Foutre ce tout

The title of this post, is something that passes through my mind far more more often than I'd like it to.

Life is tougher now.

In the time that's passed since my last post, some several months, there's a lot that's happened.

Fuck it, lets bullet point these things.

1. Decisions. They've started to matter.(also, compromises are suddenly a thing)

2. I'd like to think I've  become more self-aware(doesn't necessarily translate into self-confident).

3. I find myself getting lost in the alternating(and sometimes overlapping) crevasses of thought and unthought that have become an oft-occurring part of my life.

4. I've learned the hard way, there's a price you pay when you choose inertia, and it will gnaw endlessly at your bones as you watch the world pass by.

5. My English has gotten considerably worse.

6. My Hindi has gotten better, and I've picked up twangs of Punjabi and Haryanvi somewhere along the way.

7. I generally loathe the nature of most people around me and hate how I must adapt and behave(also how I behave) in their presence.

8. Suddenly, its far harder to leave words unsaid. Maybe this is because of my renewed perspective on time and its finity, but I'm pretty sure the change in the rest of me affects this as well.

9. Self-improvement is something that needs careful, directed attention. Simply floating down a river born of one's pre-existent self, will never yield a traveler whose experiences match his expectations.

I write this post in hope of a better tomorrow, I know I'll always find meaning in today.

P.S. The MBTI(Myers-Briggs Type Indicator) helps, and I believe most people could benefit in some way or another from the test.

P.P.S. I am an ENTP type(in regard to the above point about the MBTI)

ciao

A moment of clarity

With each blink, I see the world in vivid colour
In the corner of the balcony, on a damp, rainy night
To the strains of Nina Simone,to her feeling oh-so good
In this moment, I am alone and my mind races
Sensing each echo, each hallowed vibration
In space and in time, even as my body shivers
My every imperfection contributing but to a perfect being
In this moment, surrounded by mindless drones
In this moment, perched on my cold concrete throne

In this moment, I am infinite.


---------------------------------------------------------
Wrote this post immediately after watching "The Perks of Being A Wallflower"
It's a little left-of-centre, and I enjoyed it immensely.

ciao

The mayans were wrong.

Am I who I thought I'd be??Am I one to decide??
I look upon myself, and I don't know what to feel.
Should I be happy at what I've accomplished, or sad for all I haven't??
Or should I simply accept it, no matter what it reads??
There's simply no way to sum it all up.
But yes, I do sometimes fear I may become someone I'd hate. Someone I'd abhor. Someone I put up with, only because it's me.

Enough introspection for now. 

Life goes on.

Finally finished a book I first picked up almost 2 years ago from my grandpa's library.
I enjoyed every one of my incomplete reads of the book, probably due to the fact that its a calendar of sorts, depicting a tiny, tiny piece of the world through the seasons, echoing Kalidasa's Ritusamhara(garland of seasons).
In any case, a very different, but good read.

 (The Everest Hotel: A Calendar - I. Allan Sealy)

Holidays went well.
Bangalore and its people have been good to me.
Played a lot of badminton, ate a lot more.
I think I've come back to Delhi weighing more than when I left.
Came back, back to the same room, the same routine, that same maze.

Met my old grand-uncle and aunt, who shared with me their weariness.
Weariness from continually losing their peers and loved ones.
Weariness from being distanced from their young.
But most of all,from fearing their own impending fates. 

Simple sermons served by seventy-something soothsayers.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I've been tempted to write several times, in this period between this and my previous post(a long fucking time).
Rarely has it led to written results, it mostly just passes after a while, or is lost in the chaos of fleeting worries and other detritus.
 


Goodnight.

In Bhutan.

14/7/12

Lying on my bed in a hotel room.
Just finished watching Stranger Than Fiction with my parents.
Earphones plugged in, with nothing but fuzz playing through to my brain.
No internet.
Great view.
Compromise.
Hmph.

