Thursday, February 4, 2010

Because I'm Pissed at Plato

Pichku was a small, wiry girl with noticeable calf muscles and beautiful knees.

Aaron was a stout teapot of a boy, who smelt of orange cream biscuits and listened to Akon on his way to school.

Every Tuesday, after morning assembly, the children of class 9-A were made to run four times around the football field by the big gulmohur tree.

Pichku had calf muscles that could get her anywhere in any time. Sometimes, they rippled in the soft, rippling sunlight.

Aaron could sing like Akon if he wanted to, but his throat made despairing sounds if he tried doing it before girls or women.

On one Tuesday, when the sun was soft and the gulmohur tree twitched like a nervous neck in the breeze, the class of 9-A was made to run. Pichku was beat and Aaron was upbeat, and she - who typically ran like sweat down an armpit - lagged behind. Since Aaron was running faster than usual and Pichku was running slower than usual, there came a point (Aaron was on an inner track) when the two were apace.

Aaron grew greedy and began to run faster. His thighs trembled, his ears throbbed, but he kept on anyway, because it was quite important to him that he reach the finish line before Pichku. If he had only read The Republic, he would know that Justice emanates from doing what one's nature is most suited to doing, and that women were inferior anyway.

So he wouldn't have to go to such great lengths. To prove the axioms.

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