Fury

Monday, bloody Monday. He took out his bike and took the longer route to the office. It was long but here he has more of the "drive time" and wastes less time in traffic and at the signals.

He felt detached and wondered if everyone felt this way. He had always felt detached. When he had triumphed and people were joyous around him - he couldn't believe his own achievement and the moment passed in front of his eyes like a movie. When tragedy struck, he got into denial and forced himself to believe that nothing happened - sitting on the fence and watching, uninvolved. Even insult could not get him interested in his own life - his subconscious mind consoled him at every single one of his grave failures that it happens to everybody! He had spent his life as if he was a scooterist waiting at a railway crossing, for the thundering train to pass - he was waiting for his life to start. He wasn't pitying himself, he just didn't seem to care. What was the leading emotion in his life?

--Screech-- ! An autorickshaw had jumped the signal and was now in front of his bike, awkwardly - not able to proceed any further, not moving back. "Madar****" - he cussed instinctively. The driver didn't bat an eyelid. Then he noticed two mousey, precocious school girls sitting at the back of the auto, gawking at him in astonishment. He revved up the engine and got moving. His ears were burning red with rage.