Well Done Pakistan!

Cricket has a strange way of thumbing down its detractors. Nothing epitomized this more than the two teams who squared off at the hallowed turf of Lords on the evening of 21st June 2009 for the World T20 finale. One, bloodied by a civil strife that has earned itself the inglorious sobriquet of being a commensurate end to a decade long of human sacrifices. The other, just a little more than a month back, must have been wondering if they would have a country to go back to, should they ever leave it. As if, it were not enough, these were the very individuals who were victims of the horrific incident at Lahore where cricketers came under fire, this time from real bullets and effectively pushed back Pakistan's chances of a hosting any home series to the stone ages.

And yet, they were there, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, man to man! Pakistan and Sri Lanka, at Lords (how I wish it was at the Gadaffi or at Kandy), at this hour, have proclaimed to the world, that Cricket would tower over all, and should it be besotted by the evil machinations of depraved souls, it would, by its inner cosmic brilliance, that we otherwise know as the human spirit, triumph over such dastardly acts with characteristic panache.

Sri Lanka started off as favourites, alongside South Africa after the poster boys of the games were sent packing. West Gayle Indies kept the Caribbean Calypso humming whilst Ireland demonstrated how a ragtag bobtailed, but committed outfit can upstage the best at the highest stage. However, no one, not even their most ardent supporters would have given Pakistan a ghost of a chance to qualify for the semis, let alone get past them. Their preparation was chickenfeed compared to the kind of practice other teams had received at the international arena and it was by and large accepted that the only green at the World Cup Semi finals would come from the South Africans. The thought gained ample credence with their first match and while Younis Khan didn't exactly meet Yatzhak Rabin's fate after the latter's fatal handshake, he realized the full fury of a nation dismayed at the F word. Somehow, they stumbled, whined, dropped catches, fielded abysmally, spoke in Hindi and Urdu at presentation ceremonies and yet managed to get to the semi finals, surprising aficionados before exploding into an array of brilliance that has defined Pakistan cricket's soul. Be it Gul's rapier like thrusts at the death or Afridi's vaunted batting abilities, South Africa would rue the fact that once again, when it mattered the most, individual brilliance laid low all the previous hard work that they had put in.

And so the supremely disciplined warrior met the brightly plumed Phoenix rising from the ashes. I can't recall when was the last time, I'd followed a cricketing event that did not feature India, so keenly (probably the '05 Ashes).

Dilshan discovered the law of averages catching up with him, as his favourite scoop shot landed in the fielder's hand before a run had been scored, instead of over the ropes where he intended to send it. Match on! Like his team, Abdul Razzak was back after a hiatus, and he expressed himself alike a performer who needed to remind the world what a loss his absence had proved to be. The opening bowlers came steaming in and by the end of the Powerplays, four of Sri Lanka's feared top order were back in the hut...er, dugout.

Enter Sangakarra, and Lord's was swathed in sheer class and mesmerism of his batsmanship. While the Men-in-Green kept it tight, Sangakarra shepherded the innings with an elan that would have probably prompted the great Sir Neville Cardus to say, "Is this really happening, or is it a Midsummer's Nights dream?" He found an Angel(o) in Mathews and the duo plundered 59 in the last 5 overs to give a fighting total for the bowlers to defend.

It was not to be. This was to be Pakistan's day and nothing, and nobody was going to take it away from them. Pakistan, never really had understood the merits of teamwork. They have however, more than made up for it with their individual brilliance (unsurprisingly, most of them have come against India). The first of it, today came from one of their openers - Kamran Akmal. The Sri Lankan bowling attack would give any team a run for their money and win nine out of ten times. Today was the tenth time! The opening stand of 48 in seven overs gave Afridi the perfect pad to launch his onslaught. He reserved himself for delivering the knock out punch and with uncharacteristic restraint, displayed a facet of his game that can restore his image of being the feared batsman that he once was. The Lankan bowling gave nothing away and on the field, they swooped upon the ball like hawks on their prey. This wasn't a finale to be remembered for breathtaking strokes, endless sixes, booming drives and ridiculously impossible totals. This climax was ordained by sheer grit, tussle and ultimately the passion of one triumphing over the tactical error of the other.

