On Deepawali - and window shopping

Francios Gautier says that he is a Hindu, not by birth but by belief, since here is a religion that imposes no condition on its followers, demands no intellectual surrender as an entry-fee, and offers no ready-made answers to seriously complex questions. It has no holy book, and no final word on anything. In fact, for a Hindu, if I may say so, nothing is too holy and nothing is too final.

Hinduism is not a dogma, it's not a comprehensive manual of Dos and Don'ts, it's an attitude rather than a faith, and to repeat the platitude - it's a way of life; and it has an inalienable spirit of quest right at its core. That's why it is essentially sympathetic to the idea of pulrality of thought. That explains its inclusiveness and so-called tolerance, what it is best known for, despite so many external as well as internal forces acting against it for so long. In the end, a true Hindu is essentially a seeker, and the seeker is not only allowed but also encouraged to find his answers to his questions.

However, that is a white man's version, which is as much moral as aesthetic in nature. For others, there exists another aspect of Hinduism too, which involves what is worldly, which is cast in stone, and which is replete with suffocating superstitions and malpractices (ranging from as uncivilized and as repulsive as animal worship to animal sacrifice, and the hemartia - the caste system as-it-is). Also, this is one religion which has gradually but irreversibly tilted towards materialism, and subsequently shifted away from spirituality, so much so that an average Hindu can be pious without slightest spiritual disposition. Religion has been reduced to mere paraphernalia of religion, which at best consist of periodic and meaningless rituals, which make no real sense to anybody. Worse, the worst form of corruption is seen nowhere else but in the temples, where the degradation of religion has been almost complete, and can not worsen much. Our gods have been excluded from our lives, idealized in mind, and idolized in matter. Our prayers are thankless and demanding, and we are ever ready to make deals with the divinity, whosoever and wherever he/she is, if necessary.

This corruption and degradation is manifest in our festivals as well. For instance, Deepawali is a festival of light, but it's certainly no more about things that light symbolizes. It is more about what is to be bought, how much and how many, deals, discounts, and the worst of all - gambling, all in name of religion. A religious Hindu is, ironically, at his materialist worst on this day. He has little patience to stop, and refect on heavy ideas like inner darkness, inner light, and inner peace. He has little time to realize that the festival of light is meant to illuminate the inner self, and eliminate the inner darkness, as it were. However, Deepawali, as it stands, has unfortunately turned into a celebration of darkness, and everything that darkness stands for.

Hinduism is nothing without its beautiful, and equally powerful, language of symbols, which must be deciphered to begin the journey that every man must undertake. The seeker must wonder, must think, and must seek. He who opens his eyes, and looks, will see. Deepawali happens when God comes back to the place where he belongs, the place which can not be fought or defeated. Until then, this world will be shrouded in darkess, and Deepawali will remain just another day of deals, discounts, and shopping.

why do dogs cross roads?

1. Why do dogs cross roads?

I see Theater of the Absurd being played out when I see a dog crossing the road. Why, I wonder, it has to? Why can't it stay where it is? What lies there that is not here? How would crossing the road help?

That brings me to an existential question - why do we cross roads? Is our crossing roads any less futile? It came to my mind when I was driving to a nearby petrol pump.

2. What entertains me?

I liked that horrible movie - "Oldboy". Technically, however, it's a well-made movie. Plus it has everything that entertains a movie-buff like me - a distorted character (an ordinary guy who is a victim of circumstances), a contrived situation (with sufficient semblance to the reality that we know), some aesthetically shot scenes of sex (as per the demands of the script, of course), and some good old gore. That's what we watch movies for, isn't?

3. What do I think of Formula 1 (in India)?

I saw things like Tomatina and October Fest being brought to Hyderabad, to satisfy the growing appetite of Hyderabadi people for anything that is 'global'. They send their kids to global schools. They also celebrate beach parties on new year eve. It's another matter that the nearest beach happens to be about 300 kms away from Hyderabad.

But Hyderabad is still backward, and about 10 years behind cities like Bangalore. Hyderabad is Bangalore in making. Hyderabad is wannabe Bangalore. And Hyderabad is pretty upset to have lost the chance to host India's maiden F1 show to Noida, for a reason as pointless as Telangana!

