Pulling A Disappearing Act

Hello stranger, welcome to the blog, c’mon in, the waters real nice. There was a strange being that inhabited these shores once, gather round children and I’ll tell you a tale of an obsessive compulsive. Are you nice and comfy? See, I told you the waters nice, yes, that is a turd floating by, ok so I may have lied a bit.
This is not a grand reopening post, I cannot guarantee that there will be many more to come, I can’t say anything for sure at the moment even whether this particular one will make its way online. The creature that initially inhabited this shell has left and is long gone. I’m trying it out for a fit to see if it suits me.
First a shout out to all those that have left their kind condolences for Kartik’s passing; Yaseer, AHD, Confusion, and Nothingman.
The last time I took the time out to post, I was in Bangalore, yes I’d been bangalored baby, but sadly it was not to be. After nearly a year of working and drinking around the clock, I upped and was shipped off to Hyderabad, the city of Nizams and Biryani. It was the former IT hub of the country till it was bangalored. Now it’s a fucking ruin. To me it looks like Hyderabad was on its way to growing into a somewhat sophisticated city till the IT industry tempted by the cooler climes of Bangalore moved. Now this place is stuck in a fucking time warp, half way between cosmopolitan and a provincial backwater.
That of course is the irrepressible arrogance of a Delhiite. We run around the country bitching about how screwed up the rest of the country is despite the fact that we live in the biggest shithole of them all. It’s just that Delhi is like a drug, not even Mumbai with its humidity, sophistication and film industry can substitute. Only a true dilliwala loves the city for everything that everyone else thinks is insane.
I’m working now, yes a real job. The parents are ever so proud. I earn now, finally my time is worth something, yet I still find time to waste sitting around doing nothing, scratching my balls. It works out to something like a couple of bucks a scratch.
That of course in my own twisted way is the story of my life thus far, like it or lump it, your call. Now on to the real stuff, yes children it’s anecdote time, gather around at the feet of pervy Uncle Kartik, little girls stay out of the reach of his hands at all times, boys, mind your arseholes. Somebody bring the fags (cigarettes if you are American and homophobic), get a light and settle down.
Five minute break while I go out to get a smoke for myself and my hung-over roommate.
So here goes, (where to I know not myself), two friends of mine and I just moved out of the hostel we’d been living in for the past five months and into a rented apartment. It’s actually what they call here, an independent house, with two, two-bedroom units, three of us in the front and three other guys at the back (more on them later maybe). So we were properly stoked at the idea of finally getting our arses out of the hostel into a place we could call our own. Now this independent house is stuck in the corner of the ‘colony’ with no neighbors (what attracted us to it). So the other day, I get back from work, groceries in hand headbanging to Children of Bodom playing on my iPod. My only concrete plans at the moment are to rip a couple of movies a friend at work lent me. I get in the gate and see the door is locked from the inside and a light is on in one bedroom. I figure one of my roommates is home surprising since he generally comes in about after eight and it’s only seven. I pull one of the windows open and holler for him to open up. No response. The bastard’s probably got his earphones on and can’t hear me, typical. I holler again louder. Nothing. Now, I’m irritated I just want to make myself a cup of tea and settle down to watching Papillon, if it’s half as good as the book, it’ll be well worth the while. Why the fuck won’t he open the damn door. I’m pissed now, I move to the door ready to start pounding on it, that’ll wake him up.
My eyes fall on the bolt, it’s hanging loose, the sleeve’s broken and the supposedly solid bolt is bent. Fucking hell, I think. My brain is working slow, too damn slow, I confuse this new information with my previous train of thought. My brain still assumes my roommate is in the flat but now it’s thinking something terrible has happened. This happens in a fraction of a second. Now I step in. In the gloom I make out a large mass in my normally empty bedroom. Oh fuck, oh fuck. My groceries go flying , the bread and potatoes crush the tomatoes. For some reason, I pull off my I-card and fling that into the hall. Ignoring everything else, all sense of personal safety out the window, I rush into my bedroom, ‘Shot in the Dark’, Children of Bodom, cover Ozzy on my iPod.
“Out on the streets I’m stalking the night, I can hear my heavy breathing”
I fumble at the light switch.
“Prey for the kill but it doesn’t seem right something there I can’t believe in”
Light floods the room.
“Voices are calling inside of my head, I can hear them, I can hear them”
Terror.
“Vanishing memories of things that were said and they can’t try to hurt me now”
Horror, shock.
“A Shot in the Dark...”
The earphones come flying off as I tug at the wire, shove them into my pocket.
The room is full of clothes and open suitcases, a battlefield littered with corpses.
I run across it straight to one of the open shelves, to where my laptop normally lies.
Sweet relief. It’s still there.
Later, once all the drama’s over, I’ve called my roomates to survey the carnage. We've examined the damage, nothing was stolen... seriously, what a bunch of fucking amateurs.

Both the rooms were ransacked, all my beautifully ironed clothes were screwed up, one roomate was so traumatized he didn't sleep the whole night. Me after I managed to sort out my room I fall comatose exhausted from the shock, worry and work.

The next day, I have a great story to tell in office and to blog about.