You’ve Changed…

The guilt and the burden. And The Change

​It has been a year since then. All my memories have become smoggy. Even though the texts are archived on FB, I haven’t browsed through those for the last 365 days. She’s online, she always is, but we don’t talk anymore. I check her profile, the latest updates, and after I fail to find any recent developments I go to settings to log out. 

Dingggg! goes my messenger. 

It’s a text from her. 

We talk. Reminisce and tell. It’s different now, though. The persons that we were and the persons we have become. Kind of Strangers. The air between us isn’t pink anymore. Two days later, she drops the hammer with the words –

You’ve changed…



Being a history student who has studied constant linear changes for the last two semesters, there’s no one like me who can lay an iota more of emphasis on the fact that PEOPLE CHANGE. Yes, people! You change. You bloody change. And so does everything else in the universe. Hell, according to Neil degrasse Tyson, even the universe is changing, constantly. 

The problem is when the other person doesn’t accept that she has changed. 

“I’m still the same Naina/Pinky/Salma/whatever, but you’ve changed. “They claim and make you feel the guilt you could have happily lived without. 

The reason why they claim such might vary, but the most remarkable and obvious one is because they themselves want to escape the guilt. Now people, guilt isn’t some single bed mosquito net with a hole that you can escape. It’s a liability that has to be shifted. So unless you’re forgiven or proved innocent, there’s no escaping guilt. One spectacular way of proving yourself innocent is to pass the guilt to someone else. Make the victim the criminal. Genius! πŸ˜‘

So what happens is that the other person texts you out of nowhere, pretends she wants to rekindle the friendship/half-girlfriendship/whatever, either consciously or subconsciously, and instead what she does is find the changes, spot those minute differences in your manners that actually are developments over periods and says – You aren’t the same person anymore. And this lame line justifies it all. At once, the roles are reversed, and she becomes the victim. The victim of your change. 

This is like the height of ridiculousness. πŸ˜‚

Yes I am not the same person anymore. But nor are you. We both have grown. Differently and apart. You think you are the same innocent self but you are not. At least I do not live in a delusion. And at least, I don’t feel the guilt that you subconsciously feel. 
The change is bound to happen. Life is like a river, as old poets have sung. It never stops, just goes on and on, always moving ahead, changing itself and the world around it. The problem isn’t that I changed and you changed but that we didn’t change together. We forked away and now our courses don’t run parallel. That’s a naked truth you can’t see. But you must understand this. 

And don’t be guilty of the past, well, unless you’ve killed like one million jews or something. Move on. Change. That is why you are a human. The change that happens with you and within you isn’t merely a change, it’s growth. Grow.

And of course I don’t owe an apology to somebody if I have changed even an atom. It’s upto you to stay or leave. I’ll keep changing, with time and tides. That’s why I am free…

Awkward Awkward

Well, guess what! I bumped into Doctor. 😐

For the last few days, this new glitzy fast food joint called Charlie has been our binge corner. We start the evening with PC or Bhola knocking at my door after I fail to register their 23 missed calls. I fumble around for clothes and wear whatever my hands pull out of the Kilimanjaro piled up in our armchair. Then I comb my hair, slogging to create art above my scalp, but alas, it’s always awful. I rush out, and there they are, fat and miserable, but happy anyway. And then we keep walking, till the earth turns green and the sky turns red…



It was one of those normal days. We had returned back from the stadium after a long exasperating talk session dominated by dialogues concerning counselling and admission and cutoff and ranks and courses and whatnot, but which was supposed to be a long entertaining gossip session dominated by dialogues concerning pussies and breasts and cricket and AIB and politics and anything but career and studies. 

The two swines, PC and Bhola, were sitting like crabs on the red swing of my house, which I am pretty sure moves on its own after midnight. 

“I am starved. I need food. “PC said it for the thirteenth time. He is always hungry. People are always hungry. 

“What do you want from me? “I asked. 