Slightly strung out on strong Bhutanese coffee.
Have to get up early tomorrow.
It's almost a daily thing now-one city today, another tomorrow,
Package tours, I tell you.

Still, its one beautiful country.
And the food is surprising, quite unique and above all, delicious.

The country's roads are nearly all the same.
Thin tarmac snakes winding across the evergreen mountains and valleys that define Bhutan.
Rough-patched and uneven, from the frequent landslides from the near-constant showers.

Monasteries and forts and temples alike proclaim a very well-set culture with traditions going back to the 7th century.
Let me tell you, these guys take their Buddhism pretty darn seriously.
-Smoking is illegal(gives you bad karma).
-Slaughter of animals is illegal.(so all the meat comes from India)
-Its so bad, that flies hover freely in even the best restaurants and resorts as fly-zappers are illegal(see above).
-The booze flows pretty freely, and every second establishment has a sign that ends in "CUM BAR"(sure,pun intended, but its true).

The women are pretty and the sex ratio favours them.
So the eyes are happy, but the heart isn't.
Their attire is mostly limited by law, to some pretty funky looking clothes(most young folk excuse themselves from this rule-except official business).
The mens' informal dresses bear a strong resemblance to Scottish kilts, and the womens' to two piece kimonos, one half silk and one half patterned cotton(kinda hot, gotta say).


The cars are cheap(relatively) as there is no import duty, so jealousy is quite inevitable and must therefore be excused.

Weed grows as a wild plant in most parts of the country, so looking out the window while traveling was a wee bit more fun.
Well, it wasn't the season for it to be flowering(especially in the wild) so there was none to be had(meh).


Seven hour drive tomorrow, back to Paro, from where we fly back to Kolkata and then back home to Bangalore.
Should be there by Tuesday evening, in time to pick up the Thar(Need it to drive to work the next morning).
Oh, Im doing my industrial training at this factory some 20km from home, on the highway to Chennai.
Learning to MIG and TIG weld at a plant that produces doors for Volvo buses.
By the end of the month, someone will have purchased a bus which has had a door welded by yours truly(hopefully).
A certain sense of achievement looms ahead in the future, but its at the cost of 2 burnt fingers, a badly sunburnt arm and aching eyes(the damage done till date).


Feels nice to write after so long.
Will post this as soon as I get net access(probably in Paro).

Ciao.

Fuck Me Over

There's no absolute love when she walks by.
There's no absolute pain when someone dies.
There's no real truth in being swept off your feet.
There's no real tears in hellos and goodbyes.
There's no true fear as you fall from the sky.
There's no true hate lurking deep in disguise.

There's simply nought, 
Our thoughts betray our eyes.

For everything is swallowed, and lost,
In this matrix of thought, of layers
And layers and layers and layers.

All, save a trickle, that drips

Into a confused puddle.
So clouded and weak.


So come fuck me over, life.
For I am not afraid.
For I don't really care. 

For I am numb.
I know I'll be alright.
 

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Back when i was about 8 or 9, I remember going to Planet M(wa-aay back when people actually used to buy music) with my bro and folks and picking up a couple of cassettes. I remember playing Age of Empires all day long with the aforementioned cassettes playing on a deck next to the computer. Such sweet, joyous times. The monotonous recorded clash of swords clashing, the horses neighing and the roar of cheat-code-generated sports cars that shot streams of rocks from their headlights ,alongside the likes of Linkin Park, Creed and U2.


Those are some of my favourite childhood memories.


Now I've "grown up" and become an "adult".
No more simple games with simple cheat-codes.
NO more Linkin Park(too electronic), no more Creed(too christian).
I have "taste" now.
U2 still remains, though. 
They are classic, not contemporary.
Today, I can hardly play any games.
Can find a lot of time for it and more so, my laptop overheats every time I play a game. 
These graphics-heavy games of today, I tell you.
Not that I don't love them.

It's just that I didnt need to know of a word called compromise back then.

