Mon(k)ey Manager

February 20, 2009

Hey-lo.

I been hibernating,like, sleeping, ya know? Its a freakin’ metaphor maen. I was sorta busy doing stuff thats kinda important for survival.

What exactly was I doing? I have no effing clue. I had a vision that writing code all my life wont get me anywhere. Since I didnt wanna go anywhere anyway, it looked like a perfect fit. Then one night, over a lonely red bull mixed with Vodka, I had a supercharged vision of a Monkey Wearing a Suit. A suit with a tie.

I knew what I had to do, without doubt. I have a monkey brain, and I hate making  decisions. I was born to be a Manager.

I come from a family of Managers. Its a metaphor, again. How, you may ask, when my dad never worked as a Manager,how can I claim to be from a family of managers? We shall have to dig in deep into a typical Manager’s psyche to get the answer.

I am a software engineer by choice, and at the expense of sounding vain, a pretty good software engineer.

But Harold said — “If you are hung like a Moose, you dont have to be a porn star.” Just cos I am good at it doesnt mean its my density. No sir, its not an Honourable Monkey’s density. No one in the awesome Monkey dynasty worked as an Engineer [Cos no one in the awesome Monkey Dynasty ever really did anything].

Okay, so I come from a family of managers. My dad is a lazy guy who made, and still makes, a living out of being lazy and making smart comments on other people’s work, or the lack of it, depening on whether  its someone else or The Monkey he is making the smart comment on.

“Its a motivational technique”, he tells me.

I find it a de-motivational technique, but who am I to tell him, I’m just a monkey who wants to wear a suit to work and sit in an air conditioned cabin making posts on Linked In about random books on IIT that were published in the last year.

As a choice of vocation,  once upon a time I decided to write a book on my life in IIT. Chetan Bhagat, the other guy who studied at a different IIT in a different city having different moral values and different bars, plagiarised my idea using his wonderful time travel machine [Patent pending]. He stole a copy from  a roadside pirated book store in the year 2011, went back to 2001 and wrote most of what happened to me, time-shifting it by 15 years (-ve).  Since he stole my idea, I have been out of sorts, really.

I have limited skills, social, mental, and especially physical, and those skills rarely find me a suitable employment that may offer me the wonderful corner cabin where I may be seated sipping diet coke and illegally smoking a cigarette in my awesome suit. Most people who hire me arent smart enough to know that I am genetically destined to have that cabin and the money to afford those suits.

So I contemplated more and more on The Monkey becoming a manager.

Finance, is it for me? The world’s in recession, I think I could live off watching a computer screen displaying $xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx in a firang’s account while I tell him to invest it all in Microsoft cos Google just says dont be evil and does the evil thing by never releasing Chrome for Linux. That would be awesome.

Human Resources, wonderful. The Monkey, as the HR head, would strike off all clauses from the Sexual Harrasment section of his, and only his, offer letter. That should get him laid, once he is the only legally bangable dude in the entire office compound. That would be awesome, too.

Sales and Marketing, even more awesome. S&M has always been my thing, judging from the entries in my educational movie collection. I heard they even get paid when they dont get results. I could get used to that.

The confusion was never ending, so I called up my dad, the Awesomely Demotivating Old Monkey.

Monkey : “Dad, I wanna do an MBA”

Dad: “Get married, you moron”

M: “Huh?”

D: “Get married. You are short, fat and earn less than a day labourer. Once you lose hair, even Cher wouldnt marry you”

M:”Huh?”

D:”What? Have you lost the ability to understand spoken English? Get married before you become even fatter and lose all your hair. I assure you, once you cross 30, even a blind unmarried pregnant lady on a wheel chair wont marry you”

M:”Thanks, Pa. Good night.”

That went well, thought the monkey, and immediately decided to join a Gym, visit a Trichologist, and become a Manager.

Its been a month. The gym he joined keeps calling and he keeps making excuses of being out of town. The trichologist told him its male pattern baldness, a sign of maturity, so he chose maturity over hair he would have to wash every week.

The Management whim faded with time, too. A dude in a Tie and a Suit tried to sell him a Personal Loan, when he refused the dude insisted, and the monkey saw this as the future of an MBA rather than the awesome corner cabin with illegal smoking privileges.

I really cant make any decisions. Being a manager is in my genes, definitely.


O sutere!

November 19, 2008

“Dude, you said you quit smoking?”

The monkey never lied. He only altered perceptions.

“Yes, I did. I quit. For a couple of hours.”

