I watched Christopher Nolan’s Inception when it was released in 2010, back when going to the theatre still felt like an event. The film is centred around the idea of entering and manipulating dreams, slipping into layers of the mind as easily as walking through doors....
The Darkness Within
The Darkness Within
I learned about Joseph Conrad in the context of Nobel Laureate author Sir V.S. Naipaul, who is said to have written in his style. As I loved reading Sir Naipaul’s novels and tried vainly to make him my role model as a writer, I was naturally intrigued by how Conrad would have written. Recently, I was reading How the World Really Works by Czech-Canadian scientist Vaclav Smil. He mentions Joseph Conrad as the first to capture the dynamics of globalisation and how it affects people.
The protagonists of his three greatest novels find themselves far from their homes thanks to the era’s mass trade and travel (Nostromo in South America, Jim in Asia, Marlow in Africa), and their lives and misfortunes were linked to steamships): Nostromo, in the eponymous novella, is known as Capataz de Cargadores (Head Longshoreman); Jim’s life took a tragic turn while he is helping transport Muslim pilgrims from Asia to Mecca in Lord Jim; and Marlow’s transformation could not have taken place without Western goods being brought deep into the Congo basin in Heart of Darkness. (p. 113)
Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) was born in Berdychiv in Poland under the Russian Empire, now in Ukraine. In 1795, Poland was divided among Prussia, Austria, and Russia to the immense suffering of the Poles people. Conrad’s father was fiercely patriotic and not in sync with his way of life, sixteen-year-old Conrad left home for France to work on French merchant ships for livelihood. He could not speak English fluently until he joined the British Merchant Marine in 1878. Political turmoil continued in Poland, and Conrad became a refugee in England.
The Heart of Darkness was published in 1899. In this semi-autobiographical novel, a 32-year-old sailor, Charles Marlow, tells his listeners the story of his assignment as the captain of a river steamboat in Congo, Africa. His employer is a private colony of Belgium’s King Leopold II, whose employees were involved in illegal ivory trade by poaching elephants in Congo. In a flashback, Marlow makes his way to Africa to reach Mr. Kurtz, in charge of a crucial trading post, through a long journey that involves travelling 30 miles upstream by boat, then a 200-mile trek, and finally, eight miles again sailing on a narrow stream of water.
Though discussed throughout the novel, Mr. Kurtz appears only in the third and concluding part. He is a crucial company employee who has lately turned rogue, assumed a god-like stature among the local tribals, and must be sent back to Brussels. Mr. Kurtz, however, is very ill; he dies on the way back and is buried ingloriously. The novel is raised to great heights through the short-lived friendship of Marlow and the dying Kurtz. Marlow takes the papers, and photograph of a lady Kurtz gives him to carry home. In impeccable faith, Jim does not share papers with the company. The novel ends with Marlow meeting the lady in Brussels.
I loved this novel on three accounts. First, the power of the writer and his words – how a Polish boy, struggling through political instability, escaped to work as a sailor in his teen years and then became a great English writer (not his mother tongue), portraying what he lived through in a manner that survived 200 years and could move my heart when I read it. Second, the accurate portrayal of the gross injustice done to indigenous people (whom we call tribals in India) by the European people looting natural resources, using guns that they possess but which local people do not. Third, for bringing out the fact that humans are no better than beasts, and their demons can play havoc if they let loose their force on the society around them.
Education is fundamental. There is no way out but to learn to read and write, understand life, and express oneself better. I am not even equating education with degrees here. I have seen many great academicians who could improve at expressing and communicating their ideas, and many great writers, poets, and theater artists who have yet to receive formal education. The current trend of children talking in syntax, not even using words, let alone composing sentences, is disturbing. If a child in high school cannot speak for five minutes on a topic of his or her choice or write a 1000-word essay about oneself, there is something seriously wrong with the way we are raising our children.
The COVID-19 pandemic brought out the gross injustice done to the indigenous people who come to cities for work. In India, services in the new affluent towns are run mainly by young people from villages and faraway states, including the northeastern ones. Many young people are involved in the delivery of online goods, including food. I see no organised system – hostels, hospitals, part-time schools – taking care of them. After their working hours, these youngsters need a healthy social life with people of a similar background and way of life. And there is no reason that it can’t be done, except for the callousness of the people holding power and money in the society where these people serve.
Finally, the innate wickedness of people, which we all carry within, is waiting for an opportunity to erupt. It is here that Heart of Darkness excels. Africa is seen as a dark continent with thick forests, which are not surveyed, and no maps, roads, or railway networks. The people are dark-skinned. But the novel brings out the savagery of the white-skinned people – the European people – who, by having a gun in their hand, consider themselves entitled to all the wealth on this earth and masters of the people who have darker skin, a shorter height, and a flatter nose then theirs. Conrad writes his character Marlow saying about Mr. Kurtz:
You should have heard him say, ‘My ivory.’ Oh, yes. I heard him. ‘My Intended, my ivory, my station, my river, my – . ’ Everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath, expecting to hear the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed strats in their places. Everything belonged to him – but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him of their own. (p. 79)
The darkness is even more profound than the light. What is hidden from view is infinitely bigger than what is seen. What is known – the so-called science and intelligence – is minuscule compared to what is yet to be known. All the best doctors know is how to manage your illness and extend your life; no one knows a cure, forget about eliminating death. No wonder, in the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad (1.3.28), the sage prays:
असतो मा सद्गमय । तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय । मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय
From what is not real (the phenomenal world), make me move towards reality (eternity); from the darkness (of ignorance), make me move towards the Light (of spiritual knowledge); from mortality (of pleasures and properties), make me move towards the world of immortality (of the soul within this mortal body).
The feeling of “I-ness” is the demon living inside us. It is a darkness under which this cosmos exists. The only way to live in this darkness is by lighting a candle of universal brotherhood, being aware of the impermanence of life, and mindful about the Consciousness that pervades all materials and living beings, be they plants, birds or animals. In the absence of this light, whatever we do, gain, achieve, hoard, bestow upon others, or squander, indeed means little. Long live Mr Conrad; the light you kindled remains even after you have departed.
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