It is 8 pm.
You walk away from your college building, straightening your shoulders as the dreary weight of misery lessens with each step towards the bus stop. You wrap your muffler around you in tight coils so that not one particle of the blasting cold wind touches your delicate skin. It still does. Damn, the shivers.
The conversation between your friends is a distant drone in the background of your consciousness. It merges with the ambient sound of traffic. Horn, conversation, insert absent-minded laugh, the unbridled sound of a Royal Enfield. You say your goodnight turning away before hearing their response. You search for a vacant rickshaw. On spotting one you ask him politely whether or not he shall take you to the station. He acquiesces, quotes his exorbitant winter season special rate and you haul your self. The seat is warmed by the puller’s ass, thank god for small pleasures.
Your earphones are plugged in before his first pedal. Ha ha, LOL. No they aren’t. They are as tangled as you imagine your legs to be with your imaginary lover. After much cursing you manage to untangle them and finally play a song. Half a kilometre has been covered by the grunting rickshaw puller. The wind turns your bones into beautiful formations of ice. You check to see if your fingers still work because the phone’s screen cannot register your cold touch. Phones much like humans need warmth. The problem is the phone gets some, you don’t.
You’ve settled in your 38 degree inclined red seat. One hand under your butt for warmth, the other clings on to the phone while the fingers stretch like over-zealous gymnasts at Olympics. One typo free message and the gold is yours. And then there is a mighty jerk.
Your heart is replaced by that of a hummingbird’s and the periphery of your eyeball notices a car centimetres away from your leg. It all happened too fast. And hello, the background music was not right. You realise you could have fallen off your red seat and died. Your sub-conscious may scoff this off as melodrama but you shut it out. You wait for your epiphany. The mantra of life, your reel of happy sepia-toned memories, the people you love the most, last vestiges of worldly wisdom, anything. Well, the brain’s got nothing.
That is all it could manage. The rickshaw puller starts pedalling away again. He is Akshay Kumar’s stuntman from Chandni Chowk. You realise nothing life altering happened and curse him in a language befitting inebriated hungry truck drivers functioning on one hour of sleep. The rickshaw puller doesn’t give a damn. He is Akshay Kumar’s go-to guy.
Your heart beat is back to normal. Your lazy body did not cough up much adrenaline, let alone any memories.
Maybe that is your epiphany: you’re lazy.