As the clock lazily yawned its way to six-thirty, the moment had arrived.
One by one, like prisoners who'd just heard the jailer slip on a banana peel, we removed our office tags — warriors dropping their armors at the end of a long, pointless war.
Somewhere near the pantry, a paper cup fell. A low thud. Rani akka muttered a casual "Dei, waste fellows" under her breath. Classic.
Rajiv yanked his ID card off with the flair of a man rejecting societal norms and declared, "No more slavery till Monday!"
He said it like we worked in a coal mine, not inside a well-lit IT park with A/C colder than our manager's heart.
Prakash followed, mumbling through his clenched jaw, "I swear, one more 'circle back' from Shanmugasundaram and I would've swallowed a LAN cable."
I pictured it—him chewing on Ethernet like it's murukku. Honestly, less painful than another sync-up call.
I took mine off slowly. Symbolic. Gentle. Like peeling off a leech. One that sucked not just blood, but will to live.
"We may leave the office… but the tickets… they never leave us."
Rajiv scoffed. "Stop being poetic, da. You sound like a Tamil version of Sherlock Holmes after breakup."
Fair. I'd been watching too many noir thrillers lately. But honestly, if tickets had a face, I'd slap it with a Jira dashboard.
"Which car are we taking?" I asked, slipping my tag into my bag like it was evidence from a crime scene. One that'd come back to haunt me on Monday.
Prakash raised his hand instantly like a schoolboy avoiding eye contact during oral exams. "Not mine. My fuel gauge is below dignity. It's just a polite way of saying 'walk, loser.'"
I'd seen his fuel light blinking for three days. His car had been threatening self-immolation.
Rajiv flexed his biceps like a toothpaste ad model. "Mine's a beast. Just got a pressure wash. Smells like lemongrass and manhood."
I blinked at him. "You drive an Alto, Rajiv. A 2012 Alto with a broken left speaker and a steering cover stitched with sadness."
Even a TVS XL would file a defamation case if he heard that sentence.
"Still better than your bike, da," he retorted. "One pothole and we'll time travel to 1998."
He wasn't wrong. My bike sounded like a dying goat during ignition and handled bumps like a cricket bat on a landmine.
We argued, bickered, and fake-negotiated like we were choosing a bride for an arranged marriage.
"Yours has A/C but smells like axe deodorant and disappointment," I pointed out.
Prakash added, "Also, your reverse gear makes that dying cat sound. Every time you park, security looks around like a ghost entered the building."
Meanwhile, one of the HR ladies passed by, raising an eyebrow. We shut up. Respect the HR. They know your blood type and salary.
Finally, Prakash cornered Rajiv with logic bombs — about parking fees, mileage, and Rajiv's expired pollution certificate that could probably start a fire on the ECR.
Rajiv threw his hands up. "Fine! Fine! But I'm not changing the playlist. If you make me listen to that Malayalam heartbreak song again—"
I smiled like a man who had already queued the song. "Bro, heartbreak is universal. Language is optional."
Somewhere in the distance, a pigeon took flight. Even it couldn't handle our drama.
"Can we at least stop for tea before the long drive?" Prakash asked.
Rajiv turned to glare. "You always say that, and then we end up eating bajji from that cart that looks like it survived three tsunamis."
"Exactly! That cart understands pain. It's called bonding."
"Dei, even the chutney there tastes like it has trauma."
I nodded. That chutney had definitely seen things.
As we headed out, I looked at the building one last time.
Fourteen floors of despair, dreams, and desktops. If this building had a soul, it'd be sipping a quarter bottle and weeping in the staircase.
"Can we at least stop for tea before the long drive?" Prakash asked.
Rajiv turned to glare. "You always say that, and then we end up eating bajji from that cart that looks like it survived three tsunamis."
"Exactly! That cart understands pain. It's called bonding."
"Da, even the chutney there tastes like it has trauma."
I nodded. That chutney had definitely seen things.