“I am fucking sick of you. What do u want? Someday, you are gonna die”

“And you, queen, shall live forever. Because you quit smoking 6 months back. Chill.”

The monkey took up smoking in the year 2002, out of his whim to , well, smoke. Ironically, he had a few joints in 2001, but he never took nicotine. 2002, he just decided he wanted to smoke, bought a pack of Wills Navy Cut, the premium brand for poor people in India, and finished a pack in a day.

What exactly happened? A college senior made him fill a questionnaire. The questionnaire was mostly as follows:

1. Do you value your life?  Monkey’s Answer (MA) : No.

2. Do you think smoking kills? MA: Yes

3. Do you think smokers get laid more often than non smokers? MA : No

4. Would you want to miss out on anything in life? MA:No

5. If you decide on doing something, do you consider if its socially acceptable? MA:No

6. Do you play soccer at the college level? MA: No

7. Do you consume alcohol? MA:Yes

8. Do you have a girlfriend? MA: No

9. In one line, give a reason why you dont smoke? MA: Cos its bad for health.

For someone who didnt “value” his life, not smoking cos of health wasnt the reason.

What started as a symbol of rebellion against a to-be-enacted law against public smoking soon turned into an unforgivable habit. A sheer addiction. The monkey experimented with anything he could lay his hands on, but he never got addicted. With cigarettes, it was different.

Its 2008, and a lot has changed. The monkey values his life now, inspite of how painful it is. The nihilism is a stupid history. The age of experimentation is over.

Its time to begin a fresh life. Wipe the slate clean. 2009 is the year of the Monkey. Not in Chinese astro.

The monkey’s year end resolution is to “straighten out his life”.

The gods have been heard. Change is the vehicle, the only truth.

May the force be with the Monkey!

“Quit smoking you must, or die (early) you will” – Jedi Master Yoda

“Smoke whatever the fuck you can, you will die early anyway”- Prof. Cynic Monkey Jr., University of Ximians.


Random

October 20, 2008

Just another weekend. The monkey and his ex-roommates meet up at around 12 saturday night, and general consensus was to perform the ritual. The past week had been excessively heavy on The monkey, way too heavy, too too too heavy. Heavy enough to allow a break of moral code and delve deep into … umm alcohol, mostly.

So what happened last week? Shit happens, and so it happened.

As always, The monkey’s brain was wandering. Work this week was a breeze, which gave him time to realize the emptiness of his life, the meaninglessness. Now, the monkey realizes this every time he joins The Mile High Club, but this time around, he wasnt even allowed backdoor entry to the club (He ran out of valium, finally),

But still , he was soul searching. Deep Soul Searching.

Deep Soul Searching, or DSS is a phenomenon unique to advanced primates, for the lower animals have better stuff to think about, like fight for survival. These advanced monkey descendents usually have too much time on their hands to actually bother about the meaning of existence, “Why am I here when I could be elsewhere”, and “If only I had a few lakh more, I would be sleeping with a beautiful girl.”

The monkey was deliberating these questions and more. He was wondering why exactly is his CFL a spiral, when that would mean an equal amount of light(energy) is wasted lighting the inside of the spiral. Back from work quite early in the evening and having no one to see and no where to go, he kept staring at the CFL and nothing came to light. So, in a fit of genius, he pulled his only chair, which has wheels without stoppers, and pulled it right underneath the CFL. He got up on the chair, shakily  and still shaking. His vibrating knees slowly helped him reach close enough to the very live CFL, and without thought, he extended his hand and pulled it out. Only, he managed to touch the slight metal exposed before actually getting the connectors out, and got a vibrant 220 V shock (Alternating). Thinking the only wise thing would be to drop the bloody CFL, he did so, generating the teeniest momentum, but big enough to set the stopperless wheels in motion. Like a snowboarder, he extended both his arms, and in the process directed the chair straight into the nearest wall. The collision wasnt earth shattering, but The monkey, in all his glory, managed to jump right before the collision and straight onto the broken glass pieces.

Was he wearing a pair of slippers? A pair of socks? No, Sir, he most definitely wasnt. He was climbing up a chair and didnt want his ass to get dirty if he ever decided to sit on it instead of using it as a clothes rack.

Did his feet bleed, you ask? Well, he is a monkey only metaphorically, so of course they did.

Did he die? Of course he didnt, else who would be writing this post? . A colleague from work somehow answered his call, and took him to the hospital eventually.

He was fixed in no time, but of course, he walked totally like a literal monkey the rest of last week.