“Feed me anything. Or I’ll die. “He pretended to have a cardiac arrest as he grabbed his manboob and dropped his tongue out. I wanted to tell him that 1. That’s not how you die of hunger and 2. That’s not how you die at all. 

“There’s nothing much in the house. Just some cheap Bengali mixture. “I lied. Actually there was Bikaji mix in the house, but there was no way I was going to sacrifice that. So instead I grabbed a bill of 100 and asked them to come follow me. 

“Oh Ravish…You’re our protector, you’re our lord!!” They sang as they followed me. 

On the way, we discussed our orders.

“Chicken momo for us. Veg burger for you. “They agreed.

“Fuck. I’m the one who’s paying, guys! “I protested. See, the world is pretty cruel towards veggies (shhhh….). These non vegetarians get to lay their canines upon chicken and lamb and beef and beacon and pork and mutton and crabs and squids and octopuses and what not, and here we are, lone warriors of Paneer, consoling ourselves with the belief that ultimately non veggies are going to be burned in the devil’s kitchen. The ratio of benefit in this case was 2:2:1 against me. So obviously, I was unhappy. 

“Alright. I have extra twenty bucks. “Bhola said. 

And so we moved ahead, fantasizing our beautiful plates. 

“Doctor. “PC said as we stepped into Charlie. I kind of froze. 

Yes. There she was and here I was. And on our faces was nothing but one singular expression of surprise. All I could see was her face and her hair falling all around. Just for a tiny moment. And then I turned around. It was weird as hell. I handed them the money and moved to the other side of the road. Found the darkest place and plonked my ass on one of the benches and watched giant bright wheels for a long time, thinking about what just happened there. 

I wasn’t annoyed or scared, nor was I nervous or angry. Nor was I happy. She would have waved and said hello, I would have waved and said hello. Then some generic talks and more awkwardness. I mean what would the talks be about? I couldn’t imagine anything but pauses. Awkward awkward. Like we could have talked about our orders or something, or we could have maintained a silence after the casual greetings. Both would have been awkward. And how do you talk to somebody you don’t generally talk to? I mean it’s been some time since we had a proper conversation. A good conversation. She’s online and I’m online and yet we don’t talk to each other. So I just ran out of topics there. I didn’t know how to converse and nor did I had any intent desire to. I mean Facebook is enough I believe. Plus, I was wearing really short pants. 

Anyway, after she left the place I went back. My friends told me that I was a wuss and I should have talked to her and all and I asked them if my veg burgers were ready yet. They were not. 

Back on Facebook she didn’t text me. So I knew she was pissed off. Then she texted me the other day, obviously pissed off, and gave me an earful. I apologised, tried to explain, and also asked if I could do something to make her feel better, but she didn’t want to hear anything. So I didn’t say much, cracked some lame jokes and hoped she’ll get better on her own. 

Now see, I’m the kind of person who lives dual lives. If you’ve never met me in person, you’ll never know me in person. I’m someone else on social medias – active and funny and intelligent and interesting and caring and good and romantic. However, in reality, I’m exactly the opposite – lazy, unfunny, dumb, ruthless, evil and filled with lust. I keep these two worlds apart. And unfortunately, Doctor is a part of the fb world, where she sees me through her own lens, which is what I choose to show her. 

Anyway, that’s my identity crisis. For more information please watch Tamasha. 

The Shop of the Madmen

The house of the devil…and inflation…and fuck.. πŸ˜‚

I visit there every 3 months. I sit in the big maroon armchair and stare at the scissors, the spraybottles, and other thousand tools plonked in the monochrome vases. The music is faint and soft, and the heads are bowed down; some eyes are glued at the morning daily, some at their messengers. Amidst this soothing symphony comes the brutal snipping of metal scissors, and bunches of wispy warriors fall like colonies of timber in the latter half of the 19th century….

I have been visiting this world famous barbershop of my hometown – B S Gents Parlour – since I was a little kid. Despite our relationship stretching longer than a decade, that cunning fox never misses a chance to rob me of all my money, and sometimes even makes me pay more for what looks like an awful haircut. Barbers are real fuckers, I tell you.

