A Plea for Equilibrium
Pratik Raghu
This week, the inevitable came to pass: we, the unassuming citizens of the IB June 2009 Intake, were comprehensively walloped by the full force of the Diploma Programme, as Internal Assessments ambushed us with relentless ferocity. All of a sudden, relaxation seemed to become but a subject for whatever little wishful thinking we managed to squeeze into our hectic schedules. CAS activities were unceremoniously shoved to the corners of our minds, giving way to unforgiving assessment criteria, half-formed ideas for outlandish experiments and grudgingly accepted ‘notes – to self.’ A collective exhaustion seemed to overcome us as we scurried to achieve our ends with deadlines looming over us like ominous, unmoving clouds. Our voices began to decry the workload that our pre – university course is infamous for, and the semicircular skin patches beneath our eyes took on the smoky, ragged tone indicative of sleep deprivation and mental overwork.
As you can see, I have no shortage of melancholic descriptors to associate with what has proved a rather testing period, in which we have understood what we got ourselves into ten long months ago. But, to continue to do so would oppose the very purpose with which I set out to script this article. What is this intention? Why did I opt to avoid considering the enigma of morality, and instead focus on occurrences that are all too apparent to us?
I distinctly remember the several months that preceded the one in which I sat for my IGCSEs. I confess – with a degree of pained regret that has yet to ebb away – that I allowed myself to be sucked into the black hole that is frenzied exam preparation. I saw nothing on my horizon but the neatly printed booklets I knew I would rush through in a yawning, air-conditioned hall with a dimpled gray floor. It suffices to say that I worked myself into a rut. So hysterically did I pour over dog – eared textbooks late into the night, so manically did I become obsessed with leaving no academic pebble unturned, my body and mind began to give up on me. The ephemeral joy I felt at a few months thereafter for having got decent grades was not worth the ordeal I subjected myself to, spurning my friends and compromising my own well-being.
I recently read The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, a “fable about achieving your dreams and fulfilling your destiny” by leadership guru Robin Sharma. It effectively affirmed a suspicion I had begun to have after becoming an IB student: a life of balance, of inner harmony and outward compassion, of multifaceted joys and zealous verve, is the only existence worth maintaining. I felt impassioned to restart sketching on a regular basis, thus giving the creative side of my mind an outlet for self expression. I began to dedicate parts of every day to relishing a mind-expanding book with a mug of light tea by my side. Be assured: I am not Siddhartha, and I have not even come close to achieving enlightenment. I remain a flawed individual, capable of making highly regrettable errors and conceiving thoughts that are of no benefit to anyone. However, I can say that I have undergone a change of sorts that has benefited me: I have felt more at ease recently, more collected and, most importantly, happier.
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