Bloggers Meet !

He has sat with this post on draft mode for two days now. Caught between travel and work, he just cant seem to get words into his keyboard. So he writes. He rewrites. Shakes his head in disgust. He shuts the computer down in a huff. And then walks away.

Comes back. And repeats this process many times.

His word tap sputters and coughs. Much like the municipal taps that supply drinking water in a suburban town. Much noise. Much hiss. Occasional drip. But no steady flow of water. He wonders why words have deserted him these days. Perhaps it is to do with the joy of meeting them.

With little patience left, bearing a tired body and weary eyes, he decides to be authentic. And presents his sputter - sputter - cough right there. Much like municipal tap in peak summer !

They met. Those bloggers. Once again. The first time around, was when they put the face to the home page. This time around, they put a soul to the face ! Comprehensive description has been blogged here. And here. And here.

Exchanged in good earnest were the following. Chatter. Banter. Some gossip. Opinions. Thoughts. Advice. Wishes. Leg pulling. And some sizzle.

On a Saturday afternoon, they began where they had left off. Like old school friends. And left off again, easily, when they had to move. Sure they would meet again !

They went dutch. Like last time. Pooled in money. Counted notes like high school kids who had just bunked class and went to a fancy restaurant with pocket money saved for months !

Total clean fun. Simply sizzled !

He thanked the stars and the Gods above. For a group of friends like this. They not only read his blog, but leave comments as well.

And then, they come together and spend time like old friends. People who share a similar journey on the blog world.

One who pushed his trip back home, so that he could be here. Another who was making an important investment decision. People who he had met in person only three months back...




And as if that was not enough, ofcourse the gifts flew in as well. One of them brought a neat writing pad for everybody.

And another had made a mango dish, packed it in a bowl and presented it in a handmade bag.

And ofcourse, he better thank his stars. For the friends. For the internet. For their reading. For their leaving a comment. For their taking time off to get together.

And when he reaches home, his missus, tastes the mango dish and says, 'finally. Finally. Finally, your blog feeds me' !

Phew. Now thats the closest he has ever gotten to official recognition for his blog. And so he believes God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world !!

Bloggers Meet !

Shoe Story !

Pic from web

So there is lot of news. About Jeetendra. About L.K.Advani. About Navin Jindal. And ofcourse about P.Chidambaram. And a host of others. Which includes Narendra Modi for putting up a volleyball net !

A kid in India with average IQ would point his footwear at you, if you mention these names in unison. Hold on. Its not (necessarily) an insult. But hey, footwear is the connecting factor ! Or rather footwear being hurled at these gentlemen is the connecting factor.

To me it reads like this is best proof that advertising works. With brands slogans like 'Just Do It' and 'Impossible is Nothing' we have proof finally.

But hey, the trend is disturbing. To say the least. And of course, footwear sales will take off. But that's the only respite. Of all the grand thoughts that pop up in the mind, this is particular cause for worry : There is a surfeit of chappals available. Especially if you are looking for some.

In India, it is common for us to leave behind footwear at the door ! Of temples. Diagnostic centres. Hospitals. Some offices. Homes. Dentist. Marriage halls. Some have polite requests and other have terse one liners all to the effect of 'leave your footwear at the door' It was all ok till a few weeks back.

But not now. For, it is a potential weapon ! There are countries ( you know which ones ) where owning a gun is common place and pumping a bullet because the coffee tasted different is like your car hitting a pothole. You dont like it. But you are not surprised either.

And now in India, you have have chappals available and lying around. All you need is a strong arm, a strange calling and a steady aim. (The steady aim is relatively unnecessary i guess. None of the hurled footwear have found their target thus far ). All of them have made a symbolic point and forced some action and provided the media with options for hurling 'Breaking News' !

But here is my question. If somebody borrows / steals your car ( God forbid) and crashes into someone else ( God forbid ), the first person the cops come to is YOU.

If some one hacked your computer to send a terror message ( God Forbid ) you could land in jail. At least for a few weeks / months / years before you are cleared. etc etc !

So now, if you wear a high heeled gum boots and someone flicks it when you are in deep prayer, with the doctor or generally having a momentary lapse of reason. And then, hurls your high heeled gum boots at a 'Mr. Z category'... finds the mark, leaves the Z category with a gash...

Will you boldly claim the shoe ?