Now listening: With Or Without You-U2
Now doing: randomly awake,reading blogs
What I should be doing: sleeping
What I really need to be doing: studying(finals in a week)
What I really could do with: AC and a coffee maker(with clean mugs)

Arizona Bay(A Change of Seasons)

They dance around a flaming pyramid of wood to the relentless pounding of drums, whooping in delight as the flames bite at the bitter, retreating cold. The cold that surrounds them, the cold that they run from, swear at in unison, the cold that they try in vain to defy for as long as possible.


I watch from my window, even stealing a laugh at their antics, as they seemingly throw inhibition to the wind, pirouetting around, closer than ever before, to their fellow man, and to their mother earth. 


But they have their rituals, as do I. 


As the sparks float up past my window, I hand myself a blade. 
I acknowledge its power, gleaming in all its cold, steely glory, firmly gripping it with willful hands.


The drums stop.


I face myself in the mirror, silently looking at the past of the future.
I see much, but the time to reminisce, as the silence reveals, has sadly run out.
I make the first cut, and feel nothing.
Yet the face in the mirror flinches.
I continue, hacking away at what once was, as the face in the mirror turns silent, too stoic to show its pain.
The blade runs through like a knife through butter, the heat from the fire propels, smoldering through, surging forth, to expose, to bring to light, the inner skin.
The mirror is in metamorphosis, chrysalis now in sight.


The drums, faster now, head toward a climax as their hands feed the flames.
Crackling, giddy in their self-consumption, glowing ever brighter as the night flinches, prancing back in disgust.


My hands drop to my sides, shaking from their labours.
I see now, through eyelids welded shut.
I see now. 
All around me, it lies.
Nameless, formless, waiting to be flushed away.


The blade drops from my tired, shaking hands.
It shatters as it hits the ground, instantly turning to a hundred thousand atomies that shine forth, swallowing up all that lies on the floor and disseminates in an instant, leaving nought but ash.


The fires have died out.
The phoenix has risen, and flown away.
The ash, the only witness.


In their minds, the seasons change, as they usher in Baisakh with their song, dance and flame.
Is it only me then, who wonders, if anything has changed?
What means this ritual, of rebirth, of coming full circle?


I ask not for them, but for me.

I ask not of resurrection, let the phoenix have his way.
I ask of reinvention, of my very own Arizona Bay.




--------
ciao

Come Clarity

Life's been hectic.

And weird.

Yes,a whole extra serving of weird.

It's like a crazy roller-coaster ride, running 24x7, hurtling through at breakneck speed as you try to make sense of the continually morphing kaleidoscope that is all around you.
The colours fly by, different every time, but still somehow mundane in their ways.

But what's interesting, is that every once in a while,there are these little moments of clarity that manage to break through the madness and present themselves to me.

One such instance, was in the middle of a crazy English lecture, which seemed more like a foreign film on TV( sans English subtitles)playing a mere three feet away.

The bearded, raving clown spoke thus:

"sukhiya sab sansaar hai, khaye aur soye

  dukhiya das Kabir hai, jaage aur roye"

In these words, I found not only meaning, but also a fitting reply to @chikki's comment on my previous post.

Also, dear audience and blog(yes, you are now an entity to me) I apologise for not having posted sooner, but i cannot deny that I believe that it is for the best.


ciao

Haggard

Hello people.
Its been 3 months since I last posted.
Its been a weird three months,fraught with change.
I never managed to post,because I never could land myself in that frame of mind.
Simply couldnt.

Back to change.
I am now studying in Delhi,and will be doing so for the next few years.
Hope itll be a good ride.
 
So here's the new post.
Hope you like it.

---------------------------------------------


Haggard, he walked into a tin box.
A shiny, air-conditioned box on rails.
His skeletal visage caught the eyes of many,but soon enough,
they turned back to their own pathetic microcosms.


All turned away, but one.


A golden-haired bairn, barely three or four.
Toddling toward the old hunchback,he motioned to his own empty seat.
The simple man, he started to make his way to the seat.


