….Prologue
He hated dangling feet.
It wasn't so much as the action of dangling; he just hated the idea of having no control over his feet irrespective of the situation. He hated dangling feet because he was, right from the beginning, a logical person and feet were for walking, running, jogging, but he passionately hated the fact that for the little time the bus ride would take, his feet would keep dangling, and he had no control over it.
Sometimes he blamed it on his father's genes, that cockiness, that arrogant behavior which he found really irritating, and his sophisticated sense of humor. He also didn't appreciate his father's patronizing tone when he had told him about his thing with dangling feet, and he had hated it when the reply had been "You're only four." But then, rarely, but sometimes, he blamed it on himself, and at his inability to inherit the genes of his thick-skinned father, because he was a logical person, and logical people spoke the truth.
Then he took what would be his last bus ride with his father, with his feet dangling disproportionately and found him gazing out at the window. He followed the direction, and found nothing but passing trees, and he looked around once more to check, but there really was nothing special. So he looked out again, and tried to concentrate on the trees that passed and the ridiculously clear sky that was bestowed upon them. But he couldn't follow it for much longer, because there was no synchronization between the motion of the trees, and the bustling leaves had no rhythm, and hated the fact that they were all in random motion, and he hated it almost as much as the knowledge that his feet were dangling.
He knew that he needed to get out of the whirlwind that was engulfing him slowly, because he simply could not understand the simplicity of trees moving past him when he was on a bus. So he turned to his father and blurted out the first thing, anything, which would provide a distraction, "What are you thinking?" But, if he were honest to himself, (which he was), he didn't care at all what his father was thinking, and he didn't mind that he was sitting in silence, and he told himself over and over again that he didn't mind that the bus ride would continue for two more hours and sometimes the silence was unbearable. His father's impassive "Nothing" echoed towards him, and for a moment he was startled out of his reverie, because he could not understand how someone could think nothing. He himself sometimes thought so much, too much, that he thought his four-year old head would explode. So he turned to his father with pleading eyes and begged him mentally to ask back the same question, but the faraway look in his father's eye had returned and he couldn't help but feel a deep, passionate loathing for him in that moment. But he stayed patient and quiet, because it was absolutely out of sync for him to throw a tantrum over something that was seemingly so insignificant, and he looked at this new play-watch and told himself that the two hours would pass soon.
But he didn't have to wait the two hours. The bus went into a tunnel and he closed his eyes, for as much as had hated the lack of synchronicity in the trees and the ridiculousness of the bright blue sky, they were still trees and it was still the sky, and it was what had maintained his link to something which was real and not forged. But the bus went into the tunnel anyway and just as he saw a peek of that blue sky after what seemed like forever, there was some kind of a banging noise, and before he knew or could protest, his impassive father had shoved him down a firm seat. But then the bus seemed to jump and he could see every passenger jump up and look at each other scared, and even though the bus bumped so high that his head hit the bottom of the metal seat, he was still happy because his feet weren't dangling anymore. Then he smelled the atrocious smell of something burning, and he heard lots of screaming and crying, and he briefly wondered where his father was. He considered screaming out for him, but the idea in itself terrified him, for the secure place underneath the metal seat was his, and his only, and he didn't want to let his father in to something so private. And it terrified him even more that he felt nothing at the thought of his father, and briefly wondered if he should. He reasoned to himself that even though his father lacked his passion for synchronization, and even though, it was so rare that they would play a game of chess, he was still his father and if not anything else, he wanted to tell him that it was impossible to not think. But then he found two hosepipes drenching him and grudgingly stood up.
It was ironic, even to his four year old mind that the one time when he wanted, really really really wanted to tell him about the miracle of thought, all of a sudden he was gone. He looked down, not really wanting to, at his father who lay there mutilated but peaceful, and for a second he felt guilty for he knew that his father had saved him, and he knew that he would only be able to ridicule the blue sky or look for synchronization among trees or even merely think because his father had taken the time to push him under the metal seat. And because he was his father, and because he deserved to have that respect, and because he needed to let him know that he had done a good job raising a son, he didn't blurt out his thoughts about thinking. For a second, it even made him laugh out loud that hid father might well never think again, and even if he did, he wouldn't know of it. He didn't know what scared him the most, the lack of feelings when he stared at his father or the pointless that he now came to know was his father's existence. So he settled for saying nothing.
And because he was his father, and because he deserved to have that respect, and because he needed to let him know that he had done a good job raising a son, he told himself over and over again that his obsession with thinking would pass with age, and one day he might well be able to enjoy being apathetic. And he chanted it over and over again in his head, because he needed to believe that his obsession with thinking would pass.
It didn't.
Happy reading!
Shreyasi
Cricket
Financial markets and global economy
