Hell raiser rides again
Imagine that you are 7 years old, sickly, bespectacled with exactly as much interest in studying as you have in cutting your left ear off and even less in playing sports, you are in for one hell of a fucked up childhood. Imagine not going to school because the fat asshole in class spits in your lunch and beats you up till you swear never ever to come to school again. Imagine suffering that humiliation for 4 years. Imagine being so enraged that you finally take that bastard kid down in the soccer field and bash him on the face with your puny little hands so many times that not only does he swear never to come to school again he actually doesn’t. Imagine that feeling of triumph; imagine strutting around campus like you are Bruce Willis and life is a Die Hard 4.
Now imagine being 12, pudgy, bespectacled, with as much interest in studying as you had when you were 7 and even less in sports. Imagine feeling totally useless because your parents are constantly asking you to study or play sports, your friends are non existent because you beat up way too many kids over the past five years and now they hang out with girls who you hate since you have four sisters at home who have friends that seem to derive sickening amounts of pleasure from pulling your cheeks and calling you bubloo. Imagine being so frustrated that one day on your way home from school you talk your driver into letting your drive even though you know your father will make your life so miserable that you’ll wish for death. Imagine finding out that not only can you drive you are fucking predisposed to driving well. Imagine hitting 60 with the windows down on the very first try, imagine cutting in front of a huge Hino Pak bus, imagine the power, the freedom.
The whole damn world opens up to you the first time you let go off the clutch without the car shutting down. Suddenly life acquires the meaning it was meant to have but hadn’t yet, you have access to places which your father never had the energy to take you to. You drive up to the school gate and let the driver take the car in and every kid coming in on the bus watches you with their mouths so wide open that you could park your car in them. Suddenly you become cool, friends start popping out of the brick walls, they don’t even care if you beat em up, and the girls they were hanging out with are abandoned to groups which you can now follow around Lahore, all the way to their homes and harass until their fathers come out with loaded shot guns simply to wave it in the air like idiots while you screech away blowing gravel and smoke in their faces.
Oh god! And then you discover sound systems!!!! Woofers and tweeters and amps and crossovers and bass and treble. Now you are not only mobile, you are mobile in style. And people have another reason to shake their fist at you and cuss behind your back. But you don’t care, oh no, you have this metal kingdom to rule over and while you are in it ain’t no one got nothin’ on you.
But then you hit the 20 year mark and all that becomes so infantile that you don’t even tell anyone that you can drive like they never thought was possible. You are no longer proud of the fact that you floor the gas every time you see a gap in traffic large enough to stick your big toe in, instead you are overcome with guilt being so irresponsible, so reckless, so immature.
But still, you are a trained blood hound and no matter how your mind tries you can’t fucking stop your instincts from doing what they are bloody perfect at. And after a particularly harrowing day full of feelings of inadequacy and failure, you find this car in the rear view mirror swerving in and out of traffic with such skill that it looks choreographed. Then that car passes you much faster than prudence permits to slam on the brakes and swerve sharply enough to slice a warm tomato into a gap too small to permit entry to a Chihuahua let alone a car. You hear the tell tale sound of tires yelling for traction in a dying attempt at avoiding calamity and hold your breathe for the sickening crunch of metal against metal. But it never comes, instead horns blare in anger and in jealousy and tires squeal in triumph as the car is hurtled towards the next available slot of space which the car may or may not fit into but you’ll never know until you try.
Now what happens is that a signal is sent to your brain from your foot, asking for permission to apply enough pressure to the gas pedal to make it taste the carpeting. Your brain, depending on the experiences it has stored in its memory banks, is now asked to calculate a response which is most intelligent under the circumstances, and tells your foot to shut the fuck up. Now your foot being simply a tool is unable to undertake anything of its own accord, but your heart… your heart cannot only undertake an action it can override the brain’s commands when it is given ample and justifiable reason to do so. And in its emotionally fragile state, your heart desires not safety but the thrill long ago abandoned to adulthood. And therefore it uses is Veto power to tell the brain to shut the fuck up and the foot to press on.