Quickly, the mother scooped up her son, and thrust him firmly back in his seat, with a resounding "hmph!"
The haggard prophet simply stood as he were, for it made no difference to him, to sit or to stand.

But within, he cried.
For another light had been put out,
never again to brighten this world.

-----------------------------------------


ciao

Is there a light?

Hello guys, its been a while.
Major change in scenery.
Moved from muscat to bangalore/bengaluru.
Been staying at a hotel for over a month.
Don't have a home yet.
Quite lonely.
Here's the first thing ive written up in a long, long time.


--------------------

He reached in.

Skeletal arms disappearing into a similarly skeletal torso.
Disappearing into a void, an abyss.
Flailing around desperately, but failing.
Feeling only the silky,velveteen touch of nullity.

He felt the voices resonate through his cranium once more.
 --

You are death, yet you are life.
You are sorrow, yet you are joy.
You are master, yet you are slave.


Reach for the light.


Reach for the light, and be whole again.
 
--


He said to himself:

"It must be there."

"somewhere."

--------------------

ciao

silent night

this isn't part two of the previous post i wrote up.
something i wrote up before math.
hope you like it.
don't hesitate to write back.

-------------------------

bloody hell.
the sound of gunfire rings out.
instincts say 2'o clock, over half a click away.
not to worry,I haven't been spotted.
they're just trying to spook me out of cover.
hah.
bloody amateurs.

these guys have plenty of guns,but a shortage of good shooters.
hell to that.
what the spooks really lack, are good thinkers.

I'm still concerned, though.
I'm getting sloppy.
I cant always bank upon their inexperience and inefficiency to get my ass outta the killbox.
gonna get myself killed,one of these days.

nevertheless,i was holed up pretty damn good.
dense african rainforest, the bane of any search party.

or so i thought.

shit.
a torchlight flickers through the undergrowth, accompanied by the crash of feet on dead leaves.
growing steadily louder.

lying still.
very,very still.

I see the all-too familiar AK snout poke through the foliage.
the stamp on the lower receiver tells me its just another chinese-made clone.
just another testament to the universality of 'Made In China'.
Clone or Kalashnikov, it still spews hot lead with as much benevolence as an angry ex-wife.
My angry ex-wife, if you want specifics.

Carrying it, is a kid in his early teens, wearing a stained t-shirt with some rapper's face on it.
He comes to a halt, looking around warily, his knuckles clenching tight around hot metal.

Bloody americans.
Thanks to them and their insatiable capitalist lust, this kid's life expectancy just plummeted off the goddamn chart.
The idiot can't even hold his gun the right way, thanks to those gangsta rap videos on mtv.

I really wanted to step out,and show him how its done.
Of course, that meant I'd have to kill him too.
And I couldn't risk leaving behind another body.
not now.

So I let him go.
Let him have a second chance, without him ever knowing.
As the crunch of dead leaves slowly fades, something monstrous starts to stir up inside me.
The feel of power.
Of holding consequence in the palm of your hand.
Oh, how it allures man,to touch that naked flame, not forseeing that it would be his hand that would burn first.
Someday it'll get me killed, it will.


silence is restored.
Just me and the jungle once more.
Quick glance at my gps.

Need to make some serious ground before dawn breaks.
Or ill find myself in the thick of a serious power vacuum.

The kind that arises, when you kill the one-eyed king of the blind.
The kind that arises, when a warlord dies in Africa.

