The 12 Hours I Still Can't Remember
So the story goes like this. In 2015 I was working at Soneri Bank in Shahdadpur. Around that time I landed an online research gig that had to be completed in person in Hyderabad.
(If you’re curious about that work — how I found it and what it involved — let me know and I’ll share the full story.)
My plan was simple: finish Friday’s shift, get half an hour of early leave from Aamir bhai, and head out on my motorbike.
For a slow rider like me it’s about a ninety-minute trip. But along the way the fuel pipe on my bike broke, and all the petrol leaked out until the tank was empty.
Some people on the road helped me out. I had left at 5:30; I reached my destination around 8 or 8:30.
As soon as I arrived at the place I was staying, I called home to say I’d made it, and went in for a shower. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the morning with one mobile phone under my pillow — I used to carry two or three phones back then for work — no bike key anywhere, and a splitting headache.
Nothing made sense. There were some medicines sitting on the table. I thought of making a call, and saw the last conversation had been with a dear friend — and I couldn’t remember what we talked about, or when.
I called Farooq bhai back. The moment he picked up, he asked:
“So — did anything come back to you, or is it still a blank?”
As far as anyone can piece together, I must have fallen in the shower and hit my head. Apparently I called home and talked nonsense, and when my friends came to take me to the doctor, I spent the whole night rambling at them too.
When I ask my family and friends what I said that night, they all give me the same answer: just forget it, don’t ask.
That’s the thing — I’ve already forgotten those 12 hours. That’s exactly the problem.