Books were my friends from the time I could read, and they have stayed with me ever since.
It was somewhere in my teen years that I met 'The Old Man and the Sea'. Maybe forty-odd summers have passed, and I don't remember what impressions it left upon me then. But leave it surely did, because this was one book I recommended to many others, and this was a friend I always wanted to meet again.
It is said that the great books are best read once when the canvas of a young mind is spread out vast and open and the wise ones can spin dreams and show the paths of hope and grace, and once again when mind and body have taken their fair share of buffeting and battering and faith has been shaken and reaffirmed a million times.
This August, I met 'The Old Man and the Sea' again.
I bought it from an old friend in an old bookshop in our little old town of Nainital. I bought it for our children who are growing up the way they should. I was curious to know why I wanted them to read it so, so I read it myself before I packed it in Jashan's bag as she went off to university again.
It is a book of life. Mr Hemingway has left the world of readers a priceless gift. Reading it again after two score years was like meeting a dear companion who had grown with me and understood every hope, disappointment, hazard and victory that I had ever seen. Like he would understand the hollow feeling in my stomach.
In the Old Man we have a being who has experienced life and understood existence. He is one with the sea, with its every eddy and current, with the breezes and the winds and all the moods and forces of the weather, with the sun and the stars, with all the creatures who live in the water or fly over it. He understands their need, he appreciates their efforts, he heeds their warnings. He understands his own needs.
There is not a word of frustration, rancour, or clinging, in the whole story; only a profound understanding. There is empathy with the water, the wind, the boat, the fish. There is respect and love for the very fish that has been hooked. There is wonder and admiration for its strength and gracefulness.
It is a story of living the moment. Living life in the moment. Not chafing against what it throws at one, not complaining or rebelling or finding excuses to be weak.
It is a book of wisdom and strength, of calloused hands and aching back. It is a book of resilience and endurance. It is a book of belief, of faith, of knowing, of being.
It is a tale that carries one beyond victory and defeat, away from guilt and blame, far from the road to worry and despair.
As night falls, it is a ballad of knowing that the sharks will come again, and again, and there is no way that the Old Man can beat them all, and yet knowing that he will fight them with his last bit of strength, and then more. For it is the lot of sharks to bully and grab, and the destiny of the Old Man to fight them when he must and then carry on much farther, to where they cannot yet even think of.
It is the story of life and of actually living it. It is a tale of love and strength and hope for those who toil.
It is a superb fishing tale, and I am reminded of One who told His followers, 'I will make you fishers of men.'
When the Old Man drops into deep slumber in his shack after his travails, he has already left it all behind, and is soon immersed in his favourite dream of lions on a beach.
And the boy who loves him so decides to be with him always, because there is so much yet to be learnt.
I understand that many a shark must die before the old men reach the harbour, many an oar must break. I understand that many a breeze is yet to be smelled, and many a sea to be sailed.
Yes, there is much remaining to be learnt. And I know that when the time comes, the lions shall play on the beaches. Ernst has told me so.
It was somewhere in my teen years that I met 'The Old Man and the Sea'. Maybe forty-odd summers have passed, and I don't remember what impressions it left upon me then. But leave it surely did, because this was one book I recommended to many others, and this was a friend I always wanted to meet again.
It is said that the great books are best read once when the canvas of a young mind is spread out vast and open and the wise ones can spin dreams and show the paths of hope and grace, and once again when mind and body have taken their fair share of buffeting and battering and faith has been shaken and reaffirmed a million times.
This August, I met 'The Old Man and the Sea' again.
I bought it from an old friend in an old bookshop in our little old town of Nainital. I bought it for our children who are growing up the way they should. I was curious to know why I wanted them to read it so, so I read it myself before I packed it in Jashan's bag as she went off to university again.
It is a book of life. Mr Hemingway has left the world of readers a priceless gift. Reading it again after two score years was like meeting a dear companion who had grown with me and understood every hope, disappointment, hazard and victory that I had ever seen. Like he would understand the hollow feeling in my stomach.
In the Old Man we have a being who has experienced life and understood existence. He is one with the sea, with its every eddy and current, with the breezes and the winds and all the moods and forces of the weather, with the sun and the stars, with all the creatures who live in the water or fly over it. He understands their need, he appreciates their efforts, he heeds their warnings. He understands his own needs.
There is not a word of frustration, rancour, or clinging, in the whole story; only a profound understanding. There is empathy with the water, the wind, the boat, the fish. There is respect and love for the very fish that has been hooked. There is wonder and admiration for its strength and gracefulness.
It is a story of living the moment. Living life in the moment. Not chafing against what it throws at one, not complaining or rebelling or finding excuses to be weak.
It is a book of wisdom and strength, of calloused hands and aching back. It is a book of resilience and endurance. It is a book of belief, of faith, of knowing, of being.
It is a tale that carries one beyond victory and defeat, away from guilt and blame, far from the road to worry and despair.
As night falls, it is a ballad of knowing that the sharks will come again, and again, and there is no way that the Old Man can beat them all, and yet knowing that he will fight them with his last bit of strength, and then more. For it is the lot of sharks to bully and grab, and the destiny of the Old Man to fight them when he must and then carry on much farther, to where they cannot yet even think of.
It is the story of life and of actually living it. It is a tale of love and strength and hope for those who toil.
It is a superb fishing tale, and I am reminded of One who told His followers, 'I will make you fishers of men.'
When the Old Man drops into deep slumber in his shack after his travails, he has already left it all behind, and is soon immersed in his favourite dream of lions on a beach.
And the boy who loves him so decides to be with him always, because there is so much yet to be learnt.
I understand that many a shark must die before the old men reach the harbour, many an oar must break. I understand that many a breeze is yet to be smelled, and many a sea to be sailed.
Yes, there is much remaining to be learnt. And I know that when the time comes, the lions shall play on the beaches. Ernst has told me so.