Shoe Story !

It seems.

Of the many wonders of the natural world, the one that occupies attention span is what seems to be the battle between man and nature. 

As man goes about burning up the forests, chewing up the last available shark, and overturning the what were mountains and diverting what were waterway, nature seems to grin and bear.  

Amidst man made smoke, machine finished roads, in the thick of concrete buildings, are natures signs of survival. At least that's how they appear to me : Plants !!! These are not potted plants, grown for the sake of 'greenery in the balcony'. 

These are plants that have grown with whatever was available. Clinging to the moisture that is available on the sides of drainage pipes and spreading roots into concrete. These are not creepers. These are plants that have taken root in concrete. 

And as man drains out nature's resources, nature seems to be doing its bit by holding on to his drainage pipes.  Who will have the last laugh is a laughable question. For it doesn't have to be asked. 

For now, the concrete towers seem to be rising. And the nature resides in the drainage pipe. Forests keep burning. The smoke keeps raising. And diplomats converge in the capitals of the world. And ofcourse, Our Environment is 'debated'. 

Alls well with the world.  

It Seems.  

 

It seems.

Cotton Candy memories !

There is an unmistakable energy in the air.  You wonder where it emanates from.  You look hard. And discover that he operates his contraption with a practiced hand. Throwing in that odd spoon of sugar and ratcheting up some noise with a small piece of cane.  

You try to stare into his face. And see whats behind that monochromatic stare into his pink produce.  You cant decipher much. 

You stand there, and simply stare into that contraption.  There are furious swirls that are on. And in some time, you see a gathering sponge of pink cotton.  

There is some thing unique here. You think. As your heart begins to beat faster and the saliva props in your mouth from nowhere.  Enough to make Pavlov beam in his grave. Ditto for his dog. 

The gathering swirls seem to pluck more of the pink cotton from nowhere. The swirls seem to have rung a magic in colour.  You watch the  small piece of cane disappear behind a cloud of pink cotton candy. 

The pink in the air makes you think. Of pinks slips. The lay offs. The worsening economy. You wonder where it will lead the world to.  Strips of bad habits that the world picked up gathered up as a huge ball of pink.  

By now, the saliva in your mouth makes its presence felt. The thoughts of the economy or the recession disappear like share prices on wall street.  Its now ready. Your pink cloud of sugar candy. He thrusts it in your face.  Not even looking at you. And moves on to the next customer. 

Your heart continues to beat fast.  You tell yourself. 

The price of cotton candy : Rs. 20. The calories which you would add : a 100 !  The worry on hygiene and such other factors :  Rs.400/- for consultation and an equal sum on medicine. 

The look of amusement on the faces of children, as you lick away the last strand of cotton candy and nudges from the missus, urging you to behave..... is large scale capital erosion ! 

But the memories that come rushing back to you from an earlier time. When you ran about in grey knickers, and treated 25 paise as a heavenly sum, and thought of cricket and cotton candy as proof that God existed.... Priceless !  

That unmistakable energy permeates. You no longer wonder where it comes from ! 

  

Cotton Candy memories !

Breaking News.

A dramatic event occurred in Santa Cruz, Mumbai today.  

This is an exclusive coverage on 

LMNOP Digital HIgh Speed blah blah TV 365 X 365 !

( For most accurate experiencing of this, please read with dramatisation, 'correct' pronounciation and gestures bordering on hysteria. OK ? Or just flick that TV remote on and settle for a news channel )

At around 1.00 PM, when the temperature was reported to be hovering around 40 degree, sirens pierced the afternoon air. Heads turned. People stopped doing whatever they were doing. The others peeped through the windows. Those that had a window for the door and the sky for the roof, squinted to see what the fuss was about. 

A fire engine appeared.  True to form, stopped some distance away. There has been intense debate about 'fire in the belly' for politicians.  And perhaps some one called for a fire tender !

And then, in some time our crew found a crow whose wing had gotten entangled to string,  struggling to free itself. This perhaps was a string that was used to fly a kite some time back. For all its flaps, the bird  got further entangled. 

The firemen demurred. And got to work.  A crowd gathered. Everybody looked up into the sky. And some genuinely surprised that all this ado is about a crow.  Others very happy that someone took the step of calling the firemen at the plight of the crow. 

