Time's of the essence.

"A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it."- Jean de La Fontaine

By the way, that line was also spoken by Master Oogway  in the movie "Kung Fu Panda".

Considering the larger scheme of things, I really doubt that creating ripples in time, trying to distort the series of expected events by doing the unexpected, is a pure waste of time. Time flows like a river. You can throw stones into the flow and create ripples. But that wouldn't cause the river to change the direction of its flow. It would be a different scenario if an asteroid were to come about and happily fall in the river's way. But how could you artificially throw asteroids in the way of a river? Ahah! Therein lies the glitch in the solution. Solution to which problem? That's where my train gets derailed from its tracks.

Sometimes, an area of 2-3 acres is more than sufficient an area to keep 2 humans from seeing each other. Then, you have 100 acres to play with. And all of that space is not sufficient to keep 2 humans apart. Time and time again, same face. You go one place, you see the face. You go to another place, you see the face. The only place you can go to without seeing the face is probably the bathroom. But there, the face lingers in your mind. Damn it. Do you want to see the face? NO! NO! NOOOOO!

When you say that, you're being dishonest to yourself. It is like saying you hate the song Galiyaan. Abhorrent song! Goodness! You may sweep such a song under the rug for being bag full of non intellectual bull. But in reality, you actually like the song. It is actually an emotionally evocative song. And not one that evokes an ounce of endorphins. Secretly, you want to hear that song. Wallowing in the song's atmosphere, you remind yourself of all things you promised yourself to let go of, to stop thinking about. Same with your 100 acre wandering space. You secretly, or blatantly want to see the other face that you keep seeing over and over again, where ever you go. 

When you do spot the face in your vicinity, you do everything to not look at the face. Or at least, you do convince yourself that you do not want to look at the face that you so longingly have wanted to see. So, you look around, look away, in opposite directions to where that familiar face awaits you. But the true part of yourself, that small part of yourself where truth still exists, raises its head, And you really cannot do a thing about it. The head starts looking in the exact direction it was meant to in the first place. At first, you steal glances. Looking London, Walking Tokyo. Then, the glances get longer. All of a sudden, stupidity becomes part of your repertoire. After a while, when you somehow get a hold of your stupidity, and everything looks fine, you take a sigh of relief. The worst is over, unless the universal conspiracy that you were so sure of it being in your favor, throws a googly at you. Now, handling that is purely up to you. It could go both ways. 

Think of it for a moment. The mind can come up with so MUCH stuff , most of it delusional. To the point, you can end up feeling completely crazy.

Another thing about the mind is its incessant need to conjure up possible alternatives to moments that slipped the grasp of your clenched fist. All things that could, should and would have happened, had the mind worked the way it did back then, in that moment, like it doe now.  And alas, nothing can be done about that, any way.  

How the hell do you tell another being about what runs in your head? Words don't cut it. They somehow have an inherent ability to not convey the meaning of what is it that is needed to be conveyed. Something just seems to fall short. 

The spoke word... well, the inefficacy of this mode of communication, I shall not delve into. More so due to my pure inability to leverage the spoken word to my own advantage.
For the week that lies in front of me, I have my doubts, insecurities, uncertainties, and fears about how it is that things shall turn out. But then again, no control in what could, should and would happen. That's the deal about time. 

The past, you can't have today. 
The present, somehow is always slipping away. 
And about the future, well, there's nothing one can  say.

Hearing a writer

The ideas and thoughts I am about to present are not mine. How I wish these ideas belonged to an older, more experienced, more matured, more grounded version of me, at a point when things wouldn't look as scattered as they appear now. But in the hubris of youth, this diceyness about everything is probably what makes every breath worth pulling hard at. My only regret will be that of not being able to enumerate each one of the profound thoughts that the writer spoke of, whose talk I was fortunate to listen to. I shall refrain from delving into the nitty-gritties about the writer. But I shall say one thing. Despite having weathered time for over four decades, this man was a tad bit reticent about issues pertaining to sex. This is slightly surprising, considering how open minded the man seemed about everything.

Nevertheless, here goes nothing...

On Our AGE...

How old are you? Straight forward answer. No? Subtract the current year you're living in from the year you were born in. That formula is obviously not applicable to you if  you're born in BC, and happen to have lived into the AD era. Bad jokes apart, really! How old are you?  Least of all, it is surely not the number you put in while filling up forms. Specially if you're a lady over 30! Alright. Apparently, bad jokes are going to be the theme for the day. So I'll jump to the answer. We, each one of us, are our chronological age added with the age of the human civilization. Our instincts, reflexes, intrinsic natures, feelings, and all things we so take for granted, are a cumulation of countless beings who walked this earth before us. Each of them passed something onto us, a bit of themselves, insignificant as stand-alone contributions, but world altering if considered upon consolidation. Imagine for instance if one of Hitler's ancestors had died prematurely. For all we know, World War 2 would have been a  lot different, if not a deleted page in history's books.

Why was the World War a mostly inevitable event? Circumstances... Had there not been a Hitler, there would have been another German who would have risen, given Germany's predicament. Would that parallel universe be anywhere close to ours? That's anyone's guess. Surely, Volkswagen wouldn't have existed.

Older humans, predating our time by many centuries, if not millennia would have resorted to harsh measures to overcome hard times, sacrificing a few for the greater good of the majority, fighting battles against their odds. Those who won, survived, left a part of themselves to survive in us. Those who perished, well, history swept them away with a gust of wind, and left them buried in the ground.  We know little about those who succumbed. Genes... I tell you!

Even our dreams, specially the one where we fall on the back of our head, could probably be a recollection of our ancestor who was working perched up on high ground, and fell on the back of his head. Could be. I know this not for sure. Neither did the writer, I suppose.

On Art...

There is an impetuous behind all works of art. Be it the art of playing a sport, the art of creating music, of creating worlds with words, of basically doing anything. Look at Sachin Tendulkar. Classic example. And to be honest, the same example that the writer made use of. Sachin, up on reaching any milestone, always, without fail, looked up. Probably in respect for his late father. But that's what kept him going. It sure as hell wasn't some rehearsed trick he pulled out of his sleeve to show an audience what an obedient son he was. Maybe the relief he got, each time he looked up to his father, is what kept him from stopping what he did best. An artist, in most of all cases, has a muse, who becomes a source of inspiration for his work. He longs to write about this lady who triggers all his right buttons, as far as his artistic stimuli go. There might be a sensory overload in him that pours out in the form of poetry, painting, or completely fictitious stories. Great many poems have been written in thoughts and angst of a beloved. Then again, there is a source that pulls him towards an end of the tunnel. 

