Someone posted a comment asking for my profession, and guess what, it got me thinking...
Ok, it's been three days from the first sentence to this one. No, no, I've not been meditating all this while, just been too damn busy, work and otherwise. But here I am now, with a moment to spare and a thought or two swirling in the head. So let's get to my profession.
Can I classify myself as having a singular profession? Is my profession the job I do? Or does my profession go deeper into my belief system?
Would I call XYZ my profession? Afterall I graduated in XYZ, have been working in the XYZ industry for the last 5 years or so, and most of my friends are working in the same field. So I guess as a working professional, yes XYZ can be termed as my "field", but not profession. Profession would be variations within the realm of XYZ, or not...
Now let's dig a little deeper. As defined by Word Web profession means:
Noun : Profession
1. The body of people in a learned occupation
2. An occupation requiring special education (especially in the liberal arts or
sciences)
3. An open avowal (true or false) of some belief or opinion
"a profession of disagreement"
4. Affirmation of acceptance of some religion or faith
"a profession of Christianity"
As far as 1. goes, I can't really identify myself with any singular body of people. I've always been bad belonging to any specific community. To cut a long (and tedious) story short, let's just say, there usually are numerous disagreements, at the grass root level. So as per 1. I have no profession, and the way things stand I won't in the near (or distant) future.
As for 2. one way to look at it would be how I linked myself to XYZ, but that's a loose linkage isn't it. I mean can we call it special education in the Doom generation. As far as special education is concerned, I remember taking special sex-ed classes which were mandatory in our elementary school. So does that make me a professional sex maniac? I certanily hope not! So this definition can only result in inaccurate interpretations...hence...move on.
Coming to 3. now. Well I am quite often described as having a big mouth, so I keep finding myself in situations where I am strongly professing some belief or opinion. Anti-religious-blindness, Pro-movies, etc etc. I guess when I believe in something I believe in it quite strongly. But this way I'd have as many professions as problems in life. Dare we start counting? Perhaps not!
Alright, at 4. finally and this is the last one. I am simply not able to accept in totality any religion or faith, try as I may...But again loosely binding ourselves to this definition, I would classify myself in the "profession of Islam". But again an Islam which wouldn't conclude in the ending of lives at some point of conflict, so I guess I'm outta there as well.
So my friend, whoever you are, do you understand why I say when I say that I have no real profession, and please do not take offence if I say that neither do you, or anyone else. For simply put, such hard and discrete boundries do not gel well with such a malleable and analog concept of life.
Next time then...
P.S. Started my MS yesterday, and it was very wierd being in a classroom after a hiatus of about 5 years. So let's see where we end up this time...I guess the fun (as always) lies in the journey...
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard...
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; apart from that it was the perfect Islamabad day. I’ve always maintained that this little city of ours is at its zenith right after it has rained, when the thick cover of clouds is still sheltering the land from the sun. Well it was just that sort of a day. An assortment of all kinds of clouds meteorologists know of hovered above the ground, moving around lazily, enjoying the soft breeze that smelled of all things green and alive. Do you know that the human eye can identify more shades of green than any other color? Well it was all those shades of green at display, every shade working its way into the soul, through the eyes, adding to the calm of existence.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; the cars moved about making that noise that they make when the roads are still wet and sparkling. People on motorbikes and cycles, and all the pedestrians hurried home, or wherever their short journeys took them, trying to outrun the downpour. People in cars drove slowly, as if trying to delay the getting home bit, and just moved about slowly, harmoniously, taking in the sweetness of a cool day in an otherwise smoldering month of August. Life progressed in sync with the rhythmic ticking of the clock, both biological and planetary. I guess it would never go out of sync from that rhythm, for its destiny would always be there to ensure that.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; the progression was filled with the usual attendance of the mixed assortment of the residents of the capital city. Cars, big and small, new and old, all came to a stop, and people of the same description popped out. Some were bleak, others chatted happily, passing a comment here and there about how lovely the weather was. Some mourners looked as if they wanted to be buried in the grave with the soul departed, others just cursed their luck for having to walk in the mud to the grave just after it had stopped pouring. All the usual rituals were carried out, everyone gave a piece of their mind, and somehow it was all said and done without any serious outburst.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; I got to thinking that this could so much be my burial ceremony. I would expect the same mix of people. There would be those who would feel a great sense of loss at my departure, those who’d think of me that particular day and then move on with their lives to forget me forever, and those that would come just because they thought that I would have come to their burial as well. The same sense of chaotic reflections would drive my body to the grave, and then, like magic it would all be over. Slowly people would move out and head wherever their minds would take them. Perhaps someone would stay back at my grave after everyone would walk away. Perhaps speak a few words to me personally, and then walk away. Eventually they would all resume moving at the speed of life.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; there was this sense of doom in a particular home. Life ended for a select few along with the deceased. Life also went on for the same select few, with just some minor adjustments and one major adjustment. People paid their respects in whatever manner they deemed most appropriate. Quite a few eyes rained monsoon, many noses were blown, numerous footings were lost, and lots of hugs were disbursed. Somewhere in that mix, sighs of relief were also released. Somehow food was also arranged and a meal worthy of being a wedding dinner was had. Stories consisting of fond memories were told, many true, and many made up. Many felt it their duty to help out, to be there. A great sense of commitment was felt, which would, in most cases be forgotten with the tides of time.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; I wanted it to be me…
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; the cars moved about making that noise that they make when the roads are still wet and sparkling. People on motorbikes and cycles, and all the pedestrians hurried home, or wherever their short journeys took them, trying to outrun the downpour. People in cars drove slowly, as if trying to delay the getting home bit, and just moved about slowly, harmoniously, taking in the sweetness of a cool day in an otherwise smoldering month of August. Life progressed in sync with the rhythmic ticking of the clock, both biological and planetary. I guess it would never go out of sync from that rhythm, for its destiny would always be there to ensure that.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; the progression was filled with the usual attendance of the mixed assortment of the residents of the capital city. Cars, big and small, new and old, all came to a stop, and people of the same description popped out. Some were bleak, others chatted happily, passing a comment here and there about how lovely the weather was. Some mourners looked as if they wanted to be buried in the grave with the soul departed, others just cursed their luck for having to walk in the mud to the grave just after it had stopped pouring. All the usual rituals were carried out, everyone gave a piece of their mind, and somehow it was all said and done without any serious outburst.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; I got to thinking that this could so much be my burial ceremony. I would expect the same mix of people. There would be those who would feel a great sense of loss at my departure, those who’d think of me that particular day and then move on with their lives to forget me forever, and those that would come just because they thought that I would have come to their burial as well. The same sense of chaotic reflections would drive my body to the grave, and then, like magic it would all be over. Slowly people would move out and head wherever their minds would take them. Perhaps someone would stay back at my grave after everyone would walk away. Perhaps speak a few words to me personally, and then walk away. Eventually they would all resume moving at the speed of life.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; there was this sense of doom in a particular home. Life ended for a select few along with the deceased. Life also went on for the same select few, with just some minor adjustments and one major adjustment. People paid their respects in whatever manner they deemed most appropriate. Quite a few eyes rained monsoon, many noses were blown, numerous footings were lost, and lots of hugs were disbursed. Somewhere in that mix, sighs of relief were also released. Somehow food was also arranged and a meal worthy of being a wedding dinner was had. Stories consisting of fond memories were told, many true, and many made up. Many felt it their duty to help out, to be there. A great sense of commitment was felt, which would, in most cases be forgotten with the tides of time.
Yesterday they buried a man in the graveyard; I wanted it to be me…
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