Why I run away from feeling others....

I took a quiz on Facebook. "What career would best suit you?"

I was sure what the results would show. WRITER.

There are predictable questions and there are predictable answers to all the online quizzes streaming on facebook.

True, I did some writing.

However I always looked at writing as a mistress-a pleasurable pursuit. Not a profession to get married to.

 Yes I write to express my thoughts. I write to free my painful, joyful, mixed and rosy thoughts. I do not know any other form of self expression. I may, to some extent, be a little good at juggling words to form fancy sentences. But when someone ask me,

 "Oh! So are you a writer?"

 I unconsciously blurt out, "Yeah…umm… I mean..ummm… I have a blog on which I write sometimes."

 But I never firmly say,"Yes, I'm a writer."

It is not a modesty issue. It is because I have never considered myself a writer.

I'll tell you why.

While speed walking on the foot over bridge, hurrying to get that last local train, I almost clashed onto an old lady who was begging desperately among the busy Mumbai crowd, hoping someone will give her a solace by dropping food into her desperate hands. She was dressed in a decent Nav-vari saree. That meant she was from good house.  I was getting late so I just passed her. I’m not a person who is overly concerned about homeless beggars and do least for them, if at all that is. But her pitiful condition was hard to just let it go as a passing thought. I glanced behind me and saw her forcefully grab an energy drink from a girl. The girl and her friends snatched the drink back from her. I was unable to take another step. I went back to a food stall nearby and packed some sandwiches. I ran to her. She was still there, trying to evoke some sentiments out of the rushing crowd. And when I placed that parcel on her hands, she looked at me from her thick spectacles almost kissing me and blessing me with her eyes. I hurried away again. It was a busy day so I did not ponder much over it.

But at night when the darkness brought the image of that old lady back to my conscious mind, I contemplated more on her. Questions clouded my mind.

I think human dignity is more essential than freedom. What use is freedom to that lady? Slavery is damned because it robes people from dignity. But for that old lady, dignity was a luxury. For her life was a fight to survival. Just when I was about to dwell more on this, I stopped. I did not have courage to think about her anymore. It was painful. And so I plugged in my earphones and listened to mindless music. I thought I had freed myself from her thoughts. But next morning as I again rushed through that same crowed bridge and when I was unable to find her, my feet halted. I was unable to move. Thoughts started crowding my mind. 

What could have happened to her?

Was she taken away?

Had something happened to her?

What if her family members are refusing to give her food and so she has to beg?

I should have done more for her than give her a couple of sandwiches.

I was standing still. Terrified. But the impatient crowd pushed me forward. I again gained my senses and remembered I had to go somewhere. So again I pulled out my earphones and tried to forget about her. But unlike last night, my efforts weren't successful. Puzzled at why I was feeling so intensely. I decided to write about her on my diary pages. But instead I consciously avoided it and wrote something else. I simply did not have courage to go through the same emotions I had gone through that morning. I am a coward. And that was the time I realized this. 

This incident gave me insight to many of my past behaviors. I realized true motive behind me just standing there and helplessly watching my friends cry or why I broke off contact with all the mutual friends my best friend (who died in train accident) and I had. My Aunt is going through tough time. I see her smile while she talks to me and take care of me while my stay with her . I know she is hiding her pain. And yet I do nothing for her.

Even while writing this I stopped several times. I am unable to run away from that encounter with that poor lady. And yet I pass by several people like her every day, consciously and unconsciously. I feel sorry for myself more than feeling pity for them. I’m unable to feel other humans. No wonder I stopped writing anything that I could be proud of. Mostly it is just  ranting. No doubt I hate my own writing most of the times.

Hemingway couldn't have said it better, "There is no such thing as writing. All you do is you sit at the typewriter and bleed."

I do not have courage to bleed.

I know I am not sentimental when it comes to feeling others. I lack empathy. But I do not wish to save myself from myself. I cannot paint all the windows in rainbow colors’ just to shed myself from all the raw pain that is pouring out in the world because now it is knocking on my doors. I think this is the only way in which I could make peace with that old lady who is now staying in my mind forever.