The Champion, the Hunted. Food for thought.

They exclaimed, “He is finished!”

They jeered, “He can never do it. Ever!”

They began writing his sporting obituary.

Each time his doubters had something to throw at him, he remained unfazed and inimitably so. He wasn’t playing for them. Why would he? It wasn’t the prospect of gaining a permanent residence‐ship at the Valhalla of Immortals, either. There was only one person he was responsible to – his own self. He may not have been considered as the present day number one, yet he was hunted. All because he seemed to fail in front our eyes. Damn the surreal expectations of us mere mortals! Statistics have a story to say, too. And so it was to be – the die had been cast; the bar, raised.

In sport, there is a “number one” and then there is everyone else. Any individual who has occupied the numero uno slot for a long time running will find it rather unfamiliar when he is deposed and relegated to being part of “the rest”. To scale a peak is one thing, but to scale, reside and rule for years together is quite another.

Agreed ‐ by law ‐ that the hunter is often better positioned than the hunted. But sport is a different habitat altogether. Being hunted year‐in, year‐out and yet never stepping off the pedestal creates a divine aura. One that shields you from the brouhaha of vagrant onlookers. It is when you are back as the hunter that you try and grope for all the faculty that had propelled you to become the hunted in the first place! Weird. Period.

Weathering a storm is quite an arduous task but repeatedly thwarting tireless attacks from the nether hordes? All that, evidently so, differentiates a contender from a pretender. The certified master and a redoubtable, but greenhorn apprentice.

Coming back to the man of our moment – he reminds us how a true champion should be. The quintessential embodiment of talent sublime, grace non‐pareil, humility profound and probably a faint streak of arrogance – to put the opposition in their place. He may be Master to many an aspiring apprentice, but he is forever an ardent student of the game who cherishes every moment of battle. One who understands that possessing a supposedly complete repertoire is equivalent to owning a drop that makes the mighty ocean. After all, it was Sir Isaac Newton himself who spake thus – “I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”

No one would sound even remotely unctuous when either of the names “Roger Federer” or “Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar” pop‐up to fit, nay, complete that earlier statement.

"BANG!" and a life lived...

*a deafening BOOM!*

*dust settling*

Throat parched, eyes blinded, ears shrill, his life flashed past...

**Aged 4**

"Bang! Die, bad men! Bang!"
 
"Amrit, now will you please put away your gun and have your lunch!"

"Mumma, I want to become an army-man when I grow up! No enemies! Only friends!" *beams the endearingly darnest of smiles that only kids can flash*

**Army training**

"Listen up lilly-livered layabout green-horns! This is a rifle! *holds it up* Not one of those musical guns you held as a brat!"

**Reality**

Men shrieking in pain,
It is war, he can't explain,
And as he lay, on the field, bleeding,
"Will I live to see all this ending..?"
He prayed, tears in eyes,
He breathes, just once. Dies.

- - -

A classic case of what started as a 55Fiction, ended up as a Drabble. A drabble, by the way, is very similar to a 55Fiction; the only difference being the word limit, which is a hundred or less. Discounting the scene descriptions (content between the asterisks), this composition runs to 99 words.

The Alchemist of precious rarity

A placard, Down Under, read - Commit all your crimes when Sachin is batting. They will go unnoticed for even the Lord is busy watching.

Another placard, ordained in Swiss colours, popular at every Grand Slam, read - Shh..! QUIET! Genius at work.

Let us do away with placards now. Words, however apt and riveting, will now have to give way to this modern-day alchemist. His bottomless, sonorous cauldron effervesces chaste melody. One who makes words swing to his seemingly ever-pervasive tunes. Annals of history await to embrace and immortalize him. Enter the tunesmith and his resonating columns. 

Friedrich Chopin wrote almost exclusively for the piano. Our tunesmith is par excellence at the keyboard. And we dub him - The Chopin of Chennai...

But the great Wolfgang Amadius Mozart composed melodies in every conceivable form - concertos, operas, symphonies, requiems... It goes without saying that Chopin held Mozart in great esteem. And our tunesmith is promptly dubbed again - The Mozart of Madras.

Let us do away with dubbing, too. For, it is a rather arduous and pointless task to liken pure genius across different eras. However much the Bradmans and Lavers behold our Tendulkars and Federers in awe, we know it is but mutual admiration and respect. Each generation springs a surprise package. We ought to consider ourselves lucky to witness feats of talent sublime and orchestrated brilliance wherever the said package sets foot. 