I won’t lie, I have always wanted good hair. In my childhood, I’d see that poster of Shahid Kapoor with light golden brown floppy hair, and the bangs, and crave having a similar hairstyle. But every morning my mother would pour gallons of coconut oil down my scalp, grab that stupid little comb and flatten my hair like you level roads under Prime Minister Gram Sadak Yojna. And I’d go to school, wondering if my mother got her certificate of beautician through bribes. 

Then, as modernised societies germinated, youngsters started keeping gelled spikey hair, all stiff and cold. My friends looked stupid because they overdid it. But it was trending and so I felt like giving it a try too. 

“People with spikey hair are potential menaces to the society. You know how a spikey hair boy pulled Munmun’s necklace and ran away. “My mother argued. I wanted to convince her that not all spikey-haired guys were sublime assholes but she won’t listen to me anyway. 

So every 3 months I’d go to B S Parlour and sit in one of the chairs, checking out the equipments and prepare myself for another ridiculous  payment he asks me to make. He’d smile and I’d watch his red sunken eyes and guess how many quarters he had last night. This is a funny conversation we have without actually speaking. He considers me a prey and I consider him a monster. Nice story.

“So, which haircut are you going to have today? ” 

“Make it short. “I’d say and shut my eyes, and concentrate on the music that played in a distance. 

In the end, I always got cropped hedges on my head that were awful even by Podrick’s standards. 

“60 rupees. “He said, one day. I thought he was kidding. 

“What? 60? ”

“Yes. “He said, and added, “Inflation. ”

Fuck economics

Recently, I went to a salon in Delhi. It was owned by a middle aged Muslim guy who possessed cold, no nonsense looks. I had not watched TV for the last 6 months so when he played that awful song called Ramta Jogi on a loop, I didn’t ask him to stop. Anyway, he kept talking about politics and Yogi Adityanath and appeared to be an extremist in nature. When I sat there, prisoned inside the cutting cape, his cold sharp steely scissors grazing at the back of my skull, he asked me if I supported Yogi Adityanath. There was a danger in his voice, a threat which he tried to conceal, but which permeated through anyway.

I did a few calculations. I thought about imparting in him a bureaucratic approach, however, when you’re immobile with a shrap object hovering over your head, you don’t act like the nuns of the high Septon. So I told him what he wanted to hear. I told him everybody was evil out there, and how Owaisi was actually a messiah, and it should have been a mosque there, and all that bullshit and then he smiled and asked me what kind of hair I would like to keep. 

“Trim it. Use trimmer number 4. Roll along the sides till midway. Cut the rest till 3.4 inches with scissors. Go easy on bangs. And of course, take care of the sideburns. “I elaborated. “And please change the song. ”

He nodded, switched the channel to Zakir Naik’s preaching, and then went on with the job. When he was finished my hair looked exactly like the one done by the dope at B S Parlour. I think barbers have a code. 

“60 rupees. “He said. 

“Inflation? “I asked. 

“Yes. “He said. 

My Mother Goes on a Holiday. πŸ˜‘😠😭

When life wreaks havoc…

I woke up with a wince, drenched in my own sweat. My body ached like I’d been used as a doormat. My stomach burned like the insides of Nyiragongo. Had the fan went off, I’d have melted in a second. I crawled out, famished and exhausted, and trudged around like an old elephant. I searched for food. There was none. I searched for my mother. There was none. I was starving, and so I yelled out for her. No response. I whatsapped her – Where Are You? 

On a holiday 😎 – came her reply, and I felt like crying….


It was 8:18 pm. We were glued to our seats, watching India cruise towards victory in the last league match against South Africa. My mother was frying Okras in the kitchen.

“Hey, could you knead the dough? “She asked my father. He pretended as if he had been deaf for the last fifty ears, and then my mother turned to me.

