To Life. To Life. L'chaim.

     

     Pit against the Almighty yet frequently mistaken for Him is Life. Life is praised beyond words by some and yet cursed with rich verbiage by others, a few intensely meant 'F this's and 'This is S's. Unless asked by a teacher or demanded by a PPT slide, why would anyone attempt to define life? Humans commonly claim to be merely looking for the meaning of life rather than its definition. What good would a definition do? What good would a technical interpretation of life do to the twenty-four-year-old man who was parched beyond description on his way home on the back of a truck? Life bestowed the man with the determination to work as a labourer a thousand kilometres from home and when a global catastrophe struck, life blessed him with a few thousand rupees that bought him standing space on a truck that would take him home. Life in its generosity positioned a friend next to him who refused to leave his friend alone when he was asked to leave the transport. His life was unworthy to stay on in the truck because he could no longer suffer nature. The man eventually died but what could have been the cause of death? Was it only dehydration or life itself? The answer is beyond me and by extension anyone. Life refused to stray from its personality and besides all things good life gave the man a focal effect of a global pandemic, the fear of the virus, sudden unemployment and lack of water.

Lack of water.

     Lacking structure and form, size and weight, life exists within and around. One may find life on mars but not missed opportunities. Life exists in the depths of the ocean but it would be impossible to locate good fortune there. Microbial or metaphorical, primordial or pictorial, life is the great metamorph. This villainous life ironically needs life to exert its influence and conduct its great tragedies. For a rock cannot feel the weight of a relationship near breaking point and the sea will never experience anticipation of a text from a loved one.

Only man can.

     Man has been blessed with the misfortune of both biological and animate life. Misfortune because molecules maketh a man and those molecules bring death and destruction as much as they bring bliss and impulse-control. Misfortune because the soul experiences as much loss and yearning as it does comedy and sarcasm. Misattribution of both molecular dysfunction and the mischievous-but-not-funny shenanigans of life to the Omnipotent One is a commonly occurring symptom among us, the diadems of life on earth. (Because it is commonly occurring, if one was to ask the scientific community to opine on this illness of misattribution, they might democratically vote it out of being mismonikered as a symptom in the first place. I love a good absolute Monarchy)

     Giving credit where it is due is a talent not yet mastered by a majority of the sapient beings. It would be wrong to point fingers at the One too big for heaven for the plight of a homeless man for not having a home. Nor it would be right to say that He is to blame when the same homeless man gets kicked out of his corner of the street. One can freely hold life culpable for the soul touching properties of caffeine and take it to court for allowing soul churning hereditary Bollywood debuts. But who is the villain or the hero or the anti-hero or the heroic villain in this non-definable yet finite period called life? Life itself? Or The Groom who sounded one or two opinions of His on the matter? I can’t wait for the season finale.

     The actors at play behind the scenes in any given situation involving us poor little puny humans are usually two, life and life. For example, a lady lying lifeless on a platform while her infant son tries to wake her up is most assuredly the result of life’s many properties and recipes. Poverty, pandemic, apathy so on and so forth. You name it and life’s got it. Consider also the moment when a gentle cool breeze touches the face of a young well-to-do graduate, waiting to witness a breath-taking sunrise from a well littered hilltop. Privilege, companionship and a car. You name it and life’s got it.

     Like any good medical theory with interesting opening anecdotes, colourful illustrations and extensive references but with the anti-climactic conclusion ‘exact mechanism is not known’, there are unknown aetiologies at play in man’s many circumstances. The foremost unknown force of causation is popularly theorised to be the Person Who once substituted a manger for a throne. It would perhaps do some good to investigate His role in the happenings of the universe or perhaps at least those in the life of the toddler who will one day, God forbid, watch the video of him next to his mother’s dead body. Perhaps a direct question and a straight forward answer might satisfy the queries. If He wants to say it then let Him say it. 

     A very human governor once stood a couple of feet from Him whose skin was no longer intact, had already lost enough blood to warrant a transfusion, but was still dressed like a king with a crown and a robe and everything. A ghastly image, almost like human life incarnate. The governor’s chamber probably smelt like a busy A&E.

     “What is truth?” the very human governor said to the very human God. 

     In what could be the most exciting moments in literary, philosophical, religious and human history, there was no answer. He had exercised His right to remain silent. He missed His one chance to redeem Himself from the crime of silence on the issues most dear to man. It is of the most unwise and possibly blasphemous opinion of the writer that if not for anything else, He probably deserved a few lashes for being excruciatingly silent. However, the sentence could be dropped on the grounds that he could not have had sufficient Bible space to provide His detailed response.

     The little demon called life later that day went on its usual business and so did the very diligent Roman soldiers. Human law was followed and so was divine. The anticoagulants gave up and so did the heart. In the presence of criminality, shame, law abiding bread-winners, a game of dice, a torn robe and a few weeping women, by an apparently suicidal but pre-ordained act, life did its job. Life was triumphant.

But two days later, in the middle of the night, when life seemingly had gone to rest, the stone was rolled back.

-Sam