Mysteries, yes

I was floating recently. Suspended in time on a houseboat somewhere in the backwaters of Kerala. 

The sun was taking a nap behind cotton-ball clouds and the blue sky enveloped us like a vast and infinite umbrella. Gentle waters lapped the sides of the boat and swaying banana trees adorned the banks. The occasional eagle circled overhead and the aroma of fried fish wafted up from the dingy kitchen below. I was reading a book. 

Lazily flipping through pages, dipping in and out of reality, pausing to feel the wind on my face and marvel at the picturesque beauty around me.

It was one of those moments that words can’t reach.

I knew the bubble would break (because it always does), and the infinite list of things to do and places to be will come back to haunt me. But I wanted to stay for longer. I wanted to stretch the moment. To hold and examine and translate it. I wanted to name and define the feeling I was feeling. The feeling of a long exhale. And then a pause. 

Water and sky. 

I have often asked myself whether I have what it takes to design a life around that feeling. A life devoted to chasing wonder. 

Could I live on a boat for more than a day? Let go of the city with all its conveniences and comforts. Forgo my place in the rat race. Switch my phone off for hours at a stretch. Make peace with being left out, left behind, left alone. Live quietly, slowly and deliberately- taking only what I need from the world and giving back tenfold. Relinquishing the desire for validation, social capital and also literal capital. (No legacy or fame or glory for me, thank you very much.)

Could I learn to survive in the wild? Learn to sleep under the stars? Go hiking or camping or swimming in uncharted waters? Romanticise life without putting it up on Instagram? 

Probably not, if I’m being honest. As badly as I want to, I don’t think a life in the woods would suit me (I bet Thoreau didn’t have a 6 step skincare routine to maintain, so he wouldn’t understand.) And the more I think about it, the more I realize that I can “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life” right here in this stinky overpopulated city (no offence to Thoreau once again). 

It’s definitely harder to find any semblance of magic without open skies, blue waters and the blissful luxury of uninterrupted, guilt-free time, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Even amidst these stupidly loud streets with their awful smells and smokes, while balancing expectations, running errands and meeting deadlines- I’ve managed to have a few moments that words really couldn’t reach. Moments of pure wonder and awe and magic. Tucked away in twinkling city lights and two cups of tea. In concerts and coffee shops. In warm conversations with taxi drivers. On the floor of empty trains with the right playlist. In spicy vada pavs and cold lemonades. In scientific facts and romantic poetry. In art and literature. Churches and mosques. Books and movies.

I was planning to make this a short blog post comprising of my opinions and absolutely zero research. But then (propelled forward by wonder itself), I decided to google academic articles about the feeling of wonder. And now unfortunately for everyone- I will be doubling the size of this because I am helplessly compelled to share what I read. 

From Socrates to Richard Dawkins, every philosopher, scientist, artist or thinker (and their brother-in-law) seems to have had something to say about wonder. Socrates saw it as the basis for philosophy and thus life and Descartes, in a similar vein, saw it as the basis of all scientific enquiry and investigative thought. On the other hand, Francis Bacon (as is expected of him) thought wonder was “broken knowledge” that only science could “cure”.

Dacher Keltner, a professor of psychology at UC Berkeley found that awe makes people feel physically smaller than they are. This helps us feel less alone like we are a part of something bigger, and that life has meaning after all. It’s why we like to stare at vast expanses of water or pray in huge churches. It’s why in ZNMD, it takes swimming in deep oceans and falling through the sky for our three characters to gain perspective. 

Adam Smith, the guy responsible for capitalism (gross), had quite a lovely definition of wonder. He said it arises “when something quite new and singular is presented… [and] memory cannot, from all its stores, cast up any image that nearly resembles this strange appearance.” Research has found that when we encounter something more vast or complex, or mind-blowing than we had conceived of in the past,  it causes “little earthquakes in the mind” (I am absolutely in love with this phrase) that can literally change how we view the world and ourselves. Research also found that awe-prone people experience less stress, and less inflammatory cytokines, and overall just live happier and healthier lives. And on top of that, there are studies that prove that experiencing awe makes people more curious, creative and compassionate because “awe leads people to feel more connected with others and identify with more universal categories such as “a person” or “inhabitant of earth,” as opposed to more individualistic, limited ones.” 

Lately, I’ve been heavily influenced by the poetry of Mary Oliver (which is weird because I’m not usually into poetry) and it’s made me think about where the feeling of wonder really originates. I’ve always believed it’s something I need to seek out, something that needs an external stimulus (like a profoundly beautiful view) in order to exist. But I’ve come to realize that wonder is not sought, it’s cultivated from within. It’s a lens through which the world looks different and it’s always at my disposal even when the choice to use it is not obvious to me. 

Farhan Akhtar literally says it in Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara (yes, I did recently rewatch this movie in case it wasn’t evident), “…aankhon mein hairaniyan leke chal rahe ho, toh zinda ho tum” (If you carry surprise in your eyes, then you are alive). The “hairaniyan” (surprise/wonder/awe) is inside your eyes. It’s in you. We all need some help to get in touch with it– which is why we travel and read and pay money to enter museums, but the feeling of wonder ultimately doesn’t come from the outside at all. It has always been right there inside you, waiting for you to wake up and see it.  

I will leave you with a Mary Oliver poem called Mysteries, yes that I think about very often.

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

 to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the

mouths of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever

in allegiance with gravity

while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds will

never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the

scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say

“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.