Yugan and the Puke-Stained Rolls Royce :
I turned on the news channels, but what I saw was unlike anything I'd witnessed before—not even during the tsunami broadcasts had I felt such a strange jolt. The visuals were eerie. Every channel had its anchor's seat empty, and on the screens behind, the usual backdrops kept looping silently. The programs ran without interruption, the same songs playing on repeat for hours. Music channels streamed endlessly without advertisements—strangely peaceful. I thought, maybe it's all just a temporary glitch. Curious, I checked social media. No new Instagram posts for hours. No tweets. Yet Google still worked. It struck me—everything seems to function until it needs a human touch. Servers might hold up for a while, but eventually, they'll crumble without people to keep them running. I never imagined I'd experience something like this. The world… empty. When I once tried to end my life, I thought peace meant leaving the world behind. But now, the world has left me—and I'm still here. A strange happiness creeps in. On one hand, it feels liberating. The world is mine now. I can have anything I want—except people. A paradox that lingers like a dull ache. Memories of my childhood surface—years of suppressed desires. No toys, no rich food, no new clothes like my friends had. Maybe growing up fatherless had something to do with it. But now? Now, I can go into any house, wear any outfit. Hell, I could walk into the Taj Coromandel itself, bathe in their luxurious pool, cook up a feast, and sip the finest whiskeys. No one to stop me. What a life. I miss my mother, and even my dog, though the pain feels numb—perhaps because there's no one left to talk to about it. Lying on the couch, I feel no pressure, no deadlines, no life goals. Nothing. Just a strange freedom. They say a suppressed mind gets tempted easily. Maybe that's true. The world is full of temptations—and I'm going to enjoy every bit of it. First, I need food. But why settle for anything less? I should ride out in style. The streets are filled with empty cars, but one catches my eye—a black, diamond-polished Rolls Royce, gleaming under the sun. The keys are in. No driver. No passengers. Only the faint scent of expensive perfume lingering in the cabin. The rear seat holds Gucci bags. A woman must've been here not long ago. I slide into the driver's seat. The leather is soft and warm, the steering wheel smooth as silk. The engine purrs like a beast waiting to be unleashed. As I touch the accelerator, the car glides like a ship—no, like a bullet through water. Music blasts through the speakers, rich and resonant like a concert hall. There's no traffic, it's a Sunday. I feel invincible. No fear. No police. Just speed, wind, and an open road. Soon, the hotel comes into view. The Taj. My dream destination. I never imagined stepping foot inside—let alone arriving in a Rolls Royce, parking at the entrance like a billionaire. No one's here to stop me. I walk in. The place is a palace—marble floors, glowing chandeliers, cool air dancing around golden pillars. This is how the rich lived. But today, I'm luckier than them. I own the world. In the kitchen, freezers are packed—beef, mutton, chicken, pork—all premium cuts, frozen to perfection. I choose the Brazilian beef, the kind only millionaires would savor. I follow a recipe from a chef's book and make the steak. The taste—divine. Tender, juicy, elite. I spot pork ribs already cooked in the oven—melting in my mouth like butter. A feast meant for kings. Time for a drink. I head to the rooftop bar, overlooking a silent city. The shelves are lined with rare bottles—some priced at three lakh rupees each. What used to be my year's salary, now poured into a glass for me alone. I take a sip. It tastes like royalty. My head spins with a giddy buzz. I strip off my clothes and dive into the infinity pool. No shorts, no rules—just me, naked under the sky, swimming in the bluest water of India's most luxurious hotel, sipping the most expensive whiskey money could buy. What a strange, intoxicating freedom I think I want to take another ride now. I know I'm high—drunk like never before. My body feels light, my head dizzy, floating. I can't even pull myself out of the pool. Still nude. I need to find something to wear.
There's something about Indian whisky—it dulls the mind, makes you sleepy, pulls you into stillness. But this foreign scotch? It's something else entirely. It lifts you. It ignites a fire in your blood, an adrenaline rush that makes you feel like you're flying. Like the world is a game and you're the only player.