Your eyes then acquire a squint and a glare as they fade out all the useless periphery and focus in on the road ahead where the cars become static obstructions with spaces in between for you to utilize on your surge forward towards satisfaction. With radar efficiency you locate these gaps, and your brain is left with no option but to use its faculties to keep you alive by calculating the probability of fitting in instead of crashing in faster than the speed of your car. And soon enough your whole body is tuned into the act of driving as fast as you can through a gridlock that extends for miles. All your instincts come alive in this scenario which is much more familiar to them than the one you subject them to now. Your confidence spikes with the adrenaline and there is nothing that you can’t do and you slip and slide and skid and zoom in and out of lanes like a horny rabbit chasing after rabbit pussy. And soon enough, not only have you caught up with the car that stepped on your proverbial dog tail to make you retaliate in a fashion so idiotic, but you actually beat it to a spot which he didn’t even see.
And all of a sudden, you are in a race. In your mom’s car, which you took because yours doesn’t have a working AC any more. You surge and squeal your way over Jinnah bridge, which once jammed with traffic is more impregnable than a nun. Then you swerve into the turn lane to beat every one else to the green light at the Lux billboard. You circumvent a stalled rickshaw by drifting through a mound of excavated sand to find yourself half a second away from slamming into a donkey cart at 90 kilometers per hour, which by the way has an impact force equivalent to falling off the ninth floor. There is bumper to bumper traffic to your right, a gas station to your left with a line at the CNG pump extending on to the road and ahead of you is certain death for at least the donkey. So you do the only sensible thing, and you pull the hand break and your tilt the steering to the left and your car swerves 90 degrees on its axis to the left to find a car parked at the gas station with a child in the back seat with such a horrified look on his face that you decide if worst comes to worst you’d rather drive into the donkey cart. So you do the only sensible thing again and swerve the steering to the right, jerking the car out of traction again and slam the accelerator to make sure the tires are spinning too fast to not skid and with two wheels almost air borne, you hit the ramp leading into the gas station, take flight and land with a gut wrenching thud on the dirt shoulder past the donkey cart, past the parked car and past impending and seeming inevitable doom. Before you can realize what just happened, you shift down and push the gas again to take off sending enough dust flying in your wake to bury the Arabian sea. You spot the rival in your rear view mirror struggling to catch up and you smile like your are Mario Andretti and start planning against the red light you see in the distance.
You continue to swerve you way towards the entrance to Defence and find the turning lanes jammed with traffic. So you go past the turning lanes up to the signal itself where cars are piling into where you intend to be but you come at them with such force of determination that they all stop dead in their tracks to allow you a millisecond of opportunity to slide left onto the road with the help of a controlled hairpin.
You rival follows suit and manages to eat up at least 20 seconds worth of distance between the two of you. So you zoom forward, head to head, towards a traffic jam barely 60 feet ahead telling logic to demand that you step on the brake pedal, as hard as you can right fucking now. So you brake as hard as you can, letting the competition feel like you’ve given up while his car quickly lurches forward. But his triumph is short lived because when you seemed like chickening out you weren’t chickening out but you were planning much further ahead than your rival possibly could and you head into the service lane which has rows and rows of parked cars but no traffic. You fly over pot holes to beat everyone to the check post causing the traffic jam and you smile the smile of victors because you know there is no chance in hell of losing now.
So you coast to a stop at the next traffic signal to take the turn leading home, satisfied with yourself and your still present ability to burn the rubber off the rims. And your competition sheepishly drives up besides you, and points for you to roll down your window. And then he tells you that it’s the best damn piece of driving he has ever witnessed in his 18 years of being alive but you find yourself feeling anything but proud.
Then you grudgingly head back home in shame and yes also in remorse because you are way too old to be pulling stunts on busy city roads but there is very small part of you, a minuscule portion of your heart that feels warm and fuzzy, and maybe even proud because that part isn’t jaded enough to not enjoy the fact that even though the years have piled on and so has the sense of civic responsibility, the blood coursing through your veins is still that of a hell raiser and your instincts though condemned to dormancy are still sharp enough to beat an 18 year old kid to the head of the line.
Now imagine being 12, pudgy, bespectacled, with as much interest in studying as you had when you were 7 and even less in sports. Imagine feeling totally useless because your parents are constantly asking you to study or play sports, your friends are non existent because you beat up way too many kids over the past five years and now they hang out with girls who you hate since you have four sisters at home who have friends that seem to derive sickening amounts of pleasure from pulling your cheeks and calling you bubloo. Imagine being so frustrated that one day on your way home from school you talk your driver into letting your drive even though you know your father will make your life so miserable that you’ll wish for death. Imagine finding out that not only can you drive you are fucking predisposed to driving well. Imagine hitting 60 with the windows down on the very first try, imagine cutting in front of a huge Hino Pak bus, imagine the power, the freedom.