An old lady who lived in the house next door steps out spoke to us. ( Camera Pans ) 

'Oh, I thought, someone in our building committed suicide'.  She continued, 'last week, a tree fell in my backyard. I called the firemen. Nobody turned up. Now they have come for the crow' ! She said. 

And then, looked into the sky at the crow and its struggle to break free, and said, 'poor thing' while walking away.  

There are three hundred and twenty two people  in the crowd. And suddenly, a parcel of crows arrived on the scene. All crowing madly.  

Its the peak afternoon heat. And it was getting to everybody. The firemen. The onlookers. The neighbours. And the crow that was hanging in the balance. 

To cut a long story short, the crow was rescued. And the firemen walked away with the crow ! And someone in the crowd shouted, 'go send it to Maneka Gandhi'. Someone else said, 'this is what the firemen are trained to do. Catch crows'.  

In the meanwhile the parcel of crows that were there, have flown in the direction of the first minister that they can sight for a 'fly-in crowing dharna'. Unconfirmed sources also state that they are reported to be on the look out for slippers. The public are requested to watch out for them. 

The crows were unavailable for comment. We will be staying on course to update you on the latest on this epic crow saga. 

If you liked this story send an SMS to 39492384234 typing 'YES'. If otherwise type 'NO'. In anycase, 77.8 % have already voted that they liked this story. This is exclusive breaking news that you are First seeing here. Stay tuned to get updated.

Such news of national existential importance can be tracked on our website as well. 24 hours a day 365 days a year. We will be the first to deliver... ! 

This story will continue to be breaking news until the next crow gets entangled, the cow drinks Coke, the giraffe trips over an electric pole, the local politician speaks his natural game or if nothing else materialises, perhaps until some wisecrack stays off rice. 

 

Breaking News.

Of Temples & Washrooms !

You are going to look at that image and purse your lips and wonder whats the big deal. After all a picture of a temple from Tamil Nadu, is common sight ! As common as a politician making tall promises during elections. You get the idea, right ?

Well, this is the Shree Navaneethakrishnan Temple in Madurai. Its not one of those gigantic structures. Its just another temple. Frequented by the faithful, used as a landmark to navigate by the newcomer and clicked on camera by a insipid blogger.

So, whats with it.

Here's what i thought was enough of a big deal. Look closer at the temple Gopuram. And this is what you see.



And right there, is Mahatma Gandhi. With one leg above, above Lord Vishnu. And the other over Hanuman. On the other side there is Jawaharlal Nehru.

Atop an established temple's gopuram, well, well,well, that indeed was interesting to me !

That they were revered enough to be placed on par with the Gods, says something. Something really profound about that time, that age and them !!! This was a different era indeed. And the folks that were there back then, were made of a different mettle.

Beginning today, India votes. The reactions to the pitches and planks of politicians and their parties have ranged for overwhelming laughter to 'mild amusement' to 'mild disturbance' to 'deep consternation' !

Let me get this straight.

1.Who you should vote for, is your choice.
2. To exercise that choice or to throw up your hands and enjoy a holiday : your choice again !
3. To make a considered, well thought through decision or going by narrow compulsions : your choice again.
4. To actively campaign or passively exercise choice.... well, this is a free country. Its your choice again.

So, it all boils down to you & your choice. Except this : What picture i leave on my blog, continues to remain, my choice !



So what if the picture was found in the washroom of an educational institution ?

PS : My political views remain private. This is not in support of the Congress, BJP, UPA, NDA, DMK, MDMK, ABCD, EFGH, IJKL, MNOP, QRS, TUV, WXYZ of their offshoots / prepoll post poll alliances thereoff.

This is in support of praying hard and using the flush. OK ?

Of Temples & Washrooms !

Egg Yoke ! a.k.a Pedal Power - Part -II

Its peak traffic. Buses hoot. And supply some free soot. Cars compete with each other, with a buzz about them, that it seems that they are girding their loins for the Nano. The policeman swears. This time, cursing the sun. The signal stays red. 

From the confines of his car, he sees a tower go by, on a bicycle. 

A tower of eggs ! Balanced neatly by a middle aged man, with rolled up trousers and a run down bicycle. He too awaits the signal to turn green. The signal stays red. The sun beats down. 

From his car, he looks intently at the big tower of eggs on the pillion. Each egg seems well ensconced. Smug. And unaware of whats coming its way. Perhaps the eggs were enjoying the sights. And of course, all sights are different, when there is elevation ! 