Coming to F1, it is one of those global games, only more expensive, more exclusive, and more bourgeois. I don't mind F1, unless it thrust itself on my consciousness, which it does since F1 is all about ads, models, and logos. To me, F1 is an indulgance, not a sport. I won't analyze it any further. I don't feel like wasting my words on something as ridiculous as F1.

In the desi context, F1 reminds me of looking at a wedding album, in which the groom dons a suit and a tie, and flanked by his lesser relatives in chappals, looks rather out of place. In typical small town weather, in no time, the make-up gives in to the heat; the sweat washes away the foundation, smears the face, exposes the hidden complexion, and worse - the hidden complex.

Imitation - it's funny, it's awkward, and it's a profoundly sad thing to do. And of course it's demeaning. I am not sure if even French have Tomatina. Hyderabad has, as if we lack festivals!

On part of the middle-class metro-Indians, F1 is so desperate a pretense that it arouses pity. However, unlike the wedding photo, there is nothing innocent about it. Instead, it reeks of colossal callousness towards everything that should matter. Ironically, the F1 fanatics who are absolutely indifferent to fellow Indians claim to be proud of India (whatever that means), and the progress that their India (wherever that is) has made. And what's the index of that progress? HDI? No. Inclusive growth? No. Decreasing disparity? Decreasing deforestation? Rehabilitation of the dispossessed? No. None of them. What's it then? Well, perhaps progress of this India to these Indians means things like Tomatina, October Fest, and F1.

To those who can still think through rumors, F1 is nothing but a joke, and most of us find ourselves at the wrong side of it.

4. Mediocrity or Obsession?

That's the question. This is the dilemma of an IT coolie like me - to be or not to be the star. If one opts for the "Middle Path", which promises maximum happiness, or least unhappiness, mediocrity follows invariably. On the contrary, if one chooses to pursue excellence in something, he must be committed to the cause, and show off his passion whenever the camera faces him. Consequently, things like balance go for a toss. Keeping Jupiter aside, success is usually a by-product of persistent obsession.

If a life of obsession is success, what else is failure, one wonders. Is there a way to break away from this tug of war? What if one makes a bucket list, and do what he wants?

5. Anna verses Democracy

I agree with Arvind Kejriwal when he says that people are supreme, and they are above parliament. Parliamentarians are making a scandal out of it. But it's the other way round. It's nothing short of scandal to confine democracy to a periodic drill called election. Elected members, and more importantly, we the people, should understand this very clearly that democracy are election are not synonymous.

Besides, UK is a democracy. So is UP. As it is evident, democracy comes in different flavors. It's the flavor that matters. Just being a democracy is not enough, since democracy is not the ends in itself.

Anna is not an exception. From Aruna Roy to Arundhati Roy, people are losing confidence in Indian state. Status quo is no more an option, except for the beneficiaries of the status quo. We need reforms.

6. Steve Jobs

In "Over the Flames", I couldn't help noticing this young couple who was sitting in front of me. Both the man and the women were dipped in their respective phones. To me, that's the lasting legacy of Steve Jobs.

To me his iGadget is like one of many other toys, made for big boys and girls who are yet to grow up. And to me, Mr Jobs, no matter what media might say, was a maker of mental dildos, as it were, and that's how I see him. Still, I don't mind someone selling toys. But when someone starts selling myths, like Jobs was some sort of Edison, and some sort of transformer, then it gets funny. If Jobs was an innovator, damn such innovators, and damn such innovations. I am absolutely certain that the world would be rather better off without him or his likes.

Konkan - Monsoon - RE TBTS

Plan: to cover about 2830 kms in 9 days.

Route: Hyderabad -- Pune - Raigad Fort - Ganapatipule - Vijaydurg - Sindhudurg - Goa - Karwar - Gokarna - Murudeshwar - Jog Falls - Agumbe - Shringeri - Belur - Bangalore -- Hyderabad

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Day 0 (Aug 26): Hyderabad - Sholapur (300 kms)

The prelude set the tone for rest of the play. No mercy was shown from heavens for my maiden bike marathon. As we mounted our sacks, it was raining. It was raining when we kicked off, and it was to rain throughout, day and night, all the time. In no time I knew what we were up against, as all our stratagems to keep water out failed one by one. Soon it was apparent that the word - waterproof - is a joke. Before we could leave the town behind, rain was as much inside as it was outside.