The whole damn world opens up to you the first time you let go off the clutch without the car shutting down. Suddenly life acquires the meaning it was meant to have but hadn’t yet, you have access to places which your father never had the energy to take you to. You drive up to the school gate and let the driver take the car in and every kid coming in on the bus watches you with their mouths so wide open that you could park your car in them. Suddenly you become cool, friends start popping out of the brick walls, they don’t even care if you beat em up, and the girls they were hanging out with are abandoned to groups which you can now follow around Lahore, all the way to their homes and harass until their fathers come out with loaded shot guns simply to wave it in the air like idiots while you screech away blowing gravel and smoke in their faces.
Oh god! And then you discover sound systems!!!! Woofers and tweeters and amps and crossovers and bass and treble. Now you are not only mobile, you are mobile in style. And people have another reason to shake their fist at you and cuss behind your back. But you don’t care, oh no, you have this metal kingdom to rule over and while you are in it ain’t no one got nothin’ on you.
But then you hit the 20 year mark and all that becomes so infantile that you don’t even tell anyone that you can drive like they never thought was possible. You are no longer proud of the fact that you floor the gas every time you see a gap in traffic large enough to stick your big toe in, instead you are overcome with guilt being so irresponsible, so reckless, so immature.
But still, you are a trained blood hound and no matter how your mind tries you can’t fucking stop your instincts from doing what they are bloody perfect at. And after a particularly harrowing day full of feelings of inadequacy and failure, you find this car in the rear view mirror swerving in and out of traffic with such skill that it looks choreographed. Then that car passes you much faster than prudence permits to slam on the brakes and swerve sharply enough to slice a warm tomato into a gap too small to permit entry to a Chihuahua let alone a car. You hear the tell tale sound of tires yelling for traction in a dying attempt at avoiding calamity and hold your breathe for the sickening crunch of metal against metal. But it never comes, instead horns blare in anger and in jealousy and tires squeal in triumph as the car is hurtled towards the next available slot of space which the car may or may not fit into but you’ll never know until you try.
Now what happens is that a signal is sent to your brain from your foot, asking for permission to apply enough pressure to the gas pedal to make it taste the carpeting. Your brain, depending on the experiences it has stored in its memory banks, is now asked to calculate a response which is most intelligent under the circumstances, and tells your foot to shut the fuck up. Now your foot being simply a tool is unable to undertake anything of its own accord, but your heart… your heart cannot only undertake an action it can override the brain’s commands when it is given ample and justifiable reason to do so. And in its emotionally fragile state, your heart desires not safety but the thrill long ago abandoned to adulthood. And therefore it uses is Veto power to tell the brain to shut the fuck up and the foot to press on.
Your eyes then acquire a squint and a glare as they fade out all the useless periphery and focus in on the road ahead where the cars become static obstructions with spaces in between for you to utilize on your surge forward towards satisfaction. With radar efficiency you locate these gaps, and your brain is left with no option but to use its faculties to keep you alive by calculating the probability of fitting in instead of crashing in faster than the speed of your car. And soon enough your whole body is tuned into the act of driving as fast as you can through a gridlock that extends for miles. All your instincts come alive in this scenario which is much more familiar to them than the one you subject them to now. Your confidence spikes with the adrenaline and there is nothing that you can’t do and you slip and slide and skid and zoom in and out of lanes like a horny rabbit chasing after rabbit pussy. And soon enough, not only have you caught up with the car that stepped on your proverbial dog tail to make you retaliate in a fashion so idiotic, but you actually beat it to a spot which he didn’t even see.
And all of a sudden, you are in a race. In your mom’s car, which you took because yours doesn’t have a working AC any more. You surge and squeal your way over Jinnah bridge, which once jammed with traffic is more impregnable than a nun. Then you swerve into the turn lane to beat every one else to the green light at the Lux billboard. You circumvent a stalled rickshaw by drifting through a mound of excavated sand to find yourself half a second away from slamming into a donkey cart at 90 kilometers per hour, which by the way has an impact force equivalent to falling off the ninth floor. There is bumper to bumper traffic to your right, a gas station to your left with a line at the CNG pump extending on to the road and ahead of you is certain death for at least the donkey. So you do the only sensible thing, and you pull the hand break and your tilt the steering to the left and your car swerves 90 degrees on its axis to the left to find a car parked at the gas station with a child in the back seat with such a horrified look on his face that you decide if worst comes to worst you’d rather drive into the donkey cart. So you do the only sensible thing again and swerve the steering to the right, jerking the car out of traction again and slam the accelerator to make sure the tires are spinning too fast to not skid and with two wheels almost air borne, you hit the ramp leading into the gas station, take flight and land with a gut wrenching thud on the dirt shoulder past the donkey cart, past the parked car and past impending and seeming inevitable doom. Before you can realize what just happened, you shift down and push the gas again to take off sending enough dust flying in your wake to bury the Arabian sea. You spot the rival in your rear view mirror struggling to catch up and you smile like your are Mario Andretti and start planning against the red light you see in the distance.
