Me, My Hero 

If only I could recollect all the flowing imagery I have so lucidly dreamed over the countless nights of my youth, entranced in forming my prototypical image of Hero. It was a concept that captivated me so early on in childhood. Hero Honda was the motorbike of choice. Mega Stardom in the cinemas was the predominant culture. Idol worship had spread beyond the classic notions of religiosity and descended to the glamorous avatars that enraptured the feverish youth. But where exactly did all this fit into my world, which consisted of nothing but paper kites glued with rice and an old tire that I relentlessly chased. Maybe the movies were just meant to be an escape, a fascinating three-hour journey into the lifestyles of the rich and famous- with a punch line. But that punch line was more to me than the climactic moments of the plot; it was an allegory for an oncoming rebellious life in a world taut with disciplinary action and regulated by social structures that were simply zero tolerance at the time. No doubt, it was a beautiful world that showered me with fawning attention and often guided my soul through passionate curiosities. But there was something very unsettling; maybe it was the ease with which my kith and kin observed deluges of slum settled peasants that migrated through a ten-acre field adjacent to our railway quarters. Maybe it was as simple as my displeasure with our family’s inability to purchase a motorbike, let alone one of the foreign cars that would rush through the dusty roads once in a blue moon. Whatever it was, it was left to me to imagine what need be and play the practical role until time mandated further. In the meanwhile, I would have to helplessly watch as the roles escalated between my hero and me.

Regardless, as early as age four, I had to have my hair parted on one side, not the other; else I wouldn’t budge for school. Ironically, it hardly involved impressing girls- but as one can imagine given my pre-pubescence within the context of a conservative community based upbringing. But the paradox runs deeper and suddenly I begin to realize that I’m talking about an ideal that still pervades my being today- a fleeting and constantly unreliable notion of hero that inspires and frustrates my character with equal intensity. The inspiration is derived from imaginative perceptions while the frustration arises in the form of shortcoming actions. Indeed, this mental struggle has produced a bridgeless gap that I have discretely yet persistently attempted to link all my life. That gap stands between me, and my hero.

Almost as if it was meant to be someday, I’ve never stopped dreaming and redreaming, reformulating, re-establishing, reinvigorating, reassessing and most importantly recognizing that notion of hero deep within me. Of all the heroes I’ve idolized on cinema and sporting performance, in history and revolution, in science and exploration, in musical composition and vivid articulation, in spirituality and penance- all have moved me so deeply but never has one overpowered another. My irrational and often whimsical fascination with rebellious rap artists desiring change is offset by an appreciation for those who genuinely toiled to materialize it.

Often, I find myself in a dilemma deciding whether I want to be myself or my hero. Maybe I’m not ready at the moment, but it’s a vicious cycle of balancing character spontaneity and patient humility against the opposing onslaught of ceaseless and regressive short-term desires. I’d like to think of it as simply that my hero’s time hasn’t manifested yet. It’s as if I was lounging on white sands near a celestial lake, reading the ever-unfolding book of life through crisp, shimmering waters. Every ripple I evoked was through a concurrent composition of my own tale to fit the greater saga. Imagine we are all perfect writers in this realm, able to seamlessly integrate our finite set of dreams to the constraints of our sensory modalities and with the implicit understanding of touching others in our surrounding and shared ontology. Ah, what a blissful first stage I must say! But henceforth, the true struggle begins in our delusional encapsulation with the material body and the confines created by its relentless ego, such a tragic state to hold so dearly onto this tool. I feel that I came here to work, but now I am simply being worked. Exercised by my own fantasies you could say. And therein lies my motivation to simply bow in the face of this ever-increasing gap. My hero is not here, nor will he ever be here so long as I dream of this oxygenated state while suffocating in hydrogen bonds. The ability to simply let go and work for works sake is now my hero. That is to glide into the abysmal gap with no preconceived notions of what I aspire to be, what I aspire to emulate. After all, I do not desire to be an emulator, rather I’d like to be my hero, me.

I have only an interest to start from the very root of my own nature; just as those blessed souls I idolized, none of who mimicked or modified another, but rather spoke to their times with a unique charisma and played themselves as models of creative ambition. It needn’t be that I rise to establish a name in the Hall of Fame. Nay, such goals are mere shortcomings in the eyes of an exceptional playwright, as I once was when sitting in meditation under silken skies on the smooth banks of seventh heaven. Just as each elemental passage of the story was concatenated with composure and care, so too must be the subsequent action that unfolds this mystic script. Untainted by expectation and unhindered by inhibition, I will at last experientially see that which was meant to be me, My Hero.