Portrait of A Young Man

He jumped in just as the train was moving off and sank into a corner-seat with an exhausted sigh, noting with pleasure that the sigh came off rather well. After having spent hours perfecting it, he now used it almost unconsciously. As a matter of fact it was getting to be quite as good as the sarcastic smile with the one eyebrow raised. Smiling, he lit a cigarette. His downward glance fell on his college file, and immediately his spirits rushed to the lower depths of his being–a place they often haunted. The essay was unfinished again, and he had really meant to do it well this time! The thought of Professor Dastur’s caustic remarks, and the contemptuous lower lip of the girl who shared the tutorial with him, made him slightly sick inside; but, after all, these were things of the passing moment. What really disgusted him was himself, for this was one more instance of his weak-mindedness. Again and again he would resolve to do something, and set out in all earnestness to carry out his resolutions. But an hour or two, at most a day or two, was all the concentration his system seemed capable of. Then his mind would wander off to other things; a new interest, a new resolution to whip up his enthusiasm again. And the net result was that he remained the same spineless, characterless nobody that he had always been!

I will never grow up, he thought with despair; how will I ever be mature and strong-minded if, even in little things, I cannot bring the dictates of my will to a satisfactory conclusion. And, when, oh! when will I be able to respect myself? I do not have any principles, he thought. That’s the real trouble–no principles, no faith and no beliefs. He would so much have liked to have a burning interest in something. He often pictured himself working through the night, absorbed in some obscure subject, coming alive to his surroundings with the first rays of dawn, only to refresh himself with coffee and go to his life-interest. He always included the coffee, or some equivalent, in all his noble dreams, for, without that earthy touch, the whole thing would have been too much in the realms of fancy to legitimately introduce himself into the picture. This particular picture was one of his favourites: the deep and serious young man, so different from his college-mates whose frivolous heads were alien to serious thought.

But, then there was another picture of himself: the broad-minded man-of-the-world whose central faith in life was experiencing everything that a human being was capable of experiencing, both intellectually and emotionally. He was a man of arts and a man of philosophy; outwardly he was reserved and cynical, but, in truth, he had a real love of humanity, and unobtrusively expressed it in his generosity towards, and tolerance of human frailties and idiosyncrasies. Carried away with himself he looked up with his “worldly-wise yet kindly” expression, and encountered the sophisticated and superior look of a lovely creature in a willowy saree, who had just entered the compartment. In his present self-confidence he bestowed his“benevolent and fatherly yet tinged-with-amusement” look on her veneer of sophistication, and, catching sight of himself in the mirror opposite, he realized with horror the idiotic expression his face was indulging in, and his spirits raced to rock-bottom, a place wherein normally lodged all unpleasant things. Here he encountered previous incidents when he had made a fool of himself. These were rapidly dismissed, for he could not face the waves of shame that swept over him at such recollection. However, occasional incidents brought him up short, and he had to go through each painful sequence before his masochistic self allowed him to pass on to the not-so-painful.

Like the time he had read a paper at the T...Historical Society. He was one of its youngest members, and, therefore, this was indeed a privilege. For days before, he had pictured himself holding the attention of a crowded room with his rare combination of youth and profundity, finally to have his paper declared the outstanding paper of the evening, by an audience captivated both in sentiment and intellect. He spent a certain amount of time and thought working on the paper, and felt he had done it justice; but reality and fancy had  got so confounded that he could no longer judge the merits of what he had written. And the picture of the event was as clearly imprinted on his mind as if it were a well-remembered past event rather than a hoped-for future development. The confidence he gained from this confusion resulted in keeping him calm and collected, so much so that even his surprised family gained faith in his mental prowess.

The meeting was well attended, apart from the fact that there was a good sprinkling of family and friends. His was the last of three papers, and he rose in turn, fully satisfied that the first two papers had been no more than mediocre. The nightmare began after the first few pages. Looking up at a pause, suddenly the crowded room and the bored faces became his only reality. Fancy fled him, and in a piercing vision of clarity he saw himself for what he was pitiable in his attempts to impress, exposing this mediocrity to the polite boredom that surrounded him. Since he could not immediately sink through the floor, he continued reading his paper, wishing to prolong it as long as possible, dreading the hypocritical appreciation that would inevitably follow. He had rather he was booed off the platform than face the sympathetic congratulations, with their implication that he was not clever enough to see through their obvious falsity. Heart-breaking shamefacedness enveloped the picture, and he shuddered at the recollection. Oh! what was the use? Whatever was the use?...He just did not have the intellect to do anything at all. At least one would have expected that lack of intellect would be compensated for by strength of emotion, or something. But he seemed to be barren all round. In any situation involving his emotions, whether it be love or anger or jealousy, he invariably had moments of clarity when he stepped outside himself and looked askance at the emotion of the moment. This, and the ensuing doubt, promptly set a brake on the emotion in question, and further attempts to accelerate it were seldom successful.

What if he was happy in his family and the comfortable life and good education they were able to give him, if he was nothing in himself but an empty shell, a hollow casement wherein the winds of civilization rushed through leaving no mark behind. That struck him as rather a nice turn of phrase! And looking round, he slowly surfaced at the sight of a vaguely passing station, to reflect on the fact that, now as before, he was indulging in his favourite game of day-dreaming and self-analysis coupled with self-pity. Casting about for some shred of self-respect to cling to, he found the usual answer in his genuine love of books. But what help are they, he continued to reflect, traversing along the familiar route and sinking into his reverie. All I seem to learn from books is cynicism and mistrust of myself. I observe such varied modes of thought and ways of life only to be an alien to them. It is like window-shopping, he thought. It only makes me more dissatisfied.

You are being stupid and pessimistic again, came up his other self, this continuous wallowing in self-pity. Make up your mind now and do something. Finish that article, and send it off. Just because they rejected the last one, it does not mean that this will be no good. And, anyhow, if you are going to be dejected by a few refusals of your attempts at establishing your self-respect, then you might as well jump off this train!...And glancing up, heavens! The scenery through the window was unfamiliar! Jerked into reality he looked around more definitely and realized he had gone past the station where he should have got off. Oh, God! he thought, hurriedly getting his things together for the next station. Not only do I not do what I have resolved to do but even the most elementary things seem to get out of hand for me.

All this thinking, thinking, thinking!…..He would really make up his mind! No more dawdling over day-dreams. Why, life would go by and he would not be a part of it! There would only be his castles in the air! Enough of this. From now on he would concentrate on doing: yes, that was it–doing. He would fill all his time with some activity, some concrete interest, something that would put him in line with the toil of generations of Man. That was the way to go about things. The only-way…..

And with a new buoyancy he stepped off the train as it slowed down, and crossed to the oppositeplatform to take a train to his new life!