumpy door concealing the wondrous world of knowledge. Back to the normality of life from the fantastic fantasy of the moment.

Sigh. The vagaries of life. She opens the door.

Finally.

                                           ___________________________


The myna is back. On another tree.She is still chirping. But, what is this? The free and melodious joyous sounds have been replaced by thoughtful and burdened laments? As if in the span of few hours from morning to afternoon, she has suddenly understood the meaning of life and existence. Gust of wind. The branches of the tree make monstrous swaying shadows on the ground below. The shadows sway and fight with one another as if fighting a tumultuous, raging battle. 'But who will win?', she asks as she quells the raging shadows with her shining chappal and noisily takes a long sip of her cold coffee. The grey building labelled "Canteen" welcomes her with a very friendly air. As if trying to snatch the title of 'The Most Benevolent Uncle' away from his brother (and rival) The Black Gate. Her ears are assaulted by a variety of sounds. Her eyes register a wide range of faces. But her mind is occupied by one pair of eyes. The flash of red. The sparkle. A long sip of coffee. Outside, on the tree, the myna flips and fiddles uneasily.

Something is not right.

                                               _________________________________

Laughter in the air. Raucous, free and fulfilling. Her friends are oblivious of her turmoil. And she observes, with some envy, the clarity, purpose and lightness of their conservation. It is so unlike her confusion and turmoil. There is food in front of her. But her appetite is long lost. So filmy. She gets up and goes out. If only to get away. If only to calm herself. If only to tell herself that the moment was a figment of her super-fertile imagination. That it didn't exist. That even if did, it doesn't matter.

And then it happens. Again.

Fate, in its heart wrenching cruelty, laughs at the attempts of Man to play around with its plans and in order to show his might, proves his point. The flash of red appears. Again. This time, the eyes are shining. But for someone else.

Her stomach falls and she notices with quite apprehension and terror, the gentle interlinking of arms. The near perfection coordination of the steps. The tension of what could be. And what is.

Plop. The empty coffee can falls. The trembling Hand picks it up and delivers it to where it belongs. The dustbin. Just like her hopes. She doesn't know if she imagines it, but the sunlight suddenly becomes a little dimmer. And is that the myna singing a haunting dirge? Or is it just her?

                                          ________________________________________

Dejection. Despondence. Depression. The world is breaking apart. But no one knows it. She feels like screaming. Like crying her lungs out. And the very next moment, she just feels like lying down in a heap in some corner of the world. Every step that she takes is a physical pain. The raucous laughter still continues. But she can't hear it. It's like everything is coming to her from a world far far away. Far away from where she is with her three gigantic D's. Even the myna is silent. Her heart is breaking. And no one knows it. Except her.

Crash. Her Hand deserts her once again. The Books, the carriers of knowledge (of a very shallow kind. No chapter on the matters of the Heart), have fallen down. Sigh. She feels like joining them on the ground. But what is this?

What is this magical light that pierces through the barriers of the three D's and blinds her eyes? From where comes this brilliance of blue? A pair of eyes. But of a different kind. Bristling with concern. And shining with light. For her. She manages to recall how to smile and mumbles long forgotten words. Of thanks. She is astonished by the sound of her voice. The happiness surely doesn't belong to her. He is astonished too. Charmed actually. He hand her the Books (Carriers of knowledge. And messengers of love too. Cue violin music) and walks off. Only to look back.

She smiles. A wide, joyful smile. She revels in the sunlight and embraces the multicoloured-ness of the world. There is a lightness in her being. She skips forward. Gently stepping on the waving shadows of branches. Swaying as if celebrating the joy of life. No sign of tumult. The battle has been won. She laughs. Involuntarily.

Far above on the tree, the myna skips and flits over to another tree. A far attractive on some would say. Some would say the same. She chirps with new vigour.

For she has  found a new song.

A sweeter one.

                                                                    The End.

