The end of a bad day.

Maybe you had a crummy day at office, and your feet got burnt in the charred, leftover tobaccos ashes of your boss, maybe you felt your hair shrivel and curl like milk left out of the fridge for too long, maybe the skin on your bones started to rot and peel and accumulate under your fingernails, maybe you felt your brain expanding like a cold iron rod pushing out of your skull, maybe it was all too much, but you stood by it and watched and clapped a little, made a couple of jokes and took an auto home, then you got stuck in a traffic jam, and over the cheap leather upholstery of your auto and under the cheap phosphorescence of the light bulbs arranged into a circle on the roof of the auto, the smell of asphalt on the road and the tired tires and a thousand ugly monsoons, in between that leering helmet guy on the Hero Honda and the bored, sweaty family in the old Maruti 800, the impatience and the horns, the automatic braking systems and the power windows, something heavy fell on your back, more than the weight of your laptop, something dark and coloured, something blunt and sharp, something dull and brilliant and it was so utterly magnificent, so big, so beautiful and powerful and all-consuming, you had to stop. Your breath got sucked out of you and the impossible years behind your life, the months, the weeks and the hours you spent waiting, the minutes and the seconds, you spent convincing yourself of your significance, your purpose, you rub it between your palms, it catches light and falls apart, disappears into the load behind your back, the load, the surge, the wave embraces you and your heart explodes in your rib cage, and suddenly you feel the anger, the pain, the humiliation of everyone and I mean everyone stuck with you on that road, in the traffic jam, even the leering helmet guy on the Hero Honda and the bored, sweaty family in the old Maruti 800 and it is all so much, so much, too much to take in, within that moment and within that moment so much makes sense, so much love is created, like a vast, winged butterfly in a history, a story you have told to someone you know, the kind of story that only you can give away, a love like a delirium, a possessed vampire that feeds on the blood in your body and then, and then something happens again. You feel, you feel nothing. It’s gone like a ghost exorcised, a demon vanquished, but your body, the physics and the chemistry and the biology of your body is not there anymore, there’s just the autowallah singing, no not singing, whistling a tune, the music, it lingers in the air for a while and did you forget the tune?

Swati.

Let's keep it strictly about the copy.