As I type this entry, each muscle, each ligament is screaming out in agony. Begging me to somehow cast a magical spell over it, Harry Potter-esque (or maybe Hermione since Harry is plagued by juvenile delinquency). Actually, it’s more of a silent scream. If every part of my body had its own independent vocal existence, it would very well give the impression of an intrinsic mass orgy taking place, since moans would be the only things surfacing. Screaming is just too much of a bother.

My body, which had renounced from any form of hardcore physical activity, took centre court yesterday. With a racquet in my hand and a couple of balls in each pocket I warmed up (which is essentially just standing on my toes). Suddenly all the memories came back, one flash at a time and it was a reminiscence of an archaic life, a time when I’d find solace in sports.

Back then, I had tried my hand at everything, tennis, cricket, swimming and had a decent command over all of them if not rising to the status of a pro. Somewhere down the line priorities changed and interests shifted.

Whoosh!

I fired my first ace!

I was having a great time running all around the court, as though tracing out a probability density function. Guess I still had the ol’ touch, or was it beginners luck? For things can only get worse with time, right?

After nearly an hour of panting and sweating from all possible pores on my body I reclined on the steps with a smile that exuberated confidence and a rage that I’d long forgotten dwelled inside me. Fiery eyed I bounced back within minutes to take on any Federer/Lendl.

All the hulla gulla aside, I knew the truth. I knew that these emotions wouldn’t last outside the court. Outside the court there’d just be one thing.

And then it bequeathed! Oh the pain! The fother mucking pain! Oh how it slowly filled me up, meticulously navigating its way into all my tissues and organs. I revolted; it was a struggle but finally had to give in. There was no use fighting it, might as well embrace it, hoping for it to forge an alliance and go away.

But it didn’t!

And it doesn’t!

Every inch of my body moans and groans, reminiscent of our great fore fathers who laid down their lives in order to achieve independence! So what the fuck was I fighting for? Why did I have to torture myself like this? Those two hours of supreme arrogance transformed me into a gimp. Blisters have infested my fingers, a testimony to the eroded grip of the racquet. Even my toes ceased to infer the nerve sensations; they were doing their own bit, wriggling aimlessly. Asked Mamma to feed me dinner for my arms had long turned atheist and wouldn’t budge. I’d try to sit down but my pelvic muscles would retaliate swearing at me for subjecting them to this torture: You don’t give us pleasure, at least don’t gift us pain. Stating that I was comfortably numb would be a lie as blatant as Pamela Anderson saying that she believed in natural products.

Guess will have to sweat it out again day after tomorrow!