Guilt

Guilt.
It's a powerful feeling.
Possibly the most powerful.
It's scary in concept and terrifying in practice.
It manifests itself in the smallest of things, and also in the biggest.
It's there when you choose one flavour of food over the another and also there when you realize that what you did was far from your best.
It niggles you and nags you.
Never really letting go, although it might give you the illusion of being vanquished.
It lies in the shadows, waiting and watching.
It knows no class, no boundary.
It affects the rich as equally does it attack the poor.
Haunts those in their twilight as ferociously as those just enjoying their bloom.
You may wish to avoid facing it.
Working hard, unrelentingly and with perseverance to ward him off
But,
nothing will work
The meeting is fated to occur
As surely as the encounter with the other master of deception,
the all conquering yet mastered over Devil,
Death.

The List That Should Have Come Long Ago.

And the days and nights keep stretching on and on and on....

Why is it that when we are stuck in the rut of school and exams, we look forward to vacations and that precious time when we can just do nothing?

And why is it that when we are presented with the opportunity to do 'just nothing', we look for ways to pass our time and keep busy?

When I was studying for my Class XII exams I used to daydream about the three month long vacations and used to mentally make a list of things to do.

Now, that I am at the fag end of the fabled 'three month long vacation', I look back and see that apart from entrances and loitering around and watching insane amount of Tv, I haven't really done anything.

Which brings me to the question circling in my mind a lot these days..
Why do people procrastinate?

No, really. Why do people mentally make a note of things and then aware of the fact that they have a chore to do, refrain or look for excuses to get out of that work?

And then funnily enough, exclaim, 'I am sorry, I didn't have the time'?

To think that I am writing about Procrastination is quite the case of the pot calling the kettle black. I myself am a huge victim of this symptom which added with a dash of laziness, doesn't really make me the best authority on Procrastination.

BUT
I may be a lot of things but what I am not is a pessimist. I am an optimist. An eternal one and as people keep on reminding me a foolish one too. But anyways, moving on. :)

There are approximately 15 days left for College to open. That's not a lot of time. But when all you do during the day is aimlessly walk around and watch Tv, it may seem like an eternity. Hence, in order to effectively utillise whatever I have left of my 'three month long vacation' and also to prove to myself that I am not the most hopeless being on Earth, I present a list.

Presenting.. (Drumroll music, again).....

Five Things To Do Before College.


1. Plan and GO for a vacation.
All my vacation plans remain just that. Plans. Something or the other always crops up and then the Vacation is postponed for 'later'.
The problem with this? 'Later' never comes.
But not this time.

2. Meet People.
You know what's worse than leaving the shelter of school and moving to the freedom and confusion that's College?
Having people whom you could never envisage your life without, leaving for different Colleges and even worse, different states!
Even though I don't need to work very hard to strike this point off my list, there are always some people left whom you had to meet, but never had the chance to.

3. Start Blogging Everyday.
It's fun. Its cathartic. And it increases one's typing speed. :)

4. Start Learning Urdu.
This is one thing I have been wanting to do since FOREVER.
But sometimes I didn't have the time. Sometimes the resources. And sometimes the inclination.
But now I have all three. And I am going to learn Urdu or bust in the process.

5. Shop For College.
This point is more a necessity rather than something I want to do.
But College does mean no uniforms. And finding your own style. And University Fashion IS huge in Delhi. Do I might as well dust off my walking shoes, pack some sunscreen and go Shopping Happy. :)


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PS Today: 3rd July 2011
      College Reopen: 20 July 2011



17 Days To Go.

Halla Bol.

The Myriadness Of Poetry.

Among all the various types of 'literary works', if I may call them so, the ones which I find the most hard to grasp and understand is the Poem. Poems are usually abstract and for me at least, have never really had the kind of attraction that a well written prose might have. I know I may be the exception among the norm, but very few poems really enamour me and shake me up.

But, recently, I came across a poem that made my whole perception of the literary form transform. And drastically so. Its beauty not only stunned me, the words and their inherent meaning played and frolicked in my mind and consciousness long after I had read it

This poem (which you can see below) had another impact on me. It transformed me into a curious traveller in the enchanting and the relatively unknown world of Poems. I started trawling and reading poems with a religious fervour and found interesting, strong and beautiful poems. So, I decided to put together a list of poems that make one laugh, cry and shout out in astonishment turn by turn. Presenting (background music).....





