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Shaadaab S. Bakht: Desire, the arch-villain
September 07, 2018
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ON DESIRE 
 

I read a book, recommended by someone who is in love with books, and decided that the book in question needed many reads before one could enjoy entirely its unique thought-provoking content. It is not a book that helps sleep, but takes it away.

Also, I found time to read the book because it had been given by a thinking person. Like all hard-boiled intellectuals the person is unpretentious and reads because something is worth it and not just to talk about it between dinner morsels. 

Anyway, I found an interesting observation in the book on human beings feeling neglected. It roughly said, “He was feeling like an abandoned bus station.”     

The words haven’t left me and never will. And have driven me to conclude that no emotion is more explosive and depressing than inattention and isolation. And that forces me to argue that the villain behind that very real disgust is desire, the mother of a million wounds. If only we had no desire life would have been such a luxurious waddle in the lap of virgin serenity.

But it isn’t, therefore, it invariably becomes an uncompromising and an unrelenting climb. And we can’t do a thing about it except fretting and increasing the flow of beverages with all their side effects, flatulence being the prime offender. Some unhappy people bring out their anger on cooks, gardeners and drivers, which should always invite punitive action, because salaries buy labour, not labourers.

‘Some unhappy people bring out their anger on cooks, gardeners and drivers, which should always invite punitive action, because salaries buy labour, not labourers’
Well, desire. It is always thick and gets thicker with age and sometimes excruciatingly punishing in character.

The list of desires is endless. The most important one after an age involves the desire to be heard and to hear from those who form the soul of our being, some we admit and some we don’t. Then there is this irrepressible desire to relive the years gone by in all their breezy shades and sumptuous offerings.

We also have this almost daily desire to go back in time and knock the door that never really fully closed, but had one hassle: the host always expected the visitor to take charge of the emotional swing, which is never an easy feat.

Then we can’t, of course, overcome the desire to turn the clock back in order to say what was expected, but wasn’t said to some, who were always around but never slotted by us in the scheme of passionate excursions.

It was poor judgement, caused by youthful arrogance, which always leaves reason in the wanderer’s seat and consideration in the wild. The fallout of that fallacy is a festering ache. Then often we are possessed by the desire to bring back the hours that were waiting to strike a deal with the heartbeats that had promised an enviable union and an alliance that would have lit up life like the sun lights up foggy days.

Then there is this huge and compulsive and demanding desire to seek forgiveness from people we have hurt and will never see again.

But none of these happen and life remains a bumpy ride to be regularly negotiated and never transforms into a majestic swagger criss-crossing the manicured lawns of lavish joy. And the most unfortunate part is that desire — harmonious life’s arch-enemy — never dies till we.
 
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