The Idealist Knows

Socho ke jheelon ka shehar ho
Lehron pe apna ek ghar ho

Hum jo dekhein sapne pyare
Sach hon saare bas aur kya

Farsh ho pyaar ka, khushbuon ki deewarein
Hum jahan baith ke prem se din guzaarein

Palkein uthein, palkein jhukein
Dekhe tujhe bas yeh nazar

Barf hi barf ho sardiyon ka ho mausam
Aag ke saamne hath senkte hon hum
Baithi rahoon aagosh mein
Rakh ke tere kandhe pe sar

– Sameer

The liberty to think novel, think big, think idealist is given to poets freely. We the ones who cannot “poet” open our mouth and hell breaks loose. All day, all night, the modern man sings songs, but put it in prose and all hell breaks loose. The idealist knows that what he wishes is an ideal, away from the world of what the world calls “practical”. Something somewhere, yet in every era everywhere, a Plato is born. The Plato knows, the world of hoes, yet in his mind he builds a castle. Plato is ridiculed for his idealist attitudes, yet the Plato knows, the world and its woes, he builds his ideal, in the world surreal.

Is not the ideal that drives us all? Did not Nietszche declare God’s fall? When the God falls, the man installs, in its place new walls. With God’s end, to what end does man fend? He abhors ideals, he creates idols, and worships them in cities and towns, amasses wealth in the godowns, uses this wealth to further his health, making his nation with planes and air-condition. He forgets stairs, he builds lifts, he thinks God is dead and there are no spirits. Yet to what end does he fend? In all his acts, the nature to which he reacts, he creates Plato’s world of ideals, a lift without friction, a fuel with perfection, no smoke no coke.

God knows why the idealist thinks, knowing the world and its jinx. Or is he a creature that it is his nature to nurture an idea of some distant future. A never to be knows the clever he. Of all the choices he rejoices in this one, and is not that what makes us human? To strive for the ideal, to find our earth a sun, for it can never have none. If the sun is gone, something else will surely dawn. Of all the mankind that is oreless in these waters, in tatters yet he shatters his way as one of its kind, toiling and turning, realizing his dream, because he knows no other way to live.

Is there any other way to live?

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