Ayush Sinha July 11, 2018
Once two intellectuals in a city full of scholars came across each other, and the most interesting thing was, as is many times normal among people like them, they were both lonely, dejected, confused. The first one was in search of the source of optimism and the other in search of the fountain of pessimism.
“It seems that you are searching for something very precious, sir; and you look so dejected,” said the first one.
“Yes, sir, it has been for a long time since I started my journey, but I still cannot see it. I am searching for the source of optimism.”
“Oh! I am really very sorry then, but, brother, there can be no such thing as optimism. Whatever is is pessimism,” ejaculated the second one; however, he was confirmed that there is no such thing as optimism.
“No, no, think of it a little more, my brother. How can you say that? I have been into it for more than a decade. It seems that you have never looked into it, but I am now here. Let me teach you about it,” said the first one, his face wreathed in confused smiles.
No sooner had the first scholar finished saying that than he got to know that his mate, too, had been into the subject of pessimism for more than a couple of decades. It surprised him even more, and to such an extent that he coud anytime burst into the laughter of pride. They went on arguing, and, as it seemed, their argument was a never-ending one. Passers by congregated, and soon the two scholars had many entertaining themselves without any cost.
At times the argument went on to such a turn that they even forgot what they were arguing about. At last, seeing the condition getting out of control, an old illiterate peasant decided to come forward. He had been listening to them for more than an hour.
“Sons, what do you think light and darkness are? Are they two different things to you?” asked the old peasant, smiling naturally.
It was the first time that they had both agreed with each other, believing that both light and darkness are two totally different things.
“Can a crest of an ocean, my sons, be different from its trough? Are happiness and dejection two different things, then?” asked the illiterate.
The old man smiled and moved on, blessing them both. For his work was perhaps finished, leaving a trail of blissful silence. But I am sure he was grateful for being an illiterate