When the limbs go crazy

Well I do share your remonstrations.

It is preposterous that I should be back and pitching my tent again. Pretty bad taste on my part. Yet the matter is, the moment I see a key board my fingers jump to it and start typing on their own accord.

What can one do? If there is one disease that I fear in the world that is this. I can cure it no way. I have tried everything from tying the hands behind my back to taping the fingers together with duct tape. But to no avail, type they must and suffer I must.

It is as if the fingers have a life of their own. I mean, what could anyone do if their limbs rebel against them and goes their own sweet ways?

There is this story by one of our better authors in the land. I haven’t seen him in person but have always liked his treason (Serves in the French Embassy of all places)

Interesting bloke.

But the good thing is, he didn’t merely pinch the francs, but caused occasional fracas in our literary circles by what he wrote.

Well, he doesn’t write anymore, served as the president of the writer’s academy for a while. That really took the keg out of him.

He may not write again.

Anyway back to what he wrote when he was still functioning as a human being…..

Well, in the story the protagonist is a young man, a nice, god fearing, upright young fellow. But on one fine morning he starts calling his parents by their pet names. Now it may surprise those in the west a bit, but in this land of Manu (the law maker), to call ones parents by the name is sacrilege.

The guy did not finish there. He had definite ideas on everyone around and was intend on broadcasting them all over the place.

According to him the congressmen (not the American kind, the Indian kind who belong to Mrs Gandhi’s party) were weirdoes and the stalwarts of the left were total shit heads, or something of the sort.

He was especially eloquent about it when the local party leaders were around.

Well the long and short of it is the normally taciturn boy had started saying things which would make a steel statue sweat like the weeping willows. (The weeping willows don’t cry you say. Well I told it to cry and that is that)

Anyway the boy became a bloody embarrassment to all, though most of them did not know what they were being embarrassed about.

The enlightened and decent populace could not take it anymore. There is a limit to everything.

So he was taken to a Pan Opticon (maybe it’s a porcupine or provision store or psychiatric ward, I don’t know which) and was subjected to all kinds of treatment including the electro convulsive therapy (Some say the Spanish Inquisition would have been proud of this instrument of torture, had they found it in time). But the boy remained unreformed.

The shrinks may also have become a little worried about the free discussion of their physiognomic features. Suddenly they did not want to do anything with him anymore.

Thus he was returned home quite uncured and still very much in possession of all his beans. He clanked them every now and then.

People normally had good exercise after that in the locality. They learned to sprint at a moment’s notice and scale obstacles if necessary. They also formed vigilante groups to check out whether the boy was coming anywhere near them.

As they say in the fables, prestige is not a loose thing to do without.

Well once while he was sitting on the compound wall of his home facing the alley way in front, his former teacher (A handsome, chaste and cultured lady) came that way. He jumped down directly in front of her. She saw him alight and pleaded with to him with palms coupled.

Don’t say anything horrid, my child.

Our boy looked at her keenly for a moment and asked:

Are you wearing loops now?

The lady fainted there and then and had to be medically revived.

Other than this strange trick with his tongue the boy was completely harmless in all respects. He never attacked any one physically or created any other nuisances.
After some time the local people began to say.

“If it’s the head that is sick, we could do something about it, but what could one do where the tongue has gone crazy?”

Well I don't know, perhaps the same is the matter with my fingers. They go crazy when they see a keyboard. It’s a bummer, to me as well as others. But what could I do.

I am helpless.

May be there is a finger god somewhere and I could pray to him/her/ it (Not to exclude any gender) for relief.

If anybody finds this particular himherit let me know.