On writing...

There are two types of writings. One is where you climb greatest of heights, in your youthful adventures, maybe in company of your love, your passion. What you leave there, on top, for the world do see as a remnant of your achievement, your unquestionable diligence, shall be the highest representation of your existence, that with which you would like yourself to be seen and remembered by. Man reached the moon. What he left there was his Nation's flag. The nation that supported his endeavors, and allowed him to manifest his dream into reality. Same with climbing Mount Everest. Go to any sight seeing place. There will be many hard-to-reach points in the area that offer an amazing view, but not many have pushed themselves to getting there. Those who have, usually leave an indelible mark of their own. For all said and done, they leave a mark of their love for someone, writing something like "Parameshwaran Nair Loves Ammu Kutty", with all of the heart piercing arrow in the middle of it. Sounds stupendously stupid, filmy if you may. But that is the highest representation of themselves that the people can think of at the time, "In the moment".

The second type of writing is when you're in a dark, filthy place, such as a railway compartment's toilet. One writes, draws and articulates everything that represents a model of his thoughts at that point of time. Genitals, raunchy writings, and everything explicit that a mind could conjure up, with a possible intent of wanting to entertain another mind, who steps into the chamber at a later time in the same frame of mind. 

If you look subjectively, the latter type of writing appears as a lower form of representing a man's/being's thoughts. But one cannot take away from oneself that both forms of creativity, however vile the latter might appear, stem from a human mind. Both exist because we are capable of putting both extremes into words. 

On being honest...

All lofty lines, ideologies, romanticism kept aside, every piece of art that stems from youth's love, or love that stems from a bodily desire, is with an expectation of having that love reciprocated from the other end. It may not be explicitly stated. Or if the person is ballsy enough, he could state it explicitly. You never know. The human psyche is a funny looking thing. 

On the navel...

The belly button. It is a place in the body left as a reminder of our long lost connection to our mother. Today, the world has sexualized that part of the body. Besides, the screens that surround us, to the point that they have made our heads bend down, has removed us from any eye contact with another fellow being, and hence, disconnecting us from our senses. As per studies on body language, we look down when we are ashamed of ourselves. So with the current trends, we are perpetually stuck in a walk of shame. 

Besides, there is something in our new age mentality, a pull of sorts that makes us want to stay in an eternal sexual limbo. The writer mentioned a term in Malayalam that I could not fully comprehend at first... Kannyi Maasam(കന്ന്യി മാസം ). Not too sure if that's how the word is written. Nevertheless, it is a particular month(Maasam= Month in Malayalam) in the Kerala calendar which is supposedly a period for dogs to mate. At this time, all dogs can thing is of mating. A pure animal instinct pervades their thought process. The above mentioned term almost sounds derogatory, considering humans are animals too, at the end of the day. But the way our screens are filled with sex, how sex is used to sell every product imaginable in our living rooms, it is slightly hard to digest. 

Unrequitted

It's always the case. Something remains left to be scraped at the bottom of the tank. That last ounce of something that you know, that which remains. Not even in drops. but as fumes. That's all that's left. But it's there. 

It may be a thought, a string of words, a dream, or something left incomplete. Hopes that get filled with empty spaces. Storms before calm, calms before the storms, both of them coming together to annihilate each other. Think of it this way. The circle encompassing Yin & Yang. Take the image that comes to mind, and create its negative. White out the black spaces, black out the white ones. Now place the original circle and its negative on top of each other.

What was to be a symbol of balance, harmony, parallel and equally matched forces, now remains a hazy circle of some shade of gray. Neither white, nor black. Lost between transition of white to black, or black to white. Like it matters either way.

Inside a dark chamber, with a lid on top for a door, the only way in, the only way out, there are a bunch of thoughts that peer out into the open through a small gap in the door's lining. They can't see much except for a streak of light. But that feels like hope. Suddenly, it looks like there is someone coming towards the chamber. A dark figure. Dark not because of the person's complexion. Just that the light in the background only allows for one to see the silhouette of the person. The person comes, opens the lid, looks inside, stares at his thoughts like he'd never seen them, wonders for a moment, looks at his thoughts again, just like he did the first time, albeit this time with a skeptical familiarity. But suddenly, it looks like the person was being called by someone outside. This person responded to the call with a shout, yelling something inaudible. But that broke the chain of thought that started him/her on the path of familiarity to his  thoughts that lay in that dungeon, waiting for him. And so, he slammed the lid of chamber, and scurried to the one calling him on the outside. 

A thought is just an action that never manifested itself. That which lay shut inside that dungeon. Trapped, lost or forgotten amid all the other voices, fears, and noises of the world outside. It remains in silence, with the only hope that it shall be uttered, molded into shape, before the end of time.

Someone walking the tightrope for the first time will not smile. All that the person needs to be made to believe is that it's not the first time. Then watch them smile. Another thing that lingers in the mind... Why is it so difficult to walk away from something like you never knew it? Look at matter, for instance. The smaller you become in relation to it, till the point that you are small enough to make quarks appear bigger than you are, considering quarks have a physical tangibility, the more you realize that all of matter, or at least most of it is empty spaces. But that doesn't take away from it that if you resize back to normal, the object into which you were looking at in your "Plank sized" avataar, the object will seize to exist, how much ever free space it is filled with. 

Okay. Something's Incomplete.
Crap! My major project!

Of whips and lashes.

Every passing moment brings to mind the same blinking red neon sign...

"What shall I do?!"

 It's not a cry of helplessness. It ain't even a blinding desperation to get oneself out of some sort of an ordeal. A seemingly everlasting limbo. That's what it feels like. Just like how time feels. No known beginning. No visible end. It just stays in the background. Tick-tock.. Tick-Tock...priding itself in being the fourth dimension. But never the less, with each tick, and each tock, the moments are coming to a closure. The entropy is ever increasing with every passing moment. Imagine being at the crest of a wave created on a string by violently moving one end of it up and down. You're not going to stay at the crest for ever. As a matter of fact, as soon as the wave moves along the string, you'll feel all of existence being pulled down till the point where you reach the bottom crest of the wave. Then there will come the pull to the top. And so, the motions will repeat themselves until you and I get used to the upward and downward motions, even to the point that we fail to acknowledge the jerks we feel at either end of the crests.Whiplash after whiplash. And it will all be fine. No one is going to bother anyone. The jerky limbo will last a lifetime, and then each one shall bid adieu to this earthly stage. 

It's all a play. A game of cards, and that of thrones.

A sleigh of hands. Of tells and shows.