Our beloved tunesmith belongs to a different echelon - well beyond the archetypal melody tappers of today. Much like the artist and the warrior of sport lore, he is an elite excellence of symphonic execution. Needless to say, he is a composer with a staggering range - from raga to reggae to hip hop to Indian rustbelt folk to jungle rhythms to faux baroque, brewed with an unerring feel for melody, swing and soul.

Music, it is said, is food for the soul. An Earthly ambrosia for us mortals... We revel in reverie. When has his refulgent genius left us disappointed? Awarded or not, when have his compositions even seemed like an "also-ran" in front of a myriad others..?

That intrepid tunesmith, my brethren, is a beacon. A calibre of precious rarity, per se. It is rather unsurprising that we allow ourselves to remain entranced by this Pied Piper incarnate who, it has to be agreed, has been composing melodies of the future. To imagine that we are listening to it today, gives us much relief. A silent satisfaction. For, we have had the blessed fortune of tasting something that is futuristic. Moreover, we live to tell the tale and sing praises to his name. 

After all, we were not made to wait for another Wellsian classic (a la The Time Machine) to ruefully read, imagining when-oh-when shall we see all this live... Soothsayers! No longer, are you required to read entrails to look at the future. Augurs! No longer do you need to observe the flight and appetite of birds to aid your prediction. Oracles! No longer shall incense-fantasized, beautiful lasses serve as mediums of your foretelling. Away with such charlatans who thrive on credulity, and their Sibylline books!

The enchanting alchemist is here, equipped with clandestine concoctions and potions that breathe futuristic vibes to those alluring compositions. Search his soulful notes for a taste of the future. Embrace. You may be lucky to spot a hint in those well-knit chords...

Vibrant notes, soulful chords,

The tarot decrees – King of Swords!

A sovereign over his domain, he is the khan.

Heavens thunder, as he faces the odds,

“Rahman! Rahman! Rahman!”

---

Take a bow, OscAR Rahman, take a bow!

That Christmas Eve...

Cold winds shrieked as they hit against the window pane. It was nearly two hours since the shop had closed. After all, it was Christmas tomorrow; and who would want to be late for home on Christmas-eve? The residential area was not near by. Not a soul stirred in the desolate road... None but one. A waif. Whose gasped breathing seemed to be a desperate attempt at keeping his young lungs warm in the biting cold.

Little Ronny stood under the light of a lamp-post which was right outside the glass window... Stood. He stood so that the exposed parts of his already under-nourished body could try and absorb some of the warmth that seemed to emanate from the nebuluous light. Ronny could not sit. The pavement was too cold for his raw bottoms. He tried to balance himself by standing on his toes. He needed all of the faint warmth that his near four-foot frame could grope for. 

It would be Christmas soon... Ronny continued to throw hungry glances at the window. Hungry because his stomach ached. Hungry, also, because his will ached. He remembered promising his little sibling "that pretty-pretty pink doll which shhmiled shooo cutely"... That doll lay right behind the glass barrier. Ronny wished he had the strength of Samson - to break the glass. Ah! The lamp-post! But suddenly he wished he hadn't. How could he steal? His dead parents would not like it. But how could he refuse his sister... He knew the pain of an unfulfilled wish. His parents could not afford him an action figure. His sister was all innocence then. She knew no material pain. But now, she had grown into his treasured possession. His little Ree. He winced at the thought of a Christmas tainted by her tears...

There was a brick lying nearby... It was too big for his little hands. Nonetheless, he decided to give it a go. A faint rustle stopped him in his tracks. He looked around. Was there someone waiting to pounce on him? Kidnap him? Or worse; arrest him and throw him in a dark gaol cell? Any plain-clothesman on duty? Ronny's little mind raced... He spotted someone... Was it the beggar? Yeah..! It was "the beggar with the red eyes"... He was towering and gaunt. Ronny feared he was up to no good. But then again... How could anyone be up to no good on Christmas? It just didn't seem right!

All of a sudden, it started raining... The rain came down hard. A storm during Christmas was pretty much unheard of. Ronny ran across the road and hid under a shade. He began to sob... Heavy sobs. He was already drenched. Little feet do not have a long stride... The soaked countenance camouflaged his tears. The sobs became a wail, which was in turn drowned amidst thunder and the fulminating clouds. Then lightning struck and the gale howled. Party-poopers gate crashing a silent Christmas.

