It wouldn't have been so tragic if we had been informed earlier. Money was not an issue, its value erodes when you are practically paid by the company to do nothing. Neither was time, although, at 3 pm, it was a bit odd; but then they could have fixed it at 3 a.m. and crowds would still have turned out in hordes. Even piss, sweat and thirst could have been excused, it was one of those rare occasions, when all three were bugging you simultaneously, but we tolerated it with a grit that would have put Spartans to shame. But you can't make short shrift of a 30000 strong crowd and hope to get away with it.
G told me about the Metallica concert when it was nothing more than a fledgling rumor, and although I was no big Metallica fan, I gladly chimed in, purely out of curiosity. 3 months later, unbelievably the concert materialized. G, who had too much faith in Demand-Supply law, had bought 5 tickets, in a hope that it would become a valuable commodity as the concert drew closer, and he would offload it at higher price. Everyone agreed that it was nice idea. What we forgot was that the ticket was little more than a glossed piece of paper that the organizers published by thousands, and were selling (and probably printing too)it even hours before the concert. You had to be an internet illiterate or a person of shoddy credit card history not to be able to buy it online. G, being the networking genius he was, found one of each. A couple of deadbeats, whom G identified as his friend's friend's friends were interested in the tickets. That they could only pay quarter of the ticket's price when it changed hands and promised to pay the balance later said a lot about their finances. I was lucky not to be a part of this scheme.
With the extra tickets taken care of we headed for the venue. Excluding myself and G, there were two of his office mates, all in all three chubby and one skinny fuck, looking more like kids skipping school for some mischief. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The show had attracted the most eclectic crowd from the region, people wearing tattoos for clothes, pierced dudes and dudettes,mohwaks, afros, all seemed to be a norm rather than exception. I have always wondered what do the caged animals in the zoos think of each other. Is it "Shit! Who let this thing inside..." Maybe. If it were humans, this thought would definitely cross their minds. Atleast their eyes were betraying these feelings, every person was scanning every other person head to toe, probably gauging if he/she was cool enough to be present there. Good thing that the guards overseeing the entry gate weren't employing this criterion. They just checked the tickets, frisked us twice and let us in. The four of us, who resemblance to school kids increased eerily with every passing moment, entered the stadium gleefully.
The stadium was divided into two sections, one for those who bought costlier tickets (Rs. 2700), and one way distant from the stage for those who paid less (Rs.1700). Poor sods. They didn't even have any screen serving them. The cost difference clearly didn't justify this step-motherly treatment. A barricade with bouncers posted every ten feet separated them from us. After musing on their situation (if musing means pointing at them and laughing), we fought our way to get as close to the stage as possible. With enough squeezing and excuse me's, we were able to settle our ass some 20 human rows from the stage. Organizers were continuously requesting the first rowers to take two or three steps back from the barricade. Apparently, even after the scheduled time of the concert, they were not able to set the barricades to their mind's satisfaction. Some event management. Whenever these announcements occurred, the first rowers, took a step back, but the subsequent rowers were too clever not to fill the void. Just like cards, it was simply a shuffle of feet. These waves of retreat came frequently, all we had to do was to stand askew, and the wave swept past us. Not a particularly brave way of standing your ground, but it paid its dues.
An hour passed, and still the technicians, organisers and a bouncer ,who wore a cowboy hat and seemed like a cross between an ox and a bison, were the only people roving about the stage. The crowd was definitely getting restless. Oldies like us hunkered on the floor to ease the bloodflow in the stiff joints. Those who were endowed with better energy levels vented their anger by screaming bullshit, thinking that their words would somehow bypass all the babel, reach the ears of Metallica, and goad them into action. If only they saved their energy for when they needed it the most...Eventually the zestful throats dried. Not completely though, a few frolickers would let their presence beknown every now and then, but not with the frequency that existed when the sun was high up in the sky. Evening brought along a chilling coolness and the crowd sobered up a bit. I think they were being irked by the same feeling that irked me - a feeling of massive amount of piss building up in your kidneys. I was resolute that I would piss in my pants if I had to. I wouldn't have been the only one.