A queen of hearts, who fell for the the king of jewels.

An ace of hearts, who got clubbed to death.

Everyone wondered and asked what happened. 

Jacks stood by laughing, for they had written the end.

There shall be many a jaw that drop, at the sights they shall see. They can't shake their eyes off what confronts them. And they cannot hide their fascination, neither their hatred for all things they couldn't have, and couldn't be. 

Each of the ones you leave behind, shall pale in front of the next. And lest one shall not do so, unjust is one to oneself, and the rest. For if you don't do so, you settle for lesser, and will make it an indelible habit. So run after the rabbit, into the hole, and out like a mole. Through all the dust, across the burning coal, leaping over parts, living parts of wholes. 

Weirdly inexplicable

It doesn't take a moment's worth of weakness to undo days, months, or even years of control. One slip, and everything goes tumbling down the hill, uncontrollably snowballing into something bigger every instant it rolls.

We thought we had it under control. That's precisely when a gust of wind came by, and dismantled our grasp of reality. No apologies for the dramatics.

Feelings. Some bunch of creatures were tricked into playing cards with nature. They tossed and turned in their turmoil, spontaneously giving birth to an entity called intelligence. Poof! We gained awareness, the line of creatures who followed the poor souls who lost, or won that game of cards with nature. Goodness knows what the outcome of that game was. No! Maybe, for all we know, there was no outcome of that game. That the game is still going on.

We feel because of intelligence. Not that a slap to the face will feel very different if you are a genius, than to a bum, unless of course there's some serious issue with one's nervous system. Nonsense aside, let's dive straight into a few things that trouble me as of now.

There's always going to be stuff we feel for the first time. As the line goes in the movie "Munnabhai M.B.B.S.",

"Life mein bahut kuchh first time hota hai re!"
(Lot of stuff in life happens for the first time, buddy!)

 The fist feeling I remember having felt is while going to school for the first time. Despite the new attire, the new bag, lunch box, water bottle, and all the kiddie stationary like the scented erasers, the day still feels miserable. I had a big issue with the lining of my socks. It hurt my toes as it pressed and rubbed against them. Specially more so when I wore my shoes. It angered me, the irritation. To the point that I wanted to take my socks and throw them away. I remember my mom giving me a piece of her mind for the annoying prick I was turning out to be on that day. It was rage mixed with helplessness. Half an hour went by. My parents dropped me to my school. They were leaving. For some reason, the lady whom I felt like punching in the face a while ago, her arms were the only place where I could seek solace in, in that moment. Sucks. Just thinking about it sucks!

That was misery.  Or so I realize now.

My dad throwing the cricket ball at me out of anger, for I not having hit the last ball correctly, and I blasting the ball away, with every intention of tearing the ball apart with the bat in my hand... that is pure anger, pointless nevertheless. But pure anger. Not maddening anger. Not yet.

This girl walked into class for the first time. New student. Her accent had a hint of Americanization. Dusky skin, sharp eyes, and goodness, she looked like an angel. That's the first time I remember my heart sinking at the sight of a human of the opposite gender. Grade 7. I told my friend about a weird feeling in the chest. I'd never felt this way before. And that day, I remember feeling like a complete bum. The sort of monkeying around I remember my kid-self do puts me to shame even now. Besides, what I do nowadays doesn't exactly feel a lot different from what I used to do back then. First love? No idea. For I still don't know if "love" has smacked me on the head. Honestly, I don't even know the meaning of the four letter word. But yes. That day, over 12 years ago, I became sentient.

Sadness... Here's something I've not felt again. Sounds haughty enough. But most of us who happen to be able to read this, have never really felt truly sad. As in TRULY SAD! That said, I shall repeat... "Most of us". We've lived privileged lives, had everything that we asked for. Maybe a few things took a while to come, but they did come by. The worst thing that has happened was a heart-break, or an "F" grade in some subject in school or college, that was not going to come of any use in future anyway. Yes! There are those of us who's lives were calamitous. They grazed by, just in time, or maybe just a bit late. But all in all, everybody was home and dry when it was raining outside, unless someone decided to get wet outside.  There may have been disappointments, minor setbacks, moments of unhappiness. But just because you're not happy, doesn't mean that you are sad.

Contempt- Now here's something new. I knew the meaning of the word, not that I can put the meaning in words. I had a speculative idea of what the word meant. But when I felt the feeling, when I truly felt the meaning if contempt, it was a truly new experience. That urge to look down upon someone, when the person pleads on the basis of a lack of virtues, or when someone talks in murmurs because of a lack of courage to speak out loud. And oh! When people discuss others behind their backs! How puny their existence is!

I forget who said this. I saw this in a library.

Great minds discuss ideas.
Average minds discuss events.
Small minds discuss people.

 My jaws dropped for a moment, when I read this. I still don't completely understand why. But that smile still feels comforting.

Now, to lust. This is one of the words that has gotten a rap on the wrist. Despite being the most natural of all things,  everyone, or almost a big chunk of everyone has been tricked into associating lust with immorality.  Stupid preachers.

It's not just lust for the opposite sex (or for the same sex, just in case I miss out on that small demographic) in general. Sometimes, you're so taken by this one person who happens to swing by in your life. It appears as love. Or maybe it is love. No idea. But there is a huge, I mean HUGE lust component to the equation. And it is completely out of your control! You're just drawn to this one particular person. It has the capacity to drive you completely crazy. That urge to touch, feel the skin of this one human, every square inch of this person... tantalizing! It's unstoppable at times. It feels like worlds joining through the connection between two bodies, grappling with their own existence and also with each other.

Next, the do-gooders. This, per se is not a feeling, but it is the way the good people, the genuinely good people, not the sycophants who talk behind others backs, make you feel. And personally, I'm not a big fan of the way these genuinely good people make one feel. Specially when you know for a fact that they have no ulterior motive behind their acts of goodness. You get a feeling that you owe them something. The only trouble being that you have nothing you owe them for. And the "thank you" you keep chanting for every deed of theirs, starts to feel inadequate. Not that one can do anything about it. What a bummer!

Attraction... Now here's the deal breaker. Sometimes you see this person. Your mind just gets HOOKED. It becomes difficult to look anywhere else. Your friends begin to winder what's it that's gotten into you. It's like being possessed. Just to keep magnetic polarity out of the equation, you feel like a piece of iron, and the object of your attraction is one bloody strong magnet! You get drawn toward the magnet, with a mindless symphony that becomes the background of your existential angst. Are there any violins that I can hear in the orchestra? No idea. For I can hear the sound of violins, long before they begin.

