The mental and physical lives of Z.Narayanan, Senior Comrade - Technology , Yetnothersys Technologies Limited ("Moving IT to the cloud and beyond") are often in-congruent. It was no surprise thus that he chose to reflect on his life of twenty-eighth years at the exact moment when a resolute punch was half-a-second shy of landing on his face. He was, more specifically, attempting to identify the turning point of his life, the moment that shifted events to come irreversibly leading to him standing here at the Medavakkam Koot Road traffic signal, bracing for a blow. Was it the day when as a ten-year old, his own meekness denied him his favorite thayir-vadais on a train journey to Madurai with family friends? Or was it the day when he checked-in his location at the J.F.K airport to get 153 likes from his Facebook friends? Was it the day when he decided to quit his job and come back to India for good? Or, was it the day when he concluded that all corporates are equally pathetic, and that he should rejoin IT? Was it much before, even before he was born, when his father had picked up a chit each from two lots of folder papers with the words "Z.Narayanan" and "Z.Malavika"? It was each of them and all of them. Every moment, every decision and every action in a person's life conspire together to make them what they are today.
What was Narayanan today? He was a scrawny guy often mistaken for someone younger. But he had momentarily forgotten his physique on his morning bike ride to his office. When a black Swift Dezire had trotted along the middle of the road, he had zipped past it from the left lane gesturing viciously at the bespectacled driver whose left hand was holding up a mobile phone. Another Project Manager on his way to work. A Yamaha R200 insistently buzzing its horn from behind had evicted from Narayanan the loud curse "what's the hurry, you moron!" And when a Toyota Qualis had harried him with loud horn when the signal was red at Medavakkam junction, Narayanan decided not to budge. He glanced at the rear view mirror to see a driver draped in silk-white shirt frantically yelling at him. He turned his head a full 180 degree, and lip-synced a generic curse word. He would wonder later on if the driver had interpreted his lip moments wrongly, exaggerating the humble cuss word he had uttered. However, his thoughts were presently occupied replaying his life as the driver walked to him, adjusting his silk-white veshti. Scowling, the driver pulled his left hand back. The wrist which landed on Narayanan was as thick as hardened cement. Things were a blur after that, until he woke up a couple of minutes later. He was on the ground. His knees hurt with the pressure of his Bajaj Pulsar on them, and a wetness was slowly beginning to form beneath his left thigh, reddening his jean. "Bloody Indians", he thought, "random hooligans don't punch your face like this in America". They shoot you with their guns.
(Might be continued)