Credits

The car park
Whoa. There’s that Beamer. Used to dream of it. Not anymore. Life’s been good without it.
I can hear the chimes. It’s six already?
Hey! Nice asphalt!


The second floor
This is it.


The third floor
Is that it? Always thought there’d be more to it. Just go with the flow, I guess.


The sixth floor
Friends are great. Friends kick you in the butt when you’re wrong. Or, even, sometimes when you’re not. But that don’t matter. They’re friends, at the end of the day. I still love him.


The ninth floor
I think I know why he did it. I probably deserved it.


The tenth floor
Must’ve been about that night when…But, he got it all wrong. It was just... too… petty. Petty! Ironic.


The twelfth floor
Where are the flashes?


The thirteenth floor
Can’t believe he did it. What was he thinking? I’ll find a way to get back to him. Question is, how?


The sixteenth floor
Gaah, I’m so mad. There’s so much left to do, and now this!


The eighteenth floor
There he is. I can see him standing at the ledge on the top, looking down at me. Is that a look of guilt on his face? It better be. Hah.


The terrace

The rendezvous begins as planned. He charges at me.

“How dare you,” he asks.

“Why not,” I reply.

“You never understood, did you? All you did was run behind riches…

…It’s called running behind your dreams, dude.” I interrupt.

He isn’t budging. “Do you have any idea how pointless this all is?

I don’t like fiddling with safety catches. But that’s what I’m doing now. I shout back first.

“That’s the reason you told on me? Because you couldn’t get the point of it all?”

“Yes. Yes. But you won’t know it. Not till you are nearing the end, anyway.”

“End?” The catch's unlocked now.

"Yeah. You start off disgruntled. But then, you go with the flow, and as it happens, you grow… happier.” Is that an almost-smile I see?

“When WHAT happens?” I have my finger across the business end now.

“The beginning. Of the…

I haven’t noticed he’s moved closed to me. And I, close to the ledge.

“…end.” He finishes with a push.

I can only grab at the thin air. And his watch. It says one minute to six.

----------

My first attempt at fiction. I resisted the temptation for long, but yield happened. So here goes:

Oscar. Sierra Hotel India Tango.

Last week, I was told to go straight to a client’s office in the morning instead of coming to my own office. Was only too happy to avoid another late-register signing. As it happens, the client’s office is a bit off-track from my office. Which basically means the road is common till a point, and then diverges.

So the next morning, I get up. Scavenge through the wardrobe for my least-casual attire. Kick start my bike. Ride for about 15 minutes. And reach the office. My office. All the while, knowing that I’m supposed to go the CLIENT’S office.

Damn.

What happened, I asked myself. You were on friggin’ autopilot, that’s what. If it is a weekday, and if it is 10’o clock in the morning, the god-darned system is programmed to take me there. That’s why, whenever I am riding to the office (mine), I never have to think about where to turn, which pothole to look for, and which ‘awful-driver’ bend to be alert at. Everything happens on autopilot. Which is very different from being sub-lost in your thoughts, and hence being a dangerous driver. No, you are fully aware of the traffic situation on the outside. It’s just the route that’s being, urm, piloted for you.

And the road is not the only place you are thus.

When you come to think of it, it starts right from the beginning. Every morning, you get up from bed with the same bones making the same crackling sounds. The toothbrush goes across precisely in the same order: Maxillary premolar first, mandibular lateral incisor next, then on to the next row. Bathing follows similar pattern, body parts are soaped in the same order, and of course, wiped too in the same precise sequence. (*insert preteen carnal giggle here*). Heck, even the way you eat, shearing the roti piece in the same size, from the same corner, sitting with your lunch box opened in the same layout, everyday. The way you shave. The way you plonk your bag at the desk before turning the comp on. The way you (if you) smoke.

Yeah, you catch the drift. We have the same grind every day, so it’s only natural to be this way. It is the non-unconsciously subconscious way we go about doing it, is what stupefies. And manifests into a joke when there’s a deviation. Like going to the client’s office in the morning.

So, when we say we need a break from the routine, what we really mean is we need to go manual for a while. Which means more work, but more control too. That is what makes a geared vehicle a pleasure to drive. And a manual camera that much more appealing. A get away from the mundane. A departure from the habitual. But that’s only during a break. I wish life was manual.

The Seinfeld Post

I shalt not make light about the Flu.

I shalt resist panning a superstar’s airport adventures.

I shalt not ridicule a certain Swayamwar.

I shalt hold back from being opinionated on 377.

I shalt avert plug-ins.

I shalt avoid template changes.

I shalt fiercely defy the temptation to rant, ramble, or muse.

I shalt keep away from short-storied fiction (as of now) or quasi-poetry.

When I hast nothing to blog about, I won’t.