----------------------


ciao

hello.

hello. 

been awhile.
board exams.
working on a few more posts(coming up after a week~math exam~)

onto more important things,
change is everywhere.
and god has a dastardly sense of humour.

turned 18.
didn't really feel anything.(contrary to public belief)

leaving the country thats been home for eight long years.
isnt as big a relief as some may think.
whats better,my neighbourhood is due to be leveled in a couple of years.
its like someone's trying to erase the "wali was here" stamp. 

effin' hell.

atleast 3 a.m. still feels the same everywhere.
or is it?
i'd like to believe 'tis so.


serene in its sleepyness,slowly stirring into morn.
slowly rises the sun,felling night with its scorn.


well,goodbye my love,and fare thee well.

ciao 

Blue-eyed blues(part one)

Sorry, my abysmal audience, I have been forced far from you by my circumstances. 
Board exams loom ahead, and I spend a lot of my time lost in the conundrum that is twelfth-grade chemistry.


Well, I still try.

This is the first of two parts of a story that i have wanted to write for a very long time.

The second will be posted soon .(I hope)

-------------------------------------------------

 Belgium,1944.

Somewhere in the countryside, near the ruins of what had once been a small town before the war, stood a lone stately home.
In it, lived an eight-year-old boy, Joachim, with his mother.
His father was a minister, and they had been hidden here by the government, lest Brussels fell to the Reich.
Joachim didn't get to see him much, unlike the old days.

Whenever he did happen to drop in, Joachim would bombard him with questions.
Questions about his classmates back in Brussels,about their old neighborhood,questions about his old nanny;questions his father couldn't bear to answer, for he knew better than most,that his dear Brussels lay in ruins, that they had left just in time, just before the Blitzkreig began.

Joachim's mother was a strong woman, able enough to run a house on her own, despite having lived the life of an aristocrat.
She had once served as the headmistress of the finest school in Brussels, L'academie Delacroix. Now the only student in her care was her son, whom she taught for hours on end, knowing that it was her education that had brought her into the upper echelons of society, to her husband, and ultimately to this secluded home, tucked safely away from the Nazi blitzkreig.

Joachim was a bright little fellow, and was quite at ease with his lessons.
But for him, his day began only after he stowed away his books and pencils in the big cupboard by the kitchen.
Every day, soon after his midday meal of chicken soup and bread, he would go off and explore the ruins that stood so desolate next to his own lively home.
His mother didn't mind, she knew no-one was to be found in the ghost town, and besides, it gave her some much-needed time for herself, to write in her diary, to think of the past and the future, and to hone her skills at her new found hobby, gardening.



Joachim was making his way through a the  first house in a ruined row of six, all joined together for some strange reason.
He climbed up a flight of stairs,and found himself in a room like any other.
Dust and grime, are all that live within these walls, he thought to himself.
All of a sudden, something caught his eye.
A trapdoor.
There is something, I'm not sure what, about the very word trapdoor, which pumps fuel to the lamp of adventure which shone especially bright within our young protagonist.
Unable to contain his curiosity, he pulled down on one of its corners, and a ladder swung down into view.
 
He clambered nimbly up the ladder, and found himself in a long dark attic, running unbroken through all six houses.
It was too dark to see, besides he could hear his mother calling for him as night approached.
He ran back home, promising himself that he would return the next day, armed with his mother's electric torch.


------------------------------

ciao(for now)

Grief

Wrote this after reading up on American Indian history,so that's the backdrop for the poem.
Also,as the title suggests, I wasn't exactly feeling on top of the world at the time.


I dreamt the dreams of better days
For they felt so far away
Of selfless love, and come-what-mays
Grew darker, day by day.

Gone, was the spirit, the fierce pride
Shriveled up, like autumn leaf
The shell was empty, nought inside
Nought remained, but grief.
 
Gone was the calm, my heart defiled
Filled with night even in day
Grief, not for the widow, nor fatherless child
But grief, for the the death of the way.

Still, my eyes well up with grief
Dripping from my lashes
To see the chief, no longer a chief
Living in his own ashes.



ciao

Up In Smoke

She woke up, about half an hour after daybreak, to the chirping of the birds outside.

I was watching.

She began to change her clothes, and I felt little tingles run down my spine, as I watched the layers come and go.

~most people don't usually change with the curtains drawn back, with nothing but a large french window between your privates and the great outdoors, but that false sense of privacy is exactly why you pay top dollar for a remote chalet in the Tuscan countryside~

In any case, I was quite happy given the present circumstances.

