CHASING NOWHERE
Imagine this. You unlatch the large window in the living room, which opens to a sweeping view of the hills carpeted with green. The sky overhead is suffused with a shade of mauve. It’s dusk. In the distance, the lights come on at the town square. A fragrant whiff – of wet earth – fills the air. You perch by the window. And, in that moment, your troubles melt away, your anxieties cease to exist, and a deep contentment consumes you.
You don’t want to be anywhere else.
Sounds too good to be true?
Well, yes and no.
I’m not fantasising, mind you. I am sitting by my window, which opens into the majestic, picturesque vista laid out in front of me like a painting. The air is fragrant, and I inhale a lungful of it. It is meant to instil in me a sense of peace I don’t think could be described in mere words. I should be happy. I should feel satisfied. But I am…
Stranded. Lost.
Untethered.
I’m not a cynic, or at least I don’t believe so.
Let me explain.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about a story my grandma – she who was a treasure of stories – told me when I was a kid. It had a moral, of course. All children’s stories have morals, which I suppose is what makes them children’s stories. You kids need to learn as much as you can, she would say. You’ll be corrupted once you grow up anyway.
Anyhow, the story was about a man, who, blinded by ambition, tries to outrun fate.
Personally, I don’t believe in fate. Counters the whole point of striving for... betterment, if not perfection.
So, this man forgoes his loved ones, puts aside (a subtler word for eliminates, I would realise later) anyone who is a likely threat to him or his empire, and manipulates anything he can to his advantage. Finally, he does achieve what he sought. But the glory feels insubstantial. He feels empty, hollow. Lost.
Was I fascinated by the “winner stands alone” moral of the story? You bet. I was a kid, and kids are too easy to enrapture. Adults, on the contrary, are too corrupted by the ways of the society to allow themselves to be fascinated.
But him feeling lost, even with everything that to an ordinary eye looks rich and powerful, is something that I now can relate to.
Maybe I was brave, as a friend I knew from back in the city commented earlier this month, in taking the step to bow out in the prime of my career and choose to come out here in search for a quiet, solitary, more meaningful life. Practically speaking, I don’t think many would be courageous to let go of a high seven figure pay, he said. And, with what I hoped was a hint of jealousy, he added, I hope you don’t miss it. Because I definitely would.
I don’t miss it.
But does that make me brave?
Two days ago, I, with three whiskeys in me, shared my dilemma with the bartender at a local brewery I went for a few rounds to. It’s a small establishment (like all businesses in this part of the world are, because money here isn’t as obsessively valued as the city) in the town square, which can seat fifteen at a time. The bartender, a stout man with a thick stubble and a weary look in his eyes, said he noticed me staring contemplatively out of the big window.
Another thing: every place here boasts at least one massive window looking out into the hills. It would be a shame to not have one.
Anyhow, the barkeep, I guess keeping true to his occupation, asked what I was thinking. Polite conversation.
Back in the city, such generosity is rare. The sight of an entire train crammed with glum faced commuters travelling to work in the morning, sulking in their own private shells, is common. Everyone is busy, going somewhere they either don’t know or don’t want to know why.
The bartender placed the third whiskey in front of me, and, as if urged by his question, I downed it in one go. The warmth of it as it trickled down was beautiful and irresistible. We exchanged stories. He told me he’d always lived here; liked it here, couldn’t ever imagine flocking to the city.
This is home, he added proudly. Where else would I be?
He asked me if I missed the city. I told him, to me, the city is home. Yes, I said. I miss it. He asked me if I would be returning or staying here for good. A woman, he said, who runs a café a few shops down (the prettiest thing you’ll see around here, and I didn’t know if he was referring to the woman or her workplace) was a city babe who got tired of the hustle bustle and moved here permanently. You don’t get to see many people like her, he added adoringly.
That conversation got me thinking. Was it really bravery that led me here? Or is it just a convenient escape? The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself it was the latter. Surely there’s no harm in wanting a different life; history books are filled with those who sought a life other than they were born into. But what about those who can find contentment in… well, what they already have? Shouldn’t that be acknowledged, if not glorified? Despite the beautiful vista, the clean air, even longer hours (because, let’s face it, days were much shorter in the city), there’s a kind of irreplaceable peace being home; where you come back to at the end of a long, exhausting day, put your feet up, close your eyes, and let out a sigh.
And, in that sigh, you experience your worries shrinking to nothing. You feel you are where you were always meant to be.
Home.
Shaurya Arya-Kanojia authored his debut novella, End of the Rope (https://amzn.in/eZ0EUss), in 2019. He likes sports (cricket, mostly), eating out, and watching reruns of The Office and Everybody Loves Raymond. His social media handles include @shauryaticks (Twitter) and @main.hoon.ek.sharara (Instagram).