Banana Experiments

What does the word banana remind you of? The soft sweet pulp? The slippery peel? Its perishable nature?

Well, let me tell you what banana brings to my mind. I once inadvertently happened to read a piece somewhere in some magazine, or perhaps elsewhere, that the banana activates the mind. Stimulates it, makes it work more efficiently. I tried it out a couple of times and could see that the author was good as his word, the banana speeding my mathematical calculations and increasing my attention span, not greatly but at least noticeably. Inevitably, this is what banana brings to my mind. 

But the foremost association my mind has formed with these yellow curled cylindrical fruits are their aid in digestion, more specifically, egestion. A biological term, which when translated to baby language reads potty. And in adult language reads bowel movement. Sometimes more explicit. A single banana, quite literally, greases your butt and lets the solid waste flow through like there was no tomorrow. Quite relieving. As long as its at the right time. 

I like the Hindu concept of Muhurta.There exists a right time, auspicious time for everything. And our natural calls are no exception. Especially with the conflicting effects of a banana in the alimentary canal. 

And there could be no wronger (I use the grammatically incorrect intentionally, for emphasis), time for it than during an exam. And I have unfortunately, though not unwittingly, been on the receiving end twice. 

With my unparalleled belief in the ability of the banana to enhance my cranial efficiency, I encouraged the efficiency of my digestive system. And before I knew it, my rectum was full, right while I was writing the exam. 

Here are a few things about having a full rectum. First and foremost, filling of the rectum empties the brain. The rest of the effects are trivial,and are experienced only if the outlet valve is not opened immediately. They include shivering, weakness all round, inability to decide on whether to sit or stand. 

life revolves around the several choices we make, weighing up the pros and the cons. The question that haunts me before every exam is not my preparedness, or my thoroughness with the content, but whether I should have a banana or not. I have risked it several times, managing to stay alive despite the heated assault of my underside. I have managed to literally, come out on top. 

Bowels vs Brain via Banana is how I would word this scenario. 

Walk In Thunder

To walk in the rain, let go all inhibition,

Walk in the downpour, of ambition

Walk in the rain, alone

Walk in the rain, even if there's nothing to moan

With every drop that lashes your face,

A tear drop too,

Silently, only for you.

Walk in the lightning,

The flash of earth's brilliance,

Transformation in resilience.

Walk in the lightning,

To see the sky lightening

If only for a second.

Walk in the rain,

Forget your sorrow.

In the pleasant pitter-patter of the rain drops

Trust me

Your troubles do seem hollow.

Every wish unfulfilled,

Every goal unconquered

Every path, traversed and failed

Seems golden

In the merry light of the rain.

The rain never ceases,

Nor the tears that pollute it

Every drop

like the cradle of your mother's arm

Hear the noise, the yell of nature

A billion drops, for every creature.

And then suddenly

Hear the thunder

All serenity and tranquility

In the noise

The distant rumble of satisfaction

To express your hearts elation

For walking in the rain

Forget all sorrow

Walk in the rain, even if there's nothing to moan

With every drop that lashes your face,

A tear drop too,

Silently, only for you.

Betrayal

 And as I continued to type meaningless words into the chat window, the guilty glance to the bottom right corner of the screen gave me a relief. 5:47 pm. Still far from six o clock, the self stipulated stipulated time for me to switch over, from the digital screen I am currently looking at to the fresh pages of my books that beckoned to me so lovingly and unceasingly. 13 more minutes to waste. I still am uncertain whether round figures really are an auspicious a time to start ones work as students make it out to be or it is simply a farce designed to fool the self into buying a few extra minutes without stinging too far into the conscience. And I will never know. Smoke screens to save yourself from the embarrassment of answering to your own mind are rarely blown that easily. 
A double standard you see. I know I need to study, I know I will eventually kick myself before sleeping for unnecessarily and so deceptively biding the hours in fruitless exercises. It is 7:08 pm right now for your information. I am not one to waste time. It was all planned, I blog till 7.30, and then get back to my books. The quest for a round number. 
If excuse making were a talent, we would all steal the prize for it. The biggest excuses in our lives are to ourselves. Procrastination is never unjustified to the self. In every instance of the postponement of a task, we serve to ourselves with an excuse. A so called reason for the absence of immediate action. What is to stop me, or all of us for that matter, to start jobs at odd times.Why do we set our alarms at round figures? Or at wacky times designed to wake us up at a round figure? Superstition? 
Round figures are a nice to way to get round things. I thought I shall start at 4, but since its already 3 minutes past 4, I might as well get done with this all important and crucial computer game and start at 4.15. And before you know it its 4.17. 
As humans, we always strive for the linear. The logical, the practical. We like cubes with six faces to decide money. Or coins with two sides to settle disputes. But the world is spherical, there is no face to it. Nature is never built in straight lines. Our obsession with round figures perhaps is something to do with that. The numbers repeat a zillion time over in tens. And two fives fit in neatly to make a ten. Human beings find comfort on the definite faces, the flat edges. It is not an inherent natural instinct. It is an acquired malady. Acquired over centuries of aiming for the linear. The perfect. 
And now the bottom right of my screen tells me it is 7:29. So I will cease to lengthen this post and give my books the pleasure of my company at an auspicious round figure. 