I finally spot a bathrobe near the poolside. It's pink—probably a woman's. But who cares? Do bathrobes even have genders? I slip it on. It's absurdly soft, almost too soft, like wearing a cloud. The kind of comfort I never knew existed. So this is how the rich live—cocooned in silk and silence.Time to ride.Back in the Rolls Royce, the engine roars like a beast ready to break free. I hit the road again, swerving through empty lanes, zigzagging like a maniac. There's no police, no cars, no people—just me and the sound of the engine. What a fucking day. An entire city to myself. A Rolls Royce beneath me. A bottle of three-lakh whiskey inside me.Suddenly, the road opens to a view of the beach. I steer towards it. The car glides across the sand like it's skating on water. Waves crash around me. Ice cream stalls stand deserted, their umbrellas fluttering in the sea breeze. The beach is massive, silent, and mine. Completely mine.
I take the car back onto the road. There it is—St. George Fort. One of the most heavily guarded places in Chennai. Normally swarming with police, MLAs, ministers. Men with machine guns. I remember once getting scolded just for parking nearby. Now, I drive right in, wearing a pink bathrobe, no ID, no permission.And no one stops me.I enter the Legislative Assembly building like a madman in a fever dream. No security. No resistance. Just long, echoing halls. I take the empty whiskey bottle and throw it at one of the walls—right at the sacred heart of the government. It shatters into a million glass pieces. No alarms. No yelling. Just silence.Then I see them—guns. The very ones the guards used to carry during the day. Machine guns, stacked neatly. No hands to claim them. I pick one up—it's heavy, surprisingly heavy. I haul it back to the car, lay it on the passenger seat like it's my companion. I feel like James Bond gone rogue.The engine revs again, and this time I drive faster—way faster. The gun rests beside me. I point it out of the window and start firing, laughing like a lunatic. Glass shatters across buildings, shops, empty malls. The world crumbles around me and no one says a thing. The destruction doesn't scare me. Nothing does anymore.But then it hits—nausea. The alcohol churns in my stomach. I barely have time to react before I vomit all over the plush interiors of the Rolls. The smell is revolting. The car, once divine, now reeks. But I don't care. I can always get another one. Maybe a Ferrari this time. This luxury feels meaningless without people to show it off to.The car continues to fly down the road, hitting 200 kmph. I lose control. It hits the divider, flips—once, twice, three times. In the chaos, an orchestra track plays from the stereo, comically dramatic, like some final act of a tragic play.
And then… it lands.
Thanks to the safety features, I survive. The airbags bloom like white pillows, softening the crash. But the Rolls is wrecked—useless now. I step out, dazed. I think I'm on Mount Road, Chennai's usual hub of chaos. Today, it's silent.I lie down in the middle of the road. The evening air is cool, almost comforting. For the first time all day, I feel still. No hunger. No thrill. Just quiet.
Maybe I'll take a nap. Right here. In the middle of the road I now own.i can sleep here peacefully no one will hit me in their car haha what a moment
Mermaid Drives a Yacht
Mom wasn't picking up the phone.At first, I thought it was just one of those things. Bad network, dead battery. But then I called again. And again. Nothing.
That's when I realized—it wasn't just my mom.It was everyone.
Like the whole world had quietly folded itself into a crack and disappeared, without a goodbye. No texts. No screams. Just... silence.
No humans. No animals. No birds in the sky. Not even the mosquitoes that used to hum around my ears at night. Just me. Me, standing in the middle of Chennai, with no clue what the hell had happened.
I opened social media—empty feeds. No updates. No stories. No one screaming into the void.
The void was me.
It felt like God had made a mistake and left me behind. Or maybe it wasn't a mistake. Maybe He did it on purpose. Maybe I wasn't worth saving.
I wandered around, trying to feel something. I found Raman's phone, lying on his table like he'd just gone to the bathroom and forgot to come back. I turned it on.
His gallery was full of my photos.Mostly cleavage shots.
Disgust washed over me like a slow, sour wave. I wanted to throw the phone, smash it, bury it. But what was the point? No one to confront. No one to shame. No one to explain.
He was gone.Everyone was gone.
I walked the city in a daze. The only thing that made sense was a half-eaten Subway sandwich I found still warm in its wrapper. Chicken teriyaki. It was oddly comforting. A bite of normal in a world that had lost its script.
