The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.



Everyday, I'd go down the stairs and see something that I valued to no small extent. It was my means of escape when things got rough. I took it for granted and fucked it like hell.

Yet it stayed with me until it gave out.

Well, it's back. And my salvation is once more ready and waiting.

My scooty. It was my one means of escape from the dreariness that surrounds Viman Nagar. With it, the world is literally at my hands, and the road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began. Yet every morning I remember one thing that I must not forget.

"Did I fill petrol?" The eternal question. My scooty is Murphy's Law personified.

I'm sure y'all are familiar with it: "Anything that can go wrong, will." And my scooty has tried its level best to uphold that law. A stalwart effort, I'd say, if it didn't piss me off at the primal level. After all, if a man can't move, why the hell does he have two legs?

To drag the scooty, of course. When there's no petrol in it. A just cause. Very reasonable.

Alright, here's one of my most famous examples. Shastri Road in Pune is beyond Deccan. It's where I had my NGO internship. A forty-five minute drive that I had to accomplish in twenty.

One fine morning I woke up with that feeling which says, nothing in this world can go wrong today.

Ergo, as a consequence, everything that could, at any level, go wrong, did. Traffic jams. Signal stops. Police bribes. Babewatching. And the eternal struggle: to bunk or not to bunk.

But stalwartly stupid as I am, I ploughed on resolutely. My scooty, unfortunately, had other ideas. It gave way around Deccan. And Deccan at ten-thirty is not the best place to be with a non-functional scooty. Deccan at ten-thirty in the middle of a traffic stop with two shitfucked members of our esteemed fuzz is worse. I cartwheeled it fast as a hare to a nearby parking lot.

Evening came while I fretted over what to do. My two traits of Stupidity and Stubborness collaborated evilly, misleading my mindfucked brain to think that pushing it all the way home was a good idea. After all, it was only seven-thirty. On a rainy evening in June. With loadshedding cutting off half the street lights. And the mindfucked members of Pune trying to return home. And then some.

So I pushed, like Beowulf pushing Grendel off a cliff, like Wile E. Coyote pushing the rock into the abyss, only to follow it sometime soon.

Two gruelling hours later, I left it at SIMC. Maa chudaye.

I walked home in a daze, and my sister, never one to avoid stating the obvious, from her perch on the diwan with the remnants of her tea and snacks, delivered the final and ultimate blow, these syllables that cut straight to the remnants of my tired heart: "You look like shit."

There you have it. An unremarkable ending to an unremarkable day. I suppose I should thank the almighty for the exercise and be done with it.

It was a fucking stupid waste of my time. But it taught me something. You want to know what?
I wish I could remember. I collapsed into bed with a bottle of DSP Black. A consolation prize.
"The scooty. Both my blessing and my bane.

I thought, when on my bed I had lain,

Kya yaar, aaj ka to pata nahi.

Chalo kal upay dhundenge sahi.

Aur kya bolu, except what the bloody fucking fuck?.

Ye chamanchutiye ka kharab hai bad luck.

But in any case, this was one of those times.

When my mind overflows with such bloody rhymes.

And I wonder,

When, outside, Viman Nagar sukhois tear the sound barrier asunder,

That such a question could come, when I was so tiredly coughing,

Why, in this candy-ass, shitfucked, cocksucking life, am I laughing?"

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