Every life has a unique tale to tell.
It scripts itself as life meanders on—staggering in aspirations and desperations,
enamoured of passions and illusions, armed with name and fame, induced with dreams
and deeds, and inspired with wills and nerve—in wealth of ripening. Numerous
bends on its course—some meaningful, some memorable, some forgotten or some tragic—are
testimony of its conciliation with the circumstances for sake of securing own
existence. Yet, it presents a sheer bafflement in defining itself with an identity—an
identity that establishes, who is who, which is which and what is what, in the
mirror of the world around. It raises an awkward question, “Do I exist sans a
name?”
What is in a name? Even an elementary
scholar knows what Juliet expressed in her soliloquy. The name binds the bond,
tears apart too. But, does it deny the existence too. It raises my perplexity and
I carry it for so long.
Once I met a little girl and her
brother (I wrote about them a decade back on my blog too) who did not have any
name. Is life such meaningless that we presume that they don’t exist at all? Nameless
is not faceless, yet the story of a life seems suffered when it is exposed to social
scrutiny. But, is such an average assessment defines existence in life ?
In peaceful settings of Manderley,
second Mrs Winter didn’t have any name. She narrated the tale of her life—her dreams,
seclusion, haunting shadow of Rebecca, indifference of her husband—the killer
of his first wife, and gradual accession to confidence. All without name in the
entire novel.
Jane, an orphan raised at the home of
her aunt, when was asked by Mr. Rochester, “Am I hideous?”, replied affirmative
with certainty. She was the governess in his house, love him, he didn’t disclose
about his earlier marriage and it all surface when she was about to get married
with him. Rochester had a name and fame too. Yet, his real face is hidden. He
was still bearing a faceless identity before Jane, and with certainty. They got
married and the novel had a happy conclusion. Neither name nor fame nor its suppression
was a matter of rejection in life.
Meursault was enraged and brutally
killed the Arabian. The glimmers of the sun on the edges of his rapier
generated so much irritation that he couldn’t resist himself from such crime,
and without any future remorse. Was it the Sun, or the Arab man or the knife or
the hatred or the intent of crime to be blamed; or the namelessness of the Arabian?
The killer had a name and pride of race, but the Arabian didn’t. The novel of
Camus evolved around the life who was nameless native and justice was faceless.
The stranger remains a stranger so long life doesn’t attempt to know it. Knowledge
is, perhaps, also something which exists when known. Does life have similar existence?
I exist only when you know that I exist and get attributed by a name to be
known? My confusions have grown up with me since childhood.
Jeanne’s life unfurled itself in exploration
of delight in everything and died in disillusionment of its staleness. She tells
her life through the events of her life. Nothing more than that. Yet, the
existence retained itself without her professed identity in social mirror. She
spent her end days forsaken—the dreams dried, emotions died and prospects baffled.
In concluding sentence, she tells Rosalie, the maid and the mother of her
husband’s son, “The life, you see, Rosalie, is not so good or so bad, what
people think.’
Life, perhaps, is an impression. An
impression has complexity of explaining the truth and value. We run after it
without knowing, and leave it when experience. Our pride confines us only to
its grave.
