Stiff Upper Lip

By the standards of some of my most regular blogging colleagues on campus, it has been a long time since my last post, which was a very verbose one. One is always hoping for the magical inspiration to strike one moment and culminate in a really brilliant post that will win hearts all around. Ever since my return to (R)ookie land more than 2 months ago following an insanely long period of extreme idleness and unemployment, these moments have been tragically few and far in between. One of them gave me my best effort thus far, but the following one, I am convinced, sort of undid all the good work. Nevertheless, against all odds, and with utmost disregard for the lateness of the hour, yours truly is back, and can scarcely contain his frustration and anger at certain events that have transpired in the time period referred to. No previous post of mine has come forth merely out of instantaneous and uncontrolled outbursts of emotions, the reserved and phlegmatic character that I usually am. The forthcoming post is inevitable though, and for the first time I can say that I really intend to send across a message, a very serious one.

Football, you bloody beauty. I would hardly be doing justice to the very brilliant group of Greek soldiers, many centuries prior to our age, who were struck by a sudden impulse, no doubt born out of sheer blood-thirstiness and cold-heartedness, to start playing a most innovative game of kicking the severed heads of the slain enemies with their foot as far as they could, if I say that football is simply the greatest game ever invented. In desperately clichéd language, I would blurt out with intense passion that I have always loved the game, loved to play it, loved to watch it on television, loved to discuss it with friends, and of course, worshipped every single footballing God like I would never worship any deity in my grandma's puja room. Moving on to my present agenda, I falter at the beginning. Bursting out with words to say, that is the time I am always left helplessly speechless. It is my love for the game that made me pursue this venture, and I shall not stop when my destiny deems to dictate otherwise.

One frequent question I have always been queried with, nay troubled with, nay nay tortured with is why on earth do I support a football team as disgusting, as disdaining, totally revolting to the human mind, nauseatingly snobbish, and inconveniently bastardly as Manchester United? As far as my near and dear ones, my close friends, my respected elders, my gurus, and even my worst enemies could conjecture, I was a man of perfectly sane nature, a person with rational thoughts on the way of the world, a totally sound and sensible guy and reasonable to the extent of being called a wise young lad. That such a serious anomaly could afflict my otherwise normal brain struck the people as intriguing, concerning and sometimes, worthy of being laughed at. To all those rare once in a generation geniuses, I have just one thing to say: Up yours, fuckfaces. Come and meet me personally, and I shall retort with words of a far more heinous and foul nature, words I deem unfit to appear on my blog. To each his own, the sagacious lot would say. Totally agree my friend, never heard a more logical thing in my life, thank you, I would reply. Truth be said, and it shall be without fail tonight, the matter goes very deep, much deeper than any sage or blasted hermit could comprehend its depth to be. People who believe in love at first sight would love to shake hands and display their cheery approval to me. Love for a phenomenon, for an object, even an international football team, it just happens. There are several factors responsible, most important of which are of course, footballing in nature. You love some players, you like their style of play, you like the people associated with the team, you are awed in respect for the team's seemingly legendary history, and most importantly, you seem to have found that missing spark in your life with the advent of the team. Whenever they do well, your joy knows no bounds, you revel in the glory that is rightfully the players', enjoyed without bias by the large chuck of people who constitute what we call the fans. Their sweat and blood is all that matters, all that gives you the satisfaction of enjoying the great game you knew you could play, but wouldn't. Defeats and disappointments of course shattered you to bits, left your heart in smithereens, brought you crashing back down to earth from the Sirius proportions you acquired at the time your team could hardly put a single foot wrong. You still love the team. Your heart still bleeds for the same bunch of champions you admire and take so much pride in supporting and cheering. Make no mistake, and I speak to all the fake fans here, you people can never get a shred of what it means to support a sporting team and stick by their side both on days when the sun shines really bright, and on dark and gloomy days when the suns remains hidden in a far off alien galaxy, cowering with fear of the fiery black clouds. The greatest feeling in the world, the best by a long distance, and I mean it when I say it.

