Raphael, Llorona, the Christian mindset and an old Hindi song- It all makes sense

So I was trying to understand the uncontrollable emotional outburst that I had when I was in Panama on Raphael's account. After I came back, I was watching "Frida" and the song "Llorona" sung by Chavela Vargas had a profound impact on me. The song is based on this popular Latin American folk story of a woman who kills her own kids out of her love for another man who had no love for her kids. The woman ends up killing herself after commiting this senseless act and becomes a ghost, doomed for eternity. On full moon nights she is said to come searching for her kids, wailing her heart out in her grief and guilt. In a perverse and ironic twist to the story, the ghost of the woman attempts to cover her loss by kidnapping and killing other little children. The last bit is perhaps an adult addition to scare little children into obedience...

But when I heard Chavela Vargas singing this powerful, mournful song in her deep rasping, yet pathos-filled voice, "llorona", Jesus dying for the sins of all mankind and my own breakdown suddenly made sense.

I kept crying as if I was crying for someone else. As if I was crying for the griefs of a hundred other people. And I reached the point where it became physically too exhausting to continue crying, but could do nothing to stop it. It was as if a dam had burst, but the broken walls were made of living tissues that seethed and burnt from the pain. The tears washed over my soul, like a flash flood that carries away all that it finds on the path. And then I wished that someone would step in and cry for me and give me a rest. I recalled an old Hindi song from a movie called "Milan" in which the hero prays to be allowed to give his own sleep to his beloved so that he can stay awake and watch over her while she slept peacefully ("Ram kare aisa ho jayen; meri nindiya, tohe mil jayen; mein jaagun , tu so jayen...). I then understood why people may want a character like Jesus. Someone in biblical times must have either undergone unbearable sorrow or may have done a terrible crime, like the lady in "Llorona" and could get no relief from the pain or the guilt. In the desperate search for a means to cope with the situation, I can see a person or a group of people gradually constructing this mythical figure - call it Jesus, Krishna, whatever - who could cry for them, wash away all sense of guilt and suffering for all mankind and for all eternity, and provide succour for parched souls. Jesus or Krishna was the answer to our deepest yearning to be rid of pain and suffering and understand why we were thus suffering.

This is so ironic. Suffering and pain cannot be rid by constructing another myth. The Buddha was wise enough to realize that. The only way is to eschew attachement to worldly desires. I would probably not have suffered so much if I did not have the desire for close friendships and kindness in the first place. But the weeping aspens of the world would rather suffer the pain wrought by love and passion, be wounded again and again so that they may feel the pain and know that they are still alive, than enjoy the sterile, cynical bliss of Nirvana.

Evolutionary fitness and falling in love

As I suffered through the pangs of Raphael's imminent departure from Panama and from my life, my body racked with uncontrollable, violent tears that burst forth every night as I wandered around my room in sleepless agony, I dreaded the next day when I had a load of interviews and data to collect-- and put up a pretence of normalcy to get through all the chores and duties necessary for living. And I thought- for what are we living thus! What quirk of evolution could possibly have selected for genes that allowed such powerful and destructive emotions to surge through your body and mind? That leaves you debilitated, with no more yearning for life. That actually reduces your reproductive fitness as you think of either ending it all or never seeking a relationship again!

There obviously is cultural selection in the form of poetry, films, novels, etc. But people in such a state of being are obviously a drag on society - unable to work efficiently, depressive, and capable of inciting emotional instability in other healthy people through their speech, behaviour, writings, etc. Why then do most societies around the world attempt to preserve this kind of behaviour, or take care of people in such a state to at least a minimal extent?

I can think of only one explanation for it. Ardent lovers, poets, artists, etc. - people most susceptible to emotions, people stirred deep within their souls by beautiful things, peole who chase an ephemeral idea all through their lives for a fleeting and tantalizing glimpse of intoxicating happiness, people who would lay waste their entire life for this evanescent moment of utter bliss with the thing they love - these people function as the mega-dams, the lactating glands of our society. For the rest of humanity- the stable, pragmatic, down-to-earth work force- these emotionally charged and crazed minority function as a store-house of emotions. This dam of emotions can now be milked at safe rates so as not to destroy themselves, but rather, enhance their reproductive fitness through aspiring for an ideal mate or caring for a beloved child, etc. Thus, these ultra-emotional people (myself among them), may reduce their own reproductive fitness and life expectancy. But they raise the group fitness as a whole. And cultures across the world probably sub-conciously realize this. Hence they strive to maintain these people even at a temporary reduction in efficiency and an increase in social chaos.

These are people who are moved by the sight of a weeping aspen in a ferocious storm and must perforce go out and drench themselved in the storm to feel what the weeping aspen must feel. And knowing that they are now a ready target - a conducting vessel for the lightening that discharges itself with great frequency on the grey, dark and desolate landscape - desolate except for the lone weeping aspen - makes no difference to them. Their soul must needs be drenched in the sights and sounds and ferocity of the storm to quench themselves of the yearning for their loved one.

Let me call these people the weeping aspens of our society.

Chekov was probably thinking of these weeping Aspens in the character of the monk Ieronim in his story "Easter Eve" (http://chekhov2.tripod.com/058.htm ). Much like Ieronim, I seek softness and tenderness in all the people I meet. And I am ecstatic when I find it - be it man or woman, young or old. I refuse to believe that there are different kinds of love. There is only LOVE. One decides to interact with the different people one loves based on societal norms and obligations we have and on the preferences expressed by the one we love. The expression of love may be different, but love is the same.

Raphael

I met Raphael when I was boarding at a Spanish school in Panama. It was around 8pm and myself and the other students were preparing dinner. He had just landed in town and was being introduced to all of us by the school manager. He walked in like a crisp, autumn breeze in his black shirt, dark framed glasses and Fidel Castro baseball hat. I was mesmerized by him the moment I saw him. His dark eyes that always twinkled kindly when he looked at you, his accent in English, the way he said the Spanish "y" with an upswing in the pitch at the end, the swagger in his gait, the confidence with which he carried himself, his playfulness, the clear face on which all the thoughts that went through his head were reflected, the way he said "tranquilo" and "todo bien?" and "eeeeazy".

Needless to say, I was in awe of him. But what affected me most were the conversations we had. They were gentle, free of judgements, undirected- they flowed like the Caribbean sea that surrouded us.

The Conversation Hunters

Two gentle brooks left their abode high up in the mountain.
The one had never known the other.
They ambled over rocks and pebbles
That changed their course - now this way, now that way.
And joyfully the two brooks sang, unheard by one another.

And then the twists and turns of the land
Brought the brooks together.
Their waters met seamlessly, effortlessly.
And together they made their way across bouldes and rocks and pebbles,

The conversation flowed over cups of cuba libre.
It mattered not to them what they talked about,
So long as the words flowed between them.
They felt alive, connected- like the two brooks on the mountain.

And so the brooks travelled together.
Lingering along the bends and valleys
Where the wild flowers grew.
Sometimes they met other springs that chanced to flow the same way,
And then there was a torrent.
Other times they just ambled on by themselves,
Words flowing like the clear, cool, misty waters of the mountain spring.

And the day came when the land
No longer curved to nestle the brooks together.
They must now, perforce, part.
And they parted with no more thought.

The one carried the waters of the other with it.
The one was perhaps the other!
But on they went their separate paths,
A liitle slower, a little heavier.
A deep sigh where once a careless song played.
Knowing they lost something,
But never knowing what.

--GST