And that was not the end of our problems. The highway had to offer a plenty. The visibility worsened after the dusk. The high beam would burst on the glass and leave you dazzled. When you lift the glass, the water needles would threaten to puncture your eyes. For a good deal of the road, riding was like making good guesses on the road.

The only respite was occasional cups of tea and steamy hot omlettes by road-side stalls. It was midnight when we decided to call it a day. By then, we were looking like a mess.

Day 1 (Aug 27): Sholapur - Baramati (200 kms)

A minor accident on the highway dented the course of our trip. After talking to locals in a repair shop, we dropped the idea of going to Pune. There was not much sense in riding on the highway with mud flying around everywhere. So we sneaked into the interior routes with a safer speed. Thankfully, we found that the state highways were in much better shape, and more pleasant to ride on, beneath the canopies of great banyan trees.

Meanwhile, it dawned on me that I was too ambitious in planning. Looking at the situation in hand - the non-stop downpour and an understandably demoralized co-traveler - I realized that it was high-time we rationalized our plan as per the practical realities. We stopped and talked over the lunch. And decided to take it easy and do whatever was possible.

All this while I could not stop wondering why would anyone want to ride in Monsoon.

Looking at the brighter side of the situation, despite (or because of) whatever we were looking like, we aroused lots of curiosity and awe wherever we passed by. People turned their heads, girls giggled, boys cheered, and adults asked questions. Traveling is incomplete without engaging with the locals. And it's impossible not to come across interesting people in such road trips. To our good luck, a veteran trekker bumped into us and helped us with useful information. Things were beginning to take a shape.

Day 3 (Aug 28): Baramati - Raigad (150 kms)

The journey through the Ghats was one of the things that I had in my mind when I had planned this trip. Just to remind again, it was pouring buckets all the time. The road (from Bhor, Pune to Mahad, Raigad) crawled like a snake through the forest. As far as I could see, it was lush green all around. The sound of the countless falls crashing, birds chirping, and wind whistling, left me absolutely mesmerized. As we rolled upwards, we were wrapped by clouds. We had arrived.

It's amazing that in a setting like these, even a simple thing like a cup of tea feels so very special. By a roadside dhaba on top of the hill, I enjoyed one of the most memorable cups of tea, along with steamy hot Vada Pao. Won't I ever come here again?, I asked myself. And that was the moment it occurred to me that I was rather wasting my time in Hyderabad, which is far from all the interesting places. At that moment, the microscopic details of urban existence seemed unnecessary in the larger scheme of life, which had lot better to offer to those who sought.

Indeed, biking in clouds is more than an experience. It's a perspective.

While coming down, I switched off the ignition. The bike rolled down the slopes on its own, leaving behind the clouds, and what followed was about 5-6 kms of absolute timelessness, in which oblivious to the whole world, I soaked the sound of nature, trying to store it somewhere in my memory, taking it back to where I need it the most.

Day 4 (Aug 29): Raigad - Guhagar (250 kms)

Konkan is the land of hills, beaches, forts, temples, and food. Apart from sea food, what it is well known for is Ratnagiri Hapus or Alphonso. We took the NH 17 and sped towards the land of famous Alphonso mangoes. From a place called Chiplun, we turned towards the state highway, which runs closer to the coastal line. And finally, we reached Guhagar in late afternoon.

Throughout this trip, we enjoyed riding more than anything else. The evenings were not happening enough, since there was not much to do outside with the rain playing spoilsport. And it was not fun to sit in a stuffy room watching your clothes not drying. I regretted not making a diversion to Pratapgad, which was just 25 kms away from the NH 17.

Anyway, we were in Guhagar. Apparently, it is one of the most gorgeous beaches in Konkan, though it is dangerous for swimmers. In Monsoon, it's insane to go inside water anyway, since the waves leap furiously and take away whatever they lay hands on. Moreover, the beaches are invariably dirty in rainy season. In any case, beaches were out of scope for us in his trip. I just wanted to see life in Konkan in an off-season.

This was another reason, apart from the sheer impossibility, for us to curtail the scope of our trip. The beaches deserved a better season, and it was a better idea to leave those places for another trip.

Day 5 (Aug 30): Guhagar - Ganapatipule (100 kms)

As recommended by our hospitable host, who painstakingly drew a detailed map of the whole coastal region for us, we decided to take an intimate route through the villages of the region. No wonder we could not travel much, but we saw a lot that day. Besides, it was a welcome diversion from a beautiful monotony of riding through vegetation. Thanks to Monsoon, we were allowed to do something different than wearing floral shirts and sipping lemonades at beaches.