And before you ask, YES.

I did zoom in for a closer look.

Most guys would, given the chance.

For she had an exquisite body.
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).

As I watched her walk out into the driveway, something made me want to change my very way of life, maybe find myself a nice mamacita, settle down somewhere sunny, restore an old '68 charger, hell, maybe even raise a family.

As that last thought soured in my mind, I decided it probably had something to do with the size of her breasts.

And her car.

Ooh, fancy women, and fancy cars.

Truly, a match made deep, deep down in the fires of hell.

A Maserati, a worthy example of Italian opulence, and their skill with cars.

Under its hood, lay a 4.7-litre V8, twin-turbo, with a 6-speed gearbox,the works.

You know me, couldn't help but check.

I really would have loved to hear her roar, but my thumb was already pressing down hard on the detonator in my hand.

Man, I hate my job.

oh how i miss thee,sweet rant..........

well,i think i haven't been doing justice to the rant-loving sections of my audience these last few weeks.......so here goes.

oh bugger.
exam time.
not studying,even when sometimes i really want to.
wasting time.
(innumerable exam-time cliches follow.........)

but......
ye olde,devilishly inevitable  but.......
something new is happening......
feels good.
probably up to no good(quite obvious,after that last line)
~dont know where this this here train's goin,but i sure hope it aint a trainwreck..........~

also.....
parents took away the fancy wifi-enabled n79........
back to me ole trusty ngage qd....
fer these coupla weeks,anyway.....
the good side is,im gettin ta lisn ta a lot of the music that i usdta lisn to a coupla years ago,now that im havin ta use the stereo fer music again.....

anyhoo......
im gna gt back ta tryna study.....
wish me luck,people..
heaven knows,im gunna need it.

ciao

the man behind the mask

everyone has a mask.

everyone.

its who we are,when we know someones watching(even when said watcher is but a figment of our imagination/ego/dementia).or even when we try to be cautious of how others react to our presence/behavior/antics.

its quite simple really.

whatever we do under said circumstances,quite frankly,just isnt us.

what we do as a group,says nothing,absolutely nothing, about who we each are.

if someone was watching when,to us,no-one was watching(even that little voice in your head didnt know),theyd have us figured out.

theyd know everything.

theyd play us around like a little bug,making us squirm all we can,even when we all know the end is coming.

dont bother.

ever.

shine that light back at the maggot, and hear its skin crackle under its 100W beam.

i know you cant manage to do that to one person the whole time.

we all know no-one can.

no-one but the man upstairs.

so do it to everyone.

paint a little tarnish,a faint brown patina on every other little critter.

savour that faint,sooty smell of dry roasting.

i know you cant sit back and admire your handiwork,you gotta keep up the work.

or youll fail.

youll give someone else that chance to fry you.

and you will burn,and with that,youll realise,that you arent much different from any other maggot.

or you can persevere,give up your own life,your very self,in the conundrum that you are,your "quest for survival".

and after a while youll notice.

cliche-"everything is an illusion"

yes, dearest retard.

weve all heard that one.

but the rabbit hole goes deeper,still.

ive already put you through these many lines of drivel,so i dont think youd mind a few more.

i promise itll end soon.

when you see through the mask,you see beyond the face,beneath the skin.

you see inside the man.

the mask is his desires,fears,aspirations,thoughts,his lifes work, his very own matrix.

the mask is his wall.

think of it this way. 
the mask is just a colour negative.

just as simple as that.

youve just gotta take every little pixel,and flip it the right way round.

just takes a little elbow grease,is all.

oh cmon.

dont throw that half-arsed look at me,i havent done any of this crap.

i just give out the instructions around here,mate.

now sod off.

~distantly calls~

ciao

five

The world of scientific experimentation is like an iceberg.

What we see or hear about is but a fraction of what actually goes on under the radar.