It has always been Man United for me, the indomitable Theatre of Dreams, the impregnable fortress that our beloved Old Trafford is and shall always remain. Red Devilry has come very naturally to me, I have taken to it just as fish to water, or one Haddu to another. History is littered with such names as Sir Matt Busby, George Best and Bobby Charlton, legends in good measure, people who have made Manchester United what it is today. How their beautiful football and management has captivated us for so long, made strong believers out of a pessimistic lot, given us hope where none seemed to exist previously. Sir Alex Ferguson. Is he God? Tell you what, he might very well be an even higher power. Whatever I will say about him here will be the height of cliché-ism, I shall refrain from commencing an oft-repeated banter. He is the greatest football manager on earth right now, he has made ass-kicking teams out of a bunch of promising youngsters, over and over again in the past 23 years, and he will be remembered for eternity as the most rightful claimant to the top spot in Football's Hall of Fame. There is another small matter of a legendary midfielder, the epitome of commitment, the wizard with the most magical pair of legs ever seen. SIR Ryan Giggs. Take a bow, master. There shall never be another to eclipse your persona. You are my idol, the person I look up to, you are God in your own right. We have had Roy Keane, Eric Cantona, Paul Scholes and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. Scores of others, faithful warriors, eternal champions. Manchester United is the greatest football team that has ever been. Everything about it suggests the same, you can't help but jump head-first into the Red Devil bandwagon.

 

As fiercely as I would back the team I support at all times, I expect my rival fans to do exactly the same thing. It might strike me as ridiculous for a person to be supporting teams like Chelsea, or worse still, Liverpool, just as it happens with my rivals concerning me too. I have a stance on football, about how it is supposed to be managed and played, about what is the best way to strive to win trophies. This has been built up on the basis of years of dutifully following the game, my dedication towards it unflinching throughout. I assure my friends, I have been following international football since the dawn of the new millennium, and European club football since 2003. You shall never find my arguments lacking basis or a strong background. The important point under consideration goes as follows. When I became a Red Devil for the first time, United was struggling to reach even the 3^rd position in the Premier league, and was nowhere close to winning the Champions League. But my heart was set on supporting this very club, standing behind every single person belonging to my beloved team. And when we finally started winning, in 2007, we made it a hattrick of titles. We were undisputed champions, winning even the Champions League in between, proving ourselves as one of the greatest in Europe. And the enemy's wisdom promptly found the reason why lunatics like me were supporting this world-beating club. Because they are victorious. Glory is theirs for the time being, and hence they are the club to support. Bullshit, I say. Such accusations hardly hold any water, they just go about to show the envy and spite being thrown around by the disgruntled losers, gutted and dismayed by Man United's unprecedented series of triumphs. It gives me pleasure to know their jealousy though, it's an important point scored over the enemies. Forgive me for quoting Dumbledore here, another of my childhood heroes; Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. Point of Information, to be specially noted by the jury.

Some people support clubs because of brilliant stats and previous records. Some fall for the money and the glamour. Some do it merely to annoy their friends. And some, admittedly, have very valid reasons to pledge their support. I shall respect them all here, as a show of solidarity and an attempt towards reaching a truce over a war that should never have been raged. Love one team, hate the others, express yourselves anyway you want. Just never dare to toy around with legends. Never utter a single word against their class, you shall be smothered to death with a deadly pillow in your own bedroom in front of your mothers. This is a warning to all those who wish to fight with me for this reason. Chelsea will remain money sucking losers, their captain a poor footballing joke, and their owner simply a grievously mistaken conception. Liverpool shall remain a team that talks big, keeps talking, and shall always keep talking. Let them show some results now. Of our legendary local rivals, the lesser said the better. We all have our reasons for love and hate. Let us all take a solemn pledge here never to screw with greatness without having the strongest of reasons, the stoutest of defenses possible. Let us enjoy the great game, let us be reasonable rivals, let us have judicious discussions, and let us all quit as a merry lot.

I was born with a Stiff. Stiff Upper Lip.

And I Shoot. Shoot. Shoot from the hip!

 

The Crownless Shall Be Proxy King

Nutcases who call themselves professors have made it their business to torment students during an hour long session they call lectures, deriving sadistic pleasure from the same all the time. What’s worse, the blighted souls who seek to relinquish themselves of the anguish by bunking off the lectures, run into what is called attendance shortage, something the Profs like to inflict upon their victims if they haven’t had enough of torturing them during the allotted hours. More often than not, students are forced to suffer the persecution till their endurance is stretched to the hilt, and they can’t take it any longer. This is the point where they decide to throw caution to the winds and ditch the bloody lectures all together. Nevertheless, their hearts are always under turmoil in fear of the dreaded ‘S’ word, which eventually gives way to the more terrifying ‘B’ word, which is, for many, a point of no return. At times like these, they desperately seek a messiah to redeem them of their precious attendance. For the benefit of this despairing population, Proxy Kings took birth. The very first one came several years ago, just around the time of the great depression, when the student community decided to take the attack to the teaching community. Ever since, there has been no looking back; a phenomenal growth has been seen both in the number and actions of proxy kings. 9 years into the 21st century, proxy calling has been revolutionized, and ground-breaking techniques have exploded into the scene. Proxy Kings have invaded the classrooms; attendance shortages are a thing of the past. Much to the shock and disbelief of others, yours truly has been the prodigal Proxy Kaiser, albeit not a meek one at that.