You continue to swerve you way towards the entrance to Defence and find the turning lanes jammed with traffic. So you go past the turning lanes up to the signal itself where cars are piling into where you intend to be but you come at them with such force of determination that they all stop dead in their tracks to allow you a millisecond of opportunity to slide left onto the road with the help of a controlled hairpin.
You rival follows suit and manages to eat up at least 20 seconds worth of distance between the two of you. So you zoom forward, head to head, towards a traffic jam barely 60 feet ahead telling logic to demand that you step on the brake pedal, as hard as you can right fucking now. So you brake as hard as you can, letting the competition feel like you’ve given up while his car quickly lurches forward. But his triumph is short lived because when you seemed like chickening out you weren’t chickening out but you were planning much further ahead than your rival possibly could and you head into the service lane which has rows and rows of parked cars but no traffic. You fly over pot holes to beat everyone to the check post causing the traffic jam and you smile the smile of victors because you know there is no chance in hell of losing now.
So you coast to a stop at the next traffic signal to take the turn leading home, satisfied with yourself and your still present ability to burn the rubber off the rims. And your competition sheepishly drives up besides you, and points for you to roll down your window. And then he tells you that it’s the best damn piece of driving he has ever witnessed in his 18 years of being alive but you find yourself feeling anything but proud.
Then you grudgingly head back home in shame and yes also in remorse because you are way too old to be pulling stunts on busy city roads but there is very small part of you, a minuscule portion of your heart that feels warm and fuzzy, and maybe even proud because that part isn’t jaded enough to not enjoy the fact that even though the years have piled on and so has the sense of civic responsibility, the blood coursing through your veins is still that of a hell raiser and your instincts though condemned to dormancy are still sharp enough to beat an 18 year old kid to the head of the line.
Comments
Also, as you know my immovable contempt for all things 'kool', i think its stupid.
The whole childhood saga was a nice twist. If only you've been to a tat school :P
I dont think my opinion matters for a simple reason that you dont matter enough, for my opinion about you to matter
I have always been very clear about that dude.
And its almost surprising that you accuse of missing the point in an utterly pointless glorified narration of you, youself, and all things yours:D
And in any case, also, as I have been extremely clear, i comment here to make fun of you... there was never a question of getting the point even if there was any
But whatever helps you sleep at night :P
*rolls eyes*
Sajjad, the shifting of the gears mumbo jumbo wasn't what I was interested in but the little kid called Bubloo was really cute. Here I thought this would be the story-of-your-life kinda post. And it turned into a typical teenager losing control over the car. Pshaw.
Whatever happened to Bubloo the chocolate-lover?
Barooq: Heh, you remind me of my 6 year old nephew who takes pride in getting on people's nerves just to get a rise out of them. And hey if you get your kicks out of acting like a precocious child, go right ahead, enjoy your extended infancy.
I'm only waiting for a Bubbloo tale.
Now do you have it or not?!
you are hurting :D
I liked the elitist 'knower' title better. But 6 year old would do too:P
Barooq: Lol @ elitist knower! No no no, 6 year old is far more appropriate for you ;) and LOL again at the 'hurting' part, you give yourself way too much credit. But please continue to do so, your ability to delude yourself is endlessly entertaining :D
but wasnt it I who called you delusional ?
I mean, if we are naming names, we should remain original :P
P.S
See, its much more fun here, then try to stutter through on msn...
And lot less boring
I love laughing at you too
Stop being a hard-ass, and admit the love :P
Sajjad, I'm waiting for the Bubloo tale. All rights reserved on its creative birth.
Barooq, don't send all your love his way. Save some for me. :)
i couldn't finish your little comment war either. There's only so many times i can roll my eyes.
but damn. this felt like old times.
Good pace. Frikkin good pace.
Now I wish i was a guy. T.T