What if you found out that this was your last day on this earth?

You found a note on your bedside, on waking, that said just this. What would you do?

Sit up abruptly, hold the note in hand, guffaw loudly, crumple it between your fingers and fling it in a corner of the room. Or laugh, perhaps a little too merrily, as if ridiculing a prank gone wrong, but, nevertheless, peering down to see that there is nothing waiting to bite or sting you as you set your feet down.

Maybe today, you will leave home five minutes later than usual to avoid the usual pattern that you follow. And that is after not entering the kitchen or the shower.

The usual street that is a shortcut to the metro station – no, you take the longer route. You do not know what or who is waiting on the regular route, you snigger to yourself a tad bit too hysterically. There could be a vengeful soul waiting to mug you or fling a bottle of acid on your aesthetically carved out, marble like face.

You don’t stop at the tea stall near the bus stop where you usually have that extra cup of tea. Remember you haven’t even had your first one today. You walk by faster, quickening your pace as the tea stall owner reaches out a glass of cutting chai to you out of sheer habit, perplexed with your hatke behaviour.

Avoid the police station en route by all means. Never know what violence is waiting to pour itself out on you today. Hey, you have received a letter of warning today. It said that today will be your last day. You can’t take it too lightly. What if?

Oh, and that sabziwala on 5^th cross! He always stripped you bare naked with his eyes, the lascivious drool revealing eons about his libido in over drive.

There is a group of students rioting over a trivial teacher-student skirmish and blowing it out of proportion. You don’t want to go that side.

You reach the metro station, having successfully maneuvered the 1km distance from your flat to the station. You are still alright. No harm done. You are alive.

Plenty of time for the usual 8:09er. You are on the platform and the train chugs in full speed, slowing down only for a slightly languorous minute to haul all of the passengers in. You are not one of them. You wait for the next one, the 8:11er. Ok, so you averted something. What?

At 8:10, your handbag falls in on the tracks, as a result of the jostling by the group that thrust their way through the awaiting passengers. What do you do? The train is expected any minute – the 8:11er.

Is it really your last day on earth? What do you do now?

The sweeper cleaning the tracks one last time before the speeding train sheds all the human scum, flings the bag back to you.

The 8:11er arrives.

The gap between the platform and the train step is a yawning abyss, in your mind at least. No more energy for guffaws or half-hearted laughs. You grab the guy next to you by hand and jump in, leaning on him for longer than was really necessary. Not that he is complaining.

He is not even that good-looking.

You sit down on the nearest available seat, stomach grumbling in protest for its lack of chai and nashta. You eye the sandwich in auntie’s hand. She is sitting across you, glaring at you as she had also observed how you had stood leaning on that not-so-good-looking guy’s obliging shoulder.

Next station – Kamchaghat.

Your stop.

The yawning gap again. You close your eyes and jump. Stealthily open them to see where you landed. You are safe.

Hah! It was just a prank. Must have been that Chintoo’s brother. That good for nothing creep, asshole that he is.

The little canteen near the exit beckons with its limited fare. Ok, a chai and maybe a banana will suffice till lunch time.

One banana down in the pit to appease that gnawing hunger. Wash it down quickly with the lukewarm chai.  Hunger partially appeased, the warning note dismissed as the work of a neighbourhood prankster, you throw the banana peel in the general direction of the overflowing dustbin, throwing your morning care to the winds.

A quick glance at the old pink wristwatch on your hand says you are running late for the presentation. You need to buy a new watch. Tomorrow, after getting the salary.

Quickening your step, you start down the flight of stairs.                          

First step, second step.

You slip on the banana peel and fall backwards, arms flailing helplessly in the air. You land with your head on the edge of the old jagged step.

8:25. The time you would have normally reached Kamchaghat station. You did. Only, you never will again.