Literature that stands the test of time

''An idle mind is a devil's workshop''---- 

I don't have much trust on the word 'devil'. But I have experiences of the dirty ways of life. I have known lives that have been distracted in their journey--- lives that have gone astray.

Previously I used to think that laziness and inactivity are synonymous. But now I can see that it is quite possible for continuous physical activity and gross mental indolence to co-exist -- especially if physical labour is stricken by repetitive monotony.

Few days back, I learnt from a leading foreign journal, that excessive workaholism is gradually drawing the humans towards a sterile mind with unproductive thoughts. His creativity and enthusiasm are remarkably depleted. As a result , he fails to accept any transformation and thus, stumbles on his way.

These words are not new. Socrates warned us long before---- ''Beware of being excessively busy with your life--it gifts you an infertile mind''.

Now, the question is, can a lazy and idle mind create a literary masterpiece? 

As Tagore said,---''For a noble creation, you need leisure, and not idleness.''

Leisure doesn't mean extra time. Leisure means a time for respite, a time of one's own. One can waste that leisure doing good for nothing or may utilise it, to perform a noble deed.

When I say 'noble', I mean goodness from within. I do not mean being diplomatic or feigning ignorance. It is most dangerous if this 'nobility' is attributed to Godliness.

For me, good literature is one which does not have a harsh attitude towards the life of a common man---which does not conclude their story with an unhealthy and illiberal note.

Famous filmmaker Ritwik Ghatak used to say, --- ''Cine goers will watch your work in a closed, dark room for hours. They shouldn't return home with a negative and claustrophobic view towards life.''

Therefore, in the last scene of ''Meghe Dhaka Tara'', another Neeta fumbles with the torn strap of her slippers. In the end of the film, ''Jukti, Tokko Ar Goppo'', protagonist Ritwik exclaims, moments before he breathes his last--- ''Something has to be done''!!

An indolent mind cannot have faith in such positive thoughts. It can only indulge in sensuous appetite. Such a piece of literature cannot ascend to greatness, cannot stand the test of time, and drowns in its own negative tide.

The condition is such, as the rural idiom goes---''a quack can only make an ailing patient worse!''

While writing a literary piece, the two most commonly used words are 'tone' and 'mood'. Tone depicts the outlook of the writer, while mood depicts the perception of the reader, after reading the book. In majority of the cases, the mood depends on the tone in which the writer creates his composition. If the tone of the composer has an illiberal outlook, the demonstration of the composition is bound to be narrow minded.

It is easy to raise a storm in the tea cup, but it is difficultto keep a balance, on the whole.

A mean mind not only rejects great thoughts, but ridicules them in sarcastic merriment----- satisfying itself in self complacence, by humiliating them too. 

Small thinking makes a small faction, and nominates itself as the head of the group. A mean brain never criticises the members of his own faction, as he cannot control mass criticism. His excellence is limited to a narrow boundary, as a result of which, he considers any criticism to be a threat to his existence.

Therefore, he not only attacks his critics, but injures himself too. His ego is hurt. He offends himself, as he can feel the insignificance of his creation.

He feels that the sole purpose of his work was to entertain his audience, his readers ---- as if he felt no urge to express himself ---- as if he was not a bit delighted to reveal his thoughts by divulging a piece of his beautiful mind. 

In one moment, his complete literary attempt proves to be futile.

Thus, if one cannot rely on nobility, cannot have faith in generosity, he can get accolades temporarily from few weak hearted and shallow minded people, who cannot afford to think deeply, but, at the end of the day, the author returns to his own soul --- wretched, miserable, distressed. He genuinely feels like a loser.

It is a strange irony, that man can present himself humbly before the crowd, but cannot make a destitute of himself before his own eyes. He cannot lose his respect for his own self.

The humility of Vaishnav cult is not synonymous to the sense of inferiority. Otherwise, great Vaishnav literature wouldn't have been created. 

This sense of indignity is equivalent to death. It is devoid of the power of eloquence.

Anyone who writes a literary piece with tremendous negative impact on human mind, believes that he has created something great. So the question of inferiority doesn't arise at all.

His selfish ego compels him to boast of his achievement in vain, and he keeps this self satisfaction very personal. A typical cynic, too, is proud of his cynicism. He fails to realise that if he cannot establish himself successfully in this feeling of self significance, his efforts do not earn any credibility.

A selfish, narrow minded individual keeps his noble realisation to himself, while a generous individual liberates his thoughts among all, shares his knowledge with everyone, and wants them to taste his feelings. 

He knows that truth cannot be restrained within the narrow boundary of time and space ---- only a shadow of truth can be found therein. A shadow is limited to a particular area, and it's demarcation depends on the hindrance that created it. 

But, light has no bounds --- the joy of light is in revelation and expansion.

Likewise, a great literary creation can never be bound within the territory of time, space or a specific country.

There has to be a mutual understanding between humanity and the eternal doctrine of life --- otherwise every feeling will be momentary.

So much spoken about a lazy and indolent mind, let me now speak of an hyperactive brain. Overactivity exists within a very small extent. Sound amplifies in a small room, not in an open field. The same is almost inaudible on a vast sea shore.

While our mundane moments, spent in callous indifference, in some luxurious resort on the shores of the ocean of life, we forget, that one day, we have to face the sea. We have to come in terms with ourselves. We have to compromise, by hook, or by crook.

All our feigned creations, with their ugly decor will lie unmasked on the coast -- colours all faded, and designs all mutilated.

Some day, I might not exist, but my disgraced creation, with all it's deception, will remain---- an object of ridicule and derision, among generations to come.

Translated By: Sukanya Bandyopadhyay

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