Objectively yours...or maybe not

I think about objectivity a lot. I like clarity in thought and action and objectivity is but a pre-requisite. That things cannot always be classified as right or wrong is just one of the bittersweet realizations I have had over the past year or two. Right and wrong are themselves insidiously precarious concepts, and can only have meaning with context. Unfortunately, this merely transfers the question: what context is the 'right' context? Can there be a right context? Is there anything objectively, undeniably 'right' or 'good'?

As with all things undefinable, sources like the Oxford dictionary just self-loop, which gets us nowhere. So, is a majority an indication of correctness? One could think so, indeed, democracy as a system of responsible government relies on it. But then again, there are caveats. We all are witnesses to the repercussions of an unthinking majority. One of my literature professors briefly skirted the issue of 'taste' in literature, and art in general. A lot of art is not popular, in fact a common person would say that it need not exist at all. Connoisseurs say that one needs to develop a taste for it. Then is the majority 'right' here, in consigning a lot of so-called 'good' art into oblivion? Can there be a case for its existence when only a small minority can appreciate its true worth?

Sometimes I think this is all a construct of my mind. Maybe there is no objectivity. Perhaps I should accept that things are different from person to person, and from situation to situation, that search for an invariant, an objective 'something' that I can appeal to, is deluded. It's the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The thought disturbs me deeply, and I attempt to sweep it under the rug. But confront it I must, and maybe someday I will, when I do not have a mid-sem hanging over me like the sword of Damocles...

The watchman at the gate

Notwithstanding all allegations, I return home only about twice a semester. Among the lesser noticed features of life at home are the watchmen at the gate. One of them certainly ranks high on the list of The Most Cheerful People I Have Met. Every time I pass, he has a big smile on his face. Mom and Dad, of course, get a rather pompous salute, delivered with much gusto. He likes our dog, C, and always takes a moment to pet her when I take her out for her walk.

Every time I see him, I cringe inwardly, and a pang of discomfort grips me. I awkwardly smile back, and hurry on, as fast as I can without seeming rude. Its like a slap in the face. His cheery demeanour is but a cold reminder of how lucky I am to be born where I was, that anything I have done well is purely because I have had everything so easy in life; that the world is probably more unfair than I could have imagined. His children would probably live in darkness post-sunset, while I use electricity indiscriminately, unthinkingly keeping my laptop on for hours on end. They would languish, perhaps all their life, in unhappy schools, in unfulfilling or, even worse, unsafe jobs, and in uncertain old age, while I would live in a comfortable cocoon, perched atop an ivory tower, far from the unsavoury realities of life.

And I don't even know his name...

First post

I've been thinking about blogging for quite a while now, so here goes...