The guys...

It doesn't take a lot for me to start crying. It's almost like dropping a hat. Specially when it comes to sensitive topics. 

A few days ago, I had a friend in my room. We spoke about the most unspoken things of all. Parents. They are a lost topic in our so called "busy" life. We have all the time in life to go about doing anything, and frankly everything. But calling mom or dad feels like a task all by itself. It has come to the point that my mom gets to know about me more through my blogs than my telephonic conversations with her. Sad. And here I am, riddled with my own turmoils, having least considerations about what might be happening 1200 kilometers away. My home's roughly 1200 kilometers away. 

Little do I know of how, or even why my parents met. All I know for a fact is that had they not, this world would fall short of two geniuses. Surely one. That said, I'm sure that there's a whole story about my folks meeting each other, all of which happened about a year before I entered the scene. Damn! They should have invited me beforehand. Or maybe not. 

We seldom talk about our folks. They are almost like the first chapter of a tremendously painful book. You know that's the first thing you read. But it remains in the background. This is despite the fact that one spins the story around the initial impressions of the first chapter of the book. But just that in the process of the story, the first chapter looses itself in the middle of it all, somewhere. 

I was a kid some time ago. From where our parents see, no matter what our age, we're still, and will always be the little toddlers that our parents felt overjoyed playing with. If I remember correctly, I was in grade 1 or 2. I'd just learned how to make a heart shaped card from somewhere. The first thing I remember making with this new found talent of making heart-shaped cards, was on Father's day. I wrote something like "Pappa, you're my Batman and Superman, both put together." I obviously wasn't this grammatically correct, but what I wrote was very similar to what I just wrote above. I remember my dad being very happy about what I'd written on the heart-shaped card. All I remember was it being a very awkward moment when I presented my card to dad. I guess mom helped me out, or something. But then again, dad was happy. Specially when he was experienced enough to know that Superman, or even for that fact Batman never existed in real life, and that I was naive enough to know and think that my fictitious superheroes stood as one right in front of me. 

About a decade and a half later, I stand, immersed in the hubris of my youth, and the deluge of hormones that allow me to feel limitless in every way. Everything feels within my grasp. I think about one person more than any other, one accomplishment more than any other. I think about all the moments I'm losing every moment, just as this moment passes by. Then I think about the one person, and then the one accomplishment. Then again the person, then again the one accomplishment. Behind my mind, I know that I haven't spoken with mom, or dad for the last two days. But speaking to these folks of mine is, as I mentioned earlier, a task all by itself. Same old talk. Same "Beta(Son), take care. It'll all be fine. Don't worry.", Same old people. Same old voices. Same old worries. Not until recently did I notice that the hair on my parents' heads were graying a lot faster than I'd thought they were. Never before had they looked "old". In that sense, my parents are genetically blessed, given that they look at least five years younger than their age. That is five years at the very least. 

About half a decade ago, I realized that these folks aren't all that perfect as I'd come to assume. They had their own chinks in their armors. And I took their chinks a tad too seriously. Maybe I shouldn't have. But then, I did. In the heat of my testosterone spurt. And hormonally, I still feel berserk. Driven to madness, in everything I want most in life. And a lot of that remains to be figured out yet. And I thank my genes for this unlimited reserve of madness,  that allows me to push against all odds, not caring for anything except for what I care for the most. Goodness! Someone among my ancestors must have been one BALLSY character! 

I can't thank my folks enough, just like a few people in my life, whom I can't thank enough. For they make me the man I think I am. The friends, the foes, the women, the books, the accidental acquaintances, and that heart if mine, that beats like a bloody race-horse at the very sight of beauty! What would existence be like without all of this?

What I'm sure of is that my soul wouldn't have been the way it is in another body. And for that, I'm indebted to this universe!