Late 2007

I had gone out to one of the ‘then-happening’ watering holes with a group of friends – the kind you meet up with every Friday night once you’ve just stepped out of a business school and into the big bad corporate world to share a little bit of white collar camaraderie and ‘cool’.

The night had quickly slipped on a wet floor of tequila shots interspersed with ‘bottoms-up’ beer, but was brought to a dead-halt by the early-to-bed-early-to-rise bangalore bar timings. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done by then.

It’s all hazy now – but I vaguely remember the silence that had descended at our table once the bill was presented – amplified further due to shutting down of the bar music. The bill was well over in 5 digits.

Surprisingly, a group of men who had spent the whole night drinking together now looked at each other as if they had just met at one of those group therapy sessions – not looking each other in the eyes and definitely not wanting to be the first one to start the conversation.

So here’s the thing – I don’t carry credit cards. My first few months’ of experience with the damned things made me realise that I was the perfect target (segment) for the credit card companies – the ones who overspend and default on their payments. So I was carrying cash which was probably enough to cover my share but not to pay for someone else’s.

The other guys, surprisingly, were extremely distrustful of everybody else – not wanting to swipe their card and collect cash from the others later, probably owing to their previous experiences.

We sat for a few minutes and discussed helplessly how ‘everybody had forgotten to get their cards’. After a while, the writing on the wall was clear – Nobody was going to shell out their cards. Once this was concluded, we did what any sensible group of drunk people would do – we bolted.

Again, thanks to the tequila diluted memory, I don’t quite remember exactly who the genius was who came up with the revolutionary idea. I don’t even remember how and why we all agreed to the bloody genius. All I remember is that one second we were plonked in our couches… and the next second we were jumping down the stairs of the club.

Then there are flashes. Running through dark alleys. Jumping over a wall. Tripping once, probably.

With considerable confidence that we were not followed – and with the potent mix of alcohol and adrenaline surging – we reached an auto stand and got into the one standing in front of the line.

There were four of us and I was the last one to get in.

We must have told the auto driver about our destination. Apparently, he was not willing to budge. He even refused to start the engine. All we could understand was that he was shouting some rubbish at us in his own language.
The next thing I remember is a hand coming inside the auto – grabbing me by my collar and hauling me out. After that, there were more flashes, and painful ones at that.

I remember being wrapped in a brown carpet of flying punches and kicks. There were probably 6-7 auto drivers who were surrounding me and beating the ‘free’ alcohol out of me. Through a crack in the angry words and hits I could see that my ‘friends’ were wrapped in similar carpets.

I don’t remember how long the bashing lasted, but once it was over I had a bleeding lip and a torn shirt and a severely bruised look. We were taken to the club – the one we had thought we had escaped from and were made to sit there and pay up. Finally one of the buggers took out his credit card and paid while I handed him over my share. The night ended with each of us taking separate taxis back home.

I know what we did was wrong – and stupid. What still evades me though, and pisses me off, is the question – what the fuck did the auto guys have to do with any of this. People have tried to rationally answer this question for me with theories such as there is a pact between club owners and auto drivers in the city which prevents anybody from not-paying and escaping. Another theory even went to the extent of stating that from our haste, the auto driver sensed that we had done something wrong and refused to take us. I don’t agree with any of the theories.

Here’s what I know for a fact – these bangalore auto drivers are servants of the Devil himself and were doing his bidding. They roam around on the streets of Bangalore in their little yellow evil-pods, looking for cheap prey (which is mostly drunk people). The catch them and unleash senseless violence on them, and then move on to their next prey like locust.

Phew. I think I need to meditate a little before I get to my latest encounter with these minions.