Generally, lesser known local bands open the show, to warm up the crowd to the presence of the great one; but the stage was irritatingly empty. Doubts about the show began to creep up. One of the friends, who was more observant than the rest of us, rightly pointed that the audio equipment was being taken backstage. At that time, we didn't give much thought to his words, for us it was simply "technical stuff happening on stage that does not concern you." They could have been slaying dragons on the stage and we would have passed it
for technical jibberish, that was the level of disinterest we had developed.
At 6:15 P.M. (Two and a half hours of idleness), it was announced that the show was getting postponed by a day due to (Air Quote begin) Technical difficulties (Air Quote end). Apparently Metallica wasn't satisfied with the barricading near the stage (did they even bring their pious ass to the stage?? If they did, it escaped the scruitny of 30000 people). The audience was asked to evacuate the venue immediately. As if it was going to be that easy. I guess, this is the time I tell you that all hell broke loose. But it didn't, atleast not with such immediacy. Although the crowd started booing immediately, it was more of an auto-pilot response. The news was sinking in slowly. Ladies, escorted by men, were first to leave. Stags like us filled up the vacuum left behind. An intrepid soul (hats off to him) drew the first blood. He jumped over the barricade, rose over the stage, and threw a huge speaker down - these speakers aren't the garden variety speakers you have in your houses; they are almost as tall and as heavy as an adolescent child. And he did it when a few of the organisers were still on the stage. Might be an exaggeration, but it's akin to storm a lion's den and take away his kill. This is when all hell broke loose. It was all the little impulse the crowd needed, the final neutron to the chain reaction. Rows upon rows of people started jumping the barricade and destroying whatever little property they could lay their hands upon. When you are a part of mob, questions about physical well being become almost episodic, the only thing everyone seemed to have on mind was to inflict as much damage on the stage in the shortest possible time. First, the barricade was taken apart. This barricade was being supported by a section of short (1/1.5 metres) iron pipes (dwarf versions of the ones that are used in setting up the marriage tents). So when everyone needed a weapon, it became the obvious choice. I too, had by this time hidden my face with a hankerchief, and started working upon prising out one of these rods. I was successful, but when it did come out, it hurled uncontrollably and hit a fellow rioter, who was trying to dig out his own weapon from the rubble. I lowered my head in apology, but he didn't seem to mind. With the weapon in hand, it seemed that a power engulfed me. My hands itched to try it on something. The first target was a desolate cardboard box, nestled between two speakers. I struck it with the rod as I would strike my worst enemy. Hundreds of sappy styrofoam cups flew out, contents were disappointing but I stomped them nonetheless. It was the time to use the weapon on a more formidable enemy. I singled out a speaker on which only one other rioter was working upon (There seemed to be a shortage of targets, the prescient organizers had already packed and moved the more valuable of their stuff). I got to that speaker, the incumbent rioter, gave me some space, and we started hitting the speaker in harmony. I arced my arms behind over my head, as far back as I could, and brought the rod down (sledge hammer motion). Pieces of plastics erupted. Incumbent rioter reciprocated the same motion. 4 hits later, the speaker was totalled. Clueless about what to do now, I hauled myself up the stage. The roof of the stage was flocked with a number of lights, which exploded as someone yanked the wire connected to those, or tinkered them in an unknown way. From the stage, the chaos was almost mesmerizing. Those who were still on ground, participated by throwing empty bottles of water (including the monstrous 20 litres one) on the stage. To my left, people had found a trove of musical instruments that was left behind; and they were busy pummelling it on the floor. I wondered then, why they weren't pilfering that stuff. I later realized that it would have been an extremely stupid thing to do. In this chaos, the rioters were nameless, faceless figures, effortlessly slipping into and out of the crowd, but once you are donning a musical instrument, you give up that anonymity. You would be spotted from a mile away, and there is no good excuse for that guitar you are carrying (Least of all the playing alongwith the band excuse.) I stood there like a slack jawed fool for a while before spotting another intact speaker. Despite all the clamour, this one was somehow missed by the crowd. I sat on the stage, my feet anchored on the edge of the speaker, one leg press and the speaker tilted and fell horizontally on the ground. I had found my very own dominion. From the stage, I jumped onto this speaker. Its face lay completely exposed to my rod; I didn't waste any moment and started grinding the rod onto its face, the rod went down effortlessly; deeper and deeper and deeper. When it seemed that the rod won't go any deeper I stomped it with my shoes. The kick was effective. A little too effective I guess. It broke the face of the speaker. When the hole was big enough, I tried to ram my shoe repeatedly, but it was a wasted effort. Everytime the shoe went inside the mouth of the speaker, it took me some effort to bring it out. After 3 kicks, it was clear that my shoe won't survive the splinters that were sticking out of the mouth of the speaker anyway I reckoned that damage was worth the cost of the ticket. Constables too had started appearing on a corner of the stage. Time to make a move.
