I sweeped inside the pocket to locate my phone. It was on the other side. I check the time, 11:31.
I am sitting on this wretched bench, in a tiny bus stand, in the middle of nowhere. thats where I am in my life, literally and figuratively.
What was I thinking, falling for a girl who is leaving, not the city, not the state, but the fucking country within a week. Where was I thinking from? And then proposing her right infront of her parents. Some do it from brain, some do it from heart and some use penises for the purpose, but I think I think from a complete different organ.
I try to figure out which bus would take me to my wretched flat, to my flat room mate, to my stinking bed. but I am too tired of this shit. You know what, I am done.
I AM DONE, I shout!
I take the same steps that led me to the same gates I kicked an hour ago. but her car was gone. Her flight is in an hour. Ofcourse the car is gone. International flights take off from CSI. even if I take a cab, I would barely reach the airport. there is a very tiny probability. Bollywoodian probability.
I start running like a madman. I saw the savior parked little way off the road, in black and yellow. the driver was having a nap. I knocked hard on the glass, perspiring. He didn't budge. I knocked again, if thats what you call a hard blow thrown twice. he woke up, startled, and shouted that he is not on duty, advised me to find another one and cursed me for breaking his nap.
I looked around. the road is empty like karan johar's films.
I took a rock in my hand and threw it hard on the window of a driver's seat. In three seconds, the driver was running towards me as if he was never sleeping at all. I ran like hell, He ran almost like hell, that fat bald guy.
within two minutes, he was at a safe distance from the taxi, and that was my cue. I ran towards the taxi and locked the fucking door. I had played on a bet that the key was inside the car and not with the driver.
I was right.
Thats surprising, 'cause I never am.
the bolliwoodian probability.
I drove like hell. There were still 53 minutes. In the last 7 minutes, I have shifted from being an aspiring writer to a car thief. I had heard that mumbai does wonders. but it wasn't mumbai that did this. it was me. I made this career change. I made this fucking change in my life. life is in my fucking control.
so is the fucking car.
I was driving very fast. I didn't see the speed, but I was damn fast. because whatever glimpse i was catching through my peripheral vision, it was all blurred. I wasn't drunk, I wasn't drugged, but this was the best 'high' I have achieved since I learnt the meaning.
A marathi song started playing suddenly. and something started vibrating beneath my ass.
I picked up the phone.
"you motherfucker sisterfucker I will fuck....."
"don't die. You will get your cab in four hours. just don't suicide okay?"
I shouted at the top of my voice.
"I am gonna kill you motherfucker!"
"On my birthday?"
I cut the call, threw the phone behind and resumed driving. I still had a long way to go.
The blur on my left hand side suddenly became a little clear as a car caught my eyes. it was the silver santro. and it was punctured.
I saw the face I was running for as she stooped down and said,
"bhaiya airport, jaldi"
there was no light inside the car, and streetlight didn't do its work properly. i didn't think about her, or about myself, but about the bollywoodian probability.
I wanted to write art, that had the shades and the hues of realism, but what happened in the last half an hour, was that real?
I am sitting on this wretched bench, in a tiny bus stand, in the middle of nowhere. thats where I am in my life, literally and figuratively.
What was I thinking, falling for a girl who is leaving, not the city, not the state, but the fucking country within a week. Where was I thinking from? And then proposing her right infront of her parents. Some do it from brain, some do it from heart and some use penises for the purpose, but I think I think from a complete different organ.
I try to figure out which bus would take me to my wretched flat, to my flat room mate, to my stinking bed. but I am too tired of this shit. You know what, I am done.
I AM DONE, I shout!
I take the same steps that led me to the same gates I kicked an hour ago. but her car was gone. Her flight is in an hour. Ofcourse the car is gone. International flights take off from CSI. even if I take a cab, I would barely reach the airport. there is a very tiny probability. Bollywoodian probability.
I start running like a madman. I saw the savior parked little way off the road, in black and yellow. the driver was having a nap. I knocked hard on the glass, perspiring. He didn't budge. I knocked again, if thats what you call a hard blow thrown twice. he woke up, startled, and shouted that he is not on duty, advised me to find another one and cursed me for breaking his nap.
I looked around. the road is empty like karan johar's films.
I took a rock in my hand and threw it hard on the window of a driver's seat. In three seconds, the driver was running towards me as if he was never sleeping at all. I ran like hell, He ran almost like hell, that fat bald guy.
within two minutes, he was at a safe distance from the taxi, and that was my cue. I ran towards the taxi and locked the fucking door. I had played on a bet that the key was inside the car and not with the driver.
I was right.
Thats surprising, 'cause I never am.
the bolliwoodian probability.
I drove like hell. There were still 53 minutes. In the last 7 minutes, I have shifted from being an aspiring writer to a car thief. I had heard that mumbai does wonders. but it wasn't mumbai that did this. it was me. I made this career change. I made this fucking change in my life. life is in my fucking control.
so is the fucking car.
I was driving very fast. I didn't see the speed, but I was damn fast. because whatever glimpse i was catching through my peripheral vision, it was all blurred. I wasn't drunk, I wasn't drugged, but this was the best 'high' I have achieved since I learnt the meaning.
A marathi song started playing suddenly. and something started vibrating beneath my ass.
I picked up the phone.
"you motherfucker sisterfucker I will fuck....."
"don't die. You will get your cab in four hours. just don't suicide okay?"
I shouted at the top of my voice.
"I am gonna kill you motherfucker!"
"On my birthday?"
I cut the call, threw the phone behind and resumed driving. I still had a long way to go.
The blur on my left hand side suddenly became a little clear as a car caught my eyes. it was the silver santro. and it was punctured.
I saw the face I was running for as she stooped down and said,
"bhaiya airport, jaldi"
there was no light inside the car, and streetlight didn't do its work properly. i didn't think about her, or about myself, but about the bollywoodian probability.
I wanted to write art, that had the shades and the hues of realism, but what happened in the last half an hour, was that real?
No comments:
Post a Comment