So much for domestication and staying indoors. The monkey has now vowed to spend each evening drinking with strangers and encouraging a fist fight at the local bar which offers unlimited liquor at a very nominal price.


He’s just a regular dude!

October 13, 2008

Three friends:Jolly,Kajrie and Meherban; 2 other girls, one of them extremely hot, the other one even hotter.

Setting: The ticket queue.

Jolly: Man this movie is gonna be so awesome. Its got a bikini clad girl and her mom’s cleavage, and 2 angry guys who cant act. Its gonne be so much fun!

Meherban: Yeah man. I heard its a sleazefest straight out of a major pervert’s dirty brain. Or crotch. Hehe.

Kajrie: Fuckers, you are out with a girl! Now zip up and get the fucking tickets.

Meherban: Yeah man, zip up now cos u’ll have to unzip when the awesome whores shake their hoohoos in your face. Haha.

Kajrie: God, I am gonna kill you  bastards. They are respectable real women, just playing a role for the movie.

Jolly: And I wanna do them.

Kajrie: I am leaving

Meherban: Hey dude, we were just kidding. I dont even have a zip, its a 501!

Jolly: And I am in my boxers. (To himself): I knew I forgot something.

Kajrie leaves, followed hastily by the boxer boy. Meherban stays in the queue.

Meherban (To Stranger No.1):Meherban.

St1. :What?

Meherban: Mmmeherban

St1.:Fuck off, loser.

Meherban(Quizically): What? Thats my name!

St2. And your dad must be loser’s father?

Meherban: Al-Meherban

St1. : Damn! He’s a terrorist!

St2.: He just said he is  from Al-Qeda.

Meherban: No you bimbos, my name is Meherban, my dad is Al-Meherban

St1: See? Now he is threatening us!

Tarzan(Appearing out of thin air):Who is troubling you sweetheart?

St1.: This guy. He is a terrorist. He has a beard and a name tough to spell.

Tarzan(On the phone): Hello!100? I have noticed suspicious individuals in the queue for movie tickets for a sleazefest directed by a miserable pervert. Its quite possible one of them is carrying a hidden bomb in his shirt. He seems to have an unusually large chest. Compared to mine, anyway.

Meherban(Shouting desperately): Jolly, help me! He has called the fucking cops!

Tarzan(On the phone): Did you listen to that? He just called you fucks. Okay, I will inform the multiplex security, and get them to issue a bomb alert. (Pause). Okay, I will personally make sure this terrorist and his accomplices stay here  till you arrive.

Jolly: What the fuck happened man? Why are you shouting like an intelligent investor in October 2008?

Meherban: Dude this guy just called the cops and told them we are terrorists.

Kajrie: Hey, himbo, dude, these guys are perverts, not terrorists!

Tarzan: So you are the human bomb? Dhanu ishtyle?

Kajrie: Fuck you moron!

—–

At the station:

Cop1: Ids.

Cop2: Of course they have ids. They have at least 2 or 3 ids. Their organisation forges ids.

Sleepy Cop: Just make sure you divide the kill with me. Yawn.

Cop1: Its a matter of national security. This guy has a beard and a name tough to spell.

Cop2: Yeah. We shall uphold justice.

Kajrie: My mom will uphold you two by the balls. I want my phone call.

Sleepy Cop: Just let em go. Make sure you divide the kill with me. Yawn.

Cop2: No phone calls. TADA.

Kajrie: TADA was scrapped you ass. I want my phone call.

Meherban: Here, use my cell.

Cop1: Detonator!! He has a detonator!

Cop2 flies through the air,Meherban steps aside , Cop2 bangs his head against a table corner and bleeds to death.

Cop1 (On the phone): These are deadly fuckers, Saheb! They killed Cop2 without even hitting him! (Pause). Encounter? Ji saheb!

Sleepy Cop:Make sure you divide the kill with me. Yawn.

Cop1: Wake up, sleepydick, we got to kill these bastards in a fake encounter to preserve national security and police brutality.

Meherban: Why am I recording all of this on my wonderful smuggled iphone?

Kajrie: Because we are going to use this to fucking jail these bastards.

Kajrie’s mom, the lady in white, arrives.

K.M: Beta! I told you not to do ecstasy!

Kajrie: Shut the fuck up,Mom. These morons think we are terrorists. They want to kill us in an encounter.

K.M: What? Who’s incharge here.

Sleepy Cop: He is lying there sleeping peacefully. In a pool of blood. Meherban the terrorist killed him without even lifting his finger. Yawn.