The worst thing you can do at times when you feel attraction of this sort is to hold yourself from doing what you want to do. It is an unpardonable crime to keep yourself from acting out your desires. From personal experience, all it takes in most cases is walking up an saying "Hi!". Forget the rest of the sounds. It's all background noise.

I-want-to-break-your-nose madness. Now THIS is maddening anger. The one where steam comes out of your ears, like in the cartoons. The face goes all red. All the veins on your arms, and sometimes even the face, pop put like merely touching them would make them spurt blood everywhere. It is highly advisable that you do not go near anyone who looks even remotely like the person described above. Your life shall certainly be at risk if you do.

I do not recollect the first time I felt this way. It's probably because that's my party trick. I'm always "I-want-to-break-your-nose" angry. Thanks, Hulk!

If you happen to be the person feeling every vein in your body throbbing, because someone, or something pushed you that tad bit too far, you know exactly how badly you want to tear the fabric of the universe into shreds. May the believers pray to their lords to save them from your wrath! For if you let loose, there won't be no grapes. The world around you shall only see you, and nemesis by your side. 

Disaster unaverted

There are two ways you learn from mistakes. You either watch others make them, or you make them yourselves. The latter one hurts like crazy, like a kick to the nuts. Specially when, after, or rather if you ever realize that you made a mistake. 

All machinery in place, you got all your balls, all your bats, raquetes, nets and all. You go, do your thing, play your game, thinking you're smart at what you are, only to bomb things in the end. The best  part being that you dropped the bomb on yourself, it exploded, and you never got to know what happened till the time you reached that cloudy place somewhere up in the sky, and saw that you are the laughing stock among all the angels. 

Well, if you screwed up and went straight to hell, exactly as per somebody's suggestion, the worst ain't over, pal. You still have the devil's trident, fresh out of the furnace, yet to be shoved straight up your baby bottoms. Mummayyyyy!!!!

For a moment, let's consider mathematics. We have variables, a set of equations, a few steps, a lot of peer and parental pressure, and Wallah! We have the solution ready. Now this is as far as academic mathematics is concerned, which is basically a mere oversimplification of everyday troubles, simulated in the most conceivably solvable form. Too much jargon. No apologies, though. In the real world, there is seldom going to be any situation that we can solve with a derived equation. But we know that. I'm just trying to figure out why in hell was it that I mentioned something that everyone knows already. 

Just add a single unknown variable, or even a variation in a known variable, and all hell breaks loose. 

Now, here's the deal. A lot of over-thinking coupled with an excess of blood sugar can wreck havoc in your thought process. 

Each person should attend a course called "Selling 101". We look down on selling as a profession lacking honor. No idea why. It is a societal thing, I suppose. I can already imagine most of our parents disowning us if we take selling up as a profession. 

"You'll end up as a sales rep!"

 But it's selling everywhere. Ask someone to fund your project. The first question hurled at us...

"Why should I help you? What do I stand to gain?"...

*Blank face*.... Errr.....

Uhh......

This is when most of the times, most of what we are going to utter, will have little effect on what the person decides in the end. Someone could say utter gibberish, but in a matter that leaves the person on the other end of the table flabbergasted. Done deal. 

On the other end, there might be someone, and there always is this someone, who takes great pride in his/her technical know-how, delves into intricate nitty-gritties of the whole issue, and bomb in the end, without knowing that he/she has bombed. All these folks get to hear is...

"We'll get back to soon."

And that is only if the folks you are dealing with happen to go easy on you.

It's just the same when asking a lady out, or so my sugar-overloaded brain thinks. You could have pulled off all your ballsy acrobatics in front of the lady, and happily walked away, completely forgetting that it was getting rather dark, and maybe you could have waited just a few more moments before walking away mindlessly like you did. And all the disaster on the planet could have been averted. Okay, maybe there was no earthly threat as a consequence to your stupidity, but maybe the place could have used of a little elbow- grease here and there.

Another thing I realized is this. The folks who use the expression WTF, well, they are a despicable lot. WTF is a third world replacement word for those who really can't say the words "What the Fuck" out loud, purely because they lack their stomachs, a.k.a. guts. 

One more thing. It is strange how there can be a person, who thinks of exactly the same idea that popped up in our mind, implement it, make it his/her official property, all while we, or another fellow sitting and thinking about the same idea, still fantasizes of pulling off the same idea, but keeps it for later, hoping no one else gets his idea. Speculation is such a waste of time... 

Wow! It all sounds so connected. 

Of slaps and punches.

It's been a while since I last had a lucid dream. The last time that I did, I pushed off the ground hard enough to make the ground beneath my feet yield. One leap was all I needed for flight. I flew and soared higher than a free bird.  The wind felt good on my face. I could feel every square inch of my body. It was euphoric. The best part is that the whole time, I knew that I was dreaming. And yet, I could feel the pain each time I tried to pinch myself in the dream. When I touched down, I could feel the stares from every soul around. But as always, I knew for a fact that it didn't matter. 

There was another time when a snake bit me, and I felt everyone around suddenly disappeared, leaving me to fend myself against the snake. This is when moments, ago, I was about to enter an ornate entrance to some sort of a palace. The next moment, I find myself in front of a dilapidated structure, abandoned for what looked like centuries. The snake stood, its hood wide open, looking me right in the eye. 

Come yesterday night, it was altogether different. There was only one thing I felt. Rage. Rage to rip apart the person I'd lifted straight off the floor by his lapels. I swear by the fact that if that were reality, i wouldn't be one bit doubtful of what I'd done. I learned something yesterday. When it comes to someone you love, you want to slap them, if they manage to work up your anger to the point of breaking. But when it comes to people you despise, the ones you truly abhor for unmentionable reasons, you pray to nature that it save these people from the wrath of your anger.
Every once in a while, there comes a bloke, a very effeminate one at that, squeaky voice and all. The quintessential model for an eyesore. Somewhere, genetics plays foul with them, and shoves their testicles straight up their anus. Often times, you feel sad for their condition, but to be frank, the condition is well deserved. Or these chaps at least do everything to make themselves deserving of their condition. And when you "lose it", that last ounce of patience, to deal with these unfortunate creatures, you don't want to slap them, Oh NO, sir! You want to clench your fist, and punch them, right in their bloody nose(or at least soon-to-be-bloody nose)! 

