I would lie if I sing Äal eez well and hakuna matata: don’t worry be happy

By Philip Mudartha

Bellevision Media Network

Doha, 12 April 2012: “Life is good”, so said my young friend who turned 40 last week. Married for just over a decade, two kids, two jobs, two cars, and a live-in maid, it is a ‘no regrets’ success story for him. Only four years have passed; when, he sought my help to save his marriage. It was almost broke. Those bad memories and the struggles of nearly twenty years have faded. He has arrived.

 

Life begins at forty, another young colleague coo-ed the oft-repeated cliché. What you mean, I asked. Did you mess up your life good, and want to have a second chance? Increasingly, people particularly women are looking at turning forty as a catharsis moment. They pause to evaluate their past and make a new beginning.

 

If my first stage was about care-free romping in fields, schools and colleges, and next was about struggling to find a livelihood, make a home and establish a family, the third stage began with a mid-life crisis. Turning 40, proved to be, the key psychological milestone, if not a biological one: I suddenly had regrets. Like most men. The experts were right.

 

Something needs to be fixed.

 

How? Can I turn the clock back and create a roadmap for Life? “The forty year vision” as the self-help Gurus put it?

 

Late, too late; the wife is out-of-touch with the job market. Her job skills are obsolete; would she re-train? Hey, she has three kids. Don’t you think them a little too many? Yea; but. They need a full time nanny, for dragging them out of bed at god-damned hour of five in the morning, wash them, feed them, dress them, pack sandwiches in the Tiffin-box, cajole them to check their bags, verify that everything including the school diary is in and herd them out to the school bus before its moody driver decides to drive away leaving them behind. Better, mommy play the nanny. Because, daddy has to get set go and play office, office.

 

Go to gulf, its money, baba. The foul-mouthed fat man had his last laugh. In the modern El Dorado, no pots of gold dangling from the palms waiting to be plucked like ripened dates. It is arid hot and humid sand-pit, where sandstorms fly at you with such ferocity, by forty you are roiling in self-pity. What have I done with my life? With wages nearly frozen since early eighties, but expenditures mounting, not because of inflation (prices actually falling), but needs and expense heads multiplying both of near and dear ones and others put on voluntary payroll, the wallets are not bulging. The bank balances are shrinking. The annual gifts and giveaways are drying up.  Gulfachyani roddlear, ami khoi vechem? Who would believe if the dhobi said he has no clothes to wear? They will not understand. Everyone wants my money: relatives, friends, priests, charities, insurance agents, bank branch managers, and those in genuine trouble.

 

“Dad and mummy no longer love me. They don’t laugh like they used to. Life is fun no more.  No beach outings, no parties, no new toys, and no movies. They even argue and fight. It may be about money, or may be...”

 

“Dad and mummy no longer love me, but when did they love me? I always got clothes handed down from my bro. I am second, everything for me is secondhand, toys, books, color pens. We don’t have money. And when they argue and fight, maybe, because of me…”

 

This is crazy. Aren’t we the ‘lucky and blessed’ who are supposed to trot around native villages wearing glitzy Ray-ben sunglasses, pricy Swiss watches, golden wristbands, bracelets, necklaces, and chains? Pour out and offer imported scotch? Inhale and puff upon fancy cigarettes? I did not arrive at this page 3 lifestyle. If one has not arrived by forty and not made his money, he is a fool. Once a fool, I will ever remain a fool.

 

Not really. Every cloud has a silver lining. Not everyone spots it, though, especially those wallowing in self-pity. Most flock to prayer-houses and pray. Some fall back on friends to bare their chests and vent frustrations. For a very few, the misery ends. Did you hear X killed himself? I saw him last week, did you know he had chest pains and is no more. Heart-attacks, strokes, cancer, cholesterol, diabetes, killed in road accident. Poor chap, was worried about job. No security.

 

I survived my mid-life crisis. Like everyone else, self-doubt, regrets, self-pity, job insecurity, anger, frustration, helplessness, I have seen and experienced it all. The family stayed together through it, sharing agony and grief and made sacrifices. No grand vision, no grand strategy, no specific and explicit goals, no meticulous planning. But, like the sparrows in the fields, going about lives hoping and knowing that not even a strand of hair will turn grey, no matter how hard we tried, without the design and will of a Supreme Power that is within us and without. Shall we call out to him? Thy will be done.

 

The hellish decade did come to an end, bringing in the sobriety of the fifties. The new dawn broke. Stop worrying and start living is the new motto. It is my epiphany of sorts. Why and how did it happen, without a roadmap?

 

Looking back, it is simple. Do you see the sparrows fretting about in mid-air with wings fluttering full-time in search of next seed and straw? They are out there, within their sight. They go out to reach them, and gather. Recognize the opportunity. See a problem as an opportunity. And take it easy, no fluttering of wings, without e sapping energy in toxic thoughts. I got only one life. Do not waste it in over analysis of past. Live the moment.

 

That is the greatest discovery I made in my early fifties. Was I too late, would you say? I don’t I know. I don’t care. What matters is, I am around, alive and kicking, leading a normal life, making it worthwhile each day, enjoying every small thing that I do, and not making a list of regrets. There is an eternity within a grave for that. For now, let me live.

 

Shall I now sit back and sing: Aal izz well; hakuna matata. Don’t worry! Be Happy. That is another story, stay with me.