Shaken, not stirred

For an insane 48 hours which seemed to last a lifetime, with anxiety and heart burns bordering on maniac depression, I thought I had failed. For the first time ever, but it hit me with a sickening reality – yes, I might have failed when it mattered.

I was so sure, so supremely confident. And I was SO wrong.

Not the first time that anyone had decided to embark upon a journey that was to end in a nationwide examination – a first for me, though. Except, that what had started off as an envisioned exit route out of bhadra, into a seemingly golden future, a silent, unwritten pact between six souls, slowly turned into a passion, an obsession – and grew on me until it became a mania. Success was no longer a passport to the same golden future, the view of which was now radically different from what it seemed as seen from bhadra. Success was now an inevitability – not so much for the nature of it, but for the delirium that was now driving it. I was a man with a possessed soul.

Preparedness was not a criterion. Litres of midnight oil burnt every year were not a benchmark – for they were burnt by mortals. For me, the driver was the desire, unhindered by conventions. A desire, not necessarily to succeed, but to prove myself. Every failure, every roadblock seen in the way got the most condescending treatment – nowhere dictated by convention. Every success was not as much as cheered as devoured upon – like a drug. I needed a shot of it with a regularity dictated by alarming demands. I drowned in my own little waves of ecstasy, choked in my failures, and resurfaced again, almost in vengeance.

Until the D-day, when I thought I could have done no wrong.

The hottie sitting two seats next to me meant nothing to me. The prize was right in front, up for grabs, and I greedily went for it, entrapped by my enchantment. All that remained was my folly, wiser by hindsight now that I am – that I could have done no wrong.

I resided in my dreams, maybe with a touch of circumspection once-a-while, but mostly deluged by my fictitious potion of success. I had lived, nay, powered through yet another battle with panache, and had survived to take up arms another day. My ego had been fed its colossal diet, and it seemed at ease.

Until the second day of the year when everything, not for the first time, seemed to crash all around. The results were there for all to see, and for my disbelieving eyes and ego (which had been wrongly fed with an emetic) – a bitter pill to swallow. Fate has its own punishments, deviously fanned out to dole just the right amount out in just the right dosage. Anger, bitterness, frustration and grinded teeth were all I was left with, like a snarling serpent whose venom has been snitched off in one crooked deft stroke. The vengeance was back on me.

Shaken to the bones, but stiffer than ever, I had already committed myself to an answer – not as much as response as a retort. I had decided that my reply would not be a victory in the same turf, but one with more epic repercussions. What forms it might take, I didn’t know, except that seeds of another mania were sown, all in those 48 hours.

The end came rather swift, and rather tame, with a phone call soothing the almost vengeful rage. A dying man would even clutch at straws. A quick nod and a silent prayer to the heavens followed, which, until now, had only been a witness to fiery glances and taut facial muscles. A spot confirmation followed next day morning, but by now the battle lines were already drawn – for another war.

I live to fight another day, another battle, but not before the scars of the previous one have left me with a hidden yet painful memento – ready to mock me on my face when the time is right.