“I’m on a holiday. “I shrugged my shoulders. My mother stared at me as if it was a lame excuse.

“Okay. Would you at least peel and chop onions? “She tried again. 

“I’m on a holiday. “I said. “I’m supposed to enjoy. Watch green people lose in cricket matches, eat delicious food, and get pampered. ”

My mother gave me a dirty look, as if to convey men are assholes. Twenty minutes later, she yelled,

“Here’s your food. ”

“I’m on a holiday, Maa!! Oh wait! Yeah, comin. ”

And the very next day, she’s off to Rajgir, watching lush green hills and Tumtums and Bengali signboards and whatnot. And here I am, gnawing this four day old bread after peeling the fungus, and googling Top 10 Bear Grylls survival tips. I have no idea where my father is but if he’s out eating in a posh restaurant I’d charge him with Child Neglect. 

I couldn’t believe my mother was gone. I mean you got to be kidding, right!? Who takes holidays! Okay, my case is different, okay. πŸ˜‘

Shit.

I chewed 4 breads in total and then I felt like a celibate monk who’s shed all desires and tastes and is naked and dying and happy about it. I fiddled with my phone for a while, thinking about the perks of my-mother-on-a-holiday. Yeah, I could draw naked ladies, but that apart, I could see no remarkable advantages of her absence. I texted her if she’s planning to come back or what. She sent me an audio clip and texted,

“Why would I ever think of coming back when it’s so much fun here? Listen to the clip, baby. ”

I downloaded the clip. It was some Bengali poetry, and people clamouring and laughing in the background. Perhaps she was in some poet show. I never knew my mother had a taste for Bengali poetry. I don’t know anything about my mother. 😷

What the fuck is that? – I typed, and then erased ‘fuck’ and replaced it with ‘hell’ and then erased ‘the hell’ and sent the rest. 

“Poetry. The wonder of the worlds. “She wrote. She was getting poetic herself. 

My father arrived home at mid noon and asked if I had eaten something. 

“There’s nothing to eat. “I grumbled, and then he showed me the things I could eat and I could cook and what the hell, who keeps snacks inside a barrel and why the hell is the pack of biscuits buried beneath Bay Leaves and Cinnamon and Patanjali scrubs. 

“When you were a kid you used to sneak everything edible. So we started hiding them, because there were other mouths to feed. “My father said. Yes, I remember waking up at midnight, climbing shelf after shelf and pulling cookies from the jar without a drop. I’d eat most of them, hand the rest to my brother and when my mother found out the next day, we would pretend they disappeared on their own. My brother was a scrawny thing, so no one believed he ate anything at all, so I was labelled the Scooby Doo of the house. 

“Okkkkay. “I said. 

My father prepared the dinner. It was Rice, dal and potato. For flavour he asked me to grab some pickles from the jar. And some curd. For supper, we had chutney and fat pita Rotis and when my father asked me to grab pickles for flavour, it was awful. 

This has been in the menu for the last four days now. Not even a hint of change. My father throws everything in the pan in the precise, calculated, measured amount and prepares the exact same food everyday. I wonder why he is not helping scientists in preparing clones. 

That apart, this is awful. Men are awful. They suck at talking. They suck at displaying emotions. They suck at being stupid. My mother would be dancing around, bitching about the neighbours, talking about her latest craze, going nuts over tiniest mistakes, reading stupid jokes from whatsapp, making weird faces when doing nothing, complaining about her old age and wishing she had more money. Then she would say she is dying soon and so employ each of us in the task of massaging her head and palms. She is a whole entertainment package, I tell you. Without her, here we are, my father asking if the water was delivered on time and me asking if the dinner is cooked yet. The most interesting conversation we had so far was related to sharpening of scissors. 

I called her a few times, and she was always in some concert or show, living her holidays in bliss.

“Child, I am on a holiday. “She said, “you eat delicious food and get pampered when you are on a holiday. You don’t think about ending it. “She said. 

I frowned for a while and then went on to peel onions so that my father could prepare the chutney for supper.

