The Parachute didn't open

He was hoping that it was a dream. Like the skydiver hopes that the parachute opens, like the soldier hopes that he doesn’t miss, like the racer hopes that he can make the bend. In those few moments of desperation he had experienced a range of emotions he didn’t even know existed.

Emotions lose their identity as they rise on the scale of intensity. Passionate love, extreme hatred, immobilizing fear or violent anger: each becomes a ubiquitous connection with the universal source as it reaches its ultimatum; the enigmatic hand that clenches the heart in its sudden and strong grasp. As the hand squelches on its vulnerable subject, man reaches the pinnacle of all emotions, the proverbial skip of a beat.

This was his pinnacle. He knew his odds. The next moment, he could be salvaged by the realization of what he was hoping would eventually happen; or be consumed by the throes of reality. Yet, nothing could be worse than this anxious search for an answer.

He opened the pressure cooker lid. Moong ki daal for dinner. Again.