If God would have, for a single moment in his omnipotent existence, have taken the time to give me just the slightest piece of advice, then life would never have been this fucked up.
I'm not asking for too much, just a simple "Watch out for that gang shooting", or an "Ignore the offer to migrate the business, he's only going to exploit you". Instead, I'm sure he just sat up there, looked down on me while he's chilling with Gandhi and half-a-dozen popes, trying hard not to laugh.
Bastard.
But then again, I shouldn't be blaming God for this. I could have easily decided to have never left, just as easily as I could have decided not to return. Instead, I went ahead and did both. And look where that got me.
Of course, you have no idea what I'm talking about. you've so far been at best confused, at worst bored. If the former, then bare with me for a while. If the latter, then fuck off.
This probably isn't for you anyways.
I'd started with a simple dream. To have enough money for a good life, and a smoking hot babe for a wife. Yep, just every ordinary man's dream. And five days into Delhi that dream was out the window, on the street, and already run over by half of the city traffic.
In front of me was just the booze, just the sex, just the drugs. And I loved it. Loved it to the point where I had some very powerful people who wanted to 'talk' to me. Of course, you must want to ask a bunch of questions... what about Parents?
Dead. Never met 'em.
I'm adopted. At least I was till I was old enough to leave. Got the old man to pay for some course in English, the only subject I could deal with, and I ran away from 'home' as fast as I could. And college... well college was great as long as I didn't attend it. And the grades fell and the attendance fell, and all I could do was hide every trace of evidence. From 'home', from 'parents', from myself.
And then finally...
"You've got little other choice."
"I know."
"So are you going to do it?"
"I don't know."
"But they'll kill you when they find out."
"I know."
"You can't die."
"I know."
"So what are you going to-"
"WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?! IT'S HARD ENOUGH TO BLOODY THINK WITHOUT YOUR BITCHING 24X7!"
"Alright, alright." Arjan held his hands back in defense. "I was just trying to help."
Again, I ran my fingers through my hair, holding the urge to rip clumps of it out. "By reminding me of the facts of my current situation, the last thing you're doing is helping me."
"Credit for trying?"
I threw the pillow at his face and told him to get out. He gave me one last rueful look, before turning out and walking out of my room, slowly closing the door behind him. The second the door closed I was up again, pacing the room as my hands wrestled with themselves. I had to find a way out of this, I had to. In another six hours, that door would open again, only it'd bee three six-foot bastards wielding hockey-sticks like the fucking Matrix. And physical confrontations were not my strong suit.
At least, not yet.
Six hours to go. I chugged down what was left in the glass and sat down on the couch, trying to collect my thoughts. It was like trying to hold the wind in your hands. My head started to spin, my nerves just grew. I closed my eyes, took deep breaths, trying to calm myself...
I opened my eyes, and screamed in shock. An hour! When the hell did it become an hour! I looked around me for the culprit, and threw the bottle of Old Monk against the wall. The glass shattered, jagged shrapnel hitting the walls. A tattoo of run smeared itself across the plaster, thin streaks slowly sliding down until a little puddle started to form at the base of the wall. It was then did I feel the sting on my cheek. I reached my finger up to my face, and took it away to see a thin streak of blood on my fingers. One of the shards must have cut my cheek, but all I could think about was the beating, and then most-certain death. I wondered what they'd do to my body after they were done with me. Would they just leave my body here, or would they make me 'disappear', as though I never existed?
What the hell is wrong with you? You have less than an hour to live, and this is what you're stuck on? Why don't you just plan the funeral on a note to be read while you're at it?
I blinked. That had never happened before.
Obviously it didn't. Because you were never going to die before now, were you? So get your bloody wits together and get out of here before they find you and make a Quentin Tarantino movie out of this room.
I still stood there, rooted in shock and panic. The beating was forgotten. Oh God, I'm going Insane, Oh God, I'm going insane, Oh God I'm going-
Yes, that is something constructive. Start doubting your sanity a little while BEFORE YOU'RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE! This is not the moment for you to be doing this. So just shut up, put some shit into a bag and GET THE BLOODY HELL OUT OF HERE!
The switch flipped. I moved around my room, no longer in motiveless panic, but now with swift sure movements, dumping a handful of clothes in a duffel bag, along with anything else that I could think was important. Turns out, there wasn't much.
Hoisting the bag on my shoulders, I walked out of the room, taking a moment to tentatively peer out of the corridor. Empty. Raju Bhai said he would come by seven, and I still had over half-an-hour left.
Enough time.
I walked down the corridor at what seemed more like a jog. I reached the elevator and was already outside the building before I realized it. Shit, I think I was still drunk at the time. Well, at least I had something to explain for the voice.
Trust me, buddy. You have a lot more than booze to justify me. But right now you just worry about staying alive.
I blinked. There it was again. That strange voice that I couldn't understand. That strange voice-
You call me strange once more, and I'll give you the mother of all headaches, you hear? Now shut the fuck up with your monologues and hail a bloody auto.
I dumbly nodded and shouted out at the next auto that passed. He didn't listen and carried on. Cursing under my breath, I had to repeat the performance until the fifth bastard stopped.
"Kahan?" He asked after spitting out a brilliant red streak of pan on the road beside me. I told him to head for the airport, nothing else made sense. Climbing into the back with my luggage, I headed out praying to reach the terminal in safety.
I will never forget that ride.
My eyes were always searching behind me, trying to see if I could spot anyone familiar in the cars behind. Thank god I didn't. The auto driver grumbled and cursed, but we made the highway in good time. And then he asked me the first question that would warp life as I knew it.
"Domestic ya International jane ka hain?"
I didn't even hesitate. "International. Jaldi."
I was out of the auto before it had even come to a stop. I'd already paid the auto driver, and as I walked briskly towards the terminal, I headed towards my first objective.
The ATM.
Automatic Teller Machine. The lifeblood of any college student. When broke, head to the ATM. When in doubt, head to the ATM. When-
Shut the hell up and withdraw! I though I told you to can it with the bloody monologues.
All right, this will sound silly, but all I could say was 'Yes, Sir' and walked into the booth, shoving my card into the machine. I had thirty-four thousand rupees. I withdrew it all.
Then I snapped the card in half and threw it away.
"Hello!" She smiled. "Where to?"
I looked at the board. I turned back to look at her.
"Hong Kong... You, uh, don't need a visa for there, do you?"
She smiled a fake smile. "Uh, yes sir. As long as your passport is ready (it was) and you have no dangerous articles ( I didn't), you can fly to Hong Kong. If you'd like, I could book you on-"
"The earliest. Yes please."
No one asks questions unless they have too. And fours later, India was behind me. Holy shit, I had just run away from whatever I had to a place that I had never been before, to a life that I didn't even have the slightest clue about. This was, yep this definitely was, one of the lowest points of my life.
Well, at least you've got me for company.
Welcome to the beginning. The beginning of my end.
Oh, that is so cliched.
Fuck you.
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