Reginald ‘Reggie’ Speedwell loved to haste
In his mind he had no time to waste
His love for velocity
Bought him no pity
From traffic cops who had no taste for haste!
Well, things did not end here for Reggie. His rash zipping through the streets was intercepted by police sirens and he was stopped, questioned, and then hauled over to a judge.
Reason for speeding? – asked the judge.
I do everything fast – said Reggie.
Well, in that case, we shall see how fast you can spend six months in jail – pronounced the judge.
And thus, Reggie’s tale takes an amusing turn. One can only surmise that his time in the clink will be spent at a pace quite unfamiliar to our fast-moving friend. Perhaps, in the stillness of his cell, Reggie might learn the virtues of moderation and the art of taking things slow—though, knowing Reggie, one wouldn’t bet on it.
Look around and you might find a million Reggies in your city, town, kasba, or even village. There are those who drive at breakneck speed on slip-roads and even when going against the flow of traffic. They are the ones who deserve to give Reggie company in jail. Then there are the speed speech freaks who say things faster than they think and invariably end up wondering why the world never understands their point of view.
These racy bosses
On speedier horses
Never like it just fast
But lightning fast
It is never just speed
But breakneck speed
They run their race
At a blistering pace
Yes, their speed
Really is warp speed
And their daily tonic
Is supersonic.
Speed loving people, I think, make charming friends because they have their say faster than anyone can even register and then scamper off in half-a-blink which leaves you with all the time to go back to your sedately paced daydreaming. After all, what is life without the magic of playing hopscotch with your own mind. Speed, pace, and race are the kind of spells that we can do without.
Let me add here that writers love life to amble along and never rush. A push into the swirling whirl of deadlines can be the worst spoilsport. The mind goes blank. Ideas disappear. Even the cursor on the screen with an open blank page attempts to become invisible. Eyes threaten to shut in protest. And the heart too is suddenly no more interested in Nat King Cole, Lance Armstrong, or Paul Desmond. All around is a constant thump-thump or dab-dab or dishoom-dishoom or vroom-vroom or some such unearthly sound. Though I have come across a few writers with published works who had apparently raced through the writing of their book in a way that resembled a caffeinated kangaroo hop or a hamster wheel hysteria. My reviews of such books were always made to look like turbo-charged fury and most of the time hit them like an unexpected lightning bolt.
Those were my moments of waltzing with the thoughts of that judge who pronounced the sentence on Reggie, though I could never have known it then.
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Arvind Passey
Written on 07 February 2025