πŸ’€The Night of the Gloomy SundayπŸ’€

It was silent as a grave, and then, it started singing…

I remember it quiet distinctly. It was dead dark up in the sky. The street lamps had been glowing eerily all the evening. Not a soul fluttered in the city. Not a vehicle purred. Fallen leaves crawled as if a zombie’s hands. The breeze brushed past, in silence, cutting like a steel, drenching everything in the stench of death. It was dead quiet – as if someone’d just farted….

We all stared at Heroine’s face in disbelief. His fat, sagging, baggy, tired but sly face. He had just told us about a notorious song called Gloomy Sunday, aka the suicide song, and how it has caused a thousand suicides in the past and how it was banned from radio and everywhere else and whoever listened to it never saw another day. It was a late night bantering that had now turned into a session of paranormal yarns. We were discussing how goddam scary the horror comedy Vikral and Gabral was when Heroine started talking facts and told us about Gloomy Sunday. 

“One of my friend’s friend told me this. I swear it’s true. “He started. We all knew about his friend’s friend, who was some kind of omniscient twat whose sole purpose of existence was to fill Heroine’s mind with all sorts of crap. He once told Heroine that Aishwarya Rai had a nude scene in a Hollywood movie, and this poor chap skipped school for the next few days and rummaged through seventy four porn sites and Wikipedia and even asked it on quora. By the end of his campaign, xvideos sent him their catalogue with various premium packs and alluring discounts, which he furiously trashed. Also, a few quora guys called him a pervert.

Now it was some shit about gloomy Sunday. I looked beyond his shoulders, far into the branching streets of SOP lit by a row of isolated streetlamps, and the vast emptiness surrounding them. The world couldn’t be any sadder. I wondered if people would really die after listening to some Hungarian harp rather than witnessing something gloomier, things like poverty, murder, or their Maths result. Rana was already busy googling away as the rest of us decided which side to take on. We had our own qualms, but we were kind of sure we would not die. But when I was a kid, one of my friend’s friend too was pretty sure he would not die

“People are stupid. It’s so shallow I can see tortoises running down there. “He pointed at the notorious green pond of the village. Then he jumped in and died. 


“It’s bullshit. Here, here’s the mp3. “Rana flashed the phone in front of us. 

“Here, Ravish. Download it. “He said. 

Now, people, whenever I’m in a group, I tend to project myself as a modern man who doesn’t believe in superstition. I give all sorts of rational, logical, scientific arguments and show people how ghosts and shit are things embedded deep into their psyche rather than being real things. Then I go home and google five ways to protect yourself from a succubus
“I think the person who claims should download it. And cmon Rana, you are brave. Don’t tell me you think it’s true! “I said, as if I was on a social awareness campaign. 

“Of course I don’t. “Rana replied even more emphatically, and added, “but I am yet to enter IIT and get married and you know. Plus you are a commerce student. Nobody gives a shit if you die. ”

“Yes. That’s true. “Said the rest of them. 

And so I set it to download. A few minutes later, others started downloading it too. We all took up Prince’s room, closed the door from inside, switched on the light and put on a curse on whoever tried to switch it off. Then we waited patiently, counted as the song slowly oozed into our phone’s memory. 

“It’s done. “Rana said. 

“Yes. “I said. 

And then, we played it. 

It was our last night alive. “Half a dozen teenagers found dead in a hostel room ” – I could see the newspaper titles. We had no reason to commit suicide but millions to justify it. Poor marks, no girlfriends, aimless and pathetic life glutted with porn and chronic masturbation. I was feeling sad before even it had begun.

At first, we couldn’t make out anything. It was so low as if composed in infrasonics. 

“Do people kill themselves because they can’t hear it? “One of us asked. We shshsh-ed him.

And finally, it hit our ears. Oh. My. God. What. An. Overestimated. Piece. Of. Shit. It was like, like, that fat lady song which results in the shattering of window panes and which highbrow, suited people listen to anyway. It’s the song that ruins dates and shoots global noise population levels by a million and scares aliens away. It was more annoying than it was scary or sad. I’d die faster listening to Barney song rather than this crap. 