From the speaker I jumped the barricade back into the crowd, joined G and his friends, and observed the thullas from a safe distance. They were doing absolutely nothing; standing with their arms crossed, leaning on their cudgels, rather than waving it. Just another day at work for them. From their number (four) and posture, it was easy to guess that they intended to stay that way. It is said that pride comes before fall. In my case it was the greed that preceded the fall. Before the devil in me could go back to sleep, the nonchalance of cops exhorted it for round two. Afterall how many times do you get to riot in your life. So before my friends could instil a better sense in me, I ran back towards the stage. As I surveyed it, it seemed that nothing worth destroying remained intact.
The thing about most of the seemingly random directional decisions in life is that they are not so much random as you expect them to be. Mostly, they depend on your hand orientation. If you find yourself lost in a forest, you are more likely to take left turns, if you are lefty and right ones, if you are righty. So, while all of the rioters were busy vandalizing the right section of the stage, I went towards a solitary left corner. A structure of planks supported a bunch of stretched curtains there. A long plank hung from a nail like a dead organ from the vestige of tissue, I yanked it out. I stepped back three or four paces and then badgered it into the curtain like a battering ram. The sweet sound of cloth ripping. As I went for a second strike a hand grabbed the back of my T shirt. My hands flailed as the hands dragged me towards the back of the stage. "Maaro saale ko, saala property damage karta hai." I was still on my feet when a punch hit me in the face. I learnt the meaning of the phrase 'stars exploding before your eyes' that night. My feet staggered to find balance as bouncers rained punches and kicks. There were four or five of them; which was actually a blessing, any fewer, and attacks would have been more concerted. Like a cornered animal, I was desperate to find an escape, more due to fear of being handed over to cops than of a beating. I was on all fours, my vision obscured by several legs that surrounded me. Kicks were mostly confined to the ribs. But one fucker got clever and stomped his foot on my right wrist with full force. In that quandary of pains, this one left a mark. This fucker seemed to be very intent on beating the crap out of me, as his next kick came, I wrapped my arm around his leg and threw him off balance. As his mates scuttled to help him get back on his feet, I tried to flee. There was a ramp connecting backstage to one of the exits; a good number of people were using this exit. It would have ensured anonymity if I made it to there. One of the quicker bouncers took a notice. While I was running down the ramp, his huge hands met my back. He wasn't trying to stop me; rather he wanted to push me down the ramp. Good strategy. It worked. I was thrown off balance. My hands thrashed about, trying to grab hold of some concrete support. All I caught was air. I stumled and rolled down the ramp, into the people. The bouncer had delivered his coup-de-grace. He went back upstage, looking forward to trap some other dumb-fuck like me.
I, glad not to be kicked into a riot van, ran from the venue like a dog with its tail between its legs. I was out of breath, but I still ran some 100 metres without looking back. Going back inside the venue was out of question. My T-shirt was torn underneath my arms, lips felt swollen, but there was no pain. Probably adrenaline was saving worse things for later. I sat down on a pavement, waiting for the heartbeat to slow down. A day ago, I had run with weights on, and found my heartbeat hovering around heart attack area. Now it felt that limit had already been surpassed. I took cognizance of my condition. Jaw seemed fine, it had taken its share of punches. Arms ok. Right wrist, a bit damaged, but moving without glitch. There was terrible shake in my knees that persisted as I walked towards an auto stand, guided by the metro line. As I passed the cars, and looked at my image in their windows, an image of a hobo stared back at me. Two important lessons struck me at that time. First: Don't get involved in shit unless you have got balls to face the consequesnce. I was lucky that it were the bouncers that caught me, had it been cops, I would have been in a situation so messy, that I won't have been so flippant about it. Second: Work-outs aren't half as futile as they seem to be. If not in offense, at least they help you in defense, let you take a few punches before you are splayed knocked out on the floor.
