Travelling solo!

2. Harihareshwar

The wheels rolled out of Mumbai at the godforsaken hour of 2:30 AM, a time when even the night owls are in pajamas. Western Express highway passed by in a blur, and I had no clue when the ghats made a cameo. Destination? I had no fucking clue. I was about as informed as a fish in the Sahara, I just knew we were headed somewhere in Konkan, and for a 2-day trip within 3k rupees, I wasn't really in any mood to ask more questions. Now, most of the bus inhabitants were in sleep mode, chasing dreams or counting imaginary sheep. Not me, though. And the driver of course. Boy if he fell asleep...

Cue Farhan Akhtar. "Pichle Saat Dino Mein" blasted through my earphones, cutting through the hum of the engine. The lyrics hit like an unexpected plot twist in a B-grade Bollywood flick. 

"Meri laundry ka ek bill, ek adhi padhi novel, na na, na na na, na na, na na an..." 

Laundry bills, unfinished novels – it was as if Farhan had borrowed my life's syllabus. Then came the kicker, 

"Ek ladki ka phone number, mere kaam ka ik paper, na na, na na an." 

Well, ain't that the universe trolling? 

In the rhythm of the road, these lyrics became the anthem of my overnight trip, a quirky soundtrack to the ramblings of a guy who just had a breakup and was now cruising into the unknown.

As the sun lazily stretched its arms across the sky, we arrived at our mystical destination—Harihareshwar. Now, don't go asking me if I'd ever heard of this place before; my reaction was akin to a dog suddenly realizing it's not in its backyard anymore. Everyone else on the bus was buzzing with excitement about the promised beachfront paradise, while I was on a one-man mission to locate the nearest bed for some shut-eye. After all, I had pulled an unintentional all-nighter, wide-eyed and wondering why the road never seemed to end. People began trickling off the bus, and the driver, efficiently parking in front of our designated "freshening up" spot, unleashed a horde of eager bladders. Now, why we Indians cloak the act of nature's call with euphemisms like "getting fresh" is beyond me. Maybe it's our attempt to veil the unmentionable dump fest happening within, a secret shame we'd rather not broadcast. It's like how the guy at the pharmacy stealthily wraps a sanitary pad in layers of newspaper or ominous black polythene—a bizarre hush surrounding things perfectly natural. 

We tiptoe around bodily functions as if they're the delicate china in a porcelain store. But in reality, it's just the morning routine; no need to make it sound like a classified government operation. 

Akshay, in his quest for budget-friendly restroom solutions, approached the hotel owner with the proposal of renting rooms on an hourly basis. Negotiating enthusiastically, he aimed for four rooms, ensuring five people per room could savor the delights of private facilities. In his planning, however, he forgot that our party boasted a fabulous five-girl ensemble. Despite their vocal support for equality, the prospect of sharing a single room amongst the quintet was a bridge too far.

Ecstatic about securing rooms at the bargain rate of 200 bucks per two hours, Akshay basked in his victory until he caught the unmistakably disapproving glares from the girls. Undeterred, the girls strategically decided on a room arrangement – two in one room and three in another. The revelation that they all would be cooped up in a single room, sharing a solitary bathroom, didn't exactly sprinkle fairy dust on their moods. 

On the flip side, the boys, ever the masters of resourceful survival, all squeezed into a single room raging chaos throughout the hallway, as if a herd of sheep had been unleashed from their stable. 

Boys I tell you could live out in the wild without any complaint while the girls would vote for vanity every time! But somehow that's what adds value to life, which is what companionship is about. If not for women, men might never have left their caves from the Savannah days.