What is your value?

What is your value?

What is your achievement? When do you feel like an achiever? Is it when you have happiness? Or satisfaction? A sense of fulfilment? A sense of purpose? 

Why do you feel ecstatic  when a job is done? And anxious when another is not? Like a sinusoidal wave your elation and deflation ebb and flow. 

The medals on the chest, the stripes on the shoulders, the commendations over the pocket - do they represent accomplishment? For someone it is a Padma. For someone it is a Pulitzer. Someone covets a Nobel. Someone cherishes an Oscar. 

People want to approach a Dias to a thunderous applause. To get draped in a shawl and presented with a bouquet. To share their story and secret to longing ears and gaping mouths and expecting eyes. 

In school a pat on the back would fire you up. In the workplace a carrot would keep you moving. 

Name and fame would come as you would do jobs assigned to you. And credit would be shared and stolen. Appreciation and acknowledgement would shower on your head slower than the sweat of efforts trickling down from the body. But it would somehow suffice. Like gasping breaths of air for those marooned at sea.

How does it feel to hog the limelight and get fossilized on stone or paper? Thick piles of laminated certificates of yours are carefully ensconced in plastic sheet inserts in cushioned file folders. Cups and shields, garlands of ribbon with gold, silver and bronze plated disc pendants adorn a corner. Framed felicitations hang on the wall - lifetime achievement awards. 

Sometimes you are happy to have someone reaching out. Calling your name and asking, “How are you?” Sometimes they call only when in need and it is so boring. Sometimes they call to only give a task and it is so tiring. 

So what do you need after all ? Yes, we are social animals. We need some apes around us. To grin with us like a harvest of yellow teeth. To scratch like an orchestra of violinists. To peel bananas like a public feast. But why do we despair when we don’t get their company? Why do we detest them when they plot our fall, leak our secrets and leave us in the lurch? Why are we so held to ransom by their illusory attendance?

Nothing will remain dear forever. And no one will remain near forever. Finally, at the end of our lives, we all are going to be completely disillusioned. But how long are we going to take to realise this? How long do we need to crawl and cringe and creep like a caterpillar before we try to unfurl and flap the butterfly wings inside us? 

How many laurels, how many testimonials, how many ranks, how many medals, how much fame, how much limelight do we need to feel worthy in life?