K.M. : How could you, Mmmmeher!

Kajrie: The moron banged his head and died. We have the video.

K.M.(Watching the video): Nice phone, Mmmmeher.

Meherban: Thanks, Kajrie’s mom. What you doing tonight?

Kajrie: Rescuing us, moron!

Meherban(To Kajrie’s mom): Mmmmeherban.

Kajrie:Meher! She’s your mom’s age!

K.M.: Yeah, but I am divorced and available. And an extremely hot MHLF (Mother HE would ….).

Kajrie: Kill me.

Sleepy Cop: The shift’s over. Ask the other guys who come in the next shift.

Cop1: Adios. Shift’s over.

Jolly(Busy collecting ids and information taken by the cops): Lets run!

All of them(running): And justice is upheld!

Cop2:(Silence)

Meherban and Kajrie’s mom:Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Kajrie: Somebody, please kill me!

Jolly(Operating Meher’s wonderful smuggled iphone’s camera) : A little to the right, Meher, I cant get her cleavage from this angle in this wonderful smuggled iphone.


Where do we go now?

October 11, 2008

I’ve been thinking, and its really hurting my ass.

The “deadline”. The 7 month deadline is all about to end. What happens next is nobody’s guess. I am surprised that at the ripe young age of 43, give or take 16 years(mostly take), I have no fucking clue.

So about the 7 month deadline. I was in a fix this April. A mighty fix at that. Then Lord Shiva, Mahakaal, The great guiding spirit with an ounce of dhatoora, and some bhang, came to me and told me to Let it be. It wasnt John Lennon this time, it really was the Lord. I saw him standing there(Another poor beatles pun), with that wonderful King Cobra entwined around his blue neck. Or I could just be hallucinating. But thats not the point, the point is what he told me.

Shiv : “Dude, you lost a fuckload of time lying on that stupid bed. You know, there’s so much booze you didnt drink and so many bitches you didnt help gain self esteem by letting them trample you underfoot. The ugly ladies need you, cos no one seems to appreciate them like you do. What else would a fat bastard like you aim for anyway? Ambition, my son, is the enemy of success. And success, my friend, is your greatest fear. Now, I suggest, with my infinite wisdom and an altered  perception cos of the  heavenly narcotics ( strictly not for trade on earth) I did right before I transcended into your filthy pig sty, you live it up. Go get an apartment, stay alone, wank of thrice a night, hit on anything that moves, but no cows, Nandi minds it, and get a fucking job, for Christ Sakes -apologies for blasphemy.”

Monkey: “Man, How high am I?”

Shiv: “11 stories. I fucking took the stairs to take care of my pot belly. Now man, I am here cos you freaking called for help, not  to watch u slurp and finger your nose. Gross. You are never gonna get a chic like this. You have to be a human, and a not so fat human, you rhinoceres. Who gave you that freaking nose?”

Monkey: ” Guess you did. You or that other punk, Brahma or something. Look man, I have a life changing decision to make tomorrow morning. Just go and lemme get some sleep.”

Shiv:  Darn you, dickhead. I am here to help you make that life threatening decision.”

Monkey:”Man, you are telling me to get a job. I have a choice of 3. Which one do I choose.”

Shiv:”In Soviet Russia, job chooses you.”

Monkey:”A russian reversal? Man, you are good.”

Shiv:”Uncyclopedia.org. Best viewed in any browser.”

Monkey:”So which one do I take?”

Shiv:”You already know. Start afresh. Make up for lost time. Have fun. Remove all dependencies. Walk like you used to walk, bitch!”

Monkey:”For a God, you curse a lot, man”

Shiv:”Nah dude,I talk in the language you understand. I got a babel fish. Arthur Dent gave it to me to bribe his way to heaven.”

Monkey:”You accepted a bribe?”

Shiv:”Yeah, and sent him straight to hell. They call it “offerings”, you know. Its upto me to accept it and ditch the fuck.

Monkey:”What about ethics?”

Shiv:”Fuck ethics, I devised the freaking moral code to keep you guys busy. Anyhow, dude, the decision you have to make is not about a freaking job or the zeroes in your salary. You make sure you dont leap this time. Walk. Slow and steady wins the race.

Monkey:”And the fast ones get laid.”

Shiv:”Forget about getting laid.  Not happening this year. Just chill and get your brain in order. Multiple whores are predicted in 2009. Sue me if they charge you more than a 1000.

