The wind gushed and the clouds roared. The weatherman said a storm was rising. If he did not reach home on time, he might never. His work had ended earlier; his boss was more paranoid than anyone else. However, his boss had a driver and a car waiting to serve his needs. His colleagues ran just like him, but their buses were frequent. His bus had a terrible frequency.
People were closing shop, others were hurrying home. The homeless tried to look for a tentative shelter. The animals were nowhere to be seen. Smart bitches, he thought. He looked around at the systematic chaos that presented itself. Religion had forgotten its enmity and rivals helped secure each other. Everyone seemed to be prepared, except him.
The road was emptier than before. Isolation seemed to be creeping in. He had to leave.
He decided that he would spend some extra bucks and travel by rickshaws. But as every Indian knows, these bastards never listen.
One rickshaw rushed away. He grew frantic. The skies began to wet the earth.
Another ignored his cries. He abused passionately.
A third said an unjustified no. He kicked the rickshaw as it sped away.
The fourth one’s breaks failed.
The isolated road gathered pedestrians to help him, but he realised that the storm wouldn’t be his bane. The people carried him to a shelter, an ambulance was called for. The driver of the rickshaw was beaten for his faults. The clouds roared and the rain had finally begun its heavy downpour.
He was convinced that his end would come. Either by the storm, or the accident.
Death had a strange way to find things. A mosquito landed on his wound.