Donkeying Around

There is an inexplicable perversity that taints many promises, and it seldom gets revealed immediately. Besotted by words delivered in passion, one strives to fulfill the edict imposed upon oneself. However, when logic interrupts, the foundation of the promise gradually dissipates. What happens then? 

On 12 September 2025, my team and I sat at a table in the library. We had received the opportunity to represent the university at a prestigious international moot in Hong Kong in March 2026. The stakes were high, as no other team from the university had participated for two years straight. It was unlike any other event that I had competed in. Demanding and volatile — each of us at that table knew that for more than 6 months, we would be witnessing innumerable sleepless nights, skipped meals, dents in academic performance, and much more. Yet, on that day, the sacrifices that we were to embrace grittily seemed distant, and resultantly, intangible. These were not enough. 

A diary was propped open at the center of the table, with the word ‘Shapath’ (meaning: vow, oath, in Sanskrit and Hindi) penned at the top of a page. Each of us had to promise either to do, or give up something, if the team did not win the accolades it aimed for at the conclusion of the competition. There were no penal provisions, no accountability models. The positive/negative obligation was to be enforced simply by the constitution of one’s belief in it. 

I toyed with the idea of not winning — it would require me, by my own volition, to give up something…forever? No, not if I chose to phrase my promise and introduce a temporal restriction. I could plausibly live with the sacrifice of something that meant a lot to me, merely for the remaining two years at university. I mused myself with thoughts about activities that form an integral part of my routine. And then it struck me — as an unapologetic pollotarian, it would be devastating to be divorced from eating chicken in Patiala. I would have to tear my eyes away from the luster of the Dhaba’s fried chicken momos, or unwillingly reject the allure of crispy chicken burgers at Leela Bhavan. Thus, when the pen was handed to me and it was my turn to pass the sentence, I promised (inter alia) to give up eating chicken for the remainder of my college days. 

After that, we toiled incessantly. Two beautiful memoranda were drafted for the competition. Each document, more than 70-pages long: every line was a brushstroke that led towards a glorious masterpiece. Every comma, letter, and citation was a whisper so delicately captured and formatted; it could draw a smile on any reader’s face. They were vibrant with life in the dichromatic contours of the legal world. 

On the day of the reckoning, we sat amidst a crowd of 120+ teams from all over, waiting with unease for the verdict. As team after team that wasn’t ours was announced, the anticipation simply worsened, and thoughts spiraled out of control. Our names were not called out. We had not won any award. A clerical error on our end had cost us gravely. 

I spent the few days in Hong Kong extremely morose, and attempted feebly to make the most out of the time in a new country. All the effort had materially gone in vain. I desperately required a long break. Coincidentally, my parents were heading for a trip to Arunachal Pradesh, and when they offered that I join them, I gladly accepted the invitation (even though I only had a woman’s leather jacket two sizes small in my possession to brace the frigid winds and piercing snow at 14,000 feet). At the bus stop opposite 308 Des Voeux Road West, PBJ accompanied me as I waited for a ride to the airport. For a long time, I could not expunge his remark from memory as I boarded the bus — “No one will know how good we were.” 

I was travelling on Cathay Pacific for the first time, and there was no passenger beside me. I stretched my legs across the seats and loosened the reins on my thoughts. Objectively, I knew this defeat would not matter in the long run. Still, the short run was pending, especially when I would have to train myself to not ruminate over it during my fast-approaching final examination (I had not attended classes regularly for almost a semester). Soon after takeoff, I was served with chicken steak and soda. The tray being arranged in front of me felt like a heavy punch in the gut as I was reminded of my shapath: these were the last few days where I could relish this before I headed back to the university. Notwithstanding whether the rest of my team would stay true to their word, I was determined to abide by mine. 

For the next few months, I was entirely devoted to upholding the sincerity of my promise. I stymied myself away from biriyani in the hostel mess on Sundays, and painstakingly delighted myself with vegetarian meals when going out with friends. Against every voice of reason that told me my stringent enactment of the promise was irrational; I kept pushing through. If I could not keep a promise to myself, how could I keep a promise to someone else? If I did not respect my own oath, can I expect someone to respect an oath made to me? When I told this to AP, she, respectfully, called me a donkey. I was carrying baggage on my shoulders unnecessarily arduous to lift. According to RKD’s sagacious insight, one should make promises that are hinged on the effort of an event, and not the consequences of it. After much contemplation, I broke my vow the day I turned 21. Now, albeit a little regrettably, I feast on chicken. 