“Why didn’t we die? Does anyone feel suicidal? Are we going to sleep together? “They all began to ask, and I wondered what if it was a cursed song and what if we were really going to die. The mind is always delusional. I was scared when one of my friends called. He said hello and suddenly a girl started laughing in my ears. I shrieked and dropped the phone. Later, he clarified that it was his friend and he had no idea why she was laughing. 

“Enough shit for a day!! “I said as I hung up and went to my room. I researched more about Gloomy Sunday and realised it was indeed a very sad song. 

The next morning, I woke up with a fine air, and thanked the heavens for not pulling my soul out of my body. I reminded myself of all the goals and dreams and places where I had to have sex and deleted the goddamn song before starting my day. 

The Summer Odyssey #3

The final lag of the voyage. πŸ˜‚

Problems are like bananas – they always come in a bunch. So when I scooted back to platform number 3 and found the train I was supposed to board, I started looking for my name on the charts stuck on the coaches. I checked half a dozen coaches,  and my heart had almost sunk to hell when my brain kicked off. I checked my ticket. It said coach number B1. The tickers were showing B1 in front of a coach. So I went in. 

Oh my Seven Heavens! Hot north eastern girls! I stood there, dumbstruck and awed, and partially erect, wondering if my fortunes had reached the crescendo. Clad in shorts, they all owned pretty huge assets. The one exactly opposite to me was hot as hell. Pretty eyes, wavy hair, and mountainous breasts. I recalled all those wonderful sex stories from antarvasna that were themed on train journeys. I knew everything. I could execute it like Mr. Sins. I was ready for it. 

“Could I see your ticket, please? “The ticket checker asked, overly polite for his profession. 

“Sure. “I said and pulled my phone out. I had the ticket in my gallery. But I also had 4 porn albums in my gallery, which I seemed to forget. So as I opened it, vaginas flashed on the screen. I quickly scrolled down. The ticket checker stared at me as if I was a Mujahideen. 

“Just a second. “I said and scrolled down further. At last, I found the ticket. He studied the ticket as if it were some staphylococcus specimen and turned to me, and spoke, with a sheepish grin,

“This is not B1, gentleman, this is S7. Go find it before the train leaves. ”

What the hell! I was 99.9 percent sure that the ticket checker was fooling with me. But then the girls nodded and laughed too, so with a heart shattered into a hundred pieces, and a shrunken Godzilla, I stepped down. 3 minutes left for tbe train to leave. 

I ran along up and down the length of the train, twice, and yet I couldn’t find B1. As the train was about to leave I hopped into an unnumbered coach. It turned out that it was B1. 

Who were my copassengers? A family of four fat, ugly people, a wailing kid with his unattractive mother, a child who slept so much he was probably dead and three North. Eastern. MEN. 

I had no food and so I spent the whole 32 hours long journey feeding myself on overpriced undercooked semi rotten Samosas. Despite that the toilets were dirtier than a bug’s intestines, I peed a dozen times. I recalled how one of my friends had heroically recounted his epic stunt of jerking off in a moving train, and wondered if I should repeat it. But then I dropped the idea. I can’t work under extreme, non-romantic conditions. 

I watched movies and listened to It ain’t me, repeated the lyrics and secretly cried. And then I got sick of Samosas and rain and everything I liked so I mummified myself in a blanket and dozed till eternity. 

When I reached Katihar, I was a wreckage. And I could kill for a food product that wasn’t Samosa. 

On reaching home, I gorged on the royal food my mother had prepared. I could give up Samosas for this food. Anytime. Unconditionally. 

The Summer Odyssey #2

With few minutes left to board the train for a 30 hour long journey, would you take the risk to find the rare toilet of Anand Vihar Railway Station?