As we headed out, I looked at the building one last time.
Fourteen floors of despair, dreams, and desktops. If this building had a soul, it'd be sipping a quarter bottle and weeping in the staircase.
Rajiv beeped open his Alto. Lemongrass? Maybe. Manhood? Debatable.
"Get in losers," he said, flipping his shades down like a rejected Rajinikanth.
7:00 PM – My Rented Palace
Before the journey, a pitstop at my castle.
A two-bedroom "independent house" that looked independent only in the sense that it had declared freedom from maintenance, responsibility, and possibly logic.
To be honest, the only thing independent about this house was the water supply. Which came when it felt like it.
Nestled between a Xerox shop that also sold mystery samosas and a suspicious gym that played EDM at 6 AM—because nothing says fitness like raving to remix kuthu beats before sunrise—my humble abode stood in all its faded glory.
Painted in a washed-out peach I lovingly called "Sunburnt Papaya," the house had the aesthetic of a retired actress who now does detergent ads. We pushed open the rusty gate. It let out a groan that sounded like a mix of metal fatigue and existential crisis.
Rajiv instantly made a face, clutching his nose like he'd stepped into a government hospital toilet. "Bro, is that your house or a haunted Airbnb?"
"Hey! This wall has survived three cyclones, two rats, and one confused Uber Eats guy. Show some respect."
That Uber guy once left the biryani on the neighbor's water tank and messaged 'delivered'. I climbed like Spider-Man with hunger in my soul.
Inside, the living room was tastefully… empty. One proud plastic chair stood like it was the Iron Throne of Budgetland. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting trauma and cobwebs. And above it all, like divine protection, hung a dusty photo frame of Rajinikanth that came with the house.
Legend says if you try removing it, the electricity bill increases. So I left it. Superstition is cheaper than TNEB.
"I thought you lived alone?" Prakash asked, peering at the corner shelf suspiciously.
"I do. But the rent acts like I'm living with five roommates and a Labrador."
Also, the lizard near the tube light counts as a tenant now. We've come to an understanding. I don't scream, he doesn't fall.
In my room, I threw on a black half-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled just right—not too much, not too cringy. Paired it with dark jeans. Mature but not depressing. The kind of outfit that says, "I'm not rich, but I know what fabric softener is."
Rajiv burst in wearing a green floral shirt that looked like he'd been mugged by a garden.
"Dude, did you lose a bet with a T.Nagar uncle?" I asked.
He grinned and twirled. "This is vintage. From Pondy Bazaar. Limited edition."
"Yeah, limited to people with no taste."
Prakash walked in, the poster child of simplicity—blue striped shirt, beige pants, and that aura of a guy who always has Excel open somewhere in his head.
"Y'all look like a rejected boy band," I muttered, locking the grill door.
Rajiv fired back without missing a beat, "And you look like a backup dancer in a Gautham Menon song."
To be fair, I had looked in the mirror and tilted my head slightly—just in case I caught my reflection staring soulfully like Simbu in slow motion. Nothing. Not even a breeze. Useless fan.
From the street, a cycle bell rang. Kids were playing cricket with a broken bat and yelling "No ball da! No ball!" like it was IPL final.
My landlord's son was trying to DJ with a Bluetooth speaker that only played one side of the stereo. A remix of 'Why This Kolaveri' began. For the 5th time today. My ears filed a formal complaint.
Rajiv was already halfway to the car. "Hurry up! Traffic won't wait. And neither will my bladder."
"I warned you about that suspicious tea," Prakash said, shaking his head.
As I locked the final bolt, I looked back one last time at my palace.
She may be dusty, creaky, and smell faintly of pickle and despair… but she's mine.
"Let's go," I said, adjusting my collar. "The night is young, and we're overdressed."
"Overdressed?" Rajiv snorted. "You look like a guy attending his ex's wedding just to prove a point."
I didn't deny it. The point needed to be proven.