*****
One is born with no memory of time, and then with time, begins to make memories. These memories that are, again, varied assemblages of time lived and left behind. Does this suggest that memory is the identity of the self, or would it be better to say perhaps that the identity of a person is an amalgamation of times lived by that person? Does a person grow, learn and create a self along with time? And this self then continues to alter shades along with the surge of time?
Before one’s first twenties, there is no sense of time and often time is misused, negated and completely taken for granted.
In the thirties, one begins to peep back into time with sporadic sneaks into the past that begins to make one suddenly aware of the growing blemishes on the self.
Then in the forties, more often, one finds oneself constantly in a wail of despair of regretting the time gone by, wanting to rub off desperately the myriad of scars on the self, left behind by the biting of time: “How could I? How could I have done that? Never again!”
And after the fifties, one merely looks back at time, resigned and detached. But then, actually not: I think at that age of having lived all that time. And thus having gained so much experience, and with it so much wisdom, one does indeed feel resigned, wishes to be detached, yet tends to be bogged down by the memories of the sagas of the times lived and left behind.
*****
Living each day, encountering new problems, facing and even vanquishing a few, does make a person wonder at the rationale of one’s existence. Is there a peaceful balance of time over times? Can not one excuse oneself from time and space and blissfully merge with Infinite? Like the Turriya state, or the Brahman state of mind, if you will. Live like an “Antevasin,” living on the border and belonging nowhere, and of course, looking into the unknown. But alas! These are but romantic and rather philosophical aspirations, and not in the least likely to be achieved by most of us. And as much as we may desire to skip time and blend with the spiritual, we are thrust further yet into time, moment by moment, time leading us slowly but surely to the ultimate and inevitable, merging of our souls with the Infinite. Until then, we must make the best of the time that is left, time that shall shape the memories of the ‘self’ by which the ‘self’ shall then be remembered by the forthcoming generations.
*****
Each time I have read history, it has been with awe, but mind you, only with a conditional respect, for I have always found myself looking at events of history and suffixing it with Time and with its many ifs and whys. What if King Prithvi Narayan Shah had not decided to unify the little principalities that make Nepal today? What if Jung Bahadur Rana had never risen to power? Why did King Tribhuvan not relent to the Ranas and continue living in subservience to their dictations? Why did King Mahendra and his successor King Birendra scour the 75 jillas and not really manage to not understand that poverty prevailed in the country, and immediate measures ought to have been taken to that effect? What if Crown Prince Dipendra had not gone bonkers on the night of June 1, 2001 and massacred brutally nine members of his own family before killing himself? Why did the previous King Gyanendra get all sentimental regarding the peoples’ plights and all, and decide on some reforms, leading himself to making errors after errors, and thus terminating an age-old institution with its own charms and history?
What if Prachanda had never existed? Would that mean that then my brother, along with thousands of persons killed during the People’s War, would still be alive? Why is Prachanda of late attending so many saptah pujas when all through the Insurgency, his cadres went around the country, making menstruating women urinate on the holy Shiva Lingas, slaughtering cows and human beings alike, and blatantly dishonoring the Hindu religion and its traditions? Is it because now Chairman Prachanda is repentant of those ‘times’ which accounted for so many lives shattered and destroyed, and perhaps wants now to relieve his condemning conscience?
Why is there so much poverty in my country, so much disparity, even? Why do all Nepalis want to be armchair revolutionaries and strike with forceful vendetta at the expense of the nation?
This is how I read history. I speculate upon Time and what might have been at that particular time, but for the fatal occurrences of what actually did take place at that very time.
*****
Let me not digress into the bogus of politics for my column is all about time; and although politics, too, does have its own affiliations with time, and mind you, chairs and powers have abruptly shuffled all in due time, bringing us back to this Present Prime Time. This present time that can never be reverted, with the errors made during our time fixed and recorded as history, and our history into which the forthcoming generations are certain to look into, then speculate upon our blunders, and thus mock our very existence.
Does that bother no one? It sure does terrify me to my bones, and believe me, you will, too, for it sends cold steely, sensations of fear down my spines as I have this imposing dream of my old age. Call it vanity, if you will, but I insist that when I am an old lady and about to plunge into history, I should like to be like the tower of the Dharahara, so old and yet so remarkable, perhaps even like the Taj Mahal, so monumental, so celebrated. But then, each time I smile with future prospects of the illustrious status of my old age, I have found myself as quickly reverting to the times that I have left behind, those times that have bitten into myself scars and blemishes of my errors, of having been lenient with my time.
Surely, I could not be celebrated with such hideous scars on my past if I continue misusing my time. I will, in the least, end up like the dharahara, or even the Taj Mahal, but there are more chances of myself ending up as the rotting Bagmati, smelling of garbage and avoided by many. And then, I console myself: there is still time left for me to make amends that are sure to help me achieve my vain dream of retiring as a revered monument.
*****
I shall now begin to respect time, as should everyone else, and treat it with kid gloves, gently and with extreme caution. If not, it will surely bite back, leaving on the self crude and ugly marks. For, believe me, as you will: Time does bite.
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