A Pack Of Biscuits

On a lazy Saturday morning, I was travelling by the local trains on my way to tuitions, fervently studying last minute for an Economics test ( thank you procrastination). As the train halted at a station, I just lifted my head off my textbook for a moment. A beggar girl got in, carrying an infant in her lap. Dressed in rags and barefoot, she was trying to pacify the crying baby. Her face, though specked with grime and dirt, held a peculiar smile. She stretched her hand out to feel the raindrops on her palms, occasionally spraying the water on the baby's face. He stopped crying and giggled along with her. She then went on with her usual business, begging for rupee or two from the passengers who flatly refused. But she was different from other beggars I've seen, and trust me, living in Mumbai, I've seen many. As she clinked the few coins in her shapeless bowl, she didn't cry or plead. Her smile didn't fade. I didn't give her money, but gave her a half empty packet of biscuits instead. Her face lit up like the sky on Diwali. She thanked me twice, and got down at the next station, dancing and giggling as she walked.

I closed my textbook. I couldn't study anymore.

Valar Morghulis - All Men Must Die

Once we were discussing the play Arms and the Man in English class. Before I get into this post, let me give you an overview of Arms and the Man. It’s a play written by George Bernard Shaw (my idol, after Groucho Marx of course) set during the Serbo-Bulgarian War in the 1800s. Now, Shaw was a satirist, so contrary to the glorified and romanticised image of war, he held that it was a farce, that it was futile. He ridiculed war and unveiled the fissure between romanticism and rationalism. So being a satire aficionado, I naturally got transfixed by Shaw’s candour.

Now coming to the discussion, we were scrutinising the practicality of war, which has always been a serious bone of contention. “What is the true purpose of war? Is it an exhibition of one’s patriotism?” My head was ruminating on these questions. After a bit of brooding about, I raised my hand and said, “When it comes to war, patriotism is just a euphemistic expression of fanaticism.” The silence it ushered from the class confused me as to what they inferred from my opinion. One boy clapped, but I surmise it carried a heavy tone of sarcasm, or maybe not. Whatever the case may be, my teacher found it too close to the bone and disagreed. She said “What about the Indian freedom struggle? Can you call trying to liberate one’s country as fanaticism?” I wasn't prepared to answer this since I didn't even think once before making my contentious statement.

I made my fleeting affirmation in the context of the likes of the World Wars. I have always opined that they were not wars between countries, but between power-hungry leaders who could go to any lengths to fulfill their imperialistic ambitions. Does love for one’s country demand hatred for the other? I have always been fascinated by Adolf Hitler’s ideas. A charismatic leader, a terrorising dictator, so driven by his demonic hunger for power that failure to achieve supremacy led him to believe that it held more importance than his own life. We are always so insecure, the fear of insurgency corrupting our minds. No matter what noble intentions a war is fought with, is the outcome as gratifying as expected? When blood is shed on both sides, the world is reduced to ashes and families torn apart, is there a winner after all? And if there is, is the victory satisfying? A war never ends. Ask the soldiers who wake up every night haunted by memories of the battlefield, trembling and sweating. When cannonballs explode, swords clash and you’re heaving through lungs filled with gunpowder, is it worth the pain?