Two moments were game breakers in the Pakistan innings. Both were engineered by Afridi, and it was as much a testimony to his skills and belligerence as to his emerging maturity as regards the game. With the asking rate creeping up, thanks to some restrictive bowling, Sri Lanka called upon that old Wizard, Muralitharan, to knock the stuffing out of the opposition. In a rare moment, it was Murali, who was taken apart by Afridi as he blunted the master bowler, depositing him over midwicket and then scything past extra cover. Its a tribute to the Lankan attack, that throughout, they didn't loose their grip on the match, any assault notwithstanding, upto the last three overs, where the requirement was still 26. It was here, that I felt, that the Lankan Capt. committed the greatest blunder by giving the ball to Udana, especially as he had overs left from Jayasuriya, whose final analysis read - 2-0-8-1. Afridi tore into the greenhorn's inexperience, and the latter in the face of such a relentless hammering, succumbed by dishing out juicy full tosses that were also deemed as no-balls. By the time, the over ended, Pakistan had the match in the bag, with only 7 to get. Malinga, who had rocked South Africa in the World Cup two years back was called upon to do an encore, but ended up with a delivery down the leg side that left the formalities to be fittingly concluded by the Maverick who went by the name Afridi.

It was important for Pakistan to have as much applied the ointment of victory on a nation craving for some achievement, as it was to have exorcised the ghosts of the defeat at the hands of India two years back. Against all odds, the bubbling bunch of ill-matched and temperamental world beaters came together to tango in a rhythm that saw them get the better of a Lankan team that was the closest thing to perfection. The image of Afridi's outstretched hands, as his team mates ran out, endeared itself to my memory, as I realized that I was about to say something, I'd never envisaged myself to be capable of - WELL DONE PAKISTAN!


April 2010 beckons...

Death, Be not proud

I read Tuesdays with Morrie on a Sunday and I finished it in one session, a testimony to a brilliant piece of work. However, that is not the subject of this post. The book unearthed a memory that was cocooned in my mind for the last decade. A memory that, like others of its time, shaped me as the person I'm today.


I was never into "days". To me, the idea of correlating a particular day to any person (father's day, mother's day e.t.c) seemed to inflict an insult on the remaining days of the year. As if, they didn't deserve the privilege of the love we showered upon our dear ones (a reason, why I believe that every day should be alike a birthday, never mind that you run the risk of being broke by sunset). Gammy, my best friend, was typically my polar opposite and infuriatingly better than me, an aspect that split over on to our debates. She never failed to remind me, that for those unfortunates, who never had even that one day, these occasions were like an oasis amidst the ceaseless cruelties of life.


It was Mother's Day and I knew how much it meant to Gammy. She had lost her own mother before she completed high school, and I knew the duo shared a relation that transcended the realms that words can contemplate, or comprehend. Listening about her mum, made me realize just how much strength the lady had channelized into her lovely daughter. Quiet, dignified, and a gracious aura, that's what engulfed her. She was my first lesson in death, and the first time, someone taught me, that death was a subject that could be spoken and discussed at length, that it was not morbid, that it was the greatest equalizer, that it taught us how to live, how to be strong and most importantly, how to feel alive. That afternoon, I drew her close to me, and whispered the silliest (and extremely sincere) query I could come up with - "You miss her, don't you?" For a second, as Gammy stood transfixed, I was horrified at the utter insensitivity of the question. She, however, calmly retorted in as many words - " Yes, I do. But I've spent 16 great years of my life with her and I've learnt from her for all these years. She lives through her lessons. It'll suffice for this lifetime". Trust her, to put forth the most profound of the thoughts in a manner so simple, that it heightened the aura of the moment. I've learnt many aspects concerning attitude from her, but that day, Gammy had transcended even herself.


Two years later, Gammy died. Five months after that, a friend came to visit me, and in due course of our conversation, asked me with equal sincerity "You miss her, don't ya?" I guess, I knew the answer to the question even before I was asked. "I spent two great years with her mate, and she taught me a lot more than I could ask for. She lives though her lessons. It'll suffice for one lifetime." I replied, knowing that Gammy would have approved of the answer.


Almost three centuries back, the celebrated poet John Donne wrote a poem whose concluding lines still throng the memories of the elites and the plebeians. Gammy knew what those lines meant, and after she went, so did I - "Death, thou shalt die"!

The Palestine Post

"Tonight, you don't go..."