*** *** *** *** ***

Ronny woke when the faintest of sunlight blessed the Earth. He seemed all warm... "I must be having a terrible fever. Poor nanny will have even more trouble because of me." His thoughts were interrupted by an ancient voice. "Aww, Sonny boy's awayke awre yew dearie... Slept well?" It was the beggar. Ronny trembled at the sight of those bloodshot eyes. Warmth gave way to a tingling chill... The man, but smiled. "Aye, me lad... Wan' me ol' bag o' bones to tayke yew 'ome? No? Naaw there yew gow... Merry Christmas!" He thrust a bundle under Ronny's arm. Ronny took a look at himself with his bleary eyes. A few more layers of clothing, however ragged, adorned him. The beggar reclined against the wall and watched the numb, bewildered boy silently take leave.

Day broke. News of the strong winds, the sudden rains and the devilish lightning taking out a bent lamp-post began to spread. However, there was no news made of the limp cadaver. For, a stone's throw away from the lamp-post was a bare, gaunt body lying lifeless on the cold Earth. The eyes were red. But there was a tranquil serenity about the face, which also bore a pacific smile. Upon finally being discovered, there were talks that he resembled some Saint Nicholas. Humankind is not new to gossip.

Ree would have her Christmas after all...

*** *** ***

"He wishes for the cloths of heaven" (William Butler Yeats) came to my mind as I wrote that story. It is one of my favourites...

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

*** *** ***

Here's wishing you and all your family a very Merry Christmas. May the Holy Spirit usher in times of affluence and well-being. Let us try and bring a smile on someone's face. 

Peace on Earth, goodwill to men. (I love that hymn!)

Unforgiving Africa

Wild Africa has never ceased to amaze me. The first time I came across the word ‘Serengeti ’, I was a fifth standard student- on a visit to Science City, Kolkata (erstwhile Calcutta). There has been no looking back since. I guess I have watched all related documentaries broadcasted by NGC/Discovery thus far! J 

The sun was beating down… The land was parched and vegetation was scarce. It was one of those horrid African summers in the Serengeti. And a typical day in the lives of those who inhabited the land- long, searing and unforgiving. Long- for, that’s how it would seem. Searing- for obvious reasons, the relentless sun. Enfin, unforgiving- because if you cannot survive, you won’t. Simple. Period. This held true irrespective of the hunter and the hunted.

Didja Laddé was old. She needed her rest, and was desperate for some shade- the only respite from, what would otherwise be a cauldron. Her name translates to ‘Lady of the Jungle’. And she was a paradigm of the great feline- for she had been bestowed with such features. Awe, beauty, care and strength morphed into her with such enviable ease. She was indeed a phenomenon in that brute of a land she was born into. She was the Lady of the Serengeti…

In her prime, she had no competitor among her sisters. She had won many a battle. Wildebeests, zebras et al could testify. Just that, cadavers cannot render any testimony. And her mate was no less in splendor. He was one of the finest males the land had seen. But he was lazy… It was her responsibility, along with her sisters, to feed the pride. And he would help in bringing down the odd buffalo. Of course, biological compatibility was always there. Didja Laddé mothered many a cub and the pride swelled in number.

Ah, the glorious past… Her mate had succumbed to age. And now, she was alone. Well past her prime, she had taken violently ill. The pride had abandoned her. Didja Laddé found some cessation in the form of an old, lone tree. She rested, periodically shaking her head to drive away those tormenting flies… She looked up. The moon was a faint disc. Very faint. It was early afternoon… The giggle of hyenas could be heard in the distance as they ate into an unfortunate wildebeest. Ugh! She loathed them hyenas. Those snarling, snickering thieves… What do they know about pugilism? Hyenas and lions never get along. May be Lion King was a momentary exception… But of course Didja Laddé would never accept that, leave alone knowing about it!

She had survived thus far… However cruel the ambiance was. She had been a fighter all her life. She matched whatever Nature had to throw… It was not for nothing that she was named Didja Laddé by those who had been following her life in Africa’s ecosystem that is known to play host to the world’s largest and longest overland migration.

