“The fuck! “Screamed Mr. SelfieAddict, “Shut the windows! Bolt the door! Or we’ll die! ”
I hurried towards the kitchen window. It was like the scene they show you on Fox Crime, when a smoke bomb is thrown inside the room to trigger forced evacuation. It was foggy white smoke spreading like fire in the incandescently white room. It smelled like the aftermath of a nuclear war.
The kitchen window was a tricky one. That bastard just wouldn’t shut. Some construction problem, I guess, but the window shutter didn’t budge beyond a point. There was a cable stuck on the way, I noticed later.
We packed the flat and switched the fan on. The smoke spread and disappeared, however, the awful smell still hung in the air. I had to spew the shit out of my deodorant spray-can.
“It’s ridiculous how they keep shouting ‘stop pollution’ whole year and now they fucking bang the atmosphere like it’s a free slut. Somebody would get Asthma. “Screamed Mr. SelfieAddict through the ceaseless boom of explosives.
We heard thunderous knocks on the door. As I opened it, GymFreak hopped in.
“I can’t bear it anymore. There’s smoke all over. Tomorrow’s paper will be full of datas and stats. “
He had just run back from the terrace. I was there some time ago. The sight was miserable. When I was a kid, a thousand diyas used to be lined up on every parapet. Yesterday, there were hardly any candles, let alone diyas. Chinese lighting everywhere! Fuck Swadeshi! Add to that countless crackers. And Delhi already ranks so high in pollution! It seemed like people had the license to fuck themselves that night. It’s ironical – I mean you make new records of pollutant emission every Diwali and spend rest of the year discussing the dangers associated with it. Isn’t that plain dumb!?
That apart, adulteration has reached epic proportions. The pink rasgullas we had was nothing but sugar, the quantity per unit square high enough to kill a diabetic person with a pinch consumption. The Paneer wasn’t like Paneer at all, it never is, and the Bhatures were like something they would probably give in prison.
The only solace was Jennifer Aniston’s hot body in Horrible Bosses. She was the perfect, harmless, enticing Diwali explosion. That apart, Shivay was a nice concept with some plot holes and fucklogicbecauseit’sbollywood mania. Okay, it was a one-time watch with a few godpleasegivemeafastforwardbutton moments. Ai Dil Hai Mushkil was better, only because of the acting, especially Ranbir’s. The story sucked in the end though.
Anyway, a lot of people came, and the evening was elegant, even though HotGirl was home. The night was horrible and smokey. And nothing like we have in my hometown.