The case of relational promises is entirely different. It can involve two levels. Where another person is involved, the gravitas of each word is measured against the intent of the utterer. The latter also weighs them against their own intent. Take marriage vows, for instance: a public declaration of solemn promises made by partners during a wedding ceremony declaring their lifelong commitment and responsibilities towards each other. The foundational brick of the marriage is laid down. With the traditional vow of ‘till death do us apart’ tied to the gift of a new life they give to each other, the couple enters into a new realm with the mutual expectation of fulfilling their declarations. In Levels of Life, essayist Julian Barnes writes about grief. He was married for thirty years. He must have envisioned a future with her where he woke up beside her every morning, and took care of her. Yet one day, just 37 days after an initial diagnosis, her soul slid past his embrace. How could Barnes, bereaved of his partner, fulfill his promise of loving her forever? For Barnes, grief is a moving concept:

    “Studies of cancer patients show that attitudes of mind have very little effect on clinical outcome. We may say we are fighting cancer, but cancer is merely fighting us; we may think we have beaten it, when it has only gone away to regroup. It is all just the universe doing its stuff, and we are the stuff it is being done to. And so, perhaps, with grief. We imagine we have battled against it, been purposeful, overcome sorrow, scrubbed the rust from our soul, when all that has happened is that grief has moved elsewhere, shifted its interest.”

Maybe he was deprived from fulfilling his promise, but the fact that he wrote the memoir is testament to his endeavor of upholding it. 

In the fictitious Tyagpatra (Resignation Letter) authored by Jainendra Kumar, Justice Dayal (Pramod) reminisces the relation he shared with his aunt Mrinal — his closest companion as a child. Throughout her life, for various reasons not being elaborated here, Mrinal suffers enormously at the hands of her family, and ultimately ends up living in abject poverty. Pramod promises to take care of her, always be there for her, and let no harm befall her. During the difficult stages of her life, Pramod’s offers of help are rejected by Mrinal out of embarrassment, and she insists on continuing living in her state out of a sense of duty and truth. After he became a lawyer and visited Mrinal as she resided amongst other slum-dwellers, he never visited her. Seventeen years passed from that day, and he had entirely distanced himself from her. He became a fairly renowned judge. One day, he randomly received the news of his aunt’s death, and writes the Tyagpatra just after hearing about her demise. On the same day, Pramod tendered his resignation from the judgeship, and wrote:

    “Bua, you have gone. While you were alive, I did not mend my ways. Now listen, I give up this judgeship. I will give up all worldly concerns entirely. I may not be able to learn afresh to live for others—my habits are set, but for myself I will live with only the little that is absolutely necessary to stay alive. I promise you this. Dear God, You can hear what I have said. Even if you do not send me to Hell otherwise, send me there if I break my promise.”

While Jainendra’s work stretches the idea of a relational promise’s failure to an extremity, the essence remains: Pramod’s departure from his promise and his neglect of 17 years weighed heavy on him. He was affected by the lack of endeavoring.

In college, I have always defined myself as a person with strictly chalked-out principles, with respect to personal habits or friendships. For instance: I promised myself I would sleep every night before 10 PM. This lasted precisely two months in the first semester. On 14 December 2024, I had texted AA as a promise to myself:

    “In less than 5 years, I’ll be at a magic 5 law firm in the UK.”

That seems highly unlikely. But having been opportune to travel to 3 new countries and cities this year revealed the malleability of my own constitution. My convictions have been tested and bent to extents I could not have foreseen 6 months ago, stories which are reserved for the future. Maybe not seeing a promise to its fruition isn’t deplorable, as long as the effort remains. Hence, with the next couple of approaching months and job placements looming, I can confidently promise to give it my best.

I will also try to write frequently, but can’t make any promises.

- Mustafa Topiwala