Abdul Kalam did not jump. He did not swim, he did not fly, or roll, and he ran only when he had to. He had not been doing these things since he was seventeen, when the blind man told him not to. There were great possibilities awaiting those who walked. The blind man gave Abdul his glasses. And a warning.

These were the glasses of a man gone mad by them. A man beyond his life who had followed his steps backwards so often it consumed him. A man so tempted by seeing that he took his sight. A man who did not jump or swim; a man who would only walk.

For a time, Abdul was amused. The glasses showed every step that he took perfectly, and as the blind man said, when they were followed perfectly backwards, so too would that time pass backward. When he stopped walking, his life would resume as it was before all those steps were taken. It was a gift of many second chances.

Abdul excelled in his life. He made many poor decisions although things never went poorly. Eventually he would always have the best possible outcome. He succeeded in school, in business, and in love. Everything at his fingertips, he wondered how the blind man could have ever gone mad. Abdul must have been, in all his accounts, far wiser than the man who had given him this gift.

As the end of his life approached, though, Abdul wandered the same dusty street where he had met the blind man. Now he was walking backwards, himself blind. He tripped and fell to the ground, then began to weep. This was it. A dozen years since his life had been so wonderful, Abdul could no longer follow his poor steps. Most of his life was spent going back to relive it. Just as the blind man had discovered, there is no future in the past. And this was all he had.