Introduction

An Unusual Analogy

…and writing exhibits another facet, moulding form and content in anticipation of readership. Took me a while to start a blog considering the amount of time I have been giving to the thought of intending to create one for quite some months now. It could’ve been the devil himself holding me back in allegorical fronts like lethargy, ignorance, some other inhibitions about ‘readership’ and of course drunkenness. Exactly! The feeling I get after using the word ‘drunkenness’ exemplifies my other inhibitions. What if one of my family members came across the journals/articles. I prefer journal. Also, it’s not that I drink or anything, only an example to convey my feeling. Ahem. Yes, just clearing my throat. Before I begin with serving the meat of this piece I would like to describe the blog as my space of relative freedom, an attempted escape from ‘living in society’, ‘writing’ with grammar, ‘kicking ball’ in the park, and ‘driving’ with limits. Three passions that express my profound craving for freedom, mostly buried beneath adversities yet providing for contentment in the occasional moments of glory and inspiration. Dedicated to a utopian dream of complete freedom and consistent writing…

“Two down was unbearable and the clock was biting. Hearts were filled with enthusiasm as they were broken when a mass of black and white hexagons pierced through conscious efforts of stopping it, the curve on it duped the goalie and it screamed goodbye to his stretched leg in a whisper, blasting into the back of the net.

Pump! Pump it up! it up - shouted the goalkeeper as ‘Hurricanes F.C’ struggle to dissect gaps and move towards his counterpart standing hundred yards and 11 player too far from him. Jackie did the fancy pedaladas playing right-out but hardly reaching up front, jaded strikers moved sluggishly in backward steps, beaten on ground, bruised in air a frustrated group of four midfielders ran up and down in short runs, backed by four defenders scattered all over the 20 yard area. One of those times when you crave for a crevice that never opens. The bonnet is fuming with a hissing sound mixed with Linkin Park which is still playing on a cracked Blaunpunkt in the cabin. You watch a fat, middle-aged man react after wiping some blood off his forehead and walk towards you. He looks violent, obviously tougher and you keep wishing but the crevice doesn’t happen. A knock on the glass, the door opens with a creaking sound feebly audible due to the flurry of expletives and threats. The fuming stops and the inevitability of violence takes over. Who had the green light and who just wished that he did is a question that has always remained unanswered but the argument lasts long, in the middle of a busy road, in its full ferocity, for hours. Always. The stronger party dominates but swift and sly take over as better qualities in the given ‘hour and a half’ . No. 10 twitched left before twirling right, created space and chipped a high ball towards the empty far post. No. 7 rocketed towards the ball and jumped high in air before heading in an equalizer. Revenge is sweet. And sly escapes are life savers. Particularly from car accidents and crowded stands.

Why does red mean stop? Why is scoring behind the net? Jackie’s flamboyance is mocked at. Why? The monotony of returning to a gas station after every 450 kms is quite like the inevitability of finding yourself running on the line into stout defenders. Restrictions decreed by semi-circles confining the penalty area quite similar to that of arches marked on bright instrument panels reflecting engine displacement. Some people have their fun in bending rules but here the idea is of having no rules. You can use Nitrous Oxide and the arch becomes a circle but with another limit. A limit that’s higher but limit all the same. Long shots are taken and successfully so, far from the penalty area but the game is essentially motivated by a want of intruding into the heart of the opponent’s territory. Imagine if soccer had goals and goalkeepers but there were no opponents. Goals were scored and relished just like today, perhaps even more, driven by pure ‘love for the game’ and not scorecards. Endless shots taken swerving, dipping, low, high, headers, volleys and goalies making saves or attempts to save without fear, smiling at good shots, laughing at the bad ones, jumping, diving, playing-enjoying… enjoying if the road did not end or begin only when your father is asleep. I wish the 180 degree drifts never stopped, power transmission was variable to the extent of each wheel, I wish burnouts didn’t annoy old men or waste rubber, I wish engines weren’t of aluminum and I could take volleys in space. I wish B.H.P became history, I wish I could breathe in the sky through my A.C vents and an endless road devour me into a world of unknown experiences…”