The Road not taken

First of all, I must apologize to the great American poet, Robert Frost, who wrote a seminal poem with the title I’ve given this blog. If it arouses your curiosity enough to go, look for the poem, read it and understand it’s import, then I guess I would have done good for myself as well as the poet. This is the kind of thing most writers do: to use a phrase or a line from some well-known literary work and make it do additional, added-on, value to their own compositions. The best example I can think of is WB Yeats’ poem, “The Second Coming”.

Well, mine was another journey, dear Reader. I’m actually talking about getting into a fight—just a round of fisticuffs, with no real reason and no real motive. I must confess that I was timid as a lad, preferring always to turn the other cheek, even though the action caused even more grief. But then, sometimes, without any rationale, even a boy summons up what he thinks is bravery, but which usually turns out to be bravado. The first time I took a beating was when I was in school. The skirmish happened over a game of tops—those little, shaped, pieces of wood that had a mean, long, pointed, spike at the bottom, on which the top went round and round. I thought I had picked out my foe cleverly, for he was smaller-made than I was, but he soon pinned me down, sat over me and revelled over his victory. Of course, I was humiliated.

My next encounter took place a few years later, when Boxing suddenly became a popular sport in school. This time brazenness took over me, for I believed I had the moves and the sleight of hand so crucial to any successful pugilist. Again, I got into the ring with a slightly smaller-made boy, but one short jab to my nose saw it spout blood; that was the end of my fighting days: I must say that I hung up my gloves forthwith.

In my early-30s Bruce Lee was making waves and I was eager to do my part. Lessons 3-days a week went on for many months atop the YMCA buildings in Royapettah, but a sparring bout with one of the instructors culminated in a kick to the temple-region of my head and that was that. Fighting, I correctly surmised, was not for me.

A few tears later, I took up weight-training and body-building. This went well enough and soon I was a 100-kilo hulk, with muscles in all the right places. I was particularly happy with my lower limbs; they had developed over the years when my main interest was hockey. In the college where I worked, some of my students admired my bulk and I am sure that I inspired at least two of them to take to serious body-shaping. I know that both of them made good. How’s that for inspiration?

Only once did I lose my cool. This happened in the college where I worked. One day, an impromptu strike called by the students resulted in a lot of shouting and screaming in the corridors. Such boorish behaviour may be forgiven (only as an outlet for letting off steam), but when one boy persisted in banging on every door and every window of every classroom, I finally lost it: I rushed up to him, unmindful of the fact that swarms of students were still milling around, caught him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him down two flights of stairs. I intended to present him to the College Principal, but when I reached the ground floor, my rage had dissipated. He slunk away, morose, I guess.

Was it a case of discretion being the better part of valour? What do you think, dear Reader? Have you ever lost your head? My guess, right now, is that age assuages everything.

At any rate, as the poet says, “To err is human, to forgive, divine.”