I have a problem. A disease maybe. Whenever I achieve something difficult or am almost asleep, I get this insuppressible urge to pee. I might be a monk and balance myself on a sword with my little finger, or pull heavy duty trucks with my eyelids, but I can never manage the pressure of my stupid bladder. So when my bladder started ballooning at platform number 3, I nearly went mad. 

Here were people, all happy and excited and fulfilled, waiting for their trains, passing time by munching on nuts, reading newspapers, or talking among themselves, and here I was, carrying a squirmed face, waddling to and fro along the whole length of the platform, looking for the FUCKING chamber they call a toilet. Twice I stopped at the lift, and half a dozen times I almost peed in my pants. I could go take a leak in one of the train toilets, but I didn’t want to end up being exported to Bhuvaneshwar in the process. After what seemed like a millennia, I was sure they don’t build toilets on platforms in Delhi. And whoever rated Anand Vihar station so high  probably peed through transpiration. 

I ran away, not caring about the time or the train lodged at platform number 3 and never stopped till I found a toilet at a desolate corner of the station. There were three rooms one each for Women, Men and Handicapped. For a second, I wondered if that meant handicapped men and handicapped women were allowed to pee together (sexy) and then I moved to men’s chamber. 

Now, men’s toilet have two different  arrangements. They have doored commodes and they have open thigh length basins. You pee in basins and you shit in commodes. So when you are peeing others can watch you without any obstruction. What’s odd is that almost all men are quite okay with it. They really don’t care about the audience. But my little Godzilla is a shy animal. I can’t pee unless I’m locked within six walls. Even on long bus rides, when the conducter announces a pee break, and all men just get out and pee around the bus, I find the most isolated, haunted place and shhhhshhhh myself to pee. Twice I’ve nearly missed the bus in such situations. 

Anyway. In public toilets I use the commodes. This one had five toilets three of which were already occupied. There was a man waiting outside the third and another outside the last. I wondered why they weren’t going into the two vacant chambers. I moved towards one. It was choked with turd. I almost vomited at the sight. 

I had two bags and no friends. And I HAD to pee. Inside a locked door. I couldn’t take the bags with me. It seemed like the prelude of a tragedy. I was either going to lose my bag or wet myself. A sadist would love this as Omorashi porn. When the third toilet was finally vacant ( 2 dumps later ) I went there and tried setting my bag against the most hygienic side. As it had wheels, it wouldn’t stand properly. Everytime I tried propping it against the wall, that stubborn bag would start rolling like an ice skater. Setting it up took a bit longer and a constipated man sneaked into the toilet amid that. I was so apoplectic and destroyed, I wanted to cry. I wondered if I should just jump into the ladies room without caring about the consequences. I mean it’s not as if they cut your little Vince McMahon for entering a ladies toilet, do they? I also wondered if I should just play a handicapped. Who knows I might have even met my soul mate in the handicapped room. Fancy the first encounter! It could be the superhit sequel of How I Met Your Mother. I had TRPs floating in front of my eyes when I recalled I had to pee. That’s the thing, when you start thinking about it, it only gets worse. By the time that asshole came out, my intestines were submerged in pee. My whole body was shaking and I could piss through my earholes. 

I shot in, shut the door properly, but leaving a chink, and found myself enveloped in the post-potty scent of a toilet. I was sure Nazi concentration camps used the same gas to kill people. I pulled down my zipper and told myself to feel good about this. I was finally ejecting the heaviest liability in a human’s life. I peed for a while and then turned my head to look for the bag. It was there, safe and still. So I continued to pee. Also I considered variables like the speed of my stream and worked out on a theory that If I looked for the bag every 8 seconds, I would have a fair chance at catching the culprit, in case I get screwed. So I peed and looked and peed and looked and kept on doing this till my neck went stiff. But let me tell you this, ladies and gentlemen, there’s no such thing as peeing. It’s the most comforting orgasm one can ever have. I walked out with a triumphant smile on my face. The bags were still there. I washed my hands and ran for the train. 

It was 6:30 am.

To be continued…