The Way We See and Not See

“There is no grand narrative. There is no pattern. Randomness defines it all. Or why do children die? Buds could be eaten in bloom. Evolution’s hands are always full. Hence, it does not mind wastage. Only a few need to survive for species survival. The rest is just fodder,” inside the bar, around a table, four of us sat and listened to the rambling of the only friend who was drunk. 

Others were in a happy mood. They glanced at the drunken one who had turned a philosopher, as often happens with such substances. Then they glanced at each other and winked and smiled kindly.  

“Why is a beautiful woman, as gorgeous as a pheasant, consumed by cancer? How do we embrace this impermanence and stay sane?” His eyes sparkled with suppressed tears. 

We all felt sorry for him because he was a loner, never fully liked by his friends, but tolerated because he had a sharp wit when he was not drinking, and he meant well, we all knew that.  

Deep inside, everyone knew his words were true. No one likes to face ugly facts. Endless toil of humanity against an inglorious and unjustified death, ugliness and dirt goes on and on. 

It does not matter how we live, but it is a great hope to die gracefully. 

“Death is soft, and it is life that is violent. To let go is the best remedy for pain. Yet, it is not the best way to live. Acceptance can defeat you in life. Even the poet asks you to rage against the dying of the light. Life demands that you are driven, grab for things, and compete,” his words began to enclose us like a rainy day.  

“People facing a life-taking illness such as cancer get eager to live every moment in full. They try to do everything they had postponed, thinking they would have time by their side. It is always the same story of disappointment, hope, illusions and reality. Forgetting is the tool that helps us carry on,” our friend was not in a mood to quit. 

“Let us have an ice cream and forget all that then,” declared another friend. The conversation strayed into the mundane. “How is your new job?” “where did you buy that bag?” “Are you going home for Christmas?”

Our philosopher friend fell silent. I saw him inspect, for a long time, the amber-coloured drink in his glass and the ice cubes floating in it with unwavering attention. 

“Why are you always so glum?” I could not help asking as he was sitting next to me. He smiled. He has a nice job, and as far as I know, and I know for certain, he is close to his wife and children. I have regularly seen their photos vacationing in the most scenic holiday destinations on social media.

His kids were great, and his life was good. Why spend too much time investigating the futility of life? 

His drinking was a slight cause of concern in his family. I still remember that man with a beer bottle in his hand, walking away towards his car. 

I came home thinking of him. Yet, it has been one year since I thought about him again. I had been drifting in and out of the usual pressing tasks of everyday life. When I remembered him, I picked up my phone, and soon I heard his familiar voice.

After the usual chit-chat, I encountered him with the question in my mind, “Do you still think and talk about the randomness of life and such existential stuff as you used to?”  

He laughed. “Did I? Really!”

I could see that he had no idea what my question was about. He did not seem to remember that evening we spent listening to him rant about life. I dropped the topic, and we talked about his kids, my kids, and politics. He seemed quite interested in real estate prices and world politics. 

“Who is this man?” I thought with wonder. Then, I realised I, too, might have changed for him. I asked him, “Do you remember what I was passionate about when we used to talk frequently?”

He said, “To be frank, you have always been the kind who imagines deeper meanings to what we all said casually. You are a philosopher.”  

I fell silent, brooding over what he said. Dear reader, there are two kinds of thoughts, I keep thinking, one that helps you move on by purging your brain and the other that is stuck in there. One is cathartic, while the other defines you. Or why did I remember that evening when we sat around a table as he went on and on about life and why he, the author of those thoughts, did not?