Monkey:”Man, you got to grant me a wish or something. Gods do that kinda stuff when they see humans, I have heard”

Shiv:”Fuck off. The only thing I will grant you right now is a bang on the head and a snake up your ass. Want that?”

Monkey:”Nah man. One request, though. I have heard tons about your dance. Make the earth shake.”

Shiv:”Awesome man. Got some trance? You know that Buddha Bar shit. I loved it.”

Monkey: “There you go. Shake it, baby!!”

The next day, I decided to move to a different town, stay alone and read, and “just be” for 7 months.

A mild earthquake was reported that night.


Degeneracy

September 2, 2008

“Degeneracy can be fun but it’s hard to keep up as a serious lifetime occupation.” -Robert M. Pirsig

My life peaked at the age of 13 and has been going downhill since. As a keen and rather intelligent primate, I discovered the magic of sex way too young, and its ironic that 14 years later, I am permanently deprived of that one wonder my body can legitimately provide with the assistance of just one person and not a million, which is the normal state of our lives. What do I know that some one else before me didnt? Do I even want to know?

Discovery, accidental or otherwise, is healthy. I remember finding out its quite possible to jump from a 12 foot ledge and not break my legs. I discovered I could hit any cricket ball that came to me as long as I didnt get scared. I discovered women, I discovered cigarettes, alcohol, rock, metal and blues, I discovered I didnt have to write what people like, I discovered I didnt have to be what people like. Well, maybe , just maybe, there are a few people who wont push me to a barber’s, there may even be a girl who likes hair, facial and otherwise.

In spite of all my pesudo-grunge existence, I sometimes tend to be quite normal. I still blush when a girl catches me staring at her celestial wonders. I am still confused if they could be called phobos and demos, two fiery moons, or a pair of mangoes, or just plain mammary glands, simple functional organs that probably werent erotic till women decided to hide them. So much of our existence, even our sensuality ,is a product of mass conditioning.

Every week, between monday and friday, I am a robot. I solve problems mechanically, I handle clients mechanically, I code mechanically, and I come home, watch japanese models nude, wank off to them with Tool telling me that 46 and 2 are still ahead of me, and go to sleep,mechanically. It has nothing to do with my degree.

Every weekend, I eat, drink and think alcohol.

An odd wine through the week is also not rare. I still remember the days when me and most of my friends were so pathetically drunk we had to really ask ourselves how people turned alcoholics. We never noticed we were alcoholics.

Which brings us back to the subject of ,yes, —degeneracy!

Before I had picked up Zen, all I knew about degeneracy was in terms of atoms. Then, with the precision of a heart surgeon, I hand picked the parts of other people’s lives, their books, their dreams, their sorrows, their women, and within a few years, I didnt recognize myself. In my mind, I was Superman, I was Super Command Dhruv, I was James Bond, I was Elseworth M. Toohey, I was even Jon Bon Jovi in Destination Anywhere, and I stood there staring at Demi Moore’s window. I never fancied myself to be a Roark back then, I was tiny and I couldnt draw. I jerked off to Dominique Francon and Dagny Taggart, who in my mind always looked like the girl I fancied back then, white as snow with long hair and a condescending smile. Being a remarkably ugly child, I saw most women as Goddesses, someone I could aspire for and never be with. As I grew up, I was with a lot many of these women, and perhaps out of my deep insecurities, the count of which I have totally lost, I scoffed them off, if they didnt throw me away before that. The closest I came to being truly in a relationship was a very heartbreaking experience, and somewhat knee and back breaking as well.

At 13, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I proclaimed it with much aplomb with a Denins the Menace poster- “My target-Doing nothing” which was taken in great spirit by my providers. I was lectured on how this is the time I should start working hard, etc etc. In the end, the poster stayed on the wall , my one true ambition, just to exist, just to be, just to be happy, it had to fade away and be replaced by an obscene competitive streak, which to this day haunts me. I am a composition of so many different people, I myself dont know how I would react to a given situation.

I believe all of us have severe multiple personality disorder. If you dont believe me, try this:Call your best friend at work, then call her at a party.

My one true ambition, the target of doing nothing, never really left, though. I tried my best to be the worst at everything I ever did, yet there were people far more task oriented than me and they set me up for failure even in my attempts to be a miserable failure. I just went on, always in a haze, always muddled in confusion. In third year of college, I decided to drop out, and promptly informed my providers. They agreed, since I wasnt doing well, maybe I should drop out and revive the family farms. A strong kid like me could definitely make something grow on those barren lands.

