Blasting the walls of truth

 

“Cover your head when you enter the temple!’” or “Go touch your grandmother’s feet!” or “Don’t slouch!” the list is endless. It really was irksome as a teenager. The list of dos were as long as the list of don’ts! Unfortunately, I belonged to a generation of non-rebellious teenagers (there were exceptions!) so I normally did try to tick of the list of dos, though honestly I did not tick off many items on the don’ts list.

I am sure (Though I was unaware) My children went through that phase and were heavily irritated with me. I don’t know what it is that makes young adults (especially young adults who are new parents!) think that they are here to rule the world. Both the young and the old must listen to their views and tirades.

I distinctly remember thinking that children must obey parents (forgetting that I was once that disgruntled child!) I also recall chiding my mother for mispronouncing words or making it a point to correct my father about some item in the news or his perspective about a certain subject.

It began sometime when I turned twenty and this state of affairs continued all through my thirties and early forties. Then suddenly something clicked in my psyche, and I became an adult adult!

Doubts started creeping in as to the veracity of my perceptions. Is truth the most important thing? Is a lie not another aspect of truth? Where does the gray world triumph? Is black and white the absolute authenticity? Are the lines drawn by society the only way to survive?

Truth is important, for it exists and lie is a creative outlet of our desires maybe another facet of truth. But is it every human being’s responsibility to reinforce their ideals? Is it really necessary to hurt someone while trying to do so (believe me you are doing that when you try and correct someone’s perception!) does it matter how we pronounce ‘potato’? (…. a rose by any other name…)

If you look at nature broadly there are no black or white, there is colour everywhere and even the shadows are gray. Love and hate are there but so is like, admiration, intolerance and mild detest. We do tend to forget the mild emotion which are there like undercurrents in a deep river and focus on the eddies of love and hate which are only on the surface. They are short lived and transient; weak and ineffective; slow and ineffectual. I realized then that the passion that drove me to rectify the world was actually a zealous desire to shout out “Hey! I am right and the rest of you are wrong! It is best that you accept this, or I will ride rough shod over you and crush you and your ideas to a pulp!”

When civilization was born, it was obviously an effort by mankind to separate us from animals. Rules were made, lines were drawn, and we congratulated ourselves that we were superior beings and thus must live under control. Our mind must be the master and bodies, and emotion must be subservient. Passions and desire must be muzzled and leashed and only what looked right must be allowed to surface and every other aspect must be thrust deep into the pit of inequity and kept there for eternity.

Yet, the more I think about it, the more I realize that civilization did not erase our instincts; it merely taught us how to disguise them. We continue to be driven by pride, envy, love, and fear, but now they are clothed in etiquette, in ritual, in the language of “ought to” and “should.” What once was a raw growl has become a polite disagreement, but the energy behind it is the same. Perhaps that is why we spend so much of our lives policing one another with lists of dos and don’ts, because it reassures us that we are “civilized,” that we are in control, when in truth we are only arranging the furniture on a restless sea.

And yet, there is beauty in this struggle. Rules, rituals, and corrections are not only burdens; they are also bridges. “Touch your grandmother’s feet” is more than a command, it is an invitation to connect with the generations before us. “Don’t slouch” may sound like criticism, but it is also a reminder that the body reflects the mind, that presence matters. Even my own exasperating need to correct my parents was, in its own way, a clumsy attempt at connection, I wanted to be heard, to matter, to prove I had a place in the world.

Now, when I watch my children bristle at my advice—or when I catch myself biting back the urge to lecture, I smile. I know the cycle continues. Each generation learns the hard way that truth is less about winning arguments and more about living with kindness in the grey spaces. Black and white make for neat lines, but it is in the shades between that relationships survive, that love softens pride, and that wisdom grows.

Maybe that is what it means to finally become an “adult adult”, to stop seeking victory in every exchange and to begin seeking harmony. To recognize that sometimes the greatest truth is not in speaking, but in listening.