There’s always a choice. Almost always, we all have one. Whether it is to call the truth the truth or to slip away by not saying anything at all. When a goal is clear, one is again faced with a choice. The easier, smoother paved road or the murkier, dusty winding road. Which one must we take? It is arguable but often stated, repeated and even quoted that the harder the path you choose to victory, the sweeter it will hold for you.
However, this is highly relative, subjective and all other words of diplomatic value. Isn’t it easier to drive to the hospital to see your sick child than to trod along? Isn’t it easier to donate a rupee to a beggar than to shoo him away? Isn’t the easier thing to do, perhaps the right thing to do. Just perhaps, maybe?
Hordes of argumentalists would advocate against me saying; I am confusing factual with abstract decision making and that my spectacles need a severe improvement because I am being severely narrow visioned.
Thus, allow me to take a broader example.
Let us suppose, I have been an artist all my life. I am to perform once again in front of an endearing crowd of hundreds. My song is a mighty crowd pleaser and I barely need to rehearse, but of-course, I am sincere. Hence, I do rehearse.
You, the producer of my show walk up to me and tell me, “Shake a leg, woman. The crowd loves you and would love to see you dance a little!” I smile outside and die within. I am no dancer.
However, I practice (since you hold my money). I practice straight for a month. I am nowhere close to Shakira. Hell, I am nowhere close to nobody. After a month long hard work, my act is still an imitation of the clown’s act from the town hall circus.
With my heels on, I trip on the day of my grand rehearsal. I control the chattering of my teeth and the sudden wimping of my legs. I think I am under prepared. You look at me from a distance signalling with a thumbs up! Are you one of those with blurry vision or easily charmed by an adult clown, I wonder.
I am quivering on the stage now. The curtains are just going to be drawn. And just when the spotlight falls on me; the glaring, blinding light; I forget the first step. What was it, I struggle under my puffed breath. The loud applause, the sheer noise in the audience; I feel like I am in a deep sleep. Unable to shake off the inertia of my rusted memory.
The microphones have been checked. 1,2,3,4; I see you now. You are staring at me. You wonder which ghost crept into me and when. You wonder how long I would stare back at you blankly. My cue has long passed. I have to either sing or start to dance. The crowd has gone silent now.
Yes! A hazy image fills up my mind. Oh yes! I have tap the left foot and swirl my waist. Oh yes, my heart; I feel it is smiling a little. I will dance and sing and shrug off the fear forever, I resolve.
I tap my left foot, it hurts my heel. That was probably a little hard, a little too hard; I think. The microphone tripod is under my foot now. I have set it in motion, I can see its perturbation in your eyes now. My microphone slips off the holder. Somehow I grasp it with my sweaty palm.
I am on my feet again. I stand firmly. I don’t swirl my waist. I do not move for the rest of the night. I sing, I sing with all my heart. I beat the chords I couldn’t strike with my unshakable voice. This becomes the best performance of my life. The crowd stands up. They love me.
I took the easier path, when it was the right thing to do. I look at you at the end of the show. You urge me to try again. I promise I will. But tonight I sleep well.
Spirited Poetess 