I am many things but a clean conscience. And I don’t flinch when I say that. Of course the title talks about the burden of guilt. Fortunately, I don’t quite feel guilty. There is a different emotion that I have come to associate with each of the stains on the otherwise immaculate orange board. In case you didn’t know, orange is the new black, and more than guilt, popular culture is a cause of concern these days for me. I am trying my bit to catch up though: with conversations around the utility of Tinder with colleagues at work, by writing poetry in free verse and lapping up all things spoken word, and eating salads at restaurants - just watermelon and cheese, and sometimes apple and walnuts. Trust me, the things that make me feel guilty are far more trivial that some of the solutions taught to me in Mathematics 101 in college.
So I feel guilty about having stolen the mithai that were given to my sister when I was a 4 year old. I feel guilty about lying and coaxing my cousin to lie when I hit him with a stone in his head, which then burst open. This was a when I knew about the repercussions. I felt guilty about forging my dad’s signature in the school diary when the teacher wrote a bad remark. And so guilty that I tore that portion from the sheet, stuck another piece of paper, and asked my dad to sign. I thought that was redemption, and proudly showed it to the teacher. For that bit of honesty, I got shamed publicly. My perception of guilt, honesty and justice is not quite straight since then. I realised guilt is not quite strong as an emotion, and its associations with life changing experiences is just a disservice to the evolution human race. That last line was dramatic, but that was just to prove how strongly I feel about this. Is guilt over things worth your time? It was then, because I atoned, and that feeling of redemption is priceless. The point is can you atone for everything that falls in the broad arc that “guilt” is, and how effortlessly you characterise the follow-ups as atonement.
I felt embarrassed when I was caught cheating. I did not feel guilty. I did not regret it. I regretted being caught, though. There was nothing about my morality that I questioned. I was embarrassed because of the public perception that goes around with getting caught while cheating. See, I was never a bright student, I got lucky most times. And I was a terrible cheater, and I never learnt. So I had to pay the price someday. The iron price or the gold price, would you ask? Iron price, I would reply with a “popular-culture” alert. And after a point, I was do disengaged with it that I gave up. So, essentially, there was never this burden associated with embarrassment. There never was remorse, except until when I realised I was being insincere to a lot of people, and to myself. Except when I realised that I was hiding behind lame ass excuses cover up for my attitude toward certain things, and negligence toward most others. I felt guilty, and I still carry that burden. Fortunately, I did not experience shame (a good thing I guess).
As I grew up, I started experiencing even more varied emotional responses for all the variety of situations that I found myself in. I also felt surprised that there were so many different words, and each of them meant different things to different people. Happiness, joy, ecstasy (I can’t say how popular culture sees it), sadness, ennui, and many such others. Headache, sometimes, and Siddharth Warrier, please help here. And then there was this intense feeling which made me questions certain choices I made. And I don’t mean choices in polls or in some fancy restaurant menu, or career choices. These were choices that defined me as an individual. These were choices which people who know me would remember me with. I could not express why I felt how I felt. This was a burden far heavier than guilt. And I took remedial measures. Can I call it atonement? I can’t until I am sure of what it means to me. I have been trying to be a better human being for quite some time now. I only wish people took note.
And here is where the something else kicks me. See, I am an extremely proud individual. And of the unfortunate few who still follow me (I am vain), and read me (I am vain), and know me (after all I have 450 friends on Facebook), you are right to question if this is the only thing I have to write about, and if this is the only thing about me as a person. Well, everyone is proud of who they are. And I mentioned that the fact that I am not ashamed is a good thing. And I have lived however many years I have in this super structure built of the sense of superiority about myself and derision towards everything else, guarded fiercely by this “feeling secure” myth. This is not a rehash of the last essay. But you see, this is important because very few people affect me. I am not someone with immense social skills. I am a active part of The Poetry Club, Mumbai, and yet I almost never find myself in conversation with any of the 30 odd people I see every month there. So Facebook lies. Of the few strangers I met, I burnt the bridges quite soon. I deeply regret. I feel contrite. I have made sincere efforts to change. But bridges once taken down are not easy to rebuild, and once I digress it is difficult to keep track. The thing is I have conditioned myself over all these years, just like Willy Loman did, to believe a few things which may or may not be accurate. I am satisfied with this. And I have a reputation to keep up. “Cocky loner”, you would think.
So whose opinion really matters, if at all? To me, everyone’s. I sat down writing this essay thinking about why opinions matters, and I am doing a very bad job. But for all I know, I can certainly claim to have been affected by any negative opinion about myself. Even if the rightful holder of that obnoxious opinion happens to be someone who I will not allow even a centimeter square of space in my life. Because opinions matter in private discourse. I don’t have an awesome reputation, but I don’t deserve an awful reputation either, when I most certainly am not an awful human being. People are judgmental, and I say this because I know myself. When I was sent to the principal’s office in school on account of indiscipline, he told me reputations take a lifetime to build, but a fraction of a second to be destroyed. I did not have much back then, but it stuck with me. You don’t know me, that’s how life is. Should you say good things about me? I will oppose this as vehemently as I would if someone did not know me said not so good things about me. The question of justice is fascinating. Popular dialogue says pronouncing a guilty not-guilty is bad, but even worse is pronouncing an innocent guilty. People have their reasons for it, and not without merit. The point is, prejudices are a direct consequence of opinions, opportunities are a direct consequence of opinions, and hearsay is a direct consequence of opinions. And after a point in time, it stops mattering who the rightful owner of the opinion is. I can grandly distance myself from these opinions, and claim to not be affected by them. I can very well say that the people who need to know me, and the people I need to know, know better. But we all know what happened with Caesar, Rome, Brutus, Antony, Brutus again, and Antony again. Perhaps Cinna the poet would be a better example. So while I can’t control opinions, I can’t control a lot of other things that go along with opinions as well. Atonement, case in point, to circle back to the the burden of contrition. Societies seldom have a clean conscience. Opinions are nothing more than trials, and when it goes against you, you don’t really expect reason to prevail. “Crane: Death or Exile”. “Commissioner Gordon: Death”. “Crane: Death it is, by exile”. I quoted this because, you know, I just wanted to. Also, Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
This is where the “feel secure” myth shatters, and the complex of superiority breaks. We as human being crave reassurance. Some find within themselves, some reach out to the society. A tug of war may never lead to progress, but reassurance and the feeling that you can come home eventually, does a lot in ensuring that you keep tugging at something in search of satisfaction. No one wants to battle a lost cause, which of course is as subjective as poetry is, but it makes sense to don the pragmatic hat at least once in a lifetime.
Conscience is a strong enough force to rattle the grandiose facade of the complex of superiority, and trust me, we don’t really need modular opinions in an ever shifting and shape-changing, make-believe castle that our lives are.
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