It was evening. Soon enough, another clan of hyenas closed in on where she was… May be they were old enemies. Familiar, rather. Didja Laddé could sense an odd familiarity about them. She had been successful in protecting her kill from them on earlier occasions. But that evening, there was no kill she was protecting. But then, why were they there..? The foursome… Surrounding her… Snarling… Eerie giggles filling up the environment.

The old lady roared from where she was resting… But it was no longer the authoritative roar of a queen. It was more of a warning to ward off those foul-mouthed interlopers. She could sense the imminent danger. Escapism, however, was not known to her. She would fight to the very end. The retractable claws were ready… The Clan could smell weakness. They could smell blood. Royal blood… Revelling in royal blood was no mean feat to them. The hunter was soon to be the hunted.

The quartet closed in… Teeth gnarling, mouths salivating. You could see all the eyes glimmering in the darkness that was setting in. Didja Laddé was ready… With a leap mighty enough for her age, she took out one of her attackers. Her jaws had not betrayed her. Her canines buried into her smaller adversary’s spine…

But her overall agility was nowhere as efficient as it had been before. Indeed, age does have a lot to say. She failed to swerve away from her other assailants. Her strength was suddenly failing her. Illness was having a say too. Nature is cruel. Even the mighty have to fall, and in the end- she went; her weak growls drowned in the moonlit darkness amidst ghoulish laughs. Hyenas are known to eat away at live prey… Jaws that can crack bone as if it were a twig…

---

Am back after a hiatus. And well, am off again. I tell you- training is such a pain in the posterior! Sorry for not having visited any blog page for the past two weeks. I will do so, very very soon. A couple of certification examinations are around the corner and loads of assessments (to add to the 80-odd I have already given since August 21^st). Well, I guess that’s a rant for later. Au revoir…

My family and I extend our hearty Diwali greetings to all of you. Peace, take care and blessed be.

The dazzling panoply of a rivalry

The easel was set-up. With a colourful palette, a ready brush, a myriad ideas and a plethora of strokes in his repertoire, the artist was ready. Movements so elegant, so graceful, so profound and ever so sublime would have the audience spell-bound and rapt at attention. There was a surreal touch to his work. Oh the finesse of it all! His actions were exquisite and par excellence. More often than not, the way he would go about his job would be lucid and ethereal… For, his competitors would be left far behind gaping, seemingly tactless and wondering what had just hit them. Such was his dominance when he and his challengers took stage.

All but one. It is known that Mother Nature has her own unique way to deal with dominance. And so, it seemed only too fair that such great a talent should be bogey to someone. Enter the warrior. One who was not to be intimidated by any show of invincibility or ‘Godliness’. One who gnawed at the artists back. One who more than just troubled poetic pulchritude with a polar brilliance- puissance. Reminiscent of the tireless Heracles himself, this raging and rampant marauder was no cheap mercenary or bounty hunter. He was on a mission, too.

And what happens when irresistible force meets immovable object? A spectacle for us mere mortals to behold in awe. A wonder… A phenomenon that has to be seen to be believed. For, one of the said mighty has to fall, albeit momentarily, in an exhibition of contrasting art- however unique their ways may seem. The enchantment that holds those who witness the contest is worth every moment. These novae tend to illuminate the grandest of stages ad infinitum. The legacy left behind becomes the talk of raconteurs for generations till another equally (if not better) august exhibition of talent comes to the fore. And such narrations of prowess and fortitude are never ad nauseam!

It is a funny issue, the one we call a ‘paradox’. How beauty and monstrosity can charm the beholder in their own subtle ways. No wonder the captivation factor reaches its zenith when such wizards cross each other’s path in their quest for immortality. For, they are the exultant ones of the highest order… The elite Excellencies of execution… They reach heights which plebs and puerile characters can only dream of. Their mastery of the light and dark arts is put to a litmus test.

Spirit, they say, is indomitable, unending and unyielding. Indeed… The spirit of competition is ever-lasting and even vengeful! In a work of note- Ode on a Grecian Urn - the inimitable John Keats expressed how the seen are ephemeral and how the unseen are eternal… When Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal contest one another, Father Time may seem to have a sepulchral aura about Him and willingly takes the back seat to revel in a feast not for the eyes alone, but for Time immemorial. Moments, ephemeral and eternal, unite…

The 'Enigma' that is... "God"

God- a nice topic of debate. What is it to be an infinite conundrum, an eternal mystery... What is the relevance of God today? Are we being selfish? Man is born to sin. So, we have to be selfish, right? Or is it just another smart-ass argument?