"Mass produced eggs", he says aloud, to himself. The still air in the company devoid car soaks up what he speaks. "Eggs that are shorn of love but rich in protein and cholesterol and such else ! Eggs that are produced for the sole purpose of consumption ! Eggs that would disintegrate into an unrecognisable form upon being dropped or broken open !" 

Today, those fragile eggs seemed to sit pretty in the security of the pillion, the balance and the sun !  The sun continued to beat down. The signal stays red. 

In the blurr of the heat, he continues to stare into the Egg Tower. And suddenly, he sees his apartment complex in that egg tower !  And he smiles. Yes, he says. 

All eggs. All proper eggs ! 

The B-School type, the diamond trader type, the ex-army types, the corporate type. And all their families.  He sighs. He recalls watching children swear at the security gaurd, in front of their parents.  And ofcourse, he turns away, when a corporate type throws garbage in the alleyway. He stood perplexed when he caught his neighbour steeling his morning newspaper. 

Proper eggs.  He thinks.  He rewinds. And replays.  

Mass produced eggs. Eggs that are shorn of love but rich in protein and cholesterol and such else ! Eggs that are produced for the sole purpose of consumption ! Eggs that would disintegrate into an unrecognisable form upon being dropped or broken open ! The sun continues to beat down. 

And then, the signal turns green. That tower of eggs makes progress and moves away. 

'Proper Eggs', he says again.  This time, he includes himself.  

He looks in the rear view mirror and purses his lips as his alter ego tells him, that his yoke is his silence. It makes him culpable. He thinks so.   

In some time he hits a clear stretch and accelerates. That egg tower on the pillion is gone. But his yoke tower seems to stay with him. With a felt presence. Clear stretch or otherwise. 

Egg Yoke ! a.k.a Pedal Power - Part -II

Naah-No gazing !

Its been on the dinner table for some time. As conversation that is. Its been on the parliament's table. For the same reason. And its been successful fodder to trainers and training programs : For a variety of reasons. 'Innovation'. 'Self Belief'. 'Keeping a promise.' 'Positioning'. And an endless more.

Finally, the rubber is meeting the road. After all ! Yes. The Nano is here. You can buy one online ! But hold on. Hold on. Dont go away. This is not yet another post cooing the wonder that this is becoming ! This post isn't about the Nano.

(You sure must have read about the cobbler and the bus conductor queueing up to buy. And amongst the many images, i am also told by a neighbour of those driving into a Tata Dealership in a Ford Endeavour to check it out for their 'college going daughter'. It would have fit into his Endeavour as a take away from a restaurant would have !!)

Closer home, a friend's friend, has booked 3 Nanos for the home. For the wife. For the mother. And one, generally. Monthly installments on the car, my friend supposes to range in the range of Rs.1,500/- ( $ 30 ). Suddenly, the car becomes a distinct possibility for a small man like me.

Ok. Ok. No. No. This post isn't about any of that.

This is a crystal ball gazing post into the middle and long term future. And now, armed with the might of my incisive arm chair wisdom & a looming Monday, these are predictions of what the Nano will do.

With the rich, the middle class, the inbetweens, the pretenders and just about everyone else ( save Mamta Banerjee ) wanting to get one, Indian roads are all set to change. India too is all set to change !

Circa 2015

a. Employment Generation increases manifold : You need more policemen on the road. More mechanics. More arbitrators. More insurance agents. More scrap dealers. More driving schools. More RTO offices to grant driving licences. More agents in the same RTO offices. More road building machines. More operators of those machines .... You get the idea right ?

b. Construction industry is booming: With all the world on the road, where would you park. Of course, Parking skyscrapers are being built. And cars would be parked right up there !

