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Journalism of Courage
Strange how terrible things always catch us in our festive or pious best. Some of us call it Murphy8217;s Law but we mustn8217;t let the Irish monopolise angst. Some of us cynics, both sthira embedded and chara chalta-firta, have long called it the lead pipe theory, viz, to wit, malicious fate awaits round every corner with a lead pipe, sprung to cosh us soon as we step blithely into range. A thinking person8217;s Roman emperor like Marcus Aurelius became a stoic because there was only this much bad news any one, even a soldier, could take. A seer like Adi Shankara threw the blame squarely on handy Maya or illusion typical, typical, trust a male ascetic to blame something feminine.
In Delhi, heaven of conspicuous consumption, itself the emotional consequence of too many bad times, the Punjabis from around Faridkot way have this grimly cheerful saying, 8220;Khaata-peeta lahe da, rehnda Ahmed Shahe da8221; feast on as much as you can while you may, the invader will come to take the rest away. The radio jockeys are all playing the theme song from Kal Ho Na Ho as their way of registering the sombre mood now, curiously prefaced by 8220;Dil Hai Chhota Sa8221; appropriate at many levels as a comment on the human angle to the tsunami.
The only privilege or right we have, in effect, is to keep connected, keep trying, keep showing up for our lives. There can be no better example than the prisoners in Tihar Jail who collected a fat donation for tsunami relief. Otherwise, we might be snubbed like the young man who belligerently told the Universe, 8220;Sir, I exist!8221;. 8220;However8221;, said the Universe, 8220;the fact does not create in me a sense of obligation.8221;
