Here's another one Sanjog, I came up with this one when I was talking to Supad last night.
Sometimes and a real rare sometimes in life, there comes along a passion that makes you wonder how you spent your life without it all along. It doesn't always have to be love for a girl for that matter, it can be anything—absolutely anything on earth, you never know what!!!
To me it came in the form of a crude shapeless piece of wrought iron my uncle working in TELCO gifted me one day. That was I guess some nine years back. I was interested in metallurgy from start; so I setup my own small lab at home. I had an image in my mind of what I wanted to make. I invested a lot of effort and money in realizing this dream. In the college, I would work on perfecting the image in my mind and every semester break I was back home; I would spend most of my time in my lab working on that piece. I melted-casted- molded it. There was something about this work that successfully involved the whole of me for years.
After 7 years of working on it, I was finally able to give it a shape. It was a bust of Fleud. It was just adorable, couldn't have been better—it was a sheer height of perfection. But now what? I couldn't have suffered any kind of loss to it. So I opened a safety locker in a premier bank in my city—in fact the best one I could find. And then—I slept calmly for two years.
Today morning I went to check on my masterpiece. As I took it out, my heart skipped a beat seeing it covered with a layer of rust. I brought it home and started scrubbing it. As I scrubbed more and more, the rust seemed deeper and deeper. I hardly realized until it was too late, that my masterpiece had turned into a pile of rust.
Did I cry? No, but I did grieve. Not long, I gave a look at myself and the grief turned into horror. Because it was not just my masterpiece that had turned into a pile of rust; my right hand was gone too. The wrist remained—the hand was gone—into the pile of rust. I had rusted. Sometime during the scrubbing, my hand has caught the rust and got rubbed away along with the masterpiece.
I looked at my no-hand-wrist. There was a thin layer of rust covering the cross-section where the hand had gone. I sat and wondered—should I scrub this rust off? Will I end up exterminating myself? Have I turned into rust myself? If so, at what point did I start?
“Do you think it is an irreversible process?” Sanjog asked me after thinking for a while.
“I don't know.”
“You know it Amit. You have all the answers. So now open your eyes and tell me—is it an irreversible process?”
“What—the rusting?”
“No, the loss of hand.”
“Umm…No. Its not.”
“So, how do you get back your hand now?”
“I guess stop scrubbing off the rust. It's a part of you now. You can never leave it behind and move on—learn to live with it. And it's not all that scary having the rust on you, it's a remnant of what was once a splendid period of your life. Its not there to remind you of what you lost, but to remind you of what extreme bliss you are capable of and you deserve.”
“Eggjactly dude.”