Shimshon Lipshitz's daily routine on that cold night of February 1948 was subjected to an unusual intervention by his wife, who had glossed over every detail of his household for the past eighteen years. Her trepidation stemmed as much from premonition as it did from the knowledge that the half an hour walk that Lipshitz was scheduled to undertake was, like hundreds and thousands of fellow Jerusalemites, prey to Arab sniper fire. Yet, her words beckoned him away from his greatest source of pride. Since the day of its inception, Shimshon Lipshitz had never missed a day as the chief printer of Zionism's foremost English language newspaper north of Cairo - The Palestine Post. Even Lipshitz mustn't have realized the epoch making era he lived in, as he deftly assembled blocks of lead that served to record the remnants of a history whose violence was rivalled by the resurgence of its characters. Tonight, as his pride drove him towards the three storey red stone building that served to be the Post's headquarter, his wife's gaze lingered on, as if to personally guard her love from enemy onslaught.

Two miles away, Abou Khalil Genno lit a cigarette near the village of Shofat, on a ridge north of Jerusalem. The cloak of the night had shrouded his identity, safely wrapped underneath the British uniform he had managed to procure from the two deserters who were about to aid him in an endeavor for which the trio had been specifically handpicked by the Mufti. As the British prepared to move out of Jerusalem, the Mufti had contemplated terror bombing to drive the Jews out of their promised land. Tonight, through Abou and the British deserters, the Mufti was poised to send an indication to the Jews of Jerusalem of the price they were going to have to pay for obtaining their Promised Land. The truck with its load of TNT which Abou Khalil was going to drive to its intended target lying two miles away saw one extraordinary sight. A group of black robed women, rushed wailing out of the shadows. They chanted some ancient indecipherable incantations, mumbled a verse from the Koran, and as a final act of blessing, splashed the wheels of the departing vehicle with a bowl of goat's milk.

Ted Lurie, the chief correspondent of the Post was crossing Jaffa street, when he saw a British police truck go lumbering by, smashing the concrete on the turn to bits. "Sure is in a hurry to get somewhere", thought Lurie as he crossed Zion square and made his way to Ben Yehuda street. As he was about to step into a roadside cafe, the explosion caused by Abou's TNT laden British truck, ripped into a deafening roar, sending Lurie sprawling to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he rushed to a nearby phone to find out what had happened. To his chagrin, the number to the Post was busy. Furious, he dialled twice and then hung up. As he started to dial for the third time, the truth hit him - "My God"! He exclaimed. "They have blown up the Post".

By the time, Lurie had reached the headquarters, flames licked the debris. Almost the entire frontage had disappeared. The building which had served to document such memorable eras in history seemed to have itself been consigned to history, as onlookers stared in disbelief. Locals rushed in to cater to the wounded and cleared the dead bodies. Amidst the bedlam, Lurie's wife tugged his sleeve - "Ted" she asked, " what are you going to do about the news"? "Are you crazy" asked an incredulous Lurie. A moment later, he realized that she was right. The Post was more than a paper. It was the voice of a race that refused to buckle under the many persecutions it had been subjected to through the annals of history. He set up a temporary newsroom in a nearby apartment. Within hours a printing press was located. Two of his reporters rummaged to find any remnants of the carbons for the night's stories while their girlfriends retyped the scraps that were salvaged. By six 'o' clock, faithful to its daily rendezvous with the people of Jerusalem, the paper was on the street. Not even the excesses of the Mufti's terror tactics could blot out the proud logotype of the bedraggled, but unconquerable news paper. The Mufti had not succeeded in his major goal. He had demonstrated that, while he was capable of penetrating the city, he could not silence its spirit - The Palestine Post.

Shimshon Lipshitz had one of his eyes blown away in the blast. Typical of the man, he returned, his remaining eye bolstered by a magnifying glass, and like the Post, his indomitable spirit saw him place the blocks of type that announced the birth of an independent Jewish State later that year.

Another World Exists

My name is Anil Das. I was featured in the 22nd. December '08 edition of India Today. I however am no celebrity. I am neither a prodigy, nor a uber cool member of the GenZ that is poised to lead India to her epochal heights. I am not a pacifist, and I don't understand terms as esoteric as socialism and capitalism. I am, but a twelve year old worker in a dingy little working class dhaba in Bhowanipur, South Calcutta. I work overtime, often upto 17 hours unceasingly, in a lugubrious ambience, stirring endless pots of tea for the laborers of Calcutta's U-rail project. I have never known a school from inside. Likewise for kindness, warmth and love. Ever. Sometimes, my thoughts wander over to the bucolic settlement of my village at Midnapore, wherein my mother is slowly succumbing to her battles with her ailments and my siblings are desperately fighting starvation.