But I couldn't stay in Chennai. Not in this ghost-town version of it.
I wanted to go to Russia.Don't ask me why. Just a gut feeling. Like maybe the answer was there. Or at least the silence would be different.
Flights? Sure, there were plenty. But I didn't know how to fly one.Sea route? If only. I'd have swum across the goddamn ocean if there was a way.Road? Possible, maybe. But through how many countries? How many ghost checkpoints, how many empty fuel stations?
Still.
I had nowhere else to go.
I needed a smoke.
The city was wide open, shops unlocked, no owners in sight. No money required. But I had money—funny how that still felt like it mattered.
I skipped the usual cigarettes and picked up a cigar. A Cuban one. Why not? If I'm the last person on Earth, I might as well smoke like a revolutionary. Che Guevara would've approved, right?
The first puff hit me like velvet fire. My nerves loosened. My thoughts floated. Everything slowed.
Maybe everyone died. Maybe it was just my turn next.
But until then, this world—this strange, abandoned gift—was mine to explore. To enjoy. Maybe that was God's plan, or maybe it was His mistake.
I once dreamt of becoming a pop singer. Something like Michael Jackson, but female, desi, and raw. Reality dragged me down with diving jobs, poverty, and hopeless auditions. Better here than ending up a sex worker in Thailand, or any other place that swallows dreams.
Then I remembered something—the exhibition owner. He'd always whisper creepily, "Let's take a private cruise sometime. We'll party." Back then it gave me chills. But now? Now it felt like a clue. A key.
The cruise had to exist. And if it did, I wanted to ride it.
I didn't feel like driving on the road. Never learned to, really. Except for those dashing cars at amusement parks. Same mechanism, I told myself. Close enough.
I lit another puff and headed toward ECR—the East Coast Road—Chennai's corridor of the elite. On either side, homes told stories. Palatial villas with glinting glass and infinity pools, just steps away from huts patched together with palm leaves. That was Chennai. The eternal contradiction. Rich and poor, luxury and survival, standing a few hundred meters apart.
I reached the exhibition owner's house. It was nothing less than a palace. His backyard opened straight onto the sea, like a movie set. And there it was: the yacht. Sleek. White. Glimmering in the drizzle like a lost treasure.
I stepped aboard.
The cockpit was surprisingly simple. Fewer buttons than I expected. I pressed one.
The dashboard lit up.
The engine purred.
I was cruising.
The sea stretched out before me, vast and untamed. From this side, Chennai looked different—quieter, gentler. Fishes danced beneath the surface. A dolphin leapt in the distance, slicing through the grey horizon.
My cigar buzzed in my head. I felt bold. Alive. Free.
"I should dive," I said to myself. And then I did.
The water was cold and sharp, cutting through the haze in my brain. I floated, weightless, the waves rocking me like a lullaby. But then—my heart dropped.
The yacht was still moving.
I hadn't stopped it.
It was gliding away, faster than I could shout at it. A stupid mistake. It wasn't a bicycle. It had no loyalty.
I swam hard, pulling against the water like it owed me something. The clouds grew thicker. Wind lashed across the sky. A cyclone? Of course. The gods were in a mood.
Waves rose like mountains. Rain lashed my face. I almost gave up.
And then, like fate had a sense of humor, the yacht turned back toward me.
I couldn't explain it. It was as if I'd called an Uber.
I grabbed the edge, hauled myself back onboard, soaked and shivering. The yacht, built for billionaires, handled the storm like a beast. I could navigate through this. I would.
Beer bottles rolled along the deck with each wave. I cracked one open. Why not? If I was going to cruise into a cyclone, I wouldn't do it sober.
Through the sheets of rain, I saw a red light. It blinked steadily. The lighthouse.
Home.
I steered toward the shore. My feet finally touched sand—wet, cold, real. I stood there on the beach, laughing, drenched, tipsy, cigar long dead.
The yacht was gone. Swept away by the sea.
The exhibition owner's million-dollar dream? Lost in the storm.lolGood. He deserved that.
This was my world now.
And maybe it was time to destroy something else next.