“Rohan, fast please.” AD squirmed out, hopping on one leg, “ FAST FUCKER, or else I’m going to have to water your plants here”, he said, already unzipping his jeans.
“ AD, how can your capacity be so bad? You’re from Berlin, you can’t be drunk off two beers”, Rohan retorted angrily. Standing tall at 6 foot and chubby, Rohan was the quintessential Big Friendly Giant. The type of guy you’d expect to stand with a ‘Free Hugs’ sign on the sidewalk. But, when Rohan was drunk, he was a hothead.
Seeing big Rohan flummoxed by his keys while AD struggled to control his bladder was a sight in itself, but a sight I had seen countless times now.
Instead, I diverted my attention to the purple skies to re-acquaint myself with the lazy Bangalore evenings I had missed so much. Cities like Bombay and New York come alive at night, but not Bangalore. It’s in the evenings when this city is its truest possible self. I don’t even remember the number of times I’ve mindlessly strolled through the streets of Koramangala, while John, Paul, George and Ringo sang to me. In those few hours, the city slows down, almost as if sedated. Bangalore doesn’t really do sunsets; it is a twilight city. “ It’s like the whole city smokes a doob when the sun sets”, a stoner friend observed while getting stoned. God, it felt good to be back home.