Poems That Change Your World


A top 5 list of poems that you dont want to miss. :)



1. Lets start with the one that began it all. The poem is called the 'Boast Of Quietness' by Jorge Luis Borge, an Argentinian writer, poet and essayist and it goes like this:



Boast Of Quietness
by Jorge Luis Borge

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to
understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.


This poem was the epigraph (and perhaps fittingly) of an enchanting book that I recently read 'The Inheritance Of Loss'. A lot has been said about the book. Good things and bad. But for me, the experience of reading it was completely different. I picked it up at a time when the world and its people seemed weary and frustating to me. I was tired. But after turning the last page, I was rejuvenated, satisfied and reaffirming my faith in the written word. According to me, the best books are the ones that charm you with your quietness and slowly and steadily grow on you, until they become a part of your psyche. There is an unparalled happiness and satisfaction that comes with such books. They remind you why you fell in love with books in the first place.

And 'Inheritance Of Loss' is the finest example of such books and such stories.




2. From the famous to the relatively unknown. This simple yet thought provoking poem is by Michel Creighton, a fifth grade teacher at the American International School who lives in New Delhi.



New Delhi Love Song.
by Micheal Creighton

Smog and dust mix with the air in New Delhi,
I buy jasmine for her hair in New Delhi.

People come from everywhere to the city,
I buy jasmine for her hair in New Delhi.

The finest things in life don't come without danger,
Eat the street food if you dare in New Delhi.

We push in line and fight all day for each rupee,
Can you remember what is fair in New Delhi?

There is nothing you can't find in our markets,
Socks and dreams sell by the pair in New Delhi.

My friends ask me, Micheal why'd you leave your own country?
I found jasmine for her hair here in New Delhi.


I found this poem in a small column in the newspaper and I immedately cut it out. This poem in simple words, without too much fanfare and big words, describes the essence of Delhi like no one has before. It is not pretentious, nor does it continually harp about the cultural diversity and richness that makes Delhi the city it is. It quietly brings forth the spirit and attitude which is the real treasure of the city. The poem grows on you, silently and steadily. Much like the city.

PS. Google the guy. His poetry is the stuff dreams are made of.




3. Many many years ago, one March day, in San Francisco, Califronia, a boy was born to a journalist father in a Scottish family. The boy would go on to become one of the greatest poets the world has ever seen, winning four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry and forever etching his name in the hearts of million of poetry lovers all over the world. The boy was Robert Frost.



The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Possibly the most inspiring poem ever created, this poem is a favorite with almost everyone. I have often wondered what is it about this poem that it appeals to the common man on the road and was simultaneously also the faviurite poem of someone like Jawaharlal Nehru? And then I realise that it deals with a thing that all of us have to face at some point of time in our lives. The problem of choices. All of us are confused as to which path to take? The comfortable, well trodden path where the destination is known or the less travelled, unexplored path where adventure and hardships await? We all ask ourselves this question some time or the other in our life. It takes a Robert Frost to put it so beautifully.

4. Everyone has a 'favourite' poem. You know, the one which you remember by heart. Which you turn to when you are sad or despondent. Which you know will always have a special place in your heart, however old or wise or learned you may become. This poem by Maya Angelou is the 'favourite' poem for me.

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them 

They think I'm telling lies. 

I say, 

It's in the reach of my arms 

The span of my hips, 

The stride of my step, 

The curl of my lips. 

I'm a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman, 

That's me.

I walk into a room 

Just as cool as you please, 

And to a man, 

The fellows stand or 

Fall down on their knees. 

Then they swarm around me, 

A hive of honey bees. 

I say, 

It's the fire in my eyes 

And the flash of my teeth, 

The swing of my waist, 

And the joy in my feet. 

I'm a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman, 

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered 

What they see in me. 

They try so much 

But they can't touch 

My inner mystery. 

When I try to show them, 

They say they still can't see. 

I say 

It's in the arch of my back, 

The sun of my smile, 

The ride of my breasts, 

The grace of my style. 

I'm a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman, 

That's me.

Now you understand 

Just why my head's not bowed. 

I don't shout or jump about 

Or have to talk real loud. 

When you see me passing 

It ought to make you proud. 