Aftermath:
I reached home before G and his friends. I had messaged him, not to worry about or wait for me. TV was replete with the Breaking news, I had just been part of. Metallica said that they were totally dissatisfied with the security measures at the venue. In all probability, they were not even going to perform the next day. Cops said that they had not been informed about estimates of the gathering, so they were helpless. Organisers bullshitted that they had lost equipment worth $200,000. Fuckers were not even through with one scam and they were planning another. As G's observant friend had pointed, they had already cleared the valuable instruments before calling the show off, and now they were going to scam the Insurance companies.
G came back some half an hour later, and filled me up on the things I had missed. After I was thrown off from the venue, some rioters tried to set fire to the stage. The same curtain I was tearing before getting trapped. But it was made of a fire resistant material; no fun there. The merchandize section got completely looted, cops in this case were themselves partaking with some merchandize, so vandals were fearless about this loot. Even G's friend, who had been keeping his calm through the event, grabbed a bandana for a souvenir. DNA networks got a banishment order from organizing any concert in future. It remains to be seen how long it lasts. People in Bangalore were not disappointed. Their concert went as planned, masters of destruction kept their date with Bangalore, but missed the destruction by some 2000 miles.
G told me about the Metallica concert when it was nothing more than a fledgling rumor, and although I was no big Metallica fan, I gladly chimed in, purely out of curiosity. 3 months later, unbelievably the concert materialized. G, who had too much faith in Demand-Supply law, had bought 5 tickets, in a hope that it would become a valuable commodity as the concert drew closer, and he would offload it at higher price. Everyone agreed that it was nice idea. What we forgot was that the ticket was little more than a glossed piece of paper that the organizers published by thousands, and were selling (and probably printing too)it even hours before the concert. You had to be an internet illiterate or a person of shoddy credit card history not to be able to buy it online. G, being the networking genius he was, found one of each. A couple of deadbeats, whom G identified as his friend's friend's friends were interested in the tickets. That they could only pay quarter of the ticket's price when it changed hands and promised to pay the balance later said a lot about their finances. I was lucky not to be a part of this scheme.
With the extra tickets taken care of we headed for the venue. Excluding myself and G, there were two of his office mates, all in all three chubby and one skinny fuck, looking more like kids skipping school for some mischief. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The show had attracted the most eclectic crowd from the region, people wearing tattoos for clothes, pierced dudes and dudettes,mohwaks, afros, all seemed to be a norm rather than exception. I have always wondered what do the caged animals in the zoos think of each other. Is it "Shit! Who let this thing inside..." Maybe. If it were humans, this thought would definitely cross their minds. Atleast their eyes were betraying these feelings, every person was scanning every other person head to toe, probably gauging if he/she was cool enough to be present there. Good thing that the guards overseeing the entry gate weren't employing this criterion. They just checked the tickets, frisked us twice and let us in. The four of us, who resemblance to school kids increased eerily with every passing moment, entered the stadium gleefully.
The stadium was divided into two sections, one for those who bought costlier tickets (Rs. 2700), and one way distant from the stage for those who paid less (Rs.1700). Poor sods. They didn't even have any screen serving them. The cost difference clearly didn't justify this step-motherly treatment. A barricade with bouncers posted every ten feet separated them from us. After musing on their situation (if musing means pointing at them and laughing), we fought our way to get as close to the stage as possible. With enough squeezing and excuse me's, we were able to settle our ass some 20 human rows from the stage. Organizers were continuously requesting the first rowers to take two or three steps back from the barricade. Apparently, even after the scheduled time of the concert, they were not able to set the barricades to their mind's satisfaction. Some event management. Whenever these announcements occurred, the first rowers, took a step back, but the subsequent rowers were too clever not to fill the void. Just like cards, it was simply a shuffle of feet. These waves of retreat came frequently, all we had to do was to stand askew, and the wave swept past us. Not a particularly brave way of standing your ground, but it paid its dues.
