If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!
Those are some of the lines from the poem If by Rudyard Kipling. I read those lines on the plaque hanging exactly at the same spot on the corridor wall of the school I had studied at. Last I visited my birth place was in 1998, I was back after more than a decade. To my astonishment, the most beautiful place in the world, the terror torn valley of Kashmir, had nothing but gloom written all over. But as I stepped out of the school in the sea of dejected people, I could slightly decipher a few cheerful faces, a few pairs of shiny eyes with glimmer of hope, a few innocent children amongst the hardened crowd.
In spite of the desperation all around, there were traces of the emergent indomitable human spirit. In the country-side, at a place called Sopore, famous for its willows used for making cricket bats, I saw the most expensive hut in the world. It was made of willow. Under volley of firing from the militants and the military, the original house had been reduced to ashes. With the house, were gone all the occupants, but for the two small children and their grandfather. The old man was heart-broken at the loss, his wife, his sons and their wives, he had lost all of them. He had no urge to live on. What was he still alive for? Then he looked at the two vulnerable grandchildren and realised he had a burden to shoulder. He had a responsibility to take.
He was advised to take refuge at the make-shift camps run by the government and other aid agencies. Rather than flowing with the developments, he took upon himself to ensure that the children get a better life than of those at the camps. With the winter setting in, he did not have the time to raise funds for making a new house. So, he had a large portion of his plantation willow trees cut down and he built a hut from those willows.
Haji Abdul Karim, recalled ‘I wanted these children to believe that they had a future and I wanted to assure myself that there was no past.’ He was glad he took charge. And he was very proud that he had refused to be at the mercy of the situation.
As we grow up, we realise that we may not be able to overcome the grief of some loss, but we can always find solace in creating something new.
I am reminded of another such person who refused to accept anything at face value, be it the verdict of destiny itself. William Ernest Henley, born 1849 in England, was detected with TB of the bone and had his left leg amputated at the age of 12. He spent a larger part of his youth in hospitals fighting the disease and trying to save his other leg. He lost the struggle with destiny and his right foot was amputated when he was 26. He went on to live for another 26 years, suffering from the horrible painful disease. He was destined to be an amputee, yet he chose to fight. He lived in constant pain, but refused to succumb.
Henley’s free-verse impressionistic poems about hospital life established his poetic reputation. His involvement in literature saw him become the editor of the Scots Observer, which under him was rechristened as the famous National Observer. He has been credited with printing the initial works of exceptionally talented individuals and introducing them to the world, such as, Thomas Hardy, H G Wells, George Bernard Shaw, James M Barrie and Rudyard Kripling.
His most famous poem titled Invictus, which is Latin for Invincible, was written from the hospital bed when he had his other leg amputated and was recovering to be released after a few more depressing months.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
We never know what is in store for us, so let destiny play its cards. A good hand, enjoy every moment of it. A bad hand, go on, build your character. Who knows, we may have an ace up our sleeves.
The question is, do you believe that no matter how destiny treats you, the ultimate responsibility of shaping your fate lies with you? Those of you who do, may I ask you to please stand up and join me in reminding ourselves and renewing the oath that we are the masters of our fates, we are the captains of our souls?
I leave you with the prayer that whatever be the times, good or bad, may we be granted the wisdom to know what limitations destiny has drawn and what is left open for us to shape, the serenity to accept the things we can’t change and the strength to shape the things we can.
William Ernest Henley
|
Born |
23 August 1849 Gloucester, England |
|
Died |
11 July 1903 (aged 53) |
| Poet, critic and editor | |
| English | |
|
Education |
The Crypt School, Gloucester |
|
Writing period |
c. 1870–1903 |
|
Notable work(s) |
A Book of Verses (1888) |
