It might be a gross aberration in these mournful (?) times to say that that I have not been a great fan of MJ and that his death did not leave me particularly somber or teary-eyed. Blame it on the circumstances that I grew up in or my own lack of popular taste, but Thriller and Billie Jean have just been passing fancies in my teens that I didn’t carry to a point which would leave me shell shocked at the news of his moving on.
Yes, it was a sad and unexpected piece of news; especially the manner in which it happened was surprising. But it also underscored the theory that great lives often had depressing and inglorious ends, the death over shadowing the lofty life it plucked away.
As I watched TV grabs of the memorial service, two thoughts occurred, both of which had me mulling over some profound truths.
It is a curious thought, but so true that death obliterates the evils in a man’s life. It wipes out the worst chapters from his past, brings to fore the merits, both real and fictional and makes a saint out of even a deviant character. In the aftermath of one’s departure, the world (as if facing a deadline) suddenly hurries to glorify the past like a final burst of pyrotechnic and surging tributes clog the psyche of a world that previously criticized and cast aspersions.
In the generous view of the world, it is a sin to slam the dead.
Nevertheless, one thing that death can bring to a public figure, apart from a spurt in career, is posthumous fame that highlights only the purple patches and pulls a rug over past blemishes. All courtesy of frenzied media ingenuity.
The other dominating thought I have been wallowing in, unable to quite pin my mind to a certainty has to do with the virtues of success. Viewed in the light of MJ’s life, success failed to make its impression on me either as a virtuous means or as a desirable end.
Is merely having millions of one’s work sold, with truckloads of cash flowing in, in its wake, success?
Is having a world tripping over itself to catch one glance of a grotesque looking, caked with make-up face, success?
Is, having to put up with the ignominy of a heinous crime that was later buried in the lucre, success?
Is tossing all the money one has made into senseless, arbitrary purposes, success?
Is living the life of a weirdo, who the world looks upon more with suspicion than with affection, success?
Is harbouring so much inferiority that one subjects himself to bizarre treatments under the scalpel, success?
Is having to pop pills for a good night’s sleep success?
Is being a puzzle than a person, success?
Is having the world sentiment work up into a lather when the news of death flashed, success?
Will someone explain what on earth this abstract, illogical yet overpowering thing called success is? And why, for God’s sake, are we so hopelessly subservient to this mad fixation?
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