Near Guhagar, there is a lesser known place called "Baman Ghal". It's a deep gorge in rocks, in which waves rush in and splash in air about 40-50 feet high. Standing there, it came to my mind that unless you have a two-wheeler, which approaches more, and makes you more approachable, you can not even think to explore a place as secluded as this. And that would be a huge loss.

We rode through habitations, and through places where there was no trace of man. There was nothing else but clouds, rains, and greenery. It was so isolated up there that one could even change clothes on road without been seen. But what would one do if his bike started acting up? That was a terrifying thought. At that moment I thanked the makers of the RE TBTS for making such a reliable piece of mechanical marvel.

By evening, we were in Ganapatipule. We strolled near the beach after dinner. In pitch dark, the sea looked menacing with the tides lashing and roaring. It was a sight to look at, and a sound to listen to. But we had to rush to our room since the drizzling was beginning to get heavier.

Day 6 (Aug 31): Ganapatipule - Goa via Vijaydurg, Sidhudurg (300 kms)

What could one say about the journey when hills are on your left side and sea is on the right? I was living the fantasy. As we rode along the coast, I saw nameless beaches, rocky shores, lagoons, and the life around the coast.

The first destination was Vijaydurg fort, which was in disrepair, and that left me disappointed. The second stop was Sindhudurg fort, which is build on an island. I couldn't see the fort from inside, since ferry service was not in operation. There was no point in going to Tarkarli beach. So we moved on, and reached Goa by night. We stopped by a dhaba for our regular cup of tea, but we were informed that no dhaba serves tea in Goa. All they offer was beer.

The road just before Goa was like a death-trap. It was late when we reached, and I was dead tired, and sick of water in any form. By the time we checked in, all I wanted was to go back home.

Day 7 (Sep 01): Goa

Though I am not one of the Goa fans, but I have to admit that there is no place like Goa. Even in rainy season, even on Ganesh Chaturthi, it was decently crowded, though the foreigners were not many. We used this day to relax, and bring back the spirit, which was dampened by rains, and stinking clothes.

In a shack, we talked to the shack owner, who had interesting things to talk about Indian tourists, especially Delhiites. I was amused to find out that they really had put "No Delhi People Allowed" board on their shacks, since these tourists were repeatedly found to be offensive and arrogant. Many of them were beaten up by the locals and even by foreigners. Sitting there in the shack, I saw a sample there and then.

- Don't take this drink near the beach. They'll fine you.
- How much?

Day 8 (Sep 02): Goa - Bijapur (350 kms)

The road till Belgaum was more challenging than I had imagined. After Ponda, as the forest area started, the road had veritable craters, and fog was dense, making it very difficult for us to ride. I had to turn into a mp3 player to distract my mind from the cold.

In a roadside dhaba, where we had taken shelter, the atmosphere was beautiful in a way. A bus was parked there, and the passengers were inside. There was no light inside, and the steam and smoke inside was mingling with the mist outside. I enjoyed a steaming hot, though bit spicy for my taste, lunch plate. And then we pushed off.

The state highway was like a dream, though the occasional bumpers were disorienting, and that allowed us to reach Bijapur on time. Meanwhile, I tested the limits of RE TBTS, which showed signs of swaying as I reached 100 km/h.

Day 9 (Sep 03): Bijapur - Hyderabad (350kms)

Bijapur is a town with rich cultural heritage. Relics are strewn on both sides of road. Though I had no intention to spend time in the town, I finally did since the places of interest were nearby, and they were picturesque. This was the first time when I could take out my camera and clicked few snaps.

By noon we left Bijapur. NH 218 was fun to ride on, and the bull touched its max - 110 km/h. By dusk we were having our dinner in a dhaba located at the outskirts of Hyderabad.

Overall, we did 2130 kms. I was happy to find out that the bikes and the riders were fine despite severe testing. Given another chance, I would do the same route again, with lighter packing though.

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There are two type of traveling. One could travel to heaven, enjoy, and remember the memories with fondness after coming back to the banalities of usual life. Conversely, one could travel to hell, suffer, and start appreciating one's normal life. My road trip was mix of both; it hurted and it healed, and that's why it's difficult for me to answer simplistic questions like how was the experience. The experience would have been worth nothing had it been a simple good or a simple bad.