I say, 

It's in the click of my heels, 

The bend of my hair, 

The palm of my hand, 

The need of my care, 

'Cause I'm a woman 

Phenomenally. 

Phenomenal woman, 

That's me.

According to me, there are two types of poems. One which you admire for its form, its beauty, its meaning and its perception. The other which other than admiration generates a feeling of reverence in you. You wish you had written the poem. That you were the entity behind those words, behind those feelings. You identify so much with the poem and what it says, that you experience sheer delight in its every word, in its every line and in its every para.

As a newly converted poetry fan, I admire this poem. As someone who understandes the social context during the time this poem was written, I appreciate the poem. But as a woman, and a proud one at that, I simply love the poem.




5. As a child everyone has a 'Childhood Idol'. That one person who you look upto and dream of meeting and want to be like. Childhood Idols usually reflect the personality of the person. If you are crazy about cricket, you would also be in all probability crazy about Sachin Tendulkar and consider him the greatest man to walk on Earth. Similarly, as someone who loved books, my idol was - and still is- Ruskin Bond.

I loved -and still love- everything about him. His writing, his optimism, his gentleness. And as it turns out also his poems. :)

I glanced upon this one in one of his works of fiction. And it reaffirmed my belief that Ruskin Bond is one of  the greatest writers to have graced the world.



Untitled
by Ruskin Bond

Little one, don't be afraid of this big river.
Be safe in these warm arms for ever.
Grow tall, my child, be wise and strong.
But do not take from any man his song.

Little one, don't be afraid of this dark night.
Walk boldly as you see the truth and light.
Love well, my child, laugh all day long.
But do not take from any man his song.

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PS A lot has happened over the days that this post was written. Perceptions changing. Soul searching. Decision making. And somehow reading all these poems through all that turmoil calmed me. It was like these poems were giving me advice, telling me it will all be alright.

And guess what?
It all is now. :)

India :: Cynicism and Hope

Every home has a certain particular ritual that is unique to the family. The ritual, like rituals are meant to be, is followed religiously and is often reflective of the people that make the family. Coming from a family of journalists, 'news watching' is a ritual in our home. Irrespective of other shows on other channels, exams and other mundane routines that life has to offer, the whole family tunes into news at 9 every night with an excitement and enthusiasm akin to a child opening presents. As a child, I was very fond of the ritual. I loved watching the news. Getting to know what happens in the world, seeing how politics shapes lives and how people run (or sometimes ruin) the baffling country I call home. But lately, I have become disinterested. Whenever I see the familiar word 'headlines', flash across the TV screen, something inside me cringes. I become uneasy and look for reasons to do something else. To distract myself. I earlier thought it was something to do with the fact that i was growing up, but today I suddenly realised that its not the concept of news that I have come to dislike. Its the content of the news which I have come to detest.

Sample the headlines for today:

  Sanjiv Bhat, a senior IPS officer, has filed an affidavit regarding the Godhra Riots in which he mentions a meeting where the then chief minister of Gujrat, Narendra Modi, allegedly tells the officers assembled there 'to go soft on the rioters as the Muslims need to be taught a lesson'. Godhra Riots, for those who don't remember (and public memory can be a fickle thing), occured in 2002 and sparked off one of the worst communal riots Independent India has seen after the Partition. Its been 9 years. Narendra Modi is still the chief minister of Gujrat. Parties like the BJP still issue statements saying the affidavit is 'a conspiracy to discredit Modi'. Congress still wants to milk the issue for political gains. The survivors of the riots still wait for justice. Nothing has changed. And by the looks of what a Congress spokesperson said- 'We will patiently wait for the Supreme Court verdict'- nothing will change. Maybe the numerous TV discussions will be held on SmartTVs.

 Digvijay Singh and Mayawati join the latest in the long line of politicians to target the already mounting pile of corruption charges against the very people who- in a twist of irony- had taken upon themselves to make India a corruption free country. I am not going to say who is responsible, who is clean, who is being targeted because I don't know. And truthfully I don't even care. I was a part of the protests that shook the country and raised a glimmer of hope in the eyes of many optimistics like me. After visiting Jantar Mantar and being a part of all that is good and vibrant about democracy, I even came back home and texted my friend, what a proud Indian I was. That day despite its many pitfalls, I fell in love with the concept of India a little more. But today, seeing the politics and the smear campaigns, I am starting to think that I never really understood in its entirety the complex concept of India. I feel betrayed. But more importantly, I am hurt. Just like the many who were there that day shouting slogans, singing and walking. It was a festive atmosphere. Someone remarked in the paper 'It was too good to be true'. I am thinking that the 'someone' was right.