The sort of pleasure you get, that release in the pressure cooker inside...aaahhhhh! Incomparable! In comparison with what, I know not. But you feel so relaxed. Your blood vessels dilate, despite being on the brink of bursting, just moments ago. The best part being that you feel all of this while you're dreaming. The only better feeling would be if the person you were punching was dreaming the same thing as you were, just from his own perspective, that of the person being punched. How cool it would be if the next day, he came in front of you with bandage all over his demolished nose!

But for some reason, I wasn't happy to punch this fellow, even in my dreams. Yes, I hated this fellow in the dream, and I do so, even more so in reality. But something tells me that punching him isn't going to accomplish anything, apart from waking me up at 1 in the morning, all enraged. Somehow, I felt vulnerable for having punched him. Like it was a chink in my armor that I lost control exactly at a time when I was supposed to hold onto my horses. The door to my room, in which I lay restlessly, was left ajar. It almost felt as if I'd let this chap get to me. The games the mind plays with you! Wow!

Maybe I'm over-thinking. Maybe I'm the one who's playing all the games. I might be the white pieces, and the black at the same time, playing from both ends of the chess board. There just might be another one, just like me, playing the game from both ends, maybe cards held a bit more close to the chest, each move more careful than mine, disguised behind veils.

Messy people.

I am a big, rather self proclaimed fan of Salman Khan. It's not out of my fascination for his body. Yes, he did bring the hunky look into mainstream Indian movies, but it took a Shah Rukh Khan to make the six-pack a style statement. And before I deviate from the topic, I shall stop myself right here.

More than anything, there's one line from Sallu Miyaan that left me floored. Before I restart my rant about how and why I like the dialogue of his that I like, here's the dialogue.

एक बार जो मैंने commitment कर दी, उसके बाद तोह मैं खुद की भी नहीं सुनता।

Hinglish: Ek baar jo maine commitment kar di, uske baad toh main khud ki bhi nahi sunta...

And now, the translation for those who couldn't make sense of the above...

Eh, chuck the translation. Figure it out for yourself!

As cocky as that dialogue sounds, there aren't many around who can actually pull that line off, neither as a dialogue, nor in reality. 

I haven't ever gotten myself checked by a psychiatrist, but I could come up with a whole lot of disorders. My spelling sucks, and my handwriting.. well, that's another story. For all I know, I could be dyslexic. I'm only afraid of OCDs(Obsessive Compulsive Disorders). I've often felt that I obsess over things that I'm fond of, like really REALLY fond of. I'm hoping there's that one soul that smiles reading this. Anyway, moving on again..Affinity to anything seems like a binary function. It's either obsession, or indifference. 

And so, moving to the main part of this story of mine. I was walking back home, mind lost somewhere in the clouds. I heard someone shouting from behind. It was one of those times when you know something is happening, but you can't exactly register what it is that's going on. Someone was honking. It sounded like the horn of a scooter. The voice was shouting the same word over and over again. But my mind was yet to decipher the word that was being shouted out. Suddenly, I understood the word I was repeatedly hearing. "Bombay!!" "BOMBAY!!". I figured that on the street I was walking on, there wasn't another soul who was anywhere related to Bombay. Actually, if I remember correctly, there wasn't another soul on that street. Except for me, of course. Wow, I feel like a dumb-ass. To be frank, I feel a bit like ...

This....

The guy shouting "Bombay!!" is one of the people from the mess I eat in. I've been eating in this mess for over two years straight. Rather, these folks from the mess have been feeding me for over two years. I just can't get enough of the place. Specially their ELA ADA. I never even knew what Ela ada was before I joined this mess. Now that's something I've been obsessing over for two years. My week exists between two Thursdays. The Thursday that went by, and the Thursday that's coming up. That' because Thursday is Ela-ada day! And how gladly the folks at the mess this delicacy! Apparently, they have gone on to suggest that they continue making it seeing the enthusiasm with which I gobble these things, one after the other. Damn!

Besides, it's been so long that I've been eating here. These chaps have turned into family. We don't know each other by name. I know a few of their names. A few know me by my name. And yet, it feels like there is no requirement to know each other's names. We're just happy to see each other month after month without fail. It's strange how someone just addresses you by the city you belong to, and still, there's some form of brotherhood that can exist between the two of you. They're all "Aittas"(Older brother in Malayalam) to me, and I'm an obnoxiously handsome bloke from Bombay. Besides, I'm so glad they don't call me "Mumbai". The word "Mumbai" evokes the sense of a sort of hostile take-over of a charming, bustling place by a bunch of henchmen, absolutely undeserving of the place. 

Bloody hell! Another 6 days for the next Thursday!

There's something else I'm crazy about. Calling it some"thing" would be sacrilege. I knew this would come up in my mind. Hell! For the first time, let's not move on...

Meanwhile, watch the Jalwa!

Hello...

She was a ghost. At least that's how it all started. Nothing tangible about her. It's all too hazy right now, her silhouette. Her contours remain pretty much the same. But she is probably the first ghost to have dived into the Lazarus pit to emerge in human form. A gorgeous human form. It took a while for it all to happen. But goodness. That's some use of nature's elements.

I've seen boys turn into men. I've seen men turn into boys. The latter more often than necessary, But watching a girl turn into a woman is a sight in itself. 

Back when she'd been a ghost, she called me to the terrace so that we could watch the moon together. I reached the terrace, only to watch her jump off the ledge. I ran to her in the futile attempt to save her. But then, little did I notice that she was sitting right behind me, with her back to a wall, laughing at my despair. I don't remember exactly how mad I got her sick idea of a joke. Maybe she read my inhibitions. Or maybe I just got ahead of myself. But that was all! I wanted no more of her. That's what I had decided was best for either of us. 

She said to me once.... "You had me at "Hello" ". And to be honest, I knew that. Somewhere deep down, I was petrified by the very prospect of having been taken by her at first sight. But I knew for a fact that that could never be the case. She and I? Who was I kidding? Little did I know that I'd gotten my facts wrong. Horrendously wrong. If I were to leave a "moral of the story" towards the end of this post, it would be this... "Never say never."

But this ain't the end of the story. From what I know, nowhere close. 

Fate kept throwing us at each other, one way or another. Either that, or it was us throwing ourselves at each other. There seems to be some sort of a tacit agreement somewhere that apparently makes it all possible, all while making it look like it was supposed to happen the way it did. But we kept denying ourselves to each other. It seemed more convenient that way. Who would have known what things were snowballing into? Quite surely, there's still not a creature that knows what things have snowballed into. Moving on...

Women, I tell you. There are very few things in all of creation that are more intoxicating than these creatures. Apart from your passions, there are few things that can make you feel god-like. There are also very few things that can make you feel worse than the lowest scum in existence. But then that's the whole point. You never realize how it feels to be god, if you can't feel the agony of a destitute. 

