The narratives of progress and regress are mythological in character. Every spirit, every mind proposes his vision with utmost certainty as if no other alternative is equally true. This sense of certainty brings dogmatic scholarship, devoid of any possibility to attain objectivity and truth. The so called progressives treat history and mythology with contempts at the cost of nurturing his unconscious continuity of past and present. DNA is a living example of continuous evolution of genes. Language is another example which makes the society a continuous substratum, like a living organisms. What else could be said than the fact that all our relative knowledge in Buddhist term takes its shape in structure of time and space. Time is a scale of history, not necessarily making everything better, but it encompasses all the experiences ever experienced. A fragment of second is super-rich like a nucleus of atom. So called progressives vehemently react against the reality and lives in a superficial world of heaven crafted by a few ideologues, whose lives and practices were never in conformity with the theories they proposed to build a hyper-society of Engels. There is another alternative of progress proposed by moralists and culturalists. This model is all about living in a fictional world of history, whereas the river of milk was flowing without any scarcity. Modern culture has poisoned that river and has made every stream of water as stinking sewers. In dichotomy of bipolar narratives is there any possibly to visualise the freshness of Sunrise and droplets? Can there be a progress without getting associated with the mythology of dogmatic scholarships? Possibility is aways there. But every possibility also brings in its inception the negation of potentials.
पढ़ता हूँ हर एक दिन एक ही पन्ना, हर दिन हज़ार ये मालूम पड़ते हैं। जबसे होश संभाला है एक ही पन्ना सवांरते आया हूँ, लोग इसे ज़िन्दगी कहते हैं। इसपे लिखे हर एक लब्ज़ जो मेरे मालूम पड़ते हैं, ना जाने कितने जुबां पे चढ़े होंगे। आज हम भी कुछ पल के लिए ही सही इसके सारथी हैं, जाने से पहले कुछ रंग मेरा भी इसपे चढ़ जाए, बस इसीलिए एक ही पन्ना बार बार पलटता रहता हूँ। हर कोई अनजाने किताब की तलाश में बाहर निकलता है, जिसका हर एक पन्ना वो ख़ुद है। जब ख़ुद के रंग को समझ ही ना पाया, तो भला इंद्रधनुषी किताब के क्या मायने हैं? अस्तित्व में ना जाने कितने पन्ने बिखरे पड़े हैं, बस एक से ही अवगत हो जाऊँ, उसके हर एक शब्द को चुनता जाऊँ, कुछ पल के लिये सही, पिरोता जाऊँ एक माला ज़िन्दगी का।
Comments
Post a Comment