In a move that has caused widespread anger Pakistani High Court has acquitted 5 of the 6 men accused of gangraping Mukhtar Mai. For those who switch the channel or turn the page on seeing the word Pakistan (and trust me there are a lot of people like that), Mukthar Mai is a Pakistani woman from the village of Meerwala in Jatoi of the Muzaffargarh District of Pakistan. She was a victim of gangrape in the name of 'honour revenge'. By custom, rural women who are raped are expected to commit suicide. But Mukthar Mai spoke up and filed a complaint against the men. She won many awards for her courage but her real reward lay in the men getting punished. Did she get that? No. It may be war ravaged, politically instable Pkaistan we may be talking about but as far as women and crimes against women go, India has nothing to be particularly proud of. In the recent Census, the sex ratio was recorded the lowest in the country since Independence. Crimes against women in Delhi, the capital of the country, are on the rise and the numbers show no signs of coming down. Despite all the talk about women empowerment, a girl child is still seen as a burden even among the rich and the well educated. Despite all the talk of India being an economic superpower, we still value the life of a talented sportswoman at a paltry Rs. 25,000. They say that the real progress of the country is seen by the amount of respect and progress the women of the country make. In that case, we live in a very under developed nation. We as a country have not forgotten how to respect a woman. We never knew how to respect them in the first place.

As a person, I am a highly optimistic person. Ever since I remember I have been a proud Indian. I still watch all the parades, I still sing the national anthem with my head held high and every 14th August at midnight I listen to the Independence speech made by Nehru on the radio. I believe that we have the potential, the power to be a strong, independent and mature democracy. Which is why the name of this blog has the word Idealist in it.

But there are times and days when not only I feel disheartened and sad, I feel bitter. I feel that everyone else was right. That I am a fool. That nothing will ever change. That we will still play dirty politics and that corruption-which is slowly becoming a part of our collective DNA- will still probably be the only thing with which Indians will be known the world over. It is days like these, I want to be a cynic. To sit in an armchair and say 'Yeh India hai saab, yahan sab chalta hai'. To give up on the country and proudly declare to anyone who would listen that 'I am leaving the country as soon as I can and never coming back' like a lot of my friends say. To just stop believing that things will be all right and just criticise and question everything. To become a non believer. Kuch nahin ho sakta. End of discussion. Khatam.

But as I lie in my bed thinking how I will never hope and how I should concentrate on my studies so that I can get out of this country as soon as I can, I hear the musical call of the azaan followed by the melodious ringing of the bells in the temple, I see the rays of the sun light up the sky and illuminate the soil. I feel a certain peace. And I know I never can leave. And I know that I will never stop believing. And I hope that maybe today will be a new day. Just Maybe. 

     

The Lonely Life

You know whats my scary movie of all times? You know, the one which you think about days and mostly nights after seeing it and it sub consciously leaves an indelible impact on your psyche? Its not The Ring, not even Jaws and definetly not The Exorcist. Its a little known documentary (which was later interpreted as a HBO movie) called Grey Gardens. Its about the lives of Edith Bouvier Beale and her mother Edith Ewing Bouvier.The women were the aunt and the first cousins of the famous Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and lived in a wealthy neighbourhood of  New York. The movie traces the lives of these two women. Seems idyllic enough right? Maybe fun. But you couldnt have been more wrong. The mother daughter duo suffered a series of setbacks through the earlier 20th century as a result of which they turned complete recluses and lived a life of complete isolation for decades together. The beautiful house where they lived was in shambles and the women were deprived of running water and food. It was a spectacular fall. And one which haunts me till today.