One month into the first semester, I was recognized as the man worthy of being King. Though initially apprehensive and full of doubts, I later realized that proxy calling came naturally to me. I started with the easiest of Profs, old bozos with attention spans of not more than a few seconds and eyesight fogged by years of blabbering. I could easily answer the roll call for at least 3 or 4 people in a class, without the prof getting even the slightest indication of any misdoing. I gradually grew in confidence, and added new dimensions to my new found talent, and tougher Profs started falling prey to it. Keeping a straight face while answering, producing sufficient voice fluctuations and most importantly, staying out of sight of the professor were key aspects of this business. The torturous ways of the professors meant that I had every reason not to attend the classes I detested the most; but I still attended them, and gave proxies aplenty with aplomb. Proxies became the driving force for me to turn up every morning to the slaughter chamber they call the Lecture Complex, and the attendance part was what I waited for the most. To know that I could befool the prof so easily gave me immense satisfaction. Very soon, I was a man in demand, and my skills were constantly summoned by many a classmate. There are several factors one needs to take care of before attempting proxies. The number of proxies’ matter, so one needs to chose between his friends, keeping in mind the relative placements of their names in the roll list and the shortage they are in danger of falling in. Of course, the prof under question matters too; he may be a total dimwit, or some really stringent guy looking out for each and every face in the crowd and registering them in his mind. The latter provides a great challenge, which makes the end result all the more satisfying when the proxy is carried out successfully. Of course, I was a perpetual student of the art of proxy giving, evolving all the time and raking up a huge reputation for myself in the classroom. ‘Baadshah’ and ‘Lord’ are just some of the names coined for me by the grateful junta, and ‘Ghissu’ was conveniently forgotten.

I will never go as far as to say that proxy calling is an easy task. It is always fraught with danger, and only the audacious can venture into this territory. Proxies can often result in comical and embarrassing situations, and sometimes put the protagonist in a lot of trouble. I can vividly recall two occasions in the last semester when I was caught (almost caught, the King is never truly taken prisoner in this game of lies and deceit) giving proxy to a very dear Sardar friend of mine. There is a very thin line between bravery and foolishness, and I breached it big time on both occasions. The first one was when the lady prof under question stared incredulously at me as I stood my ground maintaining that I am indeed a Singh and not a South Indian as she insisted I looked. The incident sent the students into peals of laughter, and the teacher was forced to give up on me and move forward. I wasn’t as lucky in the second instance; the nasty prof didn’t take my little joke kindly at all. I was blasted around ignominiously and became the laughing stock of the classroom. But fortunately enough, the prof seemed to suffer from short term memory loss, as he couldn’t even remember the incident when I went to apologize at the end of the class. I was shaken, but the remarkable escape spurred me like nothing else for many future proxying endeavours. Proxies never ceased to come, I continued to dazzle and it reached a crescendo when I was inducted into the ‘Hall of Fame’ of Proxy Kings from R-land(a fabrication, but a recognized one at that). Now, I have mastered the art for all its worth, and eagerly await new challenges. More than the need of the person, it is about achieving a moral victory over the prof, the torturer, the tormentor of an innocent lot. He remains helpless in the face of my extraordinary competence and dexterity; hoodwinked and dumbfounded, he occasionally resorts to verbal onslaughts on morals and values. I give two hoots to his hypocrisy, and get on with the proxy business all the more enthusiastically. Needless to say, I was never more proud in my life than the time when my most dedicated disciples started giving brilliant proxies themselves! I was glad to see that I needn’t worry about my own attendance now; I could now bunk classes whenever I wanted, and a proxy for MK was bound to arise from silent corner of the classroom. An indomitable proxy family has now been established- together we shall rule the classroom, rule the insti and rule the world.