I'm very happy today. I have been rewarded. The tea stall owner came and promised me that he would give me Rs. 40 instead of the Rs. 25 that I make. I am happy. My eyes are shining as I vigorously stir the tea. Maybe, some day, if I work this hard, I'll set up my own dhaba. Maybe, some day, I'll be able to feed my siblings and treat my ailing mother. Thank you God, for helping me earn more money for my family....


Another World Exists!

A conversation

The following is an actual conversation I had with a friend following the terror attacks. It gives an insight as to just how much we lie paralyzed within our own thought process. A classic example of the malaise afflicting us (mind you, this is not pointing fingers at any one person, but an exposition of the lacunae in our thought process).

Me: you guys ok?

Friend: fine buddy, how r ur folks in Mumbai?

Me: dad is ok, mum is in A'bad.

Friend: ok nice, seriously man, this city is growing from bad to worse.

Me: yeah, I know!

Friend: shootin in broad daylight is just the beginning.

Me: it’s just not the city…

Friend: security is f@#$ed up.

Me: it’s the whole nation…

Friend: yeah u r right.

Me: no, it’s not the security, it’s us…

Friend: it is the whole nation.

Me: we are messed up.

Friend: y do u say dat......

Me: tell me something, why on earth would some security agency bother, when we ourselves are going to forget about this incident (as we have forgotten all the previous ones) in the next fortnight…

Friend: what can we possibly do to change the situation (This is exactly the thought that cripples us to submission); cmmon man, the incident of the 92 blast, the riots are still fresh in my mind...

Me: well, for a change, we can voluntarily bring the city to a standstill demanding from the Govt. our right to live, yes, the scene is still fresh in our minds, but what have we done about it; have we demanded an elaborate security measure, have we bothered to join hands with each and every mumbaikar, to give thumbs down to the Govt. for their ineptitude; no, we haven't, and so, we continue to get mowed down.

Friend: for dat, we have to gather people n stand together.....which probably will never happen (and since everybody believes that same thing, it never happens)

me: exactly, that thought process has already killed us, coz we believe that it won't happen but imagine, if all of us believed that it is possible…

Friend: I know it is possible......

Me: then, the situation does a volte face…

Friend: I need support I can’t do it alone (and so we wait, each for the other's support, whereas none arrive)

Me: no, you need to give support, all of us need to give support than just sit and twiddle our thumbs and wait for support to come...

Friend: hmmmmm…

To be quite honest, it’s not the government, or the fact that we are ‘common people’ that is lowering us into a morass of helplessness. It’s just that the current scenario calls upon us to relinquish the joys of our cushy ambience and take up the responsibility of holding the government accountable (After all, who would want to take up a crusade against the machinations of the state after a ‘hard day’s work'). Each one of us will need to devise our own modus operandi of contributing to each others’ safety. It’s about questioning, and if necessary, demanding transparency in matters of security. Why can’t we know precisely the roadmap that the govt. has undertaken in order to ensure that 26th. Nov. never repeats itself? (Revenues allocated to training, surveillance equipments, resources etc. Not the details, mind you, for that would be unraveling the information to thwart those plans). Why can’t I go to a park bench and enjoy a lazy evening without being perturbed by the thought that am I sitting under a nuclear warhead? It begs scrutiny, not of the government, but our own dilapidated psyche, which would do well, by recognizing that a little love, an iota of empathy, a tiny bit of quest for accountability would save us from sharing the fate of those 150 odd unfortunates, who were consumed in an inferno of spite, terror and worse of all – neglect.

A Wednesday

As a kid, Project IGI-I used to be my favorite computer game that had me hooked on to it for time immemorial. There were 15 stages to be cleared, with the last stage unsurprisingly proving to be the toughest. After one more of my innumerable failed attempts, a computer literate friend of mine introduced me to the world of cheatcodes. A quick application revealed that I could not only have unlimited power but also immobilize my enemy wherein I could pick them off at will while they would remain powerless to retaliate. Years have gone by, and while I cleared the last hurdle in my then-favorite-game (as a loyalist, I never applied the cheatcodes), the scenario has eerily come back to haunt us in real life. Bombay bleeds once again as its innocents are stripped off their right to live, while they remain defenseless, immobilized by some 'cheatcodes'.

