109. never breathe a word about your loss

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) wrote a poem in 1895, which was first published in Rewards and Fairies, a collection of his poetry and short stories, in 1910. It was followed by the story "Brother Square-Toes," which provides paternal advice to the poet's son, John. 

In his autobiography, Something of Myself, Kipling mentioned that writing the poem was inspired by Leander Starr Jameson, who led the failed Jameson Raid aimed at overthrowing Boer leader Paul Kruger and the South African Republic. 

Gradually, the poem became so popular that Muhammad Ali, the boxer, kept it in his wallet all his life as a guiding principle. 

In 1931, Elizabeth Lincoln Otis wrote “An 'If' for Girls” in response to Kipling's poem. 

In the BBC's 1996 nationwide poll, ‘If –" was voted the UK's favorite poem, earning twice as many votes as the runner-up. 

And it was during those days that I heard about the popularity of this from my guru, Khushwant Singh, who considered the poem to embody the core message of the Gita in English. 

Of course, I don’t agree with him. And I am not alone.

Pablo Neruda referred to it as “that pedestrian and sanctimonious poetry, precursor of the Reader's Digest, whose intellectual level seems to me no higher than that of the Duke of Alba's boots.” 

R. K. Narayan stated that Kipling, often regarded as an expert on India, demonstrated a deeper understanding of the animals' minds in the jungle than of the people in Indian homes or markets. 

However, a framed copy of the poem is mounted on the wall in front of the study desk in the cabins of officer cadets at the National Defence Academy in Pune and the Indian Naval Academy—a relic of the colonial era.

I believe the most insightful comment came from the French philosopher Olivier Rey around 2006, when he described "If—" as an example of paternal tyranny, where the father imposes an impossible list of conditions on his son. 

Kipling was an English journalist, novelist, poet, and short-story writer. His works include The Jungle Book and numerous short stories like The Man Who Would Be King. 

He worked for the Civil and Military Gazette in Lahore and the Pioneer in Allahabad. 

In 1907, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, becoming the first English-language writer to receive it, and at the age of 41, he was the youngest recipient ever.

Rudyard Kipling was born in 1865 in Bombay, where his father, John, was the Principal and Professor of Architectural Sculpture at the Sir J. J. School of Art. The cottage where he lived in the campus has been torn down, but in 2007, a plaque at the entrance is engraved with the words: "Rudyard Kipling, son of Lockwood Kipling, first dean of Sir JJ School of Art, was born here on December 30, 1865." 

I was a fan of his poetry, but when I learned that he was a supporter of Colonel Reginald Edward Harry Dyer, who was responsible for the Jallianwala Bagh massacre in Amritsar, and referred to him as "the man who saved India," while also assisting in gathering funds for his return celebration, I lost interest.

Still, the poem is excellent, and I am reproducing it here. 

Read on – 

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!