Last time, last night,

the night before.

Growling arrack. The last cigarette. And dead phones.

The needle drops. It’s the same old song. A groove. Call it a pattern, a routine. Call it what you want, but it’s as predictable as the dying sun.

Should I be worried? Is it dangerous? Possibly fatal?

The onset of age, maybe.

But not wisdom, surely.

The phone is on its last legs. No different from you or me at the end of a day. But there’s respite. A cigarette or two rattle in the battered pack like the last time.

Last time. Last night. Or the night before? It’s becoming all the same.

The metre inside the three-wheeler-from-hell glows red. 128. Rupees. As usual. As always. Thank you very much.

The bartender nods as you swing through the doors. 6.45pm. Give or take 5 minutes. Sunil knows the drill. He pours a shot of Old Reserve. 25ml. Drops in three cubes of ice. Game on.

The same old cats, dregs, and whatnots look up to greet you before returning to their demons. Loose-ties and white collars. First dates and good mates. Old timers. Bored travellers.

And that sad, terrible band. That sad, terrible, fucking song. Right on cue.

Knock.

Knock.

Knocking on heaven’s door.

You know how it goes.

Just like last time, last night, the night before.

The arrack growls at you as you take your spot — in the corner, in the dim light, no brighter than a campfire glow. Just below the TV.

What’s on?

Cricket, of course.

Yawn.

You stub out the last stick. But the night’s still young, though your bones are old. They try to tell you something. But, hey, never listen until you break something. Like the last time, last… Well, you know.

You peel open another one, a fresh pack of 20 sticks. You take a swig and you light another Gold Leaf. Drag. Puff. Puff. Puff.

Cough.

Blood.

Oh, hello.

That’s a new one.

May be there’s hope.

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