One is supposed to look refreshed after coming back from a vacation. I guess I must be looking lost, and rather disoriented. The birds are still chirping in my mind. It will take me a while to adjust to the pace again. But as of now, this trance is my only payoff.

And finally, now I know why people make road trip to Konkan in Monsoon.

Realism: Meta Art

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way", said Tolstoy, and proceeded to write about a family he, being an artist, was wont to be interested in. The tragic fate of Anna Karenina not merely touched his sensitivity but it practically possessed him, consuming him over countless sleepless nights. Witnessing her travails would have been a cathartic experience for him, sometimes even amusing, but certainly not boring. That's how it is. Artists would rather brood over a dramatic failure - the orphan, the bastard - than toast a methodical success. Artists fail to appreciate anything poetic, or inspiring, in monotony of a happy family, which - as Tolstoy points out - are "all alike".

On the other extreme end, however, broken or complicated relationships arouse feelings more visceral than usual coffee-table stuff; and tales of impossible romance are immortal classics. Moreover, extraordinary situations foster extraordinary men (and women) - of compelling personalities - who, by sheer power of their character, rouse us and drag us out of our blankets. They challenge our understanding of the world we live in, and of the words we thoughtlessly speak. They expose us to ourselves, and liberate us from the platitudes of nine-to-five banalities, at least for a few awakened moments. These moments are poetic moments, and these men are the heroes worshiped by poets.

In every unhappy context, happiness is tortured in a different way, and it needs a elaborate supply of resources to look into the details. It's hard because the questions asked are typically confusing, and answers are never offered ready-made. It's like doing the sum without ever having a look at the examples. Worse, unlike in Math, reason doesn't help much in life. As every sensible man realizes sooner or later, rationality is but a state of mind - a mood - which is neither immutable nor unconditional. Reason, the keeper of laws and orders, works reasonably well within the band of "normal" situations - atmospheric pressure, room temperature etc. In other situations, however, the my-maximum-gain attitude can be transformed into his-maximum-loss attitude, with surprising ease. Madness is contagious, and often spreads like wildfire. In the heat of delirium, modern innovations - like reason - are charred to cinders, and collapse in the debris of their own remains.

As V rightly said in "V for Vendetta", the politicians lie to hide the truth, the artists tell lies to reveal it. So, a work of art is a lie told to reveal a truth. That truth is a greater truth, which involves pluralities of perspectives, and ironies of co-existing contrasts, realizing which demands more maturity than logic affords in isolation.

An artist explores the human nature by putting his characters to an abnormal situation - catch 22 or dilemma - where choices are not easy, yet they are to be made. He teases his characters, tempts them, tests them, and traps them in morally ambiguous situations. He situates them in the unhappy stories where emotions are denied, deprived, or worst of all - pit against each other, therefore burning with greater intensities. He digs into this debris to pick the parts that survive the fire, to find order in chaos, without trivializing any of these. He helps us realize that meaning can precede the word and word can transcend the scope of meaning. In his works, without trivializing relationships, he makes us see that feelings do exist external to relationships, but not always. Art subverts generalities, without intending to offer any of its own.

Does art holds mirror to reality? I don't think it does. And if it does, it shouldn't hold a plain mirror for sure, since a plain mirror can't correct the distortions inherent in reality. Art is not a superficial truth but an artful lie which helps us see the hidden truth. Art can't intend to be a mere mirror image of reality; it's a meta reality. Realism, the rather evolved but not necessarily better form of art, resembles life more but it depends on art rather than life itself. Ironically, a realist is farther from life than an artist, who seeks inspiration not from art, but from life itself.

And happy families hardly inspire any. That's a perversion artists live with.

a bull or an ox

Ox: I have fodder, shelter, a job in a big farm, and a company of beautiful cows. What do you have?

Bull: I have balls.

Most of us, ultimately, are what we choose to be. And regardless of what we possess, every Sunday evening reminds us that what matters the most is what we choose to be - a bull or an ox.

14th Feb - Goa

What could Goa mean to someone like me, whose vegetarian food preferences could turn the mouth-watering aroma of sea food into an all-pervading stink! That's what I was thinking while sitting in Republic of Noodles and flirting with their signature delicacy.

