The Professor Of Yansh Psychology.

Windows provide opportunities and enough elbow-room for the tired and retired to tirelessly sublimate and consummate the art of gazing. This, in their estimation, is the most harmless form of leisure in which mankind can take pleasure. The good it will do is, however, debatable. But it will do no harm. Gazing through windows will not deplete the ozone layer. Terrorists don't gaze through windows. They raze structures and infrastructures to ground zero. To be able to gaze and gaze well, we have to be able to see farther than a telescope and deeper than a microscope. We also need legs on which to stand. The longer they are, the better. And where there are no legs, there are wheelchairs and prosthetics.
To challenge the debatability of the good in gazing, suffice it to say that this noble activity does not, after all, seem totally unproductive. Once in a while, the gazers give directions to strangers who have strayed away from the path of reason. Twice in a while, they help to find children missing the truth. And more often than not, they volunteer information that is useful in tracking down a fugitive from justice.
I used to live in a neighbourhood that was quite famous for its teeming population of senior citizens. And every time I left my apartment to go to work, I had to first take a five-minute walk to the train station. Within those five minutes, over a hundred pair of eyes, familiar with my daily routine, would train their gaze on me daring me to make one false move. A pair of those eyes belonged to a cynical septuagenarian whose shock of black hair belied his age. I once complimented him on his good looks and the response my compliment elicited was that those whom the ever-cycling wheel of age has endowed with a mane of jet-black hair should naturally be disinclined to blow the trumpet of youthfulness, knowing full well that the arrowhead of a silvery undergrowth is inching its way gradually but assuredly towards menopausal anointment.

Hmmm....! That philosophical mouthful did trigger in me the need to check myself for the arrowhead of a silvery undergrowth. Lo and behold, it was just at its incipient stage. My respect for the septuagenarian increased three-fold. He lived on the first floor of a large apartment block situated at the corner of the train station. He was a social psychologist in his heyday, a pioneer in the field of interpersonal attraction. And now that he was in the autumn of his years, he was fond of gazing at passersby through his window and exchanging careless but thoughtful banter with those who stopped by. And this was what he told me the day I lent him my ears.
No matter the way you look at an aesthetically reprehensible woman, there is always something prepossessing about her. This, in a nutshell is the feminine mystique which finds expression in the perfect symmetry of the posterior.
A woman's posterior contains in its gyroscopic chambers unforeseen elements which force a man fleeing from danger to stop and turn around for one last look before taking a self-conceited plunge into perilous complacency.
Beauty, just like the kingdom of heaven, is within. The partaker of one shall inherit the other. But it is a sorry state of our earthly affairs that the beautiful ones are not yet born despite the preponderance of women with well- proportioned posterior. Heaven therefore remains an illusion.
What shall it profit a man who is married to a woman with the most beautiful posterior in the whole world, but has to suffer hamstring strains just to reach up to kiss her?
The refinement, graciousness and height of a soul is tested dangerously whenever a man is forced to turn around to watch the back of a woman who just passed by him, instead of watching his own back for the sake of personal security.
The will-to-life pushes men towards women who can, on account of their imperfections, cancel out our own(a large posterior combined with a flat posterior promises a perfect posterior), and hence help us restore physical and psychological balance in the next generation.
To give me a good demonstration of the wisdom in his sermon through the window, he invited me to his apartment. And with elbows on the window pane, we proceeded to examine the fifth aphorism for its empirical truth. In every case we saw that whenever a woman from the opposite direction walked past a man, the man always turned around to stare at the woman's posterior. In the process of staring, one man actually strayed away from the path of reason. Another walked into a lane meant for bicycles and barely escaped being run over. Another bumped into a pole. And yet another crossed the road while the traffic light was still red and had to be arrested for jaywalking. Stupid yansh men! The professor of yansh psychology was absolutely right. I had had enough mental pabulum to last me for a life time. And when I would be in the autumn of my years, I shall not lack for a pastime--gazing through the window.