The Scent of a Woman, now here's something that has an entire movie dedicated to it, and still remains an enigma. Not that anyone's complaining. It's nothing like anything. (Sorry, Micromax! That line is a lot better at describing the best aroma, instead of some gimmicky bunch of fancy gadgets.) You can breathe her. A whiff is all it takes. The scent shall keep you up all night. It could put you into deep slumber. It can drive you into a killing spree, and also bring tranquility to the tumult inside, all in one go. A panacea? Not quite. But whatever it is, bloody hell, it's potent!

My ghost was being resurrected as a woman, right in front of my eyes. Then again, we watch. We don't see. Another one of those sensory impairments, albeit a bit unlike Sherlock's "Watson, you see, but you do not observe."

If I were to start observing, which I often do, I can strip this creation down to bare bones without having to touch her clothes. You should see her heart pounding then. It's a very serene sight. As a matter of fact, nakedness is very beautiful. Very natural. There's no burden of having to hide anything. No need to suck up. Things automatically boil down to the way they ought to be. No more layers to sift through. Nothing to peel off. It's all there, right in front of you.

The mutual denial stayed in place longer than planned. Actually, a lot longer than it should have. Something snapped. Next thing we know, all hell broke lose. 

You see, that's what happens when you try to stop things that aren't meant to be stopped. Everything just goes berserk, squandering every piece of the puzzle, each one of them, so intricately put in all the wrong places, so as to leave the bigger picture an undecipherable piece of work. 

But the deluge that comes and smashes everything into smithereens, somehow manages to solve the entire jigsaw to reveal the map to the treasure trove....

She's alive. Hiding somewhere.The little red cross. Little does she know that the map's with me.

Pulse

A few moments before I began writing this piece, the concept of pulsars caught my fascination. Pulsars, those celestial bodies that emit electromagnetic radiations at very precise intervals, according to the first paragraph of the Wikipedia article on pulsars, can rival atomic clocks in terms of the accuracy of their periodicity. Now, if my fascination for pulsars could sustain itself for any longer, this post would turn a lot of scientific heads in a matter of say, 5 years. But no one has that kind of liberty with time, I suppose. Besides, very few things seem to keep me fascinated. Chuck that! Moving on!

A pulse could be in the small movement of your throbbing vein on your wrist, the Carotid artery in your neck or somewhere between the ridges of your collar bone. A pulse could be in all the same places mentioned above. But feel them after you're done being chased by a mob of angry people. Specially when you have no clue why you were being chased in the first place.

A pulse could last a second. It could last for as short as a millisecond. It could be as long as you want it to last. It could be erratic, completely out of control, wreaking havoc everywhere. A pulse could be the biggest explosion that has the necessary intensity to destroy our planet, even the entire universe, or everything. What might remain is nothing. Zero. Zilch!

Imagine a tap. It's leaking. Drop by drop. Hear each drop as it traverses from the tip of the tap to the ground below. It's a small sound. But if you are sleeping, that constant, repetitive noise is more than capable of keeping you up all night.

Ever seen the ripples that the drop makes when it hits the ground? It creates an entire zone, almost circular in shape, all around its point of contact with the ground.    

Now consider yourself as a microscopic organism. You don't need to sprout tentacles. Just imagine yourself of a size a thousandth of the drop that falls off the tap. You're standing right below the falling drop. I leave the rest to your imagination.

I think of the word pulse, and the next word to come to mind is the word impulse. That crazy rush of whatever feeling it is that wants to explode out from every pore in your skin.  It's like a crack in a dam, a small crevice that becomes big enough to ensure the collapse of the entire barrier at a moment's notice. 

Think of the water that was being held behind that wall all this time. For the amount of force it could unleash into its surroundings, just because a small crack couldn't hold onto itself, it is unimaginable how the water was imploding upon itself for the time the wall kept the water from going anywhere. 

There are things you can control. Then there are things  that you think you can control. Then of course, there are things that you cannot control. Finally, there is a realization, seldom albeit, that there's little that one can control. Thoughts, abstractions, imaginations, feelings,  all pop up in the mind, some with a ferocity that leave you dazed. Watch them take control over you, and you'll do and feel things that you never thought were possible. Some sensations are so overpowering that they leave you caught in a rut, not letting you know when to stop, let alone allowing you to remember how and when it all started. It feels like a mad surge of nothingness. Like moving in empty space at the speed of light. You wouldn't even know that you're moving. There's a strip of road moving beneath your feet. You've been running all out forever. But the surroundings just don't seem to change, no matter what. 

Suddenly, a feeling just crept up in mind. Words may not be the best way to communicate thought. It could be that I do not know the words that I could string together to spell out what's inside my mind. But it could also be that language has limitations of its own. How is it that two people sitting within inches of each other could be talking to each other, but the things running within their heads are two worlds apart? For all you know, one might be altogether blank, from some sort of a vacuum created within, while the other mind is throwing up all things incomprehensible to itself? If the two worlds in question are so far apart at such close proximity, they probably accelerate towards each other, heading for a collision course, the moment they start moving apart physically. That collision happens in a pulse. And worlds are set ablaze.

What are sour grapes?

There's something that remains just out of grasp. Out of grasp of comprehension, out of grasp of my hand. Somehow, it always slips off the tips of my fingers. After brushing my finger tips with what I pursue, just when I am convinced that I'm after sour grapes, a curve-ball is thrown at me, which demolishes my understanding of how things around me work. The curve-ball ain't some soft fluffy ball that swings a little in its trajectory. This is a wrecking ball that is out to obliterate the walls that enclose the little sanity left in the reserve. Just an ounce to keep from going "Full retard". 

Now that my perception of what grapes are, is completely non existent, what do I know about sour grapes? It's like a fresh start. Clean slate. Whatever you'd like to call it.

Sometimes, it seems like the most reasonable thing to do. Back off. It's easy. It's always been easy to not remain invested. No strings attached. 

"Lie low." 

"Don't make noise."

That's what we as a part of creation, have gotten used to telling ourselves and our thoughts. Yes. There may be things that COULD have been a lot different. That is if had one not backed out at the last moment. Just before a foot or two of digging before the gold. But you never know. Maybe the gold would never be found. So backing off seems a bit less painful than going all out, and not getting anything in the end. If you're lucky enough, the curve ball will throw itself at you right on time and your memory will be wiped clean, letting you dig deeper. How far will the gold hide?

