Did I ever tell you that I boxed in school too ? I think I did. In Boys’ High School in Allahabad and then in Sherwood College, Nainital. Terrific sport. The ladies do not much care for it. Too brutal for them they say, but such a lesson in life, that four cornered ring. Alone with an adversary, with nothing to defend yourself with except your own guile, strength and the will to fight. No external support and no avenues to escape. Just that roped square and the screams and encouragements from without. The outside. Never inside, never of any assistance, just words and voices.

Much like life. You fight alone and you fight strong. There will be voices, but no one comes in to help or hold. They sound good, but they remain distant. Demarcated and away.

But hey ! Before we get melancholic and mushy and the disgust of many FmXt that abhor this refrain, let us be away to other climes, klimata and klima .. er … that’s Greek .. no ! Greek in its real sense, not in mirth … and remember wondrous moments of being hit on the face with the dreaded glove. The first shock of a strike, not of pain and fear, but of an inevitable act. The thump of the impact, of leather against skin and harder still, the bone. A delicious sensation of a sensual blurr. Of sound being cut off. Of just the impulse to fling the hands, to connect, to dissuade the opponent. And then when the first flush of energy expels itself, to step back and contemplate where and when to strike. To guard as well, the face and the vulnerable chin. To tighten the stomach for the solar plexus punch, that winds you and crunches you in a double up. That bell at the end of a round, the wooden stool that gets pushed underneath your wobbly legs, the wet towel on your face, a spurt of water to drink, fanning desperately to revive the energy and the incessant coaching by the seconds nothing of which is understood or heard. Back again into the square and the thuds of impact and connect …

“Good hard blows are delights to the mind” !! Remember that ? Came from a quote that was printed in ink from my father’s hand on a book that he posted to me from England, when I informed him of my first visit inside a boxing ring. Somehow that little trace of blood on the t-shirt that came off either your lip or the opponents, was peculiarly a moment of pride as you biked home to show off to Mother. Blood from effort and battle, acceptable. Blood from a shoe thrown at my head from a senior in School out of bullying - not acceptable at all !! An infuriated parent loads me up at the back of his and our only mode of transport, the bicycle and reprimands the Principal by storming into his house in the late evening. Senior punished. Even Stevens !! But senior now on the look out for a revenge opportunity. Never gave him one !! Ha ha ..

Aaah , those glorious days with the Alma Mater ! Formative, educative, extra curriculum med and never forgotten ..

Today … Tanzania, Morrocco, Pakistan, UAE, Chile … stand aside of me for pictures to remember. Remember the actor of many of the films they grew up with. Give respect and little gifts, hand made, local but all with love. Affection and kindness needs no material recognition, but just the act of giving, so noble and appealing.

When I live with the expression of their kindness, I also visit the unkindness of those that abuse and accuse wrongly and misguidedly. The Mother’s little black spot to remove the evil - ‘nazar’.

That single black flag of opposition at a rally overpowered by pro demonstrators. Thats the one that gets noticed in the sea of support. Thats the one that pains and hurts. Thats the one you wish to address and react. Thats the one that remains, hauntingly within, even though its presence is overwhelmingly washed away in the storm of cyclonic proportion from those that love.

There is a sense of elation ! A sense of accomplishment ! Not entirely to our liking but at least one that has caused a retrace of a craftily drafted response. There is need to take collective decision with loved ones and then progress. We shall, with the love and support of all.

A gift of an iphone 3G and a day spent in understanding its functions. You carry your lifetime in your palm virtually - of yesterday, today and tomorrow with the softness of your finger tip. Finger tips that carry the ultimate identification of human kind, the final ID. Now ironically used for identifying others, for reaching out to them, for seeking information hidden in millions of mega bites on Grey master computers. An International media conference meet stipulated the web as having a limitless future. We are already in limitless form. What ever could there be in store for us ? But then, who had ever imagined the onset of what we possess now. Who then can imagine what be in store for us in the future.

Our great grand children will be laughing at the mobile much as our children laugh at the finger dialing telephones of the 40’s and the 50’s right up to the 60’s at least in India. We may all be in state of virtual travel and transport by their time. Who knows !!

Its allergic … the desire to write. You wish to just carry on relentlessly, incessantly, compulsively.

Odd … is it not ?? When would we ever get the time to say our ‘nights’ and ’sleep wells’ ..

Now ..!! I guess ..

Amitabh Bachchan