Corporations across the country have made it mandatory for apartment complexes to house one more sky scrapper : The parking sky scrapper. With five cars for a four member family, you wouldnt owners to park in living rooms right ?

c. Meters' Down : For the rest of the folks who still have resisted the revolution and chosen to go without purchasing the Nano are travelling by Nano taxis ! Mumbai no longer has Premier Padminis as Taxis. And Kolkatta has consigned all Ambassador taxis to Singur.

d. Fashions' Up : Fashion officianados make their cars fashionable. Paint their cars with objectionable images and articulate graffiti. If some local leader, didnt like it, they scrap the paint. If it costs as much as it does to buy, it costs a fraction to paint ! Better still buy a new one !

e. And a new culture is born: There is peace and harmony in the lives of all Tata Nano homes. When other cars bump into them, they are remarkably calm. If a police officer catches them doing something wrong, they are remarkably calm. For they have in them, the right of first refusal. I mean, they hand over the keys to whoever cares in that area, and walk away !

f. Shoe sales is way up : Seriously. Now hold your breadth. Drivers, owners and brand loyalists of other cars are jealous of the Nano and its mass appeal. With a general air of irritability, they have been throwing their shoes around ! Now, a common habit ,that was introduced to them in 2009. So, shoe production is up !

Naah-No !?!

Naah-No gazing !

Pedal Strength - Part 1

Atlas. Hercules.

The first one walked around with heaven on his back. And the other destroyed dangerous monsters. Both popular for strength and valour.

Greek mythology is as far away from me, as far as nation development in a politician's agenda. Ok. Perhaps not that far. I know who Atlas and Hercules are.

But hey this post is not about politics. Or mythology. But of bicycles ! If you are from India, chances that you are aware of Atlas and Hercules as bicycle brands are far higher than knowing them as mythological strong men.

The Atlases and Hercules es doing the rounds on Indian roads are a sight to see. Mythological strong men would arch their eyebrows in respect ! For the Atlases & Hercules of today carry everything from Crackers to Pappad to Milk to anything that you name.

In the slightest of possible spaces they make their way, in the busiest of roads. These are not fancy cycles used by people with 'environmental friendship' as a credo. 'Saying save the world' that with a fancy helmet and a T-Shirt to that effect.








No. This is part of everyday mainstream living ! That these wheels will have to be pedalled so that the wicker at home is lit. That a kid goes to school. That there is roti to eat. (Ok. Rice too).

To see an Atlas or a Hercules pass by with all their load is often a salute to ingenuity. To innovation. To the spirit of labour. And of course, to the reality balancing a life on two wheels.

Atlas may or may not have shrugged. But he sure does balance life on a pedal ! God knows for how long !

Pedal Strength - Part 1

Of Potholes and Plastic

The car itself was sold to a young, hardworking, handsome, upwardly mobile geek, with a beautiful, charming, etc etc etc wife and a playful, charming, lovely etc etc son some weeks back.

After a few weeks, he is taken for a spin. And as his senses soak up the interiors : the clean dashboard, the distinct odour of new rexine (or whatever), the super clean floor mat etc. And he sits. Forgetting the rest of the world.

It was then that he hears the rustle. It is then that the rustle of plastic on his behind was..., hmm...lets put it this way : is slightly more than a patently evident ! And with every pothole and stone that the tyre cares to caress, the collective weight of four bodies on plastic creates a sound that seems louder than the Korean engine inside the hood.

With the resolve of a Tamil film hero out to avenge the injustice meted out to his mother, his hands seize the plastic cover on his seat. To yank them away. His action would spell freedom for the seat. And peace for his ears.

It was obvious that he wasn't prepared for 'Don't do that' shriek that came in unison from his co-passengers. One of whom was his wife. ( Yes some men never learn). For all that could escape from his stunned lips was some hot air.

Like a pick pocket caught in the act by CC TV, he shrunk. 'Let the plastic remain. The seat covers will get dirty. Let the car stay new for some more time' they tell him. In Unison.

'Its been five weeks. For how long....?' he manages to mutter. Hoping to get the others aware of the futility of such efforts.

His wife shoots an unsolicited reply into the air-conditioned air of the korean car. "They will be there, as long as those plastic covers on your books back home remain. As long as those empty cartons of your perfume bottles occupy space in the cramped wardrobe....."

In a jiffy he makes peace. He smokes the peace pipe with the flip-flop of an election time politician. The white flag waved with alarming ambivalence. And for sometime the only sound that punctuates the still air is from the air-conditioning vent.

Then in the middle of the road, the rubber says hello to a pothole. And a collective rustle of four bodies on plastic abounds. By now, he is aware that he has made his peace. And he stares into the outside world.

The potholes and plastic make him aware. Of his beginnings. Of his circle. Of his friends. Of his family. Of his country. Of its roads. And one more, much reviled, cliche: "middle class " !!

