If

'If' is one of those poems that have stayed with me. It comes back to me in times of pain and grief, offering hope and courage. Leaving cities is like breaking down pieces of a life you built to move elsewhere and start building again. It reminds me of something a friend said after interacting the designers of the Puja Pandals of Calcutta. When asked how they could bear to see their designs pulled down after the week-long festivities, one seemingly told her that unless it is brought down, how will the next year's Puja Pandal take shape. That is courage. 

In small measures, I thought I had that wisdom and courage. When I made a list of which of my friends would get which of my plants when I leave the city - plants I had nurtured lovingly and also with great heartache, as quite a few of them seemed to wither in the heat, I thought it was that wisdom kicking into action. 

Turns out the pain of parting is so much more when it's something you have nurtured for six-odd years with sweat and blood, at great personal loss, through some of the worst periods of my professional and personal life is passed on to someone to take care of. Someone who may do a better job, or may not. 

From my high horse I am being judgmental. My plants, I know, will survive as they are fighters like me. But this thing, I am not sure. And the pain of that uncertainty is physical. The fear real. The guilt palpable. 

And in times like that, the words of Kipling in 'If' is a reminder that there is wisdom in treating Triumph and Disaster both the same. Someone just help my heart understand what my brain knows.