Its like a kid's thought process. The kid knows no fear. So it happily goes about doing its thing. Then ruddy parents, grand parents, friends, peers and all the कयनती Qaynati(all encompassing) society breathes all its stupidity into the kid's head in the form of fear. Fear god. Fear elders, specially those who are as clueless, if not more clueless than you about how to go about life. Then when the dust settles, one's made to feel guilty about all the things that makes one happy. Bingo! You're part of the system that you cursed so long! And now, I'm going to go on a tangent.

The system. We as a society, are obsessed about the idea of something being perpetually wrong about the so called system. It's this imaginary creation of our imagination. A scapegoat, made just for us. Anything goes wrong, साला System ही खराब है | (The bloody system is wrong!) Little do we realize that the ones who say thing, are often times the cogs in the same system. 

We want freedom of speech. Someone goes about passing a remark about how they feel about something, and everyone makes all the hue and cry to sound intellectual. As I write this, I feel exactly like the ones who make all the hue and cry. Strange. Our hypocrisy. More so mine, for I can't talk for another one apart from myself. 

Besides all the pointless noise, when it comes to doing something, getting something done, there's no one. Everything has reduced itself to sharing, tagging and all the jargon associated to the web. Even the agony associated with this shift in our investment of energy is quite frankly pointless. What the hell am I saying? Anyone, any clue? The last thing I remember is that i was going to go off on a tangent. 

Clandestine glances: This is something I'm new to. Two people who feel the same thing, do this. Behind the pretense of ignorance, they steal glances at each other. Of them, one might be a bit more brazen about it, and the other may do the same thing from the corner of the eyes. But the thing that leaves me astounded is this. All of this happens to keep your immediate surroundings from reading your thoughts. Little do these two know that their surroundings are more than well aware of what transpires between the two of them. 

Shame: Such a useless concept. When are we to realize that it's all in the head? Not only that it is all in our own head, but that everyone outside ourselves knows that it is all in our won head, and they take full benefit of the fact that they know it is all in our head. Then it is just a matter of time before someone starts arm-twisting you by threatening you of revealing the cause of your shame. Might as well not be ashamed of whatever it is that you have in mind.

Yikes! What did I just say? Too preachy, I suppose. Either that, or I'm just professing my shamelessness. 

A class in which I sat today, the professor said something very striking. He was apparently petrified of approaching ladies during "his time". This is despite all his lofty ideas of ladies being more helpful than "man"-kind. Maybe true, Maybe not. His ideas about who's more helpful. That calls for another one of many pointless debates. Why does the word "Debate" sound so similar to the word "Masturbate"? Anyway, moving on.

All said, I was totally taken by the professor's honesty. The real reason behind his apprehensions to approach ladies was that his reasons to approach them did not align with his intentions of approaching them. I still wonder why we men make excuses to interact with gorgeous attractive looking women. I'm smitten by one such creature. Now, whether or not I make her mine, I want to die without the guilt of having approached her for any other reason apart form my attractions towards her. Even better if I could be ballsy enough to tell her the real reasons why I'm doing what I'm doing. Shit! I've already done that! Phew! I'll at least die peacefully.

"You have an umbrella?"

This is probably a wrong frame of mind to start writing in. But somehow, the "right" of doing things will never walk to me and present itself in this lifetime. Even if it does, I'd probably not be able to recognize it. Anyway, screw the right ways. Let's look leftward for a change. How pathetic, that last line!

It's raining outside. I look outside, and it looks exactly like the first day I entered my college. Pouring like crazy. That was four years ago. They passed away like wind. Just like the cool breeze that greets the my upper back. My ideas of what I would be doing in this first heavy shower  of this year have been washed away by the torrent on the other side of the window.

I'd asked someone some time ago, on another rainy day long past, "You have an umbrella?"

I never knew that one question could topple an entire world. See? Give a person "blues" inducing weather, a very inappropriate song to listen to, the ability to read and write, ability to write, more importantly. Congratulations! You have all the machinery required to create ludicrous statements. 

A friend of mine said something very profound. Actually, he asked something very profound...

What comes first? The music, or the misery?

Although I'm not sure if I'll be successful at conveying the meaning of what my friend said. But really. Look at a big chunk of art. It stems from some source of pain, longing, sorrow, beauty, something ethereal, beyond the grasps of tangibility. Every artist has his/her own muse. You know the sight that greets your eyes., but yet, have no way of describing it.

Look at language. Each word has a meaning. So we make best use of words to convey what we have in mind. Yet, there are things that stay at the tip of the tongue, which, we delude ourselves into thinking that, they would be easy to put into words and blurt out. But when it comes to saying what it was that we felt, words don't come to mind. Linguistically challenged, just at the wrong time. Alas. We might as well be mute. 

As for my friend's question, misery comes in the form of music. As the saying goes, misery loves company. And what better if the company is entertaining?

The grunt in the voice of the singer, whose song I'm hearing while I write all of this, leaves my hair standing. The strong guttural notes lend a force to the song that complements the incessant pitter-patter of the rain on the window pane.

It's constant. The rain. Each drop like an acupuncture needle. But somehow soothing after it crashes against your skin, when it disintegrates into smaller drops that bounce off you. 

A while ago, I was loitering outside It hadn't started raining yet. I like looking at trees when I walk. Specially when I'm surrounded by coconut trees, which, under no prior notice, have this ugly habit of dropping coconuts on heads of unsuspecting passers by. Mango trees have started producing small, tender green buds. Raw, young, innocent, brazenly sour precursors to what will eventually turn into hues of yellow, orange and red, sweet, pleasing to taste, wrinkled, and fall off at the end of summer if not plucked. Another 3-4 months.

More than the time that remains of the 4 years that I, and many around me, had signed up to spend here on that rainy day, four years ago. 

The only thing I wonder is whether I'd have written all of this if I hadn't asked that one ruddy question that day...."You have an umbrella?".

Maybe it doesn't matter if I had. For all I know, there might be a storm coming.

Banks of a river and 2 more idiots!

It was exactly how the teddy with a pony tail(TWiP) had described it would be. That long endless road, trees on either side, the evening sun showering hues of orange and yellow onto the grand entrance of what has become home now.And oh, it was beautiful.

But the stuff I did, or rather why I did what I did, remains a big question in my head. I TWiP right in front of me, going down the same road I was supposed to take. For some reason, I felt it wouldn't be right to do the stuff I usually do. It just didn't feel right. Thanks to a decent peripheral vision, I could see this gorgeous creature walking in all her glory. And in all probability, she must have seen me. And yet, we stayed on opposite sides of th road. It's like the banks of a river. They go side by side throughout the length of the river, from the river's inception, until the river merges with the sea. Then the banks go opposite ways.

