Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Hitting and Kicking

Hitting or kicking is our common instinct to let out built-up anger. Two incidents proved I was no exception. Blood really boils in the teens and early twenties, does it not?

The first one was during my early high school days. Narayana (around my age) was a boy who worked as a helper at my friend’s house and used to occasionally join us for street cricket and other games. He was allowed this bit of time. Teasing with irrelevant nicknames was common but they were usually overdone to irritate. 

Another senior street mate had started calling me as monkey.  It was fine if it was for some occasional fun.  But he had been calling frequently and it was 'overfun' for me.  I did not like it one bit.  Other boys also had picked this up. 

One evening, I lost my tolerance with Narayana overdoing this and everybody knew it. An impulsive kick into his ‘most sensitive anatomical part’ was the result. He fainted.  This made us very anxious, esp. a timid me and think of a timid fellow resorting to such a measure! He recovered after a few minutes, much to my 'delight'.  Play was stopped and I and went home after friends pacified us down. For the next few months, I even avoided his house for my school route, fearing retaliation and also avoided play when he was around. But much to my relief, nothing happened till he was sent away. Peace for me, returned and I was stopped being called a monkey henceforth.

During my college days, my friend Venky’s friend had a nasty habit of saying ‘hello’. He would forcefully push his fingers from a high back swing [as in sport] into shirt-pockets of those he met. He was not that close a friend to me to be greeting me that way. One evening, this crazy friend met me and Venky but he first did it to me! The pocket tore off! Venky could not believe his eyes and ears. I was hurling abuses while hitting hard with a ‘bowling action’! (Cricket was our common factor) Venky tried to pacify but came in the way of my moving arm and got hit! Somehow the fight ended. At that time, Venky had borrowed a book for me, from him. I never returned it deliberately, because he had torn off my only ‘terrycot’ shirt! I never met this fellow again.

The recipients might not have learnt their lessons but I slowly did. For, they were the only times these instincts were let out outside home -– *wink*. Witness Venky remembers one of them, my only kick. Looking back, it is a funny feeling. But beware the fury of the patient man!

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