As I write this, I realize that I have lost count of the precedents to the current mayhem dancing along Bombay's alleyways. However, if anything is more scary than the near-holocaust scenario in India's economic capital, it’s the disturbing knowledge that the greatest concern that would afflict the common man's psyche tomorrow would be whether Yuvraj would make it to the national test side or whether Lindsay Lohan would emerge a shade better than Britney from her rehab (depending on loyalties). Rajdeep Sardesai put matters in perspective when he enquired about the English cricket team departing (before suffering the ignominy of a possible whitewash) in the wake of the recent attacks. My, my! Imagine our plight. The whole of India has been robbed of the chance to watch Veeru pile on the misery on a few club side English bowlers on a Saturday morning. Now, isn't that a national tragedy?

The event brought some simple questions up for glaring scrutiny in my muddled thought process. Questions like, "Who is to blame for this?" Is it the terrorists? Oh come on! We are trying to be rational over here. Those chaps would be without a job (and 72 virgins if their training tales are to be believed) if they weren't spraying the streets with bullets. Is it the Government? That's an interesting one. 24 hours after the attack, the PM issued a 'strong condemnation' statement, adding for good measures, that the attacks were an event to 'destabilize the nation'. Excuse me Mr. Prime Minister! With due respect to your unending gold laden resume (that I still respect and admire), we are no yokels to interpret the sight of a police jeep filled with 'Deccan Mujahideens' mowing down innocent civilians as an endeavor to beseech the Nobel Peace Prize. What we would like to know is exactly what have you done to institute countermeasures against such barbaric acts? Your prime opposition, after having taken his usual potshots at your party, has appealed for communal harmony (imagine, of all people, him, talking about communal harmony). As if the whole diaspora was incomplete without the communal angle. What was sickening to note was their itinerary which granted Mumbai their blessed presence on a Friday, after the current engagements with the terrorists had reached their logical conclusion. It seems that Mr. Advani was scheduled to visit the city today itself, but opted to postpone the visit at the behest of the PM’s request (that, it gave him a perfect shield to stay away from an event that could remotely be of harm to his physical being was entirely a matter of inexplicable coincidence). But, unfortunately, even they aren't the answer. They are, well, politicians and no adjective would so succinctly sum up their inadequacies as their own profession.

So, who is to blame? I remain numb, searching in a vacuous sphere within me, until, in an impromptu seizure of horrifying clarity, the revelation hits me. It’s all of us who did not die in those blasts. It’s our collective nonchalance that wrote those cheatcodes that condemned the hundred odd (and the 500 odd before them in the last couple of months) to stay immobilized in the face of gun toting madmen. It is our refusal to share their plight that has boosted the confidence of those deranged fanatics to strike at will, knowing that we will remain spineless in the face of such dastardly provocations. They know, that tomorrow, "Mumbai will again be up on its feet (never mind that the world has been yanked off beneath those feet) and indulge in its daily routine of driving out Biharis/Assamese and all non Marathi-manoos whereas the rest of the country will laud its spirit". They know that no matter what, the common man will not rise above his rhetorical platitudes and coerce the powers-to-be to set up a dragnet that will effectively obliterate the very notion of an attack on its existence. They know that the average Indian, with all his excess of intellectual and moral refinement will once again fail to empathize with the loss of a fellow Indian who has lost a near and dear one. It’s because, the hundred odd who died in yesterday's attack (a mere blip in a city of millions) were not my husband/son/father/mother/brother/wife/daughter and so it’s ok to give lip service and get back to Ekta Kapoor's serials (or the erstwhile Splitsvilla - Ironic choice of names, isn't it?). And so they strike, merrily, almost carefree, without breaking a sweat, comforted by the knowledge of our insouciance.

It’s interesting to note that the divisive forces tearing away at the crux of our stability never seem to affect these 'loony tuned madmen'. I wonder, for a bunch of religious fanatics, how come they never seem to have problems with their faith? Or caste, creed, region? Ever heard of a terrorist being thrown out of Laskhar-E-..whatever because he was not a local from that region. How about reservations? 80% recruitment based on whether you are from a particular geography, caste or creed. Rest 20% on merit i.e. when they measure your viciousness against the U.S or its allies (sadly, India is bracketed in that category). It begs curiosity to imagine if they have a 'godmen' amongst them. No sir. No such nonsense amongst such 'backward people'. Single minded, dedicated, focused and ruthless they remain in their pursuit of 'avenging their brothers and sisters' whereas we relentlessly continue to desert ours.

