‘Nobody is perfect’ is perhaps an imperfect statement on its own. The question is perfect for whose eyes… as each eye sets different standard for perfection. And amazing is throughout life we are up to equating things. If there is a chirpy one, we struggle to bring him down, if there is a silent one, we keep pushing, ‘cheer up!’ Its not that nobody is perfect, its just that we are too imperfect to accept people’s perfection.
We don’t even leave children out in that matter. A naughty child is scolded to rest and a quiet one always poked and punched to jump. Anyway, what becomes clear is that the general traits are more or less decided prior to birth. If genetic make up or prior traits don’t matter much, then why do children of the same parents growing together at the same time behave so different? And what is true is that they continue behaving the same way despite of all the pressures put upon them by parents, neighbors, relatives, friends and lovers.
My sister used to cry when hurt, I used to shout back and my brother broke things when we were young. And we have grown up so much now but with little change. She still falls silent and tears drop down, I keep awake at nights to frame the perfect sentence to hurt the person back and my brother bangs chairs and tables to be heard. Its useless to ask us for a change.
I can probably explain this in Photoshop term. A hue is fixed for each trait in a person and throughout life if changes happen, is in its saturation and in the lightness of it. If a person is violent with too much energy, that’s his hue and its useless to try to change it, the solution is to choose the right image where that particular hue would be required. Many say if Bhagat Singh was not a freedom fighter, he would have been a terrorist. His right hue was selected for the right image and so the name changed!
When Rishi Valmiki was hurt seeing the bird killed by the hunter, he would have gone into depression due to his over-sensitive nature, but right thing to do in life is not condemning one’s own nature or anyone’s in that matter but picking the right image to be painted with right colour. And as he chose the right medium, the famous shloka was born.
Why all poets, painters and musicians are mad is not because art makes them so but because they were mad, and hence chose these fields to disguise their madness. Madness in this context is ‘not being balanced’. They either think too much beyond the necessary need in a normal person or they feel too much beyond control. And this immense disturbance in their personality does require them to find extra ways to reveal their expression and hence poetry, painting or music had to be made.
A perfect person what we generally tend to point to is perhaps that persons whose all parameters are exactly balanced. He neither talks much, nor talks less. He is neither too much a thinker nor too much a dreamer. He is neither too active nor too dull, neither a devil nor a saint. What is good about this is that the input energy is almost equal to the output energy in him. So all the little disturbances or requirements his personality evokes inside, is easily quietened by the normal ways of being… like in talking and laughing everyday, to regain the energy from outer world.
When he sees a bird die, since he is a balanced being, he would neither be a heartless to not to care, nor a madman to ponder over it for months. And hence no poetry will be formed.
And is a world perfect without art? Oh no, not to forget the greatest artist, the God, the maddest one, who for some unknown disturbance had to create this immense world. Hence, for the sake of a perfect world, different people having different imperfections are crucial.
A person with too much of rebel…don’t explain why he is bad urge him towards ‘social cause’ before he starts breaking the wall, a person with too much obedience, lets not tell him ‘how inert’ rather let him be in army perhaps where argument could prove fatal! To be perfect is to discover that position in life where the least pretence is required…where the river of life can easily lift one and take for the maximum ride across the wonderful creation in this little span of time.
A cunning thief would make a wonderful detective. A pickpocket is perhaps a magician in wrong profession.
All we got to do is understand our colours and figure out a painting that would be best made with these. If someone says, ‘Oh you lack green…and you ought to make trees in your canvas.’ Tell them, ‘I paint deserts better,’ or mix the blues and yellows in your palette perhaps or rather paint a maple forest with blushing red leaves that the greens around are envious. Tell them, ‘Life is too precious to go looking for lost tubes under a table and lose time…a true artist is eager to paint with what he has.’
And no quality is good or bad. Red, the colour of crime when milded down into baby pink is perhaps the most innocent one. May be that’s what made Ratnakar into valmiki. May be that’s what turned Ashoka into a monk. The wonder of the world shows that softest springs flow through the heart of hardest rock, that the darkest it is just below a lamp.