Can I call my work story a journey of learning, or a journey of passionate learning? I’m still not sure what to call it.

The divine powers—if they exist—cannot be, and perhaps never will be, proven through science. Physics begins its implications only after the collision of bodies or through their interactions, whether at celestial or subatomic levels. Force, gravity, speed, and even mass all depend on other objects; they are always relative to something else.

When collisions are avoided—and why some collisions are avoided—this is not truly the domain of science. Electromagnetic repulsion may be one reason why collisions do not happen, or perhaps some grand design is at work. But where there is no interaction, there is usually no action or reaction.

The same applies to life. We interact, we grow, we build, we destroy, and we move on—and life goes on. Humans are meant to interact. Even the most aloof person eventually goes to a grocery store, interacts with a shopkeeper, buys something, and a chain of reactions begins.
Interaction enables the human race to reproduce and adds diversity to the species. It seems unending.

Since I started my career as a salesman, I was supposed to meet as many people as possible to enhance sales. I do not consciously recall most of the people I have met on this journey, but when you begin to reflect, scenes from the past start appearing like a movie. Faces walk around your memory, and it is not difficult to write about them when you rely on old recollections.

Ali was one of those people. Frail and short in height, he was a calligrapher. With the advent of computers and newly developed composing software, he learned digital composition. His eyesight was very weak, and he wore thick-lensed glasses all the time. At that time, calligraphy and composition for printing and publishing were flourishing businesses. There were shops and offices dedicated solely to composing services. Looking at how much work machines have taken over from humans today is shockingly surprising.

What stays fresh in my memory is Ali’s readiness to work and his unconditional willingness to take on a job at any time of the day. I can still sketch his face, even with my poor drawing skills. His speed was remarkable—words flowed from his keyboard quickly, simply, and accurately. Rarely did his work require proofreading.

In the art department, there were two kinds of people: those formally trained at art colleges or universities, and those with God-gifted talent—self-made designers, born artists.

These were two distinct leagues. The qualified ones carried greater esteem and were positioned as premier art directors, while the self-made artists were often unbranded creators. It was not always easy to distinguish between the two, but just as a pen reveals the writer, a canvas reveals the artist.

From 1992 onward, over many decades, I worked alongside numerous designers and learned a great deal from them. To me, design is pictorial communication. With the growing role of machines, the art of design has evolved into a new science of communication. Graphics have become inevitable in every art form, and the universe itself feels rightly described as a grand design by a supernatural artist.

Salman was one such designer—a slim, smart, hyperactive man, formally qualified and working as an art director. He was always on his toes, moving fast, his face perpetually worried about one thing or another. His university education gave him a distinct position, and he was respected as the art boss. His artistic hand movements were prominent whenever he sketched or held a pencil.

I remember his favorite line. Every time you greeted him, he would say, “Oh God, there’s so much stress these days.”

Even now, I can feel that hustle and bustle—his constant running around, sometimes with reason, sometimes without.

We humans perform countless actions—sometimes to satisfy others, sometimes to express our inner selves, things we always wanted to say but never could.

During those days, I often thought about acquiring more degrees, more qualifications, more professional education. I did not yet understand the difference between degrees, learning, knowledge, and wisdom.

Perhaps there was also a deeper sorrow—the abrupt end of my formal studies and the compulsion to start working. The causes of unhappiness were not fully clear then, just as the reasons for happiness are often uncertain.

To be continued…