A friend asked me, "But what can we do? We are after all common people". I ask, why we can’t declare in one voice, “We want our right to live restored? Why can't we force the government to establish a security force that will fight this war on terror, and make no mistake - It is a war, on equal terms. How is it that every time there is an attack, some group or the other claims responsibility (while others altruistically relinquish theirs – “hey, that wasn’t us, that was XYZ Mujahideens. We gotta get better and achieve more body counts next time in our endeavor”) but never once have any agency from our side claimed responsibility for thwarting an attempt to dismantle national peace? Yes, our beloved democracy would perhaps suffer, but isn't that an insignificant price to pay in exchange of being able to roam the streets without being paralyzed by the fear of being reduced to a severed arm and a limb and a mass of mangled flesh?

I hope, in this lifetime I get an answer, so that the question may not haunt my next generation. As I conclude, a small news trickles by - "Bollywood fears loss of revenues due to terror attack". A few million of INR less in the coffers of some poor billionaires. Sigh! Maybe Saif won't be able to take Kareena to Haiti to celebrate the New Year. So much for empathy...

Liz

I couldn't have timed my MBA worse. Its placement weeks and exam schedule, almost conspiratorially clashed with the Indian marriage season (I have always been perplexed as to why humans, specially Indians, unlike other species seem to have a wedding season but no scheduled mating season) and I missed what was arguably the most important event for that year - Liz's marriage...

I met Liz when I was a little boy and she was a beautiful girl, albeit only a couple of months senior to me, and by that logic, little. In all these years, only the "little" part of it has changed. Liz still remains gorgeous, or at least she was when I saw her last year. Back in the little years of our lives, when our ages had just barely reached double digits (and the only concern in our lives was how to emerge a winner in a game of gully cricket), Liz was a revelation as she scurried along the alleyways of our quaint little settings with the agility of a rabbit and the grace of a gazelle. It was her smile that I still remember vividly, for she seldom needed much motivation to break into peals of laughter that would quickly invade the stiffness we guys used to possess and the whole group would subsequently indulge into a merry banter without a care in the world.

I was strangely attracted to Liz for it was an association devoid of the boy-meets-girl romance types. We were a witty lot, with me being additionally chivalrous in letting her get the better of some of our verbal skirmishes but for two people who shared a vast expanse of their lives with each other, we were inexplicably distant, as if restrained by some invisible constraints that never allowed us to be closer than we were. Be that as it may, Liz was special, for she formed a pivotal section of my childhood. We had shifted our residence and the only reason I'd go back to our old place would be to meet her family and those weekends would simply pass in a blur as Liz, her brother and me would tee off on a variety of topics, that ranged from the conventional gossip to career choices that none of us were clear about at those times (I have subsequently discovered very few individuals who are yet clear about their career goals, which makes the acceptance of a lack of clarity that much easier). I don't know how many guys have ever pretended to be an astrologer to hold a girl's palms, but I can guarantee that it’s pretty effective, or at least it was in my case. Sometimes, the most puerile moments of our childhood becomes the most cherished memoirs in the coming years.

The first time Liz and I went out on our own, was when she was going to tell me that she was in love. Booh Hooh? Not really. I was never in love with her, but I somehow felt that I was going to miss a friend (it’s entirely a measure of how good Liz is that till date, I have never felt that she is away) and right from the time the alliance was cemented, I drew flights of fantasy of her marriage. For some unknown reason, I always imagined Liz walking down the aisle of a magnificent church in a traditional Christian attire, and I would be her best man, never mind, till then I had never attended a wedding, much less a Christian wedding.

Nothing that I imagined came true as far as Liz is concerned. The aisle, the Church, me as the best man, never happened. In time, I realized that it was irrelevant, for all my fantasies stemmed from one single desire - to see her happy and smiling, which I know she is. There is only one last thing for me to do as far as Liz is concerned. That is to let her know that she has been one of the most special friends I've ever had and that, it would take an exceptional person to command even half the feelings that I have for her. In a way, almost cruelly, I can see the brighter side (if one can ever exist) of not making it to her marriage, for it left my imagery of Liz unaltered. In the palace of my imagination, Liz is still walking down the aisle, resplendent in a traditional attire towards her marriage, with me as her best man.