Humour and terror.

I know, Wodehouse is considered the pinnacle of humour, but in his writing i find a rather affecting quality. So much so that now, i want to talk like Psmith. Really want to. But that isn't wholly possible, for people often ask the appalling question, "Why are you talking like a book?" These days, the number of people appreciating good humour is dwindling alarmingly. Sigh.



That apart, I had a terrifying experience last night. And i don't use the word "terrifying" for some grand effect. It was every bit as terrifying as the word means. I was almost caught in the crossfire of the clash between two parties. About twenty feet ahead of our cab, we noticed, and not without momentary as well as protracted fear, that a few men were hurling bombs. A thick haze of smoke had settled over the road. That was topped with some pipe guns going off. My Dad, with remarkable alacrity, told the driver to go for a 180 degree maneuver. As the car turned around i saw a thin fellow walk right past holding a small black revolver. Like those you see in movies except, this wasn't any goddamned movie. I caught his eye. And he caught mine. My eyes, displaying a treacherous mind of its own, slowly passed over to his hand which brandished the revolver while all i wanted was to shut my eyes. His fingers moved. My mind stopped. Heart is involuntary, otherwise it would have too. His fingers moved towards the trigger and hid the revolver from view. And he walked right past while we sped in the opposite direction.

Which is why now, i am in a position to describe exactly how one feels when fearing for his life. Melodramatic? I think not.