Today, we have reached a point where not a single class passes without its share of proxies galore. People get caught, get screwed by the professors, but their determination remains unfazed. As long as such people exist, proxies shall never attain stagnation; students will keep the shortages at bay and profs will keep getting fooled. But for me, proxies mean a lot more than that. It is the single most symbol of student camaraderie and liberation. It’s a source of hope, of trust, and of the feeling that togetherness and unison can win you any battle. I can say with conviction that the sense of accomplishment and extreme gratification that I feel after a proxy is unmatched, even by academic or literary accolades. I have always put a lot at stake for putting through a proxy, and shall continue to do so for the rest of my student life. I salute proxies, and I salute all Proxy Kings.

Post Script: This post is a tribute to all the Proxy Kings on campus. You are all awesome, and I am proud to be part of the awesomeness.

Post Post Script: 42 away from 50. Long way to go.

The Newspaper Man

He prowls the holy abode of the great Pandit in semi-darkness, keeping himself shielded from prying eyes all the time. He walks with an eternal stoop, wearing big size 11 shoes and clad in black Afghani vests and a lungi round the legs. He smokes Ganesh Beedis with unabashed panache, and sneezes very frequently while walking around the bare corridors in the early morning chill. Another one felled by the pigs, I suspect. This is where my Sherlock Holmes like power runs dry. He might have a moustache like Raj Kapoor, a squeaky voice like a mouse and… no hair on his head. I can only speculate on these details. But one thing is for sure- he is the quintessential vigilante. The guardian of this fort of impregnable knowledge and supreme wisdom. The keeper of a secret so sacred and dangerous that it is imperative for him that he guard it more than his own life. He is never seen or heard- but his aura lingers long past his departure. He is an incognito. Nobody knows his real name or identity. The guards shudder while speaking about him. They warn me that trying to encounter him physically would be a fool's errand. As I write, a shiver runs down my spine… the handwriting suffers because of my trembling hands. He is invisible. He is omnipresent. He is the fallen hero who has arisen from long beset sleep in the 21^st century. He is… The Newspaper Man.

An average day in my life begins with reading the newspaper, or at least glimpsing the pages once when getting late for a class. One year of living in this godforsaken land has taught me that reading the Times of India is an exercise in futility. Being the Delhi edition, I suppose it should cheer me to receive tidings from back sweet home. The news is incomplete, two days old and too less to satiate my bulletin-starved self. That is when my father advised me start reading the Hindu. He reads both the papers daily and refers the latter for students like me. The Hindu being very popular down in God's Own Country, plus the added incentive of getting to solve the brilliant Hindu Crossword(yes Damu, TOI CW goes way above my head!) made me crave for the paper that very instant. Of course, this wish of mine could only be fulfilled when the Man is given intimation. The Newspaper Man. I tried to recollect meeting him. The very first day, he had dropped TOI in my room on being told by some friend of mine. I had never met him, then or henceforth. This called for me to wake up early and tell him in person. For three consecutive days, I roused myself from blissful slumber at 6…but he remained eerily elusive. And I began to get a taste of the many intricacies and eccentricities associated with the Newspaper Man. I kept receiving TOI, and people all around my wing kept missing him. Five minute drifts into blissful sleep, and a quick visit to the loos proved to be my undoing. He seemed to be waiting to pounce upon the slightest indication of wavering attention on my side, to throw in the paper and vanish on the spot. I ran around the floor in frantic search, wondering whether he had jumped off the railings and was leaping from one tree to another to cover the same region as I was attempting on concrete floor. The chase got me nowhere, just intrigued me further. These funny incidents shrouded with thick layers of mystery have occupied my jobless mind ever since the first day of my return to Riddle-land. I got to know from the junta around my room that no one had actually ever seen him. He had submitted himself to human service without any questions or answers- I doubt whether he will reveal himself at the end of the month for collecting his funds.

Legend has it that he rises once in every 500 years to check on human beings. He might be the Almighty's messenger spreading the message of peace and love, or Satan's favourite devil out to create unrest and havoc among innocent beings. Whatever his intentions are, the Newspaper Man arouses the same fear and awe in the hearts of helpless mortals as the Naked Man, the WONA Man, the Horny Man, et al. I wonder if I'll ever be able to meet him. If I'll have to read TOI for the rest of my life. If I'll have to live with the mystery ununraveled forever. For men may come and men may go, but the Newspaper Man will live on forever… freaking out one IITian after another, living under covers, operating secretly for a purpose that he alone knows.