An hour passed, and still the technicians, organisers and a bouncer ,who wore a cowboy hat and seemed like a cross between an ox and a bison, were the only people roving about the stage. The crowd was definitely getting restless. Oldies like us hunkered on the floor to ease the bloodflow in the stiff joints. Those who were endowed with better energy levels vented their anger by screaming bullshit, thinking that their words would somehow bypass all the babel, reach the ears of Metallica, and goad them into action. If only they saved their energy for when they needed it the most...Eventually the zestful throats dried. Not completely though, a few frolickers would let their presence beknown every now and then, but not with the frequency that existed when the sun was high up in the sky. Evening brought along a chilling coolness and the crowd sobered up a bit. I think they were being irked by the same feeling that irked me - a feeling of massive amount of piss building up in your kidneys. I was resolute that I would piss in my pants if I had to. I wouldn't have been the only one.
Generally, lesser known local bands open the show, to warm up the crowd to the presence of the great one; but the stage was irritatingly empty. Doubts about the show began to creep up. One of the friends, who was more observant than the rest of us, rightly pointed that the audio equipment was being taken backstage. At that time, we didn't give much thought to his words, for us it was simply "technical stuff happening on stage that does not concern you." They could have been slaying dragons on the stage and we would have passed it
for technical jibberish, that was the level of disinterest we had developed.
At 6:15 P.M. (Two and a half hours of idleness), it was announced that the show was getting postponed by a day due to (Air Quote begin) Technical difficulties (Air Quote end). Apparently Metallica wasn't satisfied with the barricading near the stage (did they even bring their pious ass to the stage?? If they did, it escaped the scruitny of 30000 people). The audience was asked to evacuate the venue immediately. As if it was going to be that easy. I guess, this is the time I tell you that all hell broke loose. But it didn't, atleast not with such immediacy. Although the crowd started booing immediately, it was more of an auto-pilot response. The news was sinking in slowly. Ladies, escorted by men, were first to leave. Stags like us filled up the vacuum left behind. An intrepid soul (hats off to him) drew the first blood. He jumped over the barricade, rose over the stage, and threw a huge speaker down - these speakers aren't the garden variety speakers you have in your houses; they are almost as tall and as heavy as an adolescent child. And he did it when a few of the organisers were still on the stage. Might be an exaggeration, but it's akin to storm a lion's den and take away his kill. This is when all hell broke loose. It was all the little impulse the crowd needed, the final neutron to the chain reaction. Rows upon rows of people started jumping the barricade and destroying whatever little property they could lay their hands upon. When you are a part of mob, questions about physical well being become almost episodic, the only thing everyone seemed to have on mind was to inflict as much damage on the stage in the shortest possible time. First, the barricade was taken apart. This barricade was being supported by a section of short (1/1.5 metres) iron pipes (dwarf versions of the ones that are used in setting up the marriage tents). So when everyone needed a weapon, it became the obvious choice. I too, had by this time hidden my face with a hankerchief, and started working upon prising out one of these rods. I was successful, but when it did come out, it hurled uncontrollably and hit a fellow rioter, who was trying to dig out his own weapon from the rubble. I lowered my head in apology, but he didn't seem to mind. With the weapon in hand, it seemed that a power engulfed me. My hands itched to try it on something. The first target was a desolate cardboard box, nestled between two speakers. I struck it with the rod as I would strike my worst enemy. Hundreds of sappy styrofoam cups flew out, contents were disappointing but I stomped them nonetheless. It was the time to use the weapon on a more formidable enemy. I singled out a speaker on which only one other rioter was working upon (There seemed to be a shortage of targets, the prescient organizers had already packed and moved the more valuable of their stuff). I got to that speaker, the incumbent rioter, gave me some space, and we started hitting the speaker in harmony. I arced my arms behind over my head, as far back as I could, and brought the rod down (sledge hammer motion). Pieces of plastics erupted. Incumbent rioter reciprocated the same motion. 