ABC

Accompanying the cacophonous ultrasound of Light meeting Death, each note converting the spinal cord into a lightning arrestor, was the beginning of a captivating little scribble - creamy white on pitch black. Scrawny and ungainly in proportion, one could but scoff at it in distaste, if it wasn't for the creator of masterpiece. For it is considered rather inappropriate to chastise the dribbling toddler who has just managed to blueprint the first of his fertile thoughts.

The figure lay static, incomplete, with bunglesome protrusions demarcating its realm until the emaciated boundary line faded into oblivion. The clumsy representation thus remained an unfinished, semi-open scrawl yearning for completion. It took a long while but it did come - and in the form of stable albeit inefficient strokes. The newer portions of the art seemed to inherit atavistic knowledge from the ancient; it grew stronger, faster, higher and more profound. There was a sense of power which endorsed the firm slashes of the blade.

With the coming of age, the jagged juvenile edges were smoothed and the beginners' habits were discarded with disdain. He began to learn from himself and from his environs. There was influence and then there was pressure to perform. He adapted fast and learned to live. He watched his compatriots race and often he lost out on speed, although making up in aesthetics and skill. He learnt from each man who bettered him and soon his 'crosses' became a work of art. He fell in love with a girl and all he managed was to learn from her - he mirrored her works the way she mirrored her 'F's.

There were times of struggle and disagreement, where two conflicting powers would often try to establish themselves on the man's style. Neither could succeed while the other survived and feeble pacts were forged. But the blend of styles gave birth to genius. The 'Tittles' were no long dots but narcissistic micro-circles. The edges were no longer straight; there were curves all around. What once stood reliably erect now carried an enviable tilt. He walked with a swagger now.

He slowed his hand to grip the edge of the penultimate alphabet and he slid down with consummate ease. And then he finished signing his name, slaloming twice and then punching with precision. A Handwriting was born. But was it his?