We'll always have Paris !

When was the first time the heart broke ? Really, really the first time. Do we distinctly remember the incident ? And in course of time when wisdom is supposed to claw its way into our lives, are we, in our acquired rationality, able to justify the actions of the perpetrator and forgive him for it ? Would it unconditionally qualify as the first time when our idea about life takes a beating - when for the first time we are exposed to the unshakeable truth that in life, the colour grey is the most significant ? Much more than both black or white.

I was reading Kundera's 'Ignorance' some time back and was enthralled by its stunning simplicity and its success at emphatically analyzing the effects of what we have gone through in our lives on what and how we would react in circumstances which are vaguely similar, in future. Ignorance asks some unforgettable questions - which linger on even after you have finished with it.

I am not sure how significant those questions would be when one is seeped in happiness, when one is satisfied or content with one's life. In general, satisfaction has seldom asked questions, has rarely stimulated minds and consequently, very rarely created masterpieces.

So, in my opinion, 'Ignorance' would fail to elicit the kind of response it should, for you. And if it does, rejoice in the thought that you are still alive, that you still have not forgotten to feel and that you will have a semblance of honesty when you say "I understand".

When we choose or start to like someone for the 2nd time or rather, the first time after an unsuccessful attempt, we do measure him/her against the first one. To what extent ? And in doing so, are we just living with our past and see a reflection of that in the present? If that is to be true - where is the sanctity of integrity ?

The instinctive response to this by invariably almost all, would be one of incredulity. You will not even try to accept the truth, even if you accept to give it a thought. Since, most of our lives we hardly realize why we are alive, we try to convince ourselves without much effort that we live for someone else because we are in love - the truth could be much more naked, much more disturbing.

We live because we feel that we are living with those whom we wanted to live with and could not. Till possibly the time, our emotions and sensibilities are so stamped upon, so full of our present that we have all but lost touch of our past. And if you have lost touch with your past, I am not sure how far ahead you will progress in the future.

It is tough to really let go, to forget. The beauty of the human mind is that somehow or the other our perspective lets us shift our frailties by that much to make us feel we really have. And what we had was nothing as compared to what we have now.

So here is to "We'll always have Paris!" (Humphrey Bogart, Casablanca, 1942)