”I feel a very unusual sensation, if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude.” Well, Benjamin Disraelli did not say this laughingly. We are so busy complaining, about our socks not matching, that we completely forget that our feet are warm. Our capacity for taking things for granted is infinite. Whining and grumbling through life, moaning and bleating like sacrificial lambs, we turn the proverbial blind eye, to the huge reservoir of blessings, that daily floods our lives. Pleading to the lord, to fill up our Christmas stockings, we conveniently forget, that he has filled our stockings with legs. The ability to walk, run and skip, on our own two feet, is a blessing we take for granted.
It is so easy, to make a fuss and complain, about the excess salt, that your mother or wife accidently put in your stew. While it is almost a herculean task, to smile and tell her, that the cauliflower was spectacular and lip smacking. Protesting, complaining and kicking up a storm, is second nature to most of us. The choral sound of deprecating another’s efforts is a norm, whereas being man enough, to utter two measly words of praise and gratitude are rocket science. You could be splendid at your work or creativity, but if you are not a grateful, human, then you have missed the whole meaning of life.
Whimpering like a wounded puppy, or snivelling like the tiny tot, on her first day at school, is hardly the stuff dreams are made of.
Dreams are made of a profoundly grateful heart that brims over with joyful indebtedness and gracious obligation, for the myriad blessings strewn in our path, every living day.
The lady, who leaves her son, ill in her house, to come and wash your dirty dishes, the father who checks on your robust health, while he deals with impaired hearing, the friend, who worries herself insane, as you were not seen for a while, the internet that is like your bosom pal, the tree outside your window, that unfailingly whispers sweet nothings, the jasmine that has been perfuming your life subtly, the shoes that comfort your aching feet, the luscious pear that you just bit into, the heavenly sight of the mountains, that you are lucky enough, to be born to see. Ah, are they insignificant?
These miniscule packets of bounty are the dynamite, the uranium, the plutonium of your, nuclear- war fearing, miserable existence. Therefore, let us rejoice, for the bed that we crash onto, could well have been the cold floor on a wintry night or the hot desert sand on a scorching afternoon. Beecher was right when he said that ”gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from our soul.” ‘tum kis liye chaunke ho, kab zikr tumhaara hai ? kab tumse takaaza hai, kab tumse shikaayat hai ? ek taaza hikaayat hai, sun lo toh inaayat hai ”
Lily Swarn is an internationally acclaimed poet, novelist, and essayist, author of 10 books. She is the 2023-24 International Beat Poet Laureate India and a Peace and Humanity ambassador. She can be reached at sukhish83@gmail.com.