It almost sounds pointless for the two banks having stayed next to each other for so long, specially when everyone, who so ever everyone is, knew that they had to part in the end. Part they do. But trace the river all the way back, and notice that the banks are still by each other's side. And that's the beauty of it all. The river is everlasting. Were the banks not to hold their ground, the river would spill all its waters into the surroundings. Disaster!!!

We did walk side by side, for a while. That is before I decided to walk my normal pace and got ahead. This time, I couldn't get myself to look behind. I don't know why. I could have seen a smile. Or I could have seen indifference. Or I could have seen something that my mental faculties are as of yet incapable of conceiving. Yes, a part of me acknowledges a debilitating urge to go back in time and turn around, and see what my opportunity cost was. But then, another part of me wants to let go. Let go of things that I have no control over. Wow! I wonder if any of this makes an ounce of sense. 

I cannot go further into describing the sight that was right in front of me, for at that time, I was lost in my own contemplations. TWiP.... What a lousy acronym to describe the person I'm talking about. She must have changed her place for her evening snacks for a reason. The reason only known to her. The reason that I can only speculate over. The reason that the person reading this, in most cases, will have no clue about.

The night before.....

I was doing my thing, bending my mind over things that a big chunk of humanity has no clue about. That was when I got a call from one of the two chaps whom I'm going to tell you about. "Da, chuck whatever it is you are doing, and come over. FAST." I hated his stern tone, the voice on the other end of the phone. I was under the impression that it was something related to work.. Some design work for an event my friends and I are planning to organize. I'd done a chunk of running around for the event that afternoon. To myself, I thought... "Goodness, these two can't do a thing by themselves! How will we pull the event off if this goes on, specially when the deadline for the event is staring us in the face??"

I walked to the room of the chap who'd called me. The two folks, whom I have probably come to know most in my life about, and I, we've hung around for a matter of roughly 4 years. One of them, he's big, burly, and crazy as hell. The second fellow, he's the sanest one among us three. And then, there's me. No descriptions here. These two fellows make me feel like I belong to a mental asylum. Actually, there are  very few people who don't make me feel that way about myself, but more about that some other time. But the two chaps I talk about now, they're probably the foundation of my college life. 

So I reached this fellow's room, the one who sounded all stern on the phone, thinking that these fellows are going to have some modus operandi about taking the preparations for the above mentioned event forward. Suddenly, someone switched off the lights. For some reason, I felt like my life was going to flash in front of me, and that I was about to die.

The lights came back. I wasn't dead. But these two arseholes pointed toward a pink box. It looked a lot like a package with a cake inside it. Okay, it was a package with a cake inside it. It had my name on it, in pink, albeit.  And it also had a guitar drawn on it. Also in pink. But..... Okay, I'm going to break down writing this. Shit! 

The idiots went all the way to the city, 25 kilometers away, just to buy me a birthday cake. Bastards! I'll never be able to tell these two fellows, or for that matter, anyone how I felt about everything that was happening.

I have a hunch that I have a very low score on the "Likability" front. That might me the most accurate hunch that I'll ever have in my life. Or maybe not. Anyway, these two chaps have stuck around, had by back on more than one occasion. And I have been an arsehole to them on a fair share of occasions. 

All I remember from the night before are a few lines...

"Do you even have any other friends?"

"I can't believe I went all the way to the city just for this idiot."

"Happy birthday, you bitch! That cake's yours!"

"Damn! The ganache on this cake has dark chocolate in it!"

And what I write now, has stopped making sense to me. 

Another thing! Is it that we do everything as a means to an end? Does everything that we do, have to have an end that needs to be met with? Can't you just do stuff for the heck of it? No end result, nothing to prove to anyone, no fighting, no quarreling, no hold ups, nothing held back, no worries about consequences, none of all that?

Why do we hold back? Why do we fight ourselves? Why do we deny ourselves what we want the most? And why do we lie to ourselves? What is to come out of all of this abstaining? Can't stuff be a bit simple? I'm sure things are all too simple. My mind must be all screwed up.

For the two idiots in my life, I wish I could sing this song...

For the remaining things I do, the way I do, and the clueless reasons why I do them, I'M GOING NOWHERE, SOMEBODY HELP ME!!

By the way, I'm sure that a normal life really sucks!

A wall, a vice, and the wait.

Imagine an insurmountable wall. And sorry, you don't have enough might to break it. Frankly, you don't know if anyone has the might to break it. Now, imagine that you are surrounded by such a wall. No way in, no way out. You try to move around, hoping that there is an exit somewhere in the crevices of the wall. Alas. You beat the wall, push it, bang against it with your arms, and do everything that you think will get the way out of your way, but to no avail. You smile at your own helplessness. Screaming for help.... sounds like the most futile of exercises. For there is no one. It's just you and the wall. All the remaining figures you see, are just kept there. Its all part of a set-up. No one's hearing. Deaf, useless impotence.. Just that realization struck a tad bit too late. The brain's suffocating due to an overdose of blood to the head. Your extremities feel limp. The human body.. at the time of adversity, sends all its resources to the vital parts of the body, which are supposed to be threatened in flight-or-flight situations. Basically, at a time when you are required to have your weapons ready, your body conspires in favor of the adversity staring you in the face, and turns you into a sitting duck. Strangely, the body can be tricked to do just the opposite under adversity. Only that not many of us know the trick.

By the way, All of a sudden, you do find a space in the wall to escape through. It seems too good to be true. You're FREE!

 Now the big question. Do you pride yourself for having figured a way to escape through the wall? Or did the wall allow you to think so?

Same with the vice. The vice's grip cannot be loosened using a crowbar. Once it clamps onto something, the grip is so strong that the clamped object is left with the marks of the vice's tractive patch. Either that, or the clamped object gets crushed under the force of the clamp's grip force. And from nowhere, your hands, that were very much in the clamp's grasp, are now free from the shackles of the clamp's grip. So really... you're that strong, eh?

The wait...

This is something new I've learned out of the little marketing I've forced myself to get involved in. Here's the deal. In a duel, if stakes are high, put all your cards  on the table. In most cases, we never really put all our cards on the table. And so, we never get to know what an all out high stakes position looks like. Chances are that if one side has put all it's cards on the table, and by that, i mean, ALL THE CARDS on the table, the other side too has thrown in everything it's got. And you know what? After that, it is just a matter of time. Just wait. Because the first one who talks........... loses. The "What?" is the opponent's cry of helplessness. And it is a rhetorical question!

Strange ways the mind and body work in.