Crushers

A world of guys on cafe racers riding on highways. A world of motocross riders going off road following the trail. A world of a bunch of guys playing Tribes 2 and Quake 3 arena on LAN. Did that world even exist? It could have, along with the love in villages. Love in the villages could've been saved. It needed careful work. Doesn't matter though, it's all gone now. It's all fucked. A guy measuring the body of his girl with his fingers in a hot Lucknow afternoon in his room with the desert cooler whirring and splashing khas scented water droplets on them while a guy in a small village in Rajasthan edits his Hindi literary magazine sitting in the courtyard of the village temple, his bike parked outside the temple. Everything, every beautiful thing has been deleted from existence. What remains is entry fees, to privilege clubs. The hands which held pens have been broken and crushed, just like the British crushed the hands of the weavers to prevent them from weaving. The guy measuring the body of his girlfriend with his fingers has been beaten black and blue and an FIR has been registered against him and all the love he had has evaporated. What remains now? Just some guys riding superbikes and choppers on highways who extract their petrol by squeezing the necks of the helpless. Quake 3 Arena and Tribes 2 are dead. LAN doesn't matter. It's the time of RPGs where the blood spilled is real. The fragrance of itr still lingers in the nostrils of the guy from Lucknow, he misses her. Cafe racer guys have thrown away their helmets and hanged their gloves. Cafe racers don't run on blood. Motocross guys are doing tricks hoping one of the tricks would lift them from this planet forever.