The original documentary

                                                          
I was reminded about the movie and the fate of the two women when I encountered something uncannily familiar in real life. Two sisters, Anuradha Behl and Sonali Behl were recently discovered in their Noida flat starving to death, alone and away from the world. The sisters were discovered starving and dehydrated with the elder one, Anuradha being in a near comatose state upon being discovered. According to the story that emerged later, the sisters went into depression following the death of their father. The depression and the ensuing loneliness was further aggravated when their younger brother left them. The last straw was the death of their pet, after which they refused to talk to anyone and completely shut down any contact whatsoever with the real world. The elder sister died of cardiac arrest just a few days ago while the younger one is said to be in a critical situation.

The Noida sisters after their rescue

The pictures and the videos that emerged out of the incident were freakishly and uncannily familiar to the scenes from Grey Gardens. They were photos and other recollections that showed both the pair of women as happy, vibrant young women, looking forward to all that life offers. What happened to the hope in the eyes and the promise in the smiles? How did life change so radically for them that they shunned the very world which they had yearned to explore?

I dont know. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe it was the realisation that inspite of everything, no one would care for them. Perhaps somewhere down the line the mind did not want any contact and was satisfied with its own thoughts and feelings. I dont know. But what i know is this, the mind is a powerful thing. Even more powerful than we give it credit for. It can save you and it can also destroy you. and if you are not careful, it might even play tricks on you. And i dont mean it in a good way.




PS: Grey Gardens was one movie that left a huge impact on me. I thought about it for days and nights on end. It gave me nightmares and haunted me like never before. The realisation that the line between sanity and insanity was a very thin one and it could be crossed easily scared me. The fact that the two women were considered the cream of American society and their slow and horrifying decline, made me realise that no one is immune. It was the most frightening turn the human psyche could take. And also the most haunting.  

First Day, First Show :: Practical Idealism

Practical Idealism: What?

According to Wikipedia, that great trove of information, practical idealism is defined as 'a philosophy that holds it to be an ethical imperative to implement ideals of virtue or good. It further holds it to be equally immoral to either refuse to make the compromises necessary to realise high ideals, or to discard ideals in the name of expediency.'

That is what the definition states. There have been numerous books, papers and thesis in this subject. But how do I understand the concept? Practical Idealism is a way of life. When you are talking about this, you are attempting to combine elements of two completely different ways of living into something which enables you to survive the highly competitive and mean world that we live in with your conscience and beliefs intact. In simple words, it means that while you dream of a better world, a world without hunger, poverty and war, you also know that in order to fulfill these dreams, you need to wake up and work hard.




Practical Idealism: Who?

People who believe in this way of life are called Practical Idealists. There are numerous people who follow this and propagate its advantages in a world like ours, but the most famous, in fact the man who coined the phrase 'Practical Idealism' was Mahatma Gandhi. Throughout his life, the Mahatma waged many battles against injustice through his satyagrahas. He believed that non violence was the only way in which a people enslaved for so many years could truly attain freedom. But all his various struggles- whether the satyagraha in South Africa, the Champaran struggle or the Civil Disobedience Movement- were rooted in the various problems faced by the common man on the road. They were not abstract ideas of freedom, liberty and injustice. But something the people could relate to. He did not 'give' them the freedom or the strength. He just showed the way for the people to discover the freedom and the truth within themselves.




Practical Idealism: Why?

Finally, why should we pay attention to this philosophy? Lets do what we do, work, earn, marry, enjoy life and leave the decision making and changing the world (if it can be changed) to the politicians or worthless dreamers? Right?

Wrong.

We should pay attention to this philosophy and work towards achieving something worthwhile not because we should or because its our duty, but because we can. Because the world wont become a better place on its own. It would become one if we get up out of our comfort zones, open our eyes to the world around us and DO something. Things will change, if we want them to change. This does not mean that you leave your job or your studies. No. You can do both simultaneously and exceedingly well if you want.

Its easier to sit back and criticise. Agreed. But its more worthwhile to get up and start working and start believing. Whenever i say this to people around me like my friends they reply "What can we do? We can do nothing" No, you can do lots of things. If you see a small child working somewhere, speak up. Teach the woman who comes to work at your home. Be aware. Make people aware. Raise your voice when you can. And sometimes even when you cant.

Do something.

Become a Practical Idealist.

Cheers. :)