Off The Cuff: True heroism is faceless

When you travel day after day down the same asphalt stretch, populated on either side by soaring glass towers, a silver point disappearing into the daytime haze like a needle into flesh, a façade gleaming good day, you stop wondering at the genius of the architect, or the wonder of modern design that probes a fresh dimension to aesthetics.

The thoughts, instead, turn subliminal, scouting the subconscious like deep sea divers, seeking the beauty of what must, undoubtedly, lie beneath this veneer of glitter. When the mind is trained to think subliminally, it's amazing what the inner eye can perceive.

There, behind the self-reflecting glass, one espies the stately pillars, the frescoed walls, the marble floors, the plush carpets, the potted plants, strategically placed.

Let the gaze travel further, deeper, past the murals, past the paint, past the hardened concrete... there, look, train the eye on that strange design. It is a palm print, left accidentally. A human palm that was there before the pillars, before the glass.

When the cement was wet. This is the only sign this man has left behind of his presence, a signature, testimony to the days, months, years, he toiled in the wilting sun and at dizzying heights to help the architect realise a dream, confirm the validity of his qualifications which, no doubt, hang framed in glass on an office wall.

Look past the smile of the tourist in the bus travelling dead centre in the slow lane. Beneath the grinning delight is a brave, trusting person, one who has trashed media hype that said stay out of these regions, they could be dangerous.

This tourist is one of a hundred thousand that knows, with a certainty borne of conviction, that this city was founded on the bedrock of security, hospitality and boundless trust. That Safety is its other name. Look past the acres of lush grass at any park or golf course.

Gaze into the distance because way near the horizon stands a figure, resplendent in white robe. A figure that once must have looked at a million grains of desert sand and perceived its potential for greenness.

These are the things the inner eye sees, that history somehow forgot to record. Look past the pages. You will find the souls of the courageous. Men and women who could, on a bad day, survive a large system hiccup, somehow meet an excruciating deadline and perform that everyday wonder of bringing out an edition on time.

Souls who could stand unflinching when the voice of collective censure says, the next day, a margin was too wide, a rule too thick, a box too high. People who could go back to their desks, redraw the geometry and resolutely begin work once more on another page for posterity.

All is forgiven. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that true heroism is doomed to remain faceless. It is a comment on the times.