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The Enigma Of Brevity

By Deepa Shah November 12, 2008 at 1:22 PM

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In spring, the ladybirds emerge in countless numbers only to end as ignominious smears on the asphalt after the briefest of life-spans. Butterflies flutter past, their beauty cameoed in evanescence. Flowers bloom and fade. This is what nature ordained.

But brevity hallows the sparkle in the heart of the raindrop, renders sublime the rainbow etched over the somber clouds. The violets are admirable because they wilt readily within their collar of leaves.

Wistfully we discuss what happened a 100 years ago - when we weren't there; we wax eloquent over what will transpire in the next 100 years - when we won't be. The present is so palpable, so real, that it excludes the concept of our own non-existence. But, subconsciously, we know that we all have to halt at a pre-destined point. Our 50, 60, 90 years are insignificant when pitted against the thousands, millions and aeons, which make up the mathematical grid of this universe.

If we try to personify brevity, we can visualize it as a mirage - here one moment and gone the next, restless, changing and never the same. Deluding, charming, frightening.

Brevity is intrinsic to everything.

Everything in life is marked or characterized by brevity. Childhood passes, youth is short-lived. Joys don't last; sorrows too fade away. The thrust of time is relentless. It punctuates life, arranges it into short paragraphs. Uniformity is tedious. We all concur that it is better to cease with dignity than drag on ignominiously.

Brevity cradles all. Eternity is a myth. Intense relations are prone to break-ups. Love and friendships inevitably die or lose their original fervor. Pure joy, if prolonged, is tainted by ennui. Youth is elusive - gone before you really appreciate it. Night is tolerable because it is not interminable; daylight is precious because it will fade away.

There is sadness too in brevity. What we love, strive for, or treasure is sometimes wrenched away from us. A child dies, opportunity does not reach fruition because of illness or other circumstance, dreams never emerge from under the eyelids. Time flows past, terminating, changing the course of events, transforming them beyond recognition. It is depressing, makes one want to throw in the towel sometimes or conversely to carry on despite the odds. This is the other face of brevity. It can inspire strength. A terminally ill person, who knows he is slipping away, injects new quality into his life. Brevity spurs him on, brings out the hero in him.

Though time is continuous, paradoxically, it is apportioned piecemeal to every living person or object or process. Within the framework of time, there is constant flux and nothing remains the same. Every spring that returns puts out a cache of new verdure. We know we have to make the most of life, of everything, before it marches its inevitable way.

Sadly, such is the enigma of brevity, that often this wisdom comes only with hindsight when all is lost or has passed away.

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