My life is becoming way to fictional for my own good.
It’s gone from being a Monty Python-esque absurdist comedy to something far more dangerous. My life’s becoming a Neo Noir movie, minus the graphic sex L!!
But first, “I went to them thaar Venky’s. Again. I came second in the quiz. Again.” This is becoming annoying! This quiz was literally gifted to the Stephanians (or is Steve-anians? Ste-pun-ians?). Thanks to our seating arrangement, we scored ONLY from direct questions, whereas Stephanians got around six or seven passed questions. Sitters, too! So it goes.
The prize money was in the form of a cheque addressed to me. We went to the college branch of Andhra Bank to get it cashed. We expected a good amount of bureaucracy and were hoping to get the cash by today itself. The manager looks at the name and asks, “Telugu?”. “Yes, sir.” (In telugu) “Oh! Me, too! Came second in the quiz, eh? Well done. Well done. Just sign behind the cheque. There you go. And, what do you think of the college? Did you try the Vada-Sambar at the canteen? It’s really good here. Well done, again. Congratulations and everything. Here’s your money.” Vernacular saves the day again!
After this was when the excreta really hit the overhead rotatory cooling device! I had to go to Dinesh Kapur’s house (IIT Campus… right behind it) to pick up my copy of ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’, a book which I am finally reading after nearly everyone I know has suggested that I do so. I was exhausted and was dying to go home.
The AIIMS flyover. I had to get to the other side to board one of those call-center cabs that give you a lift to Noida. I head for the underpass. There were no lights. Pitch dark. I was three-fourths my way there when…
This is true. Including me thinking. It’s the ONLY skill I have. In a pressure situation, I think like crazy. The ol’ noodle works real fast.
I’m grabbed from behind. The assailant tries to put his arm around my neck, gets the base of my neck and shoulder instead. His other arm lands on my leg, where my wallet is and he frantically tries to shove his hand in my pocket and grab it.
Till now, I didn’t react. I did come to three conclusions, though:
- This guy is shorter and probably weaker than I am. I could tell that from his arm and the fact that he was pulling me down. Drug-addict. He stank.
- He is extraordinarily stupid. I’m larger than him, he shouldn’t have attacked me. Plus, his grip is not properly around my neck and he didn’t try to correct and tighten it.
- The reason I didn’t react all the while is because I thought that either he’s armed or not alone. The moment he reached for my pocket with his other hand, I knew he’s screwed.
I’d had a bad day. I needed this, maybe. I ran backwards and this poor fool ended up between a wall and my 85-kg bulk. I probably broke one of ribs in the process of slamming him thus. Obviously his hands slumped and he clutched his chest, cursing in some indecipherable hindi-bhojpuri dialect. I replied with a “Motherfucker!” and aimed a brilliant kick in order to end any hopes this asshole had of ever becoming a father. In hindsight, I realize that wasn’t necessary, but I don’t regret it. He started it!
Now cometh the moment of truth. If I’m faking, I’d add some amazing gang and me beating the shit out of them and finally, finishing the leader with a cool punchline. But since it’s true, all I did was run my ass up to AIIMS and quickly hide in the crowd… watching the underpass all the while. No one came out. Less than 30 seconds later, I got a HCL cab to Noida.
ME MACHO-MAN! ME BEAT SOMEONE UP! ALL HAILING TO ME!
I’m just thankful. I’ll probably avoid that underpass for some time now.