The decision was therefore soon reverted, and I applied myself  to alcohol, cigarettes and greenery. Years have been passing by, and I have been medicated, mostly on prescription drugs, and its been about two months that finally, I can tell my doctor I had  a drink and he wont kill me for that. Could it be its all those anti-dep that really fucked my head? Rationalization, thy name is Monkey.

There’s a school of thought in the department of primate psychology in the Univerity of Ximians which suggests that all of us are addicts of some kind and we all have very low self esteem. Some talk too much, some lie too much, some are just addicted to proving they arent addicts and we really take what other people think of us way too seriously. The highly acclaimed research wasnt published in any major journal, however, for it would destroy the world as we know it. Take away addictions and give every one some self esteem, and Apple would be selling a Jack a nano version of The Giant Peach in a fruit mart.

Presently, I realise I havent left the path of degeneracy I once adopted out of a necessity to escape reality and the people whose life I live. Time is running out, and everything seems to stagnate, each day is the same and I still feel like SCD and Superman, and Maynard James Keenan and Roger Waters and George Orwell and Madonna.

Its been a while since I felt like myself, though.


All for love – I

August 1, 2008

Gurgaon is practically a suburb of Delhi. Or so I thought.

For love, and money, I took up a job in Gurgaon. The city is excellent, but its only halfway done. Except for the malls. Yeah, the awesome, lovely malls with their multiplexes and midriff-baring girl-jeans hoardings. I havent been to the city since December 2006.

I worked quite hard to ensure it was in/around Delhi, my campus placement. And I managed it too. I was rather proud of myself. I had worked for it, I managed to get it. It was awesome.

It sucked bigtime. It took an hour and a half to reach anywhere close to my sweetheart, which after work was impossible. I couldnt take a place close to her house cos I wasnt paid well enough. Worse, I had suddenly realised my love for alcohol slightly exceeded my love for my sweetheart. I tried to divide my attention between the two, with alcohol winning owing to the simple fact: We had a few drinks together, me and my sweets.

Anyhow, lets get to the point. It was a cold December evening. We met at TGIF @CP , and were sloshed out of our skulls, PDAs and loud laughs. You know how it gets when two people meet and behave like there’s no tomorrow. Both of us knew it could be our last time together, every meeting came with the caveat that it could be the last. She was an hieress of sorts, I was a loser of all sorts. The only thing I had ever been serious about was her, and she was half serious about me herself. And, we almost made it.

I digress again. This isnt the story of how to make a bad situation worse, its the story of the victory of love over lack of public transport. That fateful day in December 2004, when I was in Gurgaon when I should have been in college writing a paper on fuel cells, was of course a Sunday. You get a bus that takes you somewhere close to the friend’s place I was bunking in at. You get the bus, but only till about 11 in the night. From CP to the place where you get that bus, a place called Dhaula Kuan, named so as to avert the coward for fear of falling in a well. I eventually managed to get off an auto, and took out my exceptionally flashy “Rack and Pinion” Samsung N-400 to look at the time.

I opened the flap, but the antenna didnt pop out. It was a dead brick presently, out of power. I had courageously ignored the tu-toos it made to alert me of the catastropy that was about to befall the ximian kind, and my courage paid me stupidly well. I was stranded around 35 km from my shelter, I was wearing a thing grey hooded benneton sale ka maal which kept me about as warm as a vest would do, and there were no bus to Gurgaon.

I sweet talked a bus-wallah into telling me a place where I could get off and reach somewhere close to my shelter. I knew exactly four guys in Delhi, and I just knew them. I didnt know their number, because my stupid cell phone was dead, alcohol could be smelt in a radius of 3 m around me, I could barely speak without a stutter and I was cold as hell. He told me of a bus that would drop me somplace from where I could get a 6-seater (which actually meant 6 in each of the 3 rows).

I, the brave knight in a smelly grey sweatshirt, jumped on the bus, bought the ticket, and made everyone around me uncomfortable with the booze smell. I was suffocated, I felt like puking.

I dozed off for a few microseconds, when I woke up with a start to realise that my bus was empty. I walked out the door, confident that the 50 bucks I had would carry me to my shelter from here somehow.

I got down in the pitch dark, expecting to locate the semblance of a six-seater. There was one, there. I walked towards it with brave excitement, only to realise it was stalled and dysfunctional. As I walked further, I recognised some of my bus mates. I asked them what the hell happened , and they told me that the bus broke down. Where are we? We dont know. How do we get to Gurgaon? We hitch a ride on something.