The Truth

As the blue coloured, rickety old BMTC bus snaked it's way through the heavy rush hour traffic, he thoughtfully gazed out of the window. Of course, he couldn't see that the bus was blue from inside but he had noticed it before getting on. He had never been to a city before, but he had been shown extensive videos of it. He remembered those videos, his training, his early life.
He was stopped short in his reverie as the bus jerked to a halt and a man took the seat next to him. He gazed at him, almost worshipful. He too was in his early twenties, he thought, as the man carelessly fiddled with his brand new touch-screen phone. He too had a similar device, though not a normal phone. They called it a satellite phone.
And their bag colour matched too, he noticed. The same tinge of gray. His was gray so it was not conspicuous, but the man's was so for he liked the colour. In it, the man had books. But in his own bag he had something else, not worth discussing. 
He suddenly shivered, which had nothing to do with the chill wind of the Bangalore December. His past gripped him, quite suddenly. Dashing him like a wave. He too could have been like the man seated next to him. Armed with education. With books in his bag, a normal mobile phone in his pocket. A bag of the colour he liked. A life of dignity, a future he could dream about. 
But now it was too late. A message on his "special" phone told him to get down. They were tracking him thoroughly. 
And his family too. It was ingenious indeed, he knew he wasn't supposed to know that bit. And so did his masters, but they made sure he knew it while knowing he wasn't supposed to know it. It really hit you hard, the fear, anxiety, that way. Cruelly, brutally, systematically, they had exploited him. His lack of purpose, lack of satisfaction. He had always wanted to make it big, be different. Well he certainly was different now. Wanting to be normal certainly was different, but not the kind of difference he had hoped for. 
Nothing kills you more than imminent death. And he had learnt that in the past hour or so. He recollected fondly, his growing days. His home village, when his mother would call him from play for the evening prayer. Back then too, he wanted to be different. Obsessed with prayer, he would rather pray than play. He had always been different. Now it certainly was different, but not what he wanted. They had misused his faith in God.
He stopped himself again, from thinking the same thing. He was entering the cycle of self-pity. It was an entirely new equation to actually do what he had been talking about, with a sense of foreboding, for about a month now. 
Without realising, he had just received a suitcase from a stranger, with the briefest of nods between them. His gray bag, again to be inconspicuous, was the sign. He had never seen him before, and he never would again. 
He waited, for long. He had clear instructions. He was to board the first, most crowded bus. The bus could be going anywhere, it didn't matter. He was going only one place, where eventually all those who were born would. It did not bother him to verify the contents of the suitcase. He knew them well.
And as he waited at the bus stand, ignorant of the local language, in an alien land, no one he could turn to for help, he felt lonely, desolate. He was in enemy territory.
A bus came and went, almost empty. It didn't serve his purpose. A bearded man in white, got off. He almost shouted for his father, but stopped himself. He turned away, trying to beat back the tears. Was he to give in after all that he had done? Were the tears a sign of his weakness or attachment he had promised to let go off? Had he forgotten this was not about him, but it was for an ideology, for his brothers and sisters? It was for humanity, and he was to be their martyr. 
He turned back. The bearded man was still there, but it certainly wasn't his father. But he looked like he was of the same blood, from the same land. And it gave him an uneasy security, to stare at the bearded man. He almost did smile, when a loud screech informed him of the bus. The bus was jam packed, like the bus from his village.
The mad rush allowed him to, for one last time, look at his father. Tears streamed readily now, though no one bothered to ask him why. Why should they?
In a rush, he felt his blood boil. He had been hood-winked, cheated, into believing all they fed him. And now as they happily gloated, the butcher was sharpening his knife for him. He was sharpening his own knife. It hit him hard, really did. 
All those days of battle training, ideological training, was a farce. He could have been like everyone. His choice was to be different. There was no reward for him, no immortal place in humanity for his act as they promised him, had him believe. Only a place in hell, not very different. He was just a guinea pig, not very different. 
His hands quivered, but never did he let go off his suitcase. Or his bag. He nearly fainted. The crowd pushed him up the bus. He was squeezed, amidst a sea of humanity. The people, who like him would soon move upward, forward in the cycle of life.
He wanted solace, rest, peace. Only the contents of the suitcase, ironically, could bring him that. And for one last time looked around, his lips moving in prayer. The same man with the phone and the gray bag tripped him up. 
He wanted to hug him, tell him how lucky he was. Inform him, what danger he was in. Ask him to run away. Ask him, how he could become like him. Something stopped him from pulling the wire. He knew exactly which wire was to be pulled. But couldn't do it. A message beeped on his phone. He threw it away.
He had to do it. His family, who though he betrayed he still loved, was in danger. But they were not worth so many innocent men, women and children. 
The heartlessness of it all crept under his skin. His family deserved it, simply for bringing up one like him. A voice screamed from within. Hug the man, he did. And how. He looked up for one last time, to God, before pulling the wire. And then he heard nothing. 
He would never be a martyr. Always be a rascal, in the eyes of the people, the millions. And a failure in the eyes of his "Masters". Not anymore were they his masters. 
They had always called Bangalore "The city that had never been bombed". Miraculously, until now it had escaped the true wrath of a bomb blast.
He didn't know where he was. Or what he was doing there. He lifted a paper, and looked at his eyes. They were closed, but yet happy. He preferred the Jail until his imminent death, over the training camps, where they filled your head with the bullshit, the rot. And he dropped off to sleep again, in paradise. 
Many stories would be told, of the apparent hero, who saw his actions and pulled his hand from his wire. How another clung onto his suitcase, threw it away. But only he knew the truth. 
The truth. Yes, that was what saved them. The truth took over him, his conscience, better sense, caused his hand to shiver, his legs to crumble under his own weight. The truth overpowered him, thrashed him up, left him beaten and bruised. The truth triumphed. Like the residents of this foreign land liked to believe. He was one of them.  
Bangalore would never be bombed. He somehow knew.