Life &Sprituality Entropy | 17 Jul 2008
From both sides of humility
This is an eloquent piece by indian columnist Mukul Sharma, whose writing I have always, found to be meditative and thought provoking.
The opening lines from T S Elliot’s The Waste Land comprise, arguably, one of the best lyrical passages in English literature: April is the cruellest month, breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/ Memory and desire, stirring/ Dull roots with spring rain. In a burst of allegory the poet reconditions our notion of what is usually taken to be the normal fertile cycle of growth and imbues it with a symbolic mood and metaphor associated uniquely with the process. But then poetry has always been a way of looking at things using language for its aesthetic and evocative qualities rather than — or in addition to — its ostensible meaning. The best poets literally exult in their interpretation of such events.
A plant biologist, on the other hand, would look upon spring as a harbinger of the regenerative period for vegetation. This, he or she would maintain, was the result of the given overall climatic conditions and the influence of local weather systems that cause clouds to precipitate, the weather to warm up and the soil to become more conducive for the rejuvenation of roots.
If we think that, in comparison, such an account is sterile and pedestrian since it fails to evoke inspired impressions, we would be wrong. Some of the finest botanists also exult as equally in their interpretation of such events as their elegiac cousins. To them the chemistry of a seed is as grand and compelling as its mystery.
It’s what made Einstein say: “What I see in Nature is a magnificent structure that we can comprehend only very imperfectly, and that must fill a thinking person with a feeling of humility.” The expression of this humility may be scientific, artistic, mythic or mystic but to lack in that feeling of inner transcendence is not only a loss to the person concerned but often dangerous to those around. And which is why it doesn’t take either an atheist or a believer to wreak havoc on others and the environment.
Later in the same poem T S Elliot goes on to describe such a world — the “waste land” as he called it. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/ Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,/ You cannot say, or guess, for you know only/ A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,/ And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,/ And the dry stone no sound of water. No wonder then that without humility the fabric of existence becomes arid and suffering is the result.
© Mukul Sharma