 

Stairway To Heaven

I was standing in a very dark place. So absolute was the darkness that nothing seemed to exist around me. The only sound was that of my deep breaths. An enticing smell lingered in the air, like a freshly lit aggarbatti. I stretched my hands forwards and groped for physical contact, but made none. All this made no sense. I couldn’t remember how I got to this place. Something was amiss somewhere. I knocked at my head, and rubbed my eyes. But nothing changed. I pleaded for light in my heart. All of a sudden, I was blinded by the brightest of flashes. It came from above my head, from some mysterious source. I staggered a little, but composed myself. It was the finest of rays of light, like what is seen between two clouds camouflaging the mighty sun. It was a ray of hope in this dead space, and prompted me to look around. I seemed to be in an empty dungeon, with nothing living or innate occupying it. It was in all senses the epitome of emptiness. The smell and the thin light provided my only companions. I looked around myself, turning my head in all directions and searching for answers in the void. Suddenly, in the distance, I saw the thin outline of a staircase. An old-fashioned staircase with beautiful railings and intricate carvings on the steps. This bizarre sequence of events intrigued me no end. The only thing to do at this point was to climb up the stairs and see what lied ahead.

I walked slowly towards the odd stairs. My footsteps echoed loud and high. As I reached the steps, I saw a board right aside the lowest pedestal. The board read- Stairway To Heaven. I looked up, but the stairs seemed to last an infinite distance. The end was nowhere in sight. But the sign was encouraging. I started climbing up. And up and up and up I went, and kept going. After an eternity, I finally saw another light- this time a floodlit area, an inviting sight. I walked into the radiance, and felt its brilliance enrich every bone of my body. My tired limbs were revived, and my heart was buoyant with joy. I had just walked into heaven. There was a meadow, with beautiful trees and chirping birds and a river of the purest water flowing. It was a sight to behold, and I realized I could only be dreaming this. But I soaked in the grandeur, running through the grass with my arms wide open. At the distance, I saw a bench, brilliant red in colour, invite me into its comforts. But then I noticed a man come walking from behind and seat himself atop the bench. He waved to me and beckoned me to him. Delighted at finding human company, I ran towards the bench.

The man was old, and dressed in completely white vestments. He had a friendly smile, and looked vaguely familiar. He stood up as I reached and held me in a tight and warm embrace. Intriguing though it was for me, I let him be. ‘I have waited so long to meet you, son.’ I smiled at him, still mystified about his identity and purpose. He put his arms around me and said, ‘Let’s take a walk, son.’ I started walking with him along the banks while the beautiful river gurgled past us merrily. My mind went back to all that had happened in the last hour or so, and I felt perplexed beyond explanation. The old man was still smiling. Perhaps he could answer my questions. He would know what was happening to me. ‘Dear Sir, you seem to have been expecting me, but I fail to recognize you. What is this place? And what are the dungeons below? What am I doing here?’ At this, his smile broadened further, and I was left flustered. He looked up into the sky and said slowly, ‘Alas, that is not for me to answer, my boy. The answers will reveal themselves to you when the time is right.’ I was baffled even further, but he continued- ‘I want to let you know son, that I am very proud of you. Keep working hard, and you will keep reaping the rewards.’ This fatherly advice was a pleasant surprise, but I still found no reason why he should tell me that. He ruffled my hair with his fingers, and then walked away from there. I thought of following him, but some invisible force seemed to root me to the ground. He disappeared, and the scene around me started changing. The trees transformed into book shelves, the grass beneath my feet became hard floor and the river ran itself dry by falling down a giant waterfall. My eyes lost focus and head started spinning; a bed appeared beside me and I lost myself to its depths.

I woke up a content man. Free of any burden, and strangely feeling pleased with myself. I went about my jobs with new found vigour. Later that evening, I was looking at the calendar on the wall, and my eyes fell on a portrait hanging aside. Something shifted in my mind, and sudden realization stuck me. I looked at the painting of my late grandfather in amazement… for he was the man from my dreams! Shocking it may seem, but I had somehow not recognized him earlier. How could I have, the great man passed away even before my birth. I had never known him… just heard about him from my father. Most incredibly, I had seen him in a dream- this has never happened before. His appreciation of me, and providence of a good future, though heartening, seemed illusory. This fact will strike the superstitious like my grandmother as miraculous and a call from the Gods. As for me, a dream is a dream, though this one was certainly out of the ordinary. His face looked ethereal in the old portrait. For the moment, I felt closer to the heavens than I had ever been before. May his soul rest in peace.

