Adrenaline
Every now and then, in one of those aimless, lost-in-thought introspections, it would come flashing into my head. The mundane monontony, the lack of adventure, the absolute conformity to the rigid rules of a pedestrian life. I have hung out with guys, who spoke at length about the fights they have been in, the gang wars they have seen and been part of, the punches thrown, the occasional one taken. It was at times like these, some baser animal instinct at the back of my head would wake up and tell me "See! I have always told ya..If you hadn't pushed me back, you would have had a story of your own to tell. Violence is not to be run away from.....it is one of those forbidden fruits which you are told not to touch ever, but at some point in life you have to sneak a bite...savour it for what it is worth". And in those moments of introspection, questions like " Is it because of the way you have been raised or is it because of you?" would rear themeselves to be answered. Right from childhood, it had become habitual to avoid physical confrontation of any kind-run away from the bully, ignore the abuse of the street corner drunk, why get into a fight? what good can it do?, keep away from these gangs, study, get a life. don't waste it away. But then in startling contrast were our movies, our mythology, our epics where the hero is a man who stands up for good, who does not hesitate to fight, who most importantly stands up for himself. You think a little introspection is harmless, but in reality, it is not. It just coils up a thought in your head like a spring and one day, when the time is right, the spring releases. And so, today, finally, I have a story of my own to tell.
He was just another intoxicated wastrel, the kind who seeked the cheap thrill of taunting pedestrians, in the cowardly confidence that they would shrug off his abuse and walk away hurriedly. It was his everyday entertainment, free entertainment for the socially despicable. You see so many of these specimens, that it becomes second nature to look the other way, turn the deaf ear. I have seen my share of drunk revellers, who scream at you, fling the occasional racial insult and race off in their cars, leaving you no time to react, no time to even show them the finger. And over time, you don't even bother, you give them the same importance as shit on the road, you just side step and walk away. But it was different that day. It was pretty early in the morning and it was a lonely stretch of a dimly lit road. He was waiting, lurking in the shadows and let out a stream of expeltives as I neared him. Normally I would have just scurried past him, like a rat would when it felt human presence, ironic as it may be, for he was the real rat. But I didn't. Some pent up rage in me snapped that day and I stopped, stood my ground and gave him back his abuse word for word. He tottered forward, made threatening gestures, and dared me to say anything more. I had started and I did not want to back down. So I continued my verbal assault. And then, suddenly he charged at me.
There are many times in life, when you just know what to do, even though you have never done it before. It is almost as if you have known that all along, but never really put it to use. So, even though I had never been in a real fist fight before(if you exclude the childhood playground scruffles), I instinctively coiled myself up and punched him squarely on the face. And what an impact that had, considering the fact that he literally ran into my fist. He fell back on the road. Few words can effectively describe the high that I felt then-the rush of warm blood, the aura of the aggressor, the feeling of a predator on top of its prey, the surge of adrenaline. But that was so fleeting, so short lived, when the realisation of what I had done sunk in. Here, I was all alone, at a time when help would be difficult to call out for, alone with an enraged, disoriented, potentially armed, possible criminal. Potentially armed....potentially armed...even before my senses could fathom the significance of that echoing thought, the man whipped out a gun , pointed it at me and all I saw was a flash, all I remember was that flash.....
Three days and a lifetime of suffering later, my friend died in the Intensive Care unit of the hospital. He wanted to tell his story, and this was the story he told me. Considering his penchant for subtlety, he would have loved to have left the ending just there, allowing you to make your interpretations. And so here is mine...... Sometimes, in some crude, cruel way, I think the momentary euphoric high that he felt after his foolish bravado, was worth a lot to him. But when I think about the worthless bullet spent, the life with so much potential, so many things unfelt, unexplored, wasted, it was worth nothing, absolutely nothing.
He was just another intoxicated wastrel, the kind who seeked the cheap thrill of taunting pedestrians, in the cowardly confidence that they would shrug off his abuse and walk away hurriedly. It was his everyday entertainment, free entertainment for the socially despicable. You see so many of these specimens, that it becomes second nature to look the other way, turn the deaf ear. I have seen my share of drunk revellers, who scream at you, fling the occasional racial insult and race off in their cars, leaving you no time to react, no time to even show them the finger. And over time, you don't even bother, you give them the same importance as shit on the road, you just side step and walk away. But it was different that day. It was pretty early in the morning and it was a lonely stretch of a dimly lit road. He was waiting, lurking in the shadows and let out a stream of expeltives as I neared him. Normally I would have just scurried past him, like a rat would when it felt human presence, ironic as it may be, for he was the real rat. But I didn't. Some pent up rage in me snapped that day and I stopped, stood my ground and gave him back his abuse word for word. He tottered forward, made threatening gestures, and dared me to say anything more. I had started and I did not want to back down. So I continued my verbal assault. And then, suddenly he charged at me.
There are many times in life, when you just know what to do, even though you have never done it before. It is almost as if you have known that all along, but never really put it to use. So, even though I had never been in a real fist fight before(if you exclude the childhood playground scruffles), I instinctively coiled myself up and punched him squarely on the face. And what an impact that had, considering the fact that he literally ran into my fist. He fell back on the road. Few words can effectively describe the high that I felt then-the rush of warm blood, the aura of the aggressor, the feeling of a predator on top of its prey, the surge of adrenaline. But that was so fleeting, so short lived, when the realisation of what I had done sunk in. Here, I was all alone, at a time when help would be difficult to call out for, alone with an enraged, disoriented, potentially armed, possible criminal. Potentially armed....potentially armed...even before my senses could fathom the significance of that echoing thought, the man whipped out a gun , pointed it at me and all I saw was a flash, all I remember was that flash.....
Three days and a lifetime of suffering later, my friend died in the Intensive Care unit of the hospital. He wanted to tell his story, and this was the story he told me. Considering his penchant for subtlety, he would have loved to have left the ending just there, allowing you to make your interpretations. And so here is mine...... Sometimes, in some crude, cruel way, I think the momentary euphoric high that he felt after his foolish bravado, was worth a lot to him. But when I think about the worthless bullet spent, the life with so much potential, so many things unfelt, unexplored, wasted, it was worth nothing, absolutely nothing.
posted by Dreamer at 10:42 AM
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