dymalin 2

Blink. Blink.
He blinked. Reality? No. Something else. Yes.
Reality? Yes. Something else. Yes.
Blink. Blink.
So he lifted his adidas ,flat-soled ,black with three white-stripes off the ground and ventured to take his first step. Suddenly for the first time he forgot the natural instinctive force with which he usually put his feet on the ground, if it was hard ground, that is. Yet somewhere he knew how much pressure was needed if the ground was softer than what it looked right now.
So there he was, his right foot in mid-air, his neck cocked, like he was concentrating really hard to hear something. Something the air said. Something the walls would let him know. Something the ground would whisper into the capricious corridor.
So hard was he concentrating, his little decision makers scurrying about in the labyrinth of his memory tunnels for some sage with a blue beard to question, that his foot stuck where it was. The Paralyzed man! What had he said?
Yes. There was a nugget of advice, a translucent bubble of intangible meaning that he needed right now, a sentence he had uttered.
“ He who walks on water , does not need to know how to walk on land” came a clear sharp voice from his right.
He suddenly snapped back, like a loaded spring , his foot falling down onto the floor without a decision of the force it needed.
“Babies learn how to do that faster than you, but well, you succeeded ;if only because I spoke out of hand. If you know how to walk on water , one might as well forget how to walk on hard , unfeeling ground. All one needs to learn is how to unlearn what one learned before and all is well. You achieved that by default a few seconds ago , because of the vulnerable state of surprise that humans attain with something unfamiliar and sudden. Not that I’m not human , mind you. Neither is that vulnerability bad, as you have seen yourself.
He stood there, leaning, almost spitting these words out. Disgust? Sarcasm? Arrogance?
None and all. If one saw this man in the course of “normal” events, then one would not believe his eyes. He could be called a surrogate sand-dweller son of the inhabitant-stripped deserts and the extravagantly “cultured “ occident. Simply put , an eclectic Rajasthani . Essentially, a son of the soil , yet ,inessential in essence. Now, what was that again? An Aryan face, brought to the western deserts of India, tanned and nurtured with a twirling moustache, hawk nose, glistening black eyes, jagged jaws, high cheekbones , broad forehead and shortish hair, spiky as they fell to the right .
He had a short black jacket on, with mirror work and embroidery, although finely cut, with sleek cuts , had the look of something stitched by Savile Row, and mended by a ethnic Lambani. He wore a white inner vest with a circular cut . His trousers started with that semblance of something they call “trousers” and ended with a flourish of folds , that hung heavy on his juttis.
“ Never seen something like this before eh?” he posed.
“ I know, I know that expression , something I live for! Not that I don’t have enough reasons to live, someone give me a reason to die and I’ll castrate him. Anyway , quite a Jawanar eh? That’s what I call it . Don’t ask me where I got that name from. I happen to act like those buffoons at Disney or DreamWorks once in a while! Calling a mouse Mickey, a duck Scrooge, an ogre Shrek and that unidentifiable irritating object that lusts after a nut, Scrat!”
“I made it myself , if you’re wondering.”
Ok, then . Enough about you. Now about me.