Biking and writing......

I was riding  the bike at a breakneck pace, without a helmet, sans the least care in the world, with only one thought – rebellion – directed against the whole world. 

The gusts of wind that buffeted my unprotected face, blinding me with their intensity, forcing me to squint and blowing away my hair backward, seemed to whistle in my ears in an eerie fashion.

The stretch of asphalt in front of me, robbed of some of its sun-baked hotness under the coolly overcast sky, went ahead, snake-like, peppered with gentle undulations that often tried to jolt me off the seat as I would never slow down.

I would attempt to ape the manoeuvres of super-bikers, making the bike lean to one side, my knee almost grazing the tarmac, then quickly straighten up again, only to lean towards the other side with the next sharp turn in the road.

In the frenzy induced by the drug of adventure, mounting a flyover seemed to be a conquest of the most Himalayan task in my life and as I achieved it, I took my hands off the handle-bars, beating the air with my fists, celebrating a facile victory.

Little did I know what awaited me as I descended – a speeding car that appeared out of nowhere, hit my bike broadside-on with such force that I was sent sailing over the kerb, landing in a heap amid a row of trees, finally waking up to write this piece with a week-full of pills and intravenous shots in my bloodstream that befuddled my brain but never doused my creative fire.

Love, lust and infatuation....

I wonder what it is that exists between me and her. On the one hand, I am pained to the core, burning with jealousy when I see her do so much as exchange pleasantries with another guy. On the other hand, I ignore her at will. 

Perhaps it feeds my ego to see her alone, unaccompanied and awaiting me. But for how long would she wait? She has her desires and I have mine. I keep them in check on the surface but inwardly I am consumed by the desire to possess her, to make wild, passionate love to her; love that is more carnal less emotional; love that applies a balm on the aching body. To satisfy these cravings I indulge myself with pictures of her - always of her; no girl even remotely manages to bring me anywhere near the climax of my sexual excitement than her.

Her body, her skin, her smell and the evocative photographs make me almost insane with desire; their gratification can only be effected with an act of masturbation that makes me let go of some of my thirst, makes me feel sane again. 

Yet whenever I see her in person, I continue to ignore her, not even answering her smiles, just looking away.

Perhaps I do not have the courage to attempt to re-join a bond that had been rudely snapped two years back, not as a result of any quarrel but simply an effort to save myself from her mocking comments, hurting me in front of everybody, not directly, but in a way that can hardly be called subtle.

Her face is not very pretty, her body is a bit plump but she is cute in a petite sort of way and there is something in her eyes, mesmerizing me, giving rise to those pangs of my inability to possess her.Very few people would call her beautiful. Still, I find the million pictures and videos of stark naked women in tantalizing poses, in various degrees of nudity, pouting lips, lissome legs, incredible bottoms and shapely breasts - all fading away when it comes to rousing the demon inside me, the libidinous beast who subsists on lust and its base realization.

Now I think it isn't really love. This thing is antithetical to the very concept of love. It is that lowly thing called infatuation, an inane feeling that deprives the mind of its ability to reason, allows lust to take over and reduces one human-being to an object and and another to an admirer who is no different than a window-shopper who suddenly becomes fixated on a particular bauble, which is gilt-edged on the outside but is probably even less worthy than the pedestal it is mounted on.

Love makes a better human being out of a man or woman but infatuation, especially one that occurs at a very young, unripe age, also has its advantages. The best thing is it ends soon. No matter how much pain, heart-burn and anguish it may engender, in the long run, it teaches a lesson that cannot be forgotten ever. In fact, infatuation could be a step towards making a person capable of true love.

When you realize the worthlessness of a bauble, it is likely that you would appreciate the value of a jewel much more.

Innocence, squeamishness and survival...

The sight of blood would make him sick even if it exuded from a minor cut or wound. It wasn't his squeamishness, rather a kind, loving nature that wished to see no one getting hurt. He could be masochistic enough to bear all the pain himself letting a fellow-being live a life of comfort.

The atavistic urge of self-preservation had never touched him. If he had been hit by a car, the first thing he would think of was the reason that led to the motorist's distraction resulting in the accident; perhaps the motorist had problems of his own or he was preoccupied and so on and so forth.

He could never accuse people. Whenever he met someone, his eyes searched for the goodness inside that man even if that minuscule thing was buried beneath layers and layers of malevolence, greed, hatred and deceit. Such people are at a premium and an endangered specie.

For such a man, survival in the brick-metal-concrete jungle of a city is no less difficult than the survival of a hapless deer amid a pride of lions in the real, unforgiving wilds.