Little Srijith was crying- inconsolably. He had received a hiding from his mother for tasting the laddoos before they could be offered for the pooja. Hearing his sobs, his grandmother hobbled up to him and offered him another piece of laddoo. He gave it a glance, took it and flung it out...

Srijith's grandmother would feed him stories of God's kindness. While his mother- a disciplinarian and a devout lady- would often warn him against God's hot displeasure. But she also taught him to have faith in the same God. Srijith was no Socrates. But, hearing so many things about this 'God' confused him to no end. Even the other day, when he had fallen off a mango tree while trying to pick fruit, his mother admonished him saying, "God punishes naughty children! I hope you learnt your lesson." His grandmother was different. She took him to a nearby temple and both of them prayed for his wounds to heal quickly, which they did.

Srijith's father was a man of Science and was rarely seen at home. A theoretical physicist, Mr. Bose was often busy with his research papers. But whenver he had time, he would spend it with his little son. Mr. Bose never touched upon the topic 'God'. He was an Atheist. Srijith would wonder why his father never spoke of this 'God', but never asked him. He would enjoy his father's company- precious little moments, they would be.

Fast forward, forty years. Srijith was a Professor in Theology. He could vividly recall all those memories of his childhood. His parents, and his doting grandmother. He never forgot what each of them instilled in him. All that had ignited a desire in him- a desire to know about 'God'. And he took every opportunity that he chanced upon.

"God's Love" was the first book(let) he received, at his school's fete. He was attracted by the parables of Christ. Amar Chitra Katha was there as well... He read those pictured books and was drawn in to another world. He happened to read the tales of Narada- who often had some trick up his sleeve- and laughed loud. He read how Guru Arjan was tortured- and cried. He also read how Ramakrishna Paramahamsa practised the major religions and realised they lead to the same goal.

'Jal', 'Paani', 'Water'... Didn't they look, feel and taste the same? Our Professor was lost in thought. He was still confounded by what his mother and grandmother would say. He could not comprehend how God, an embodiment of love and kindness, could also be God, that beheld fear. He was being Agnostic in his rumination... He thought of all the news he had read- animals being sacrificed, and humans as well! Was this 'God' blood-thirsty too? Had his mother forgotten to tell him that? Or was this restricted to the Mayans and Aztecs of yore- which had suddenly surfaced in some parts of today. And what about these 'God-men', supposedly blessed by the Divine...

During one of his lectures, a student had come up with a statement, "God is man's manifestation. Man needed someone to put the blame on, and lo! There was God..." Srijith wondered what his mother or grandmother would say to that!

In a tension-filled world, Srijith reflected, people go to any extent to find solace. One such place is God. Be it a Christian view of following the Right path, a Satanic view of following the Left path, a Wiccan view of the oneness with Nature... Anything! 'Tolerance' was no longer a watchword. Srijith saw that more often than not, the tension people faced was a consequence of their own actions coupled with the environment they were in. Renouncing was definitely not the answer. 'Materialism' was the new watchword.

One has to change with times. Srijith observed how most of the Hindu priests were doing well- priesthood was a lucrative profession; performing marriages, house warming ceremonies, death rituals, etc. He wondered further- Is it wrong to be 'materialistic'? After all, you want to lead a comfortable life with your family. Anyone would wish for all the comforts life has to offer... In fact, don't elders wish for the same and bless you? A priest is a man of God. And he is expected to be simple. But he has a family, and he has every right to wish for their comfort. Celibacy is not relevant today- not to everyone. People hope to do well and live their dream.

Hope is a good thing; may be, not the best of things. But all good things never die.

Beauty

"Beauty is only skin deep", possibly the most clichéd introduction for such a topic. But anyway, what does it mean to be deemed- beautiful...

I often hear that this or that person is Beauty incarnate, that his/her features are perfect, that they match the golden triangle et cetra... For me, this is not beauty. This kind of beauty is rather a cold, ephemeral one. It is not meant to last.

I believe that beauty is eternal. Whatever happens, no matter what can harm it, nothing, not even time, can destroy it. Someone very famous noted, "A thing of Beauty is joy forever..." A human's beauty cannot be imprisoned in formulae, in theories, because it is out of reach.

