When I was a little boy, the tales from the Ramayan and the Mahabharat, which my mother had told me at bedtime, fired my imagination. I wanted to be a great hero like Ram or Arjun and made a bow and arrows with bamboo twigs, but my arrows did not take me far, for they did not go far enough to hit even the dogs and pigs that trespassed into our compound. When I was put to school, I had to abandon my archery.
In Class V or VI, we had a lesson on sage Agastya, who had drunk the whole ocean and at whose feet the great Vindhya mountain had fallen prostate. I thought that was true greatness and, when I grew up, I must drink up the ocean of knowledge and gain immense power (we had another lesson in the same book with the title, “Knowledge is Power”) so that great people might fall at my feet like mountain Vindhya at Agastya’s feet. But before I passed my BA, there had been an explosion of knowledge, which had split into innumerable subjects and specialisations, and I realised to my dismay that, even if I were Agastya, I would have found it an impossible feat to drink up the sea of knowledge.
In my BA class, we studied Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and the lines, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust on them”, impressed me as the wisest thing ever said on the subject. I examined my condition in the light of this wise statement. I was not born great. My father was a low-paid employee, who was not well known even in our small neighbourhood. Look at Indira Gandhi, born to a great father, or Rajiv Gandhi, born to a great mother, or Rahul Gandhi, born to great parents. That is what ‘born great’ means.
Then I wondered if I could achieve greatness. How does one achieve greatness? By doing great deeds or by producing great results in one’s work or by marrying a great man or a great woman, who is born great or has achieved greatness. The only thing I am any good at is writing, or so I think. But when I sent my poems for publication, they came back with the comment that they were transparent and were lacking in “the challenging quality of tightness”. A famous poet, whose advice I sought later, explained it as “a measure of obscurity”. My stories came back with the comment, “Your stories are interesting but they are very simple and easy to understand. There is no attempt at innovation or experimentation”. After reading a few highly praised contemporary novels and short stories, I have come to the conclusion that “a certain element of incomprehensibility” is necessary to make the grade.
I am trying hard to make myself incomprehensible in both my poetry and fiction and hope that I shall get published in the not too distant future. Who knows, I may even win a prestigious award some day! There seems to be sound logic here. If my writing is opaque and is either partially or totally incomprehensible, like a Picasso painting, it will make readers think that there must be something in it which they are not able to understand - some profound meaning that reveals itself only to the exclusive club of literary elite who will bring their own meanings to my nonsense.
The third alternative suggested by Shakespeare’s lines (“some have greatness thrust on them”) brings greatness within reach of every one of us. I have read somewhere the story of a rich man, who had given away all his worldly possessions, renounced the world, and entered a dense forest hoping to meditate on God undisturbed; but then the tribals, among whom was a prophecy that their new king would enter the forest on the second day of the waxing moon, gave him a tumultuous welcome and made him their king. This is called Sukha Prarabdha in the story. Prarabdha Karma (the good or bad deeds of our past lives the effect of which is felt in this life) is irresistible according to those who believe in the doctrine of karma.
If something is destined to happen there is no stopping it and, if it is not destined, none can make it happen, not all the powers on earth. Does anybody remember Gulzarilal Nanda, a very upright leader, who had been the No. 2 man in Nehru’s cabinet and was acting Prime Minister twice, but could not become the Prime Minister of this country? Sanjay Gandhi, who had been the unofficial Prime Minister of this country for about two years during the Emergency (1975-77), was not destined to become the Prime Minister, while his elder brother, who was reluctant to join politics, found himself anointed the Prime Minister under shocking circumstances.
P.V. Narasimha Rao made up his mind to quit active politics, and started sending his books and other effects to Hyderabad, where he wanted to lead a peaceful life when there was a big bang in the south and, before he knew what was happening, he became the Prime Minister. Countless examples can be given in support of the power of destiny.
Astrologers tell me that I am now passing through the most glorious period of my life and, even though I have completed almost eight decades of uneventful life, I am waiting hopefully for greatness to be thrust on me since I was neither born great nor have achieved any greatness. I have not the ghost of an idea of how it is going to happen. Some of my incomprehensible writings may get me big literary awards; or a wall in my old house may cave in revealing a treasure-trove and making me a multimillionaire; or I may be sitting on a bench in a park dozing one evening and mistaken by people to be a saint in deep meditation, and a beggar nearby, having pretended to be a helpless cripple all day long, may get up and walk away with his collection, and people may describe it as a miracle performed by me, and I may end up as a great saint.
You never can tell how greatness may be thrust on you.
