Thoughts while waiting in a temple queue.
People from all walks of life are around me, with their own stories and problems in their hearts, the most heart wrenching of complaints and the most miraculous of wishes can be found in this room. Among all this gravity, children run and play. I used to be like them once, this open hall with adults as dynamic obstacles would be the board for countless new games. This temple on a hill in Pennsylvania, though thousands of miles away from the homes of the people who stand here right now, is no different than any other temple in place and time.
And then my gaze goes over the idols, the decorations, the ritual and every step it contains within as the coordinated acts of worship, the chanting, the music, the symbols and everything that makes a religion what it is. Someone must have created it at some point – it was surely conceived by the imagination of a highly creative individual of the time, an imagination cleansing itself of the pride to praising something greater than itself. And now thousands of years later, people do this, parts of it but in a similar spirit – names and titles and facts have faded but there is still a link I see in this moment. What is all religion and tradition but a way to honor the art of one’s ancestors? And, can art even exist without them?
Today, I see the beauty in the lifeless carved rock. There is a lump in my throat, I feel insignificant in front of that unknown sculptor’s patience and belief in something so abstract – that it cuts through time and space and sweeps away my entire existence, something which I have comfortably rationalized to myself even when it stands on a weak and often faltering foundation. This is the truth of the greater abstract within which my lie of a little existence lies.
The crowd’s warmth was too overwhelming for the poor air conditioning unit which was sweating and gasping with struggle in its own unique mechanical way. Everyone and everything felt on the edge and ready to break. It is simply amazing how even the slightest unexpected increase in footfall on a particular day can make private banks turn into old government offices. In the chaos, my wait took my gaze to something which is so commonly found in such environments and hence is as quickly neglected. It was either boredom or the lack of sleep which brought me to this conclusion but sitting there in the foyer of that bank I realized that plastic plants are the one true symbol of corporatism.
Think about it, what else holds better characteristics than this object which stands silently in boardrooms, desks and waiting areas across the world. Here, even the shadow below this artificial plant stays stagnant because the fluorescent light above its head won’t let it go anywhere. The light itself has a duty to ensure that there is nothing such as a night or day within these walls which can hinder the flow of shifts and capital. Don’t the businesses wish for employees like this plant – always present, looking and feeling human yet requiring negligible upkeep? Don’t the employees too not wish for a similar life like this plant’s – no need for self improvement because of a secure stagnation, no effort in a comfort zone without disturbance, challenges or growth but a rare cleanup just enough to brush off the dust. Is it not sad that these plants are manufactured and brought in specially inside buildings to mellow down the artificiality that is bursting through every corner and surface?
Pretending in this way that things are alive in the heart of the corporate machinery is the moment when we must stop and re-analyse our lives and histories among all the other things we have done in the name of progress.