Beauty... Even trying to define it is an impossible task. But when you see it, you recognize it immediately. It can be a sparkle in the eye, a way to bend the head, a way to talk that illuminates the face. It can be a way to move the hands, a softness in the voice that makes you stay in place, paralyzed, while you feel like you are flying to heaven, far, far from this world.

It can be a mix too. Few people have that particular gift of beauty. Fewer people see it. But some have at once that sparkle in the eye, that sweet softness in the voice, that tranquille strength that just makes you melt... Some people have this, yes, and even more. This can be combined to actions, that can be imitated, but never created unless you are born that way.

It can be a way to walk, a way to imperceptibly move the hands while talking, a way to kiss- slightly, slowly, and yet powerfully, sending millions of feelings that can only be found in that precious moment; in such a moment, you try as much as possible to feel it, almost swallow every emotion, every atom around, anything that could make this moment last longer (or even, forever!) because you know it just won't.

Features do not create beauty, but beauty creates the features, and it cannot be easily found. When you find it, try not to lose it. For if that person had the gift of Beauty, you had the gift to see it. And every time you will be in contact with that person, you legs will tremble, your hands will shake, you mouth will dry up, and pupils will dilate, and after, when beauty is gone, you will be unable to move, or maybe will you become totally hyper!

You will tell me: This is Love. No. You just need special eyes to see Beauty, and those eyes are given to you by Love. They are more than just, precious.

Magma Forge- Ramifications of Rage

Ever wondered what could possibly blow a beautiful relationship to Kingdome Come?

Linkin Park was his new interest. "Breaking the Habit" was the current track.

I don't know what's worth fighting for,
Or why I have to scream?
But now I have some clarity
To show you what I mean!
I don't know how I got this way;
I'll never be alright!
So, I'm breaking the habit!
I'm breaking the habit!
I’m breaking the habit!
Tonight!

He was standing all alone in the dimly lit room. Rain clouds were gathering; for once, BBCs weather forecast seemed to be spot-on! He caught his reflection on the glass window... Those eyes! He stared long and hard... Those were the same eyes she had admired. They could express and convey his emotions with ease. They could reveal what his face would otherwise easily hide. Whenever he would look into her beady eyes, his would nuzzle and rest in those sockets. It would seem to her as if those eyes radiated all the care and warmth in the world. But the same optic spheres held a curse...



It was beginning to drizzle. The raindrops hit against the window pane and there was a distant rumbling... Thunder... The rumbling grew louder. His memory cells twitched. 'Fulminate' was one word he would often associate with himself; others being 'Poetic' and 'Mysterious'. That was the curse. For, the same deep eyes which could radiate endless care and warmth could also flush with temper; a temper so vehement that it would transform him into a Rage elemental. Paroxysmal!



The rain pattered against the window and lightning flashed... His calm self was unperturbed by the sudden ruminations. He felt no emotion and the thoughts continued to flow. George Michael's "Careless Whisper" was in his ears.

Time can never mend
The careless whispers of a good friend.
To the heart and mind,
Ignorance is kind.
There's no comfort in the truth;
Pain is all you'll find!

I'm never gonna dance again!
Guilty feet have got no rhythm
Though it's easy to pretend,
I know you're not a fool.

Should've known better than to cheat a friend,
And waste this chance that I've been given.
So I'm never gonna dance again,
The way I danced with you!

He never had many people around him. And he had no problems. In fact, he preferred the handful he could count-on any day. It was not that he was not approachable. He was very much affable and amiable. 'Tis just that he wanted his space. He often kept to himself; but never shirked away from people. His eloquence and clarity of thought charmed ladies and gents alike. He had a pretty ordinary sense of humour... He could get boring and he knew it. He wouldn't mind. No one was a complete package. He was proud of the person that he was- independent. There was an air of ego about him; the way he would scoff at mediocrity could testify that! But, his belief in 'Acceptance' would bury any differences. The only possible reason as to why he preferred a handful of souls around him.



She had been the opposite which completed him. Her ebullient self would often force him out of his shell. His infectious enthusiasm brushed on her too. She was impressed by his forethought, his demeanour and most importantly, his impeccable straightforwardness. In a verbatim, she had once said, "You are straight as an arrow." He was one who could call a spade a spade without batting an eyelid. Never once did she think that those eyes she admired so much held a curse.



"Hotel California" was nearing its end.

Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice.
And she said "We are all just prisoners here; of our own device."
And in the master’s chambers,
They gathered for the feast
The stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can’t kill the beast!

He was too straight in his dealings. For all his beliefs in 'Acceptance', he could not 'accept' anything that he felt was unfair. Especially hypocrisy. Which was why, one fateful evening his fury blazed forth- when she blurted out he was being a "trouble" to her. The composed bearing she had known for two odd years was hitherto lacerated and in its place was the Rage elemental. There had been an earlier instance when she had doubted his integrity, but that had been resolved by the sensible soul she had known. That had endeared him to her; a lot. But now, those eyes flushed with uncontrollable fury; his countenance, contorted in a scowl she had not known; and his profile was that of a Netherbeast. Once, she had laughed it off when he candidly admitted his flaring temper. She had now seen it all.



The rain did not seem to relent. The smell of soaked Earth pleased him immensely. He felt as if he was one with Nature. Mercurial... He had never hidden anything about himself; except for his deepest feelings, of course. There seemed to be a faint streak of sado-masochism in his personality. He was not one to give way to emotion; he had his own way of dealing with things. A touch of sadism because the Rage would [initially] not bother about the pain inflicted on her; and masochism because he dwelt in the pain she had caused him... Linkin Park was in his ears again. "Numb"...

I'm tired of being what you want me to be.
Feeling so faithless lost under the surface.
Don't know what you're expecting of me,
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes!
(Caught in the undertow just caught in the undertow)
Every step that I take is another mistake to you!
(Caught in the undertow just caught in the undertow)

I've become so numb I can't feel you there!
Become so tired so much more aware;
I'm becoming this.
All I want to do,
Is be more like me and be less like you!

All her apologies fell on deaf ears and were met with brusque, scathing sarcasm. Yes, she was at fault and she did accept it, however late. For once, it was against the laws of Nature and Relationship. It was the girl and not the guy who had blown up a what was a beautiful relationship. But then, by that time, he wanted his space again. No longer did he wish to be a "trouble", however [un]intentional, to anyone. His ego, pride and vanity conveniently shielded him from any possible repercussions. He ensured that she would cease to depend on him for emotional support. And with that, he had chucked the last option of any possible 'reunion' right out of the window.


He had no regrets. He had but one feeling... He had allowed his darker side to dominate when he could have been his usual, sensible self. But then again, he loathed hypocrisy. For all the 'big' words she had used on him, she had... He had always been himself. He had a nice and a nasty side to him; which he had not hidden from her. He lost someone whom he had sincerely adored. He knew it.



He continued looking out of the window. The weather was a welcome change. Zeus' lightning-bolts still filled the evening sky. Each one vying for brilliance. Hephaestus must have had a hard time forging them. Michael Jackson's "Who is it?" got our man thinking again.

I am the damned,
I am the dead,
I am the agony
Inside the dying head!

This is injustice!
Woe unto Thee!
I'll pray this punishment
Would have mercy on me!

He was philosophical with his pondering. "No one is perfect.", he was to later reflect. "It is 'Acceptance' that binds people. In our case, we accepted almost everything about each other. We were to later discern that I could not accept her bouts of hypocrisy and she could not accept my fit of... For all the 'Fire and Ice' tags we associated with our friendship, one thing was pretty much conspicuous- it had been too hot for her and I had been too cold about relenting. That is life. The test comes first, and then the lesson. It is up to us to learn the moral of each lesson." He had moved on. She did not want him in her life. Yet, she wanted him to stay on as her good friend. A grim smile crossed his lips. She had always been so- a bouquet of contradiction!



Perhaps, it was the best thing that could happen for both of them. They had grown to known each other very well, albeit for a season. They complemented one another and there was a lot they had learnt from being together. And finally, when it was time, they parted in the same manner that they had met. As two separate individuals in the walk called "Life".



The rain had by now reduced to a drizzle. Was it the calm after a storm...? Linkin Park was playing again... "What I've Done".

Put to rest,
What you thought of me.
While I clean this slate,
With the hands of uncertainty.
So let mercy come,
And wash away
What I’ve done!

I'll face myself,
To cross out what I’ve become!
Erase myself,
And let go of
What I’ve Done!

For, what I’ve done
I start again,
And whatever pain may come,
Today this ends!
I’m forgiving what I’ve done!!!

Music was his solace.