On of the most nonsensical things, I do is that of browsing through the long list of status messages of my long list of g talk friends. One of these messages pertained to George Bernard Shaw or GBS as he is popularly known. He was one of my childhood heroes not because I was a great fan of his writing or his wit of which i came to know much later. Someone told me he had migraine that was it. I have always had migraine for as long as i can remember. As my flatmate (Sam) says, I am a defective piece in whom God packed a multitude of maladies and bestowed the in-flinching determination to tide over them. Sometimes I feel like GOD must really be liking the daily colossal battles between my mind and the body and that of my body with my body. In those dark moments as i searched for a wall to bang my head or a hammer to hit my forehead, names such as GBS inspired me to carry on. Although, i did break a few cricket bats and walls, my skull was apparently strong enough to withstand the barrage of assaults. Those strategic hits to my head were not out of frustration or despondence but they were temporary retrieve from the throbbing pain that was wrecking my head. A painful distraction from the chronic pain that was killing me within and yet not allowing me to die.
Another name that has been in the news of late is Wasim Akram. He was a great bowler, a great person but above all he was a great fighter. He was a diabetic. For the infinitely small number of readers of my blog who don’t know about it- I am a 23-year-old diabetic – who was diagnosed with this killer at the age of 21. But I have been a devotee of Akram for much longer. As many of you might be knowing , you are usually born with diabetes,as the child of a diabetic father and diabetic mother and grandson of a diabetic grandfather, I knew of this eventuality long before the actual diagnosis. Periodically my father used to not do so well with his health and used to bitch a bit a bout the disease. To cheer him up, I used to talk about Akram. I idolize Akram for all those talk i had with my father. When i was diagnosed, my parents were in tears. My father did not cry in front of me but I knew he did. As for my mother, she suspected i got it even before the doctors told her so all the rivers in the world were flowing from her eyes. I was the only one least affected, at least I had to pretend to . So, I started one of the essays on Akram.
On a lighter note, I am now desperately looking for the hero who would inspire me to win my other fight – win over the heart of my current crush or become a playboy.