You will think I deserve a medal — a gold one, not a silver or bronze. I mean, it doesn’t have to be real gold. Ultimately, as Sage Vyasa put it, “it’s the thought that counts.”

Arrey, see there you go. You guys have started this again. Talking in unison, amongst yourselves. Asking repeatedly three significant questions: 1. ‘Why a medal?’ 2. ‘Why a gold medal?’ 3. ‘Who is he?’

Brace yourselves, people, I’ll get right to it. This column is going to be different. Almost. Clearly it will be the same column, but with few different words. Today I’m going to tell a story. This story has only two characters — my manager Kaustav and me. Again, I hear what you are saying. “Why does he need a manager, he’s not a building?” That is fair, but as you know, anyone over 50 needs a younger millennial to guide them through everyday life. Such as, how to open electronic doors? Or how not to leave your tinder app open? Which reminds me, give us a second, er... let me close mine. Back to the story. The setting is awful. Frankly, so is the story. However, dear reader, you are committed, so we need to take this to its conclusion.

The story is set in a studio at a place which is so difficult to reach that it is rumoured the futility of searching for it forced the British to leave India. That, and of course, the fact that they were unable to successfully digest poha. Before I tell you more about this dreaded location, I have some sad news to share. I’m writing this on Gandhi Jayanti. So, I won’t be able to even offer you a drink to help you survive this upcoming information.

The place, where this so-called studio is located, has successfully defeated Google Maps. It doesn’t quite appear. It’s sort of there, but not there, like my wife’s love for me. Technically, it’s listed as Chandivali. And, the best way to describe its location, is somewhere between Andheri and Nepal. If you are lucky enough to find it, (one out of three voyages are sort of successful), the studio has a board outside, with the wrong name.

We were told, presumably, in a lighter moment, that the name is Roopali Studios, named after the proprietor’s wife. Here’s where there’s another twist in this sordid tale. Approximately three years ago, last Wednesday, Roopali left her husband, never to return. To deal with his anger, he started learning French. Since that did not help, in a fit of pique, he scribbled letters on the board outside the studio.

Let me explain, he took a paint brush and cancelled some letters, thinking it was going to cause Roopali some pain simultaneously. This backfired, and karma did karma’s thing. He fell off the ladder while painting, and the pain was all his, and his alone. Try finding a studio called ‘Oops’, somewhere between Andheri West and Nepal.

What about Kaustav? Well, we collectively decided to steam iron my shirt, while it was still on my body! The editor is referring to show the burn mark to the public. I’ll just say this, the burn scar, the studio, and the location seem to look the same. If you happen to live between Andheri West and Nepal, God have mercy on you, too. 

The writer has dedicated his life to communism. Though only on weekends.