This is the story of one such experiment.

In the professor's laboratory,tucked away from the world,and its regulations and red tape,five human embryos,taken from five races,five continents, lay ready to be "tweaked".

A synthetic chromosome,the culmination of decades of his research,was to be implanted in their DNA.

Its function,was to make its host be able to "read" the thoughts of those,in its presence.

Once the implant was complete,the embryos were sent to surrogate parents on five continents,who were to nurture them till birth,and beyond.

Their role,however, did not cease there.

They would monitor every aspect of the child's life,and relay the data back to the professor at regular intervals.

Five children,completely different in their upbringing and circumstances,but alike in one aspect.

The chromosome,and the unique ability it had given rise to,in each of them.

The original intent of the experiment,was to create alpha-humans,or superhumans,by giving them one unique ability,using which they were expected to rise above all their peers.

However,the outcome was not quite what the professor had expected.

Each of them had taken their own life,and not one had lived to reach adulthood.

Ponder awhile.

Write back if you like.

Ciao.

Faust

I'm in yer guitar strings,

and inside yer blues.

Restin' on yer pillow,

and walkin' in yer shoes.

Met you,at a crossroads,

black,as an inkblot.

Don't worry,my son,I'll have ye,

well afore ye rot.

I cut ye yer slack,

gave ye free reign.

Don't you go forget me now,

for meet,we shall again.

Someday, you shall all be mine,

just yerselves ta blame.

For my name is Mephistopheles,

and Faust, 'tis my game.

ciao

nadir

this post,i dedicate to every girl whom ive ever thought i had a chance with...

I was born a bastard.

A couple of years later, i became an orphan too.

I lived alone,in the slum,my ten square feet of rusty tin and corrugated iron,where laid whatever little proof that i even existed.

Id made it to fourteen like countless others,by living off the crumbs of someone else's plates,their joys, their beliefs, their lives.

Every day, i would go to the old lady's house,stopping by at the temple,not to pray,but to survive,on the remains of yesterdays prasad,that they gave away.

I could not steal,or fight to feed myself,for i was weak,simply too weak.

She taught me, out of pity,and out of love,for the son she had lost years ago.

It took me hours,even days, to learn what most learn before they turn five.

It was only through her reassurance and conviction,that i learnt,how to read,how to write,how to live.

I left her house,and treaded along a familiar path,headed to the playground.

I sat lamely at the boundary,watching the boys fight over a disputed wicket.

It was then, that i saw her.

Looking out of the window,not much older than eighteen,watching the match with brown,deep brown eyes.

Just then,the ball came by me.

They called to me,to throw them the ball.

As the child in me took charge,the notebook fell from my hand,which instead picked up the grubby sphere and let fly,with what seemed a colossal effort.

I tried,i really did.

Yet it fell,not so far away.

Laughter ensued.

I was only too used to it,and had long ago,put up walls of stone,to block out the laughter,to block out the hurt.

It worked,but,somewhere,somewhere deep inside,was a little wound,still bleeding,still burning.

Hurt,i turned my eyes away from the ruffians,muttering curses,when my eyes met hers.

She smiled.

I dont know what happened,but i felt something well up inside me.

Some part of me knew,that like the old lady,it was but pity that made her smile.

But still,i found myself thinking there was more,more reason,more meaning,more something,more anything,behind that smile.

All i wanted,even for but a moment,was to rise from my nadir,and float up,up into her balcony,into her life.

Then it all blacked out,as the ball rapped against my temple.

"SIX!" screamed the batting team,and danced joyously onto the ground.

I woke up,dazed,my head throbbing.

I looked around at the victory celebrations.

Then i looked up at her balcony,and saw her celebrating too.

It hurt.

It hurt more than my swelling head.

It hurt more than the crippled ego of this cripple.

It still hurts when i think about it.Not a lot,but not a little either.

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P.s.-i hate writing emotionally-charged pieces

-nadir means the lowest point

Ciao