I wonder what God was thinking when He decided to send such a creature to earth, an earth which has fallen to such depths that humanity is a vestige of what it was at the dawn of the earliest civilization. Mankind is probably reverting to that time when survival was the key, the centre of a man's existence and fellow-feeling existed in a form that is evinced by animals only.

Cynicism, grief, catharsis etc.....

I haven't had much happiness in life; what I had, I threw away.  

I am too cynical. This cynicism draws a veil over my better judgement up to an extent that I see everything with a jaundiced eye. A smile is like a sneer to me, friendly banter is sarcasm to me, an advice is a spillage of vitriol and a gesture of kindness is cold comfort.

The whole world seems to be against  me, baying for my blood, determined to pull me down; down to the very depths to which the vermin seem to belong.

Writing what I feel seems to be the best way of letting out the tension that seems to hold me in a vice-like grip, twisting and kneading, threatening to pull my vitals apart. The words I put down on paper are my sole attempt at catharsis; I don't know how to say these things to a fellow-being.

At this moment, the paper seems so animated, so close to life; my only companion with whom I communicate with the pen.This new-found friend seems so considerate, bearing all my rantings, never complaining, never being judgmental.

When tears are shed, they relieve the mind of its burden of grief but mine seem to be trapped in the eyes, welling up but never falling, choking my throat, weighing heavily on my soul, tormenting me till I beg to be let off.

The flight of Time....

Time just flies away and before you can blink you are on the verge of death, regretting so many things you could have done in so many different ways.

I have spent a considerable part of my life going through the motions, drifting with the tide, like a free fall in empty space when you don't see the bottom and have not a shadow of an idea as to what lies beneath.

I have realized quite late in the day that life is meant to be enjoyed to the fullest rather than being spent dabbling in shallow waters while the ocean lies unexplored.

I let so many opportunities pass by on my journey, just looking, never touching - a peripheral enjoyment that left me feeling unfulfilled and craving for more.

A retrospection always makes me regret what I left behind. 

The future lies wrapped in swathes of darkness and I can hardly find my way; I have lost my bearings; I am groping in the darkness that envelops my very existence.

All of a sudden, in this Stygian gloom appears a beacon of light, a ray of hope that seems to hold some promise of showing me the way out.

This glimmer of hope is the only thing I am left with, the only thing that reminds me that life is not meant to be frittered away, rather it is a discovery every other day and it depends on oneself whether one can make the most of it or just go through the motions of birth, living and death.

Epiphany....

The pain of loss of identity in a crowd may not mean much to the average guy but I have never wanted to be average in my life. The word average sounds so statistical, so very much like a lifeless figure on a graphical rendition of a collection of data; I am much more human than that.

I have spent precious years of my life trying to be someone I wasn't, trying to make a mark in a realm which is as similar to my talent as chalk is to cheese.

The occasional successes in my chosen vocation created an illusion that made me rejoice in my mistakes for I could never pin-point my true potential far less explore an avenue in that direction.

The best virtues are inculcated in the face of adversity and the biggest epiphanies occur when you fail at a moment when you were most sure of success.

I have realized now what I am cut out for, my place in the divine scheme of things, my raison d'etre; the path that was seemingly lost in a maze now stands out, clearer than it can ever be.

Childhood and maturity.....

There are things adults do that I wish I had never grown up. A child's mind is free of prejudice, malice and hatred which abound in a man. A child is not aware of religion, caste and gender disparities. 

I remember an incident where a six-year old boy in my building - who belonged to a rich household - would go and play with the children of a poor milkman who had a cow-shed nearby. It would never have crossed the boy's mind that a filthy cow-shed stinking of dung was not an appropriate playground or the children who wore tatters were not fit to be playmates.

When he grows up, his parents, peers, teachers and other people in his social circle would teach him the differences in status and class. When that happens, his white robe of childish innocence would be smudged by the stains of hubris, the angelic face that might have winced at the sight of injury to a fellow-being would be concealed by a mask of deliberate indifference and he would think of nothing but personal gain, satisfaction of his own desires by hook or by crook and would not think twice before trampling on the weak and indigent on his path towards success, the kind of success that is monetary and often comes at the price of one's humanity.

To a child, a girl's superiority will never register on the mind as a dent on his masculine ego; at the most it will be a momentary resentment that will be as temporal as a wisp of fog that is cleared away by the very first rays of the sun. 

A child is not bothered by the thoughts of personal advancement but lives in the present where an inexpensive toy is sufficient to humour him, so much in contrast with the insatiable appetite for luxury that is the raison d'etre of a man's existence.