PS : To the young upwardly mobile geek & family, with the new car, who will read this sometime : Sorry. This photograph is shared without your explicit permission. Hopefully all the adjectives showered in the opening para will compensate. OK ?)

Of Potholes and Plastic

Off Rice !

For some time now, i have been off rice. I can see the eye brows arch and the quizzical looks come up your face. In yet others, i know 'there-is-no-limit-to-fibbing' look on faces. You know, my weight has been bothering me for a while now. Yes. One of those numbers.

But hey, the essence is this : I really am off rice. That is a Himalayan peak to climb for a Southerner like me. Who believed that Eve felled Adam with rice. And the Western world chose to call it apple, because it would be easy to hold !

Today, when rice is served on the lunch counter, i turn away with a speed that would shame a north Korean missile. Lest i change my mind. The change of mind does happens Occasionally. But OCCASIONALLY. OK ?

To stay away from rice is a huge struggle. And that is an understatement. Rotis and Brown Bread can sound fancy to the health conscious world and the dietitian, but nothing comes close to ploughing your fingers through Sambhar laden rice.

And it is in such times, that i feel that the world conspires to test my resolve. It starts with the person at the lunch counter serving food at the office canteen. "Sir, some rice for you. It goes well the Dal". And i look at him with a 'when-did-they-find-that' look, hoping that he would stop right there. He doesn't. And you know what happens.




And now you have branded rice. This is a huge sack of rice. Yes. Raw rice, to be more precise to be cooked. In smaller instalments. Thank God for small mercies. This brand of rice is called.. 'Golden Pari' ! ( Golden Fairy). And has a bollywood heroine in dream sequence, with wings et al, as a brand logo.

Ok. Ok. a nameless Angel. OK ? And she is a symbol of purity. I see it as part of a global conspiracy. To test my rice resolve.

Yes sure. The women that i hold dear have used my alimentary canal as additional artillery. Well, I mean, my missus, mother and mother-in-law are all golden paris..... But you know, rice has stayed mainstream.

The problem really, is the pleasure in eating more and not knowing when to stop. There is a sudden urge to throw the chap who connected rice and carbohydrate to G20 protesters. Huh.

Rice. Rice. The damn thing sits for two minutes on the lips and for a life time on the hips. Sigh.

And No. I am not giving up. I am still off rice.

Off Rice !

A question of numbers !

Numbers !

Race horses sport them. Players in football, basketball, cricket and such other games sport them. Athletes & sports people sport them. Convicts sport them. Cops sport them. ( In tamil movies, ' 403' is how a junior cop is usually called in by the inspector or officer of similar / higher order ).

Yes. People sport numbers. On them. Although, am not sure about cops wearing them around. But still, you get the idea, right. It seems logical in sports or in prison. From a distance you cant tell one player from another. And so a number becomes a convenient representation.

Now that is logical.



But tell me, why would a young man walking down the street, in the summer heat of Mumbai, wear a jeans with 33 inscribed on his backside. Twice. I mean, on both sides of his backside. Why ?

This question has occupied my mind for sometime now. And as is the norm these days, i dived into the Internet. I never knew 33 was pregnant with so much meaning and possibility until Wikipedia told me so. I took a bow. Sample ( the list is huge) these :

33 is the largest positive integer that can not be expressed as a sum of different triangular numbers

Jersey number of basketball player Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. The number was retired by the Los Angeles Lakers

Beethoven's Op.120 consists of 33 variations on a waltz by Anton Diabelli

Quite obviously, i have been left with far more questions than answers. And as is the other norm, i have been asking a few people around. "what could 33 written on the back pocket of a young man's jeans, signify ?

Quite obviously greeted by strange looks. With a 'Oh, not again' sigh. Or a 'where were you all this while' mutter. Or sometimes a 'whats the temperature outside' question. And such else.

It was becoming a far too occupying thought, and then it happened: The question is posed to the missus. And she asks, head tilted, arms crossed, ' pray tell me, where have you been looking ?'

Stumped, bowled and adjudged leg before wicket on the same delivery, i walked ! I retired hurt. Pointing out to the coalescing clouds and reading something vague about a G 20 summit from the days newspaper. I bailed out. For that moment.

Phew.

But hey, that thought refuses to go away. Tell me..... What is this 33 ? Written twice. Hmm.

A question of numbers !