Poster le Manuscrit:

Remarkable though it may seem, the contents of this post scream the truth, and only the truth. With of course, slight modifications to suit the readers, with satisfying ramifications, the author hopes. Resemblance to real life incidents is most unfortunate.

The Dark Side Of The Moon

The past two months have fortified my forebodings into crushing realities. The glories and triumphs of an ancient period of my life have been lost and forgotten forever. As much as I would hate to accept this, time has moved on. Sweet memories occupy a corner of my heart, like doused flames, but wishing for them to re-ignite would be living in a fool's paradise. As my brat of a brother takes particular pleasure in pointing out, I have grown old. Not only in physical strength, but mental sharpness too. So much for being an IITian. I have quarreled with him over this just like the old days, but somehow, the fights seem to have lost their intensity. Family friends and relatives have taken pains to describe how I have changed in appearance- lost the boyish charm I once possessed. The lean and mean figure and the deep baritone are unwelcoming traits. The ignominy was complete when I saw the kids from around the locality just walk past me with nothing save a stare. I noticed how much all of them had grown; expecting the same consideration in return was naive of me. The streets, the crowded roads, the markets, the parks and the people failed to recognize me- I remain a pale shadow of my former self. To free myself from such a predicament, I decided to give playing cricket with the local gang a shot. Once a master, a leader of men, I was already being considered a spent force before taking the field. But among the sensible lot, I still retained my aura of audacity. They had high expectations of me, remembering how the mK of yore used to hit sixes at will. My divine reunion with the cricket bat was prophesied to work like magicke. Very tragically, my wizardry failed me badly for once. The first game saw me being bowled on the very first delivery. I could barely see the speeding ball as it raced past my defenses. The following games weren't any better. Any time I heaved at the ball, it would bring me agony with a sharp pain in my back. Running while both batting and fielding was an exercise I couldn't complete without my breath catching up in violent gasps. The muscles of my arms and legs were soon screaming out for oxygen. And in the only over that I had the misfortune of bowling, the ball was carted around the park for sixes and fours. My comeback to the world of physical sports would go down in history as the most disastrous ever. The lads spared a smile for me, and nonchalantly invited me for a game of football the following day. I wisely refused, not willing to lose any more of my self-respect than I already had. My pleasant demeanour concealed the anguish I carried within. The cricket bat, once a faithful weapon, mocked at me, a fallen warrior. Even Mom laughed at me; her explanation being that picking up a bat after a gap of 3 years was bound to be a painful experience- the fingers would have forgotten the sensation it used to be so very familiar with once. I could only sigh and accept the fact, and watch from a distance as the youngsters made merry on the battle field that used to be my Fort Tender once. My brother proved to be the wrecker-in-chief of my dreams of retaining lost glory. He defeated me in a game of chess for the first time in living memory. I bribed him into keeping this knowledge secret, but somehow feel like mentioning it here. Things took a turn for the worse when I started losing in carrom-board too. My pride was at stake, and I challenged him to Scrabble. The idiot shooed me away with the air of a man who had already proven his supremacy enough. I was left reeling under the shock, and licking my highly embarrassing wounds. I did not try to propose battling on computer games, for I never was much into them and it would only add to the discomfiture. I heaved a long sigh, and shook my head in acceptance of defeat. My brother patted me in mock sympathy, and suggested I go back to reading books. My old self would have retorted back with venom, and perhaps proclaimed that an IITian could afford to be a loser with games- which are not meant for the intellectual anyway. But I bit back this childish reply, and went back to sorrowing in solitude. Life is very cruel indeed. The glorious time of my life called childhood had slipped away into the abyss. The care-free, jovial, good for nothing soul I had once been existed no more. Greater responsibilities have arrived, mindsets have changed. Bats and balls and racquets and boomerangs have been replaced by pens and books and everything digital. What would I not give to turn back the clock for a single day, revel in self-indulgence once more. To be the kid I used to be- to run around the street bare-chested in the rain, to climb on the school benches and conquer the classroom with a single wave of my hand, to swing from monkey-bars and jump as high as possible, and to blast the cricket ball into submission once again. Incredibly amateurish cravings of a deranged soul, one would think. To accept the fact that those days aren't going to come back ever will be to resign myself to a miserable fate. I try to find joy in the lesser pleasures of life instead, remaining ever conscious of the wonder-days of the distant past, which remain etched in my heart for eternity.