Songs of the not-so innocent

So, this wild-haired guy got into the bogie, maniacally brandishing a polka-dotted umbrella that was more than half his height. His dark blue shirt was dyed black by a rapidly expanding amoeba-shaped sweat stain. The expression on his face was the clincher though; a palette of rage, weariness and desperation. He brushed past and darted towards the corner of the walkway. Something about the guy suggested that he'd spent his entire life perfecting the art of standing in corners. Anyway, he caught his breath and closed his eyes for a bit. Probably congratulating himself on finding a good spot, away from the path to the loo and right by the door. There are no fans in the walkway space so his relief was understandable, though, funnily enough, short-lived because a couple of dudes did one better and plonked themselves at the door itself, effectively cutting off the air flow. Our man's head dropped but he didn't look the type to start a rumble so nothing untoward happened, more...

Aloha, reader. Let me confess something. The next paragraph was supposed to kick off a hair-raising, blood-curdling, heart-wrenching adventure. However, a quick dip into the dictionary was enough to scuttle that ambitious description, which is why it has been downgraded to an average tale of woe. Such is life. The week was a pretty usual one. Dreary days and slightly longish, weary nights, culminating in the abomination that plagues the godless corporate world no end. I mean of course, the Friday morning, 10 am meeting with the client at their office. Which, for good measure, will be located in a part of the city you would not banish your worst enemy to. Common consensus and sense should tell you I refer to Andheri East. Since the Bombay weather is trying to give Turkish hammams a run for their money, I arrived for the meeting looking (and feeling) like a damp and mildewed towel. By some miracle, the presentation went well and I scurried off, hoping to leave from my own office later...