Let's ignore the ubiquitous stench, and guzzle on the famous Feni, one would suggest. Oops, I don't drink. And what more, I am not the party animal type who enjoys being in Tito's. What am I doing in Goa then?

Boring? May be. Bored? Never. Despite my rather superficial engagement with what all Goa offers, I came back satisfied. And equally dissatisfied, since three days are barely enough to explore even my fraction of Goa.

Ajanta Ellora

The murals and frescoes of Ajanta was "never meant to be seen", says Jonah Blank, a traveler and the auther of book I am reading - "Arrow of the blue skinned God." Speaking of Ellora, he says - "The caves I like most are ones that require the most work. there are five hermitages at Ellora that can be reached only by a crumbling path two feet wide, a track chiseled out of the mountain face, which drops thirty yards to bare rock pits below. The path looks more difficult that it actually is, so the family picnickers stay away. There the spirits of long-dead sadhus seem almost alive."

I understand and share the sentiments of the author. It's like going to watch a Satyajit Ray movie, and to find some front benchers whistling and howling and murdering the movie, and harassing the movie-goers. And you wonder - what on earth are they doing here? Do they even belong to this place? Those who run the world might have their reasons, but I feel that they are selling it cheap, in Rs 7.

Ajanta, however, is more accessible, and more vulnerable. Quoting the author again, "The path is wide and paved, so overdressed Bombay grande dames can ride up in wooden sedan-chairs, each hefted by four stoic bearers. At the cave mouth a servant holds an enormous mirror of polished tin, directing the sun's rays in to illuminate the chamber and slowly burn the frescoes into oblivion."

I didn't see mirror, but I did see numerous shutter-bugs throwing flashes, despite admonitions from guards, effecting the same effect to the precious paintings.

Those who created are dead. Those who protect are hardly ever seen, and those who destroy are omnipresent. They litter without guilt or shame, and leave their poly-traces to the corners that were "never meant to be seen". Hidden from the world for more than a thousand years, these caves lied unsullied in the custody of forest. But an accidental discovery changed everything. Hordes of monkeys ravage their steps and hoot in their halls.

What is left in Ajanta and Ellora is just a memory of a world that was out-of-the-world. With passage of eons, the colors have faded, and the shapes have dulled, and all we have is nothing but ruins. But here lies the magic - even the ruins are awesome! A look at Kailashnath Temple is enough to convince a sceptic.

But this marvel often dazzles and misleads. Being the gateway to Ellora, it gives the impression of the first cave, which it is not. Unless you are careful, or informed, you are likely to miss the Buddhist caves altogether. The arrangement for the tourists is abysmal. You are on your own.

Can I?

I need a comma, a round of confessional, to put a period to something that makes me look grotesque (without even making me look funny). I have realized that I cannot get away with "being myself" anymore. I can not afford the luxury of status quo any longer.

Time has moved on; and the young angry man of 70s has evolved. He is working his backside off, making lots of money and dreaming of Mediterranean. Meanwhile, the gender code has been changed. Anger is not manly anymore. Today's hero is Rocket Singh the salesman, who doesn't have to show his member to prove his manhood. He doesn't push around, and without arguing, he convinces us and makes us see that the expression of anger is medieval. It's a baggage-of-past we have to jettison to sail ahead.

The question is how. What follows is not an answer, but an attempt to find that.

1. Patience - a belief that some problems can be solved just by waiting. Let's say it again - just by waiting. If you try talking, you might end up prolonging the problem. One can not be agnostic about time almighty. One only has to learn how to pass the time while time is on job.

Take away point - it's wise, civilized, and manly, to listen out people and not cut them out. Wait for them to finish before you barge in. It's charming without being insincere.

2. Tolerance - a belief that imperfection is an existential condition. That implies even you will be wrong once in a while. And that makes forgiveness a mutual need, therefore a social contract in any civilized society. It helps to remember that what we deal with in everyday life is mood/state-of-mind and not people, and the former is often worse than the latter. In worst case, when nothing makes sense, you might like to thank your God not to make you like the next guy.

Take away point - the critic must introspect. He should smile more often. And he should take it easy unless it's a matter of life and death.

3. And the forgotten lesson - unless cornered, don't hit back, don't block, just dodge.

It's time for me to see and find out how young I still am.