4 hits later, the speaker was totalled. Clueless about what to do now, I hauled myself up the stage. The roof of the stage was flocked with a number of lights, which exploded as someone yanked the wire connected to those, or tinkered them in an unknown way. From the stage, the chaos was almost mesmerizing. Those who were still on ground, participated by throwing empty bottles of water (including the monstrous 20 litres one) on the stage. To my left, people had found a trove of musical instruments that was left behind; and they were busy pummelling it on the floor. I wondered then, why they weren't pilfering that stuff. I later realized that it would have been an extremely stupid thing to do. In this chaos, the rioters were nameless, faceless figures, effortlessly slipping into and out of the crowd, but once you are donning a musical instrument, you give up that anonymity. You would be spotted from a mile away, and there is no good excuse for that guitar you are carrying (Least of all the playing alongwith the band excuse.) I stood there like a slack jawed fool for a while before spotting another intact speaker. Despite all the clamour, this one was somehow missed by the crowd. I sat on the stage, my feet anchored on the edge of the speaker, one leg press and the speaker tilted and fell horizontally on the ground. I had found my very own dominion. From the stage, I jumped onto this speaker. Its face lay completely exposed to my rod; I didn't waste any moment and started grinding the rod onto its face, the rod went down effortlessly; deeper and deeper and deeper. When it seemed that the rod won't go any deeper I stomped it with my shoes. The kick was effective. A little too effective I guess. It broke the face of the speaker. When the hole was big enough, I tried to ram my shoe repeatedly, but it was a wasted effort. Everytime the shoe went inside the mouth of the speaker, it took me some effort to bring it out. After 3 kicks, it was clear that my shoe won't survive the splinters that were sticking out of the mouth of the speaker anyway I reckoned that damage was worth the cost of the ticket. Constables too had started appearing on a corner of the stage. Time to make a move.
From the speaker I jumped the barricade back into the crowd, joined G and his friends, and observed the thullas from a safe distance. They were doing absolutely nothing; standing with their arms crossed, leaning on their cudgels, rather than waving it. Just another day at work for them. From their number (four) and posture, it was easy to guess that they intended to stay that way. It is said that pride comes before fall. In my case it was the greed that preceded the fall. Before the devil in me could go back to sleep, the nonchalance of cops exhorted it for round two. Afterall how many times do you get to riot in your life. So before my friends could instil a better sense in me, I ran back towards the stage. As I surveyed it, it seemed that nothing worth destroying remained intact.
The thing about most of the seemingly random directional decisions in life is that they are not so much random as you expect them to be. Mostly, they depend on your hand orientation. If you find yourself lost in a forest, you are more likely to take left turns, if you are lefty and right ones, if you are righty. So, while all of the rioters were busy vandalizing the right section of the stage, I went towards a solitary left corner. A structure of planks supported a bunch of stretched curtains there. A long plank hung from a nail like a dead organ from the vestige of tissue, I yanked it out. I stepped back three or four paces and then badgered it into the curtain like a battering ram. The sweet sound of cloth ripping. As I went for a second strike a hand grabbed the back of my T shirt. My hands flailed as the hands dragged me towards the back of the stage. "Maaro saale ko, saala property damage karta hai." I was still on my feet when a punch hit me in the face. I learnt the meaning of the phrase 'stars exploding before your eyes' that night. My feet staggered to find balance as bouncers rained punches and kicks. There were four or five of them; which was actually a blessing, any fewer, and attacks would have been more concerted. Like a cornered animal, I was desperate to find an escape, more due to fear of being handed over to cops than of a beating. I was on all fours, my vision obscured by several legs that surrounded me. Kicks were mostly confined to the ribs. But one fucker got clever and stomped his foot on my right wrist with full force. In that quandary of pains, this one left a mark. This fucker seemed to be very intent on beating the crap out of me, as his next kick came, I wrapped my arm around his leg and threw him off balance. As his mates scuttled to help him get back on his feet, I tried to flee. There was a ramp connecting backstage to one of the exits; a good number of people were using this exit. It would have ensured anonymity if I made it to there. One of the quicker bouncers took a notice. While I was running down the ramp, his huge hands met my back. He wasn't trying to stop me; rather he wanted to push me down the ramp. Good strategy. It worked. I was thrown off balance. My hands thrashed about, trying to grab hold of some concrete support. All I caught was air. I stumled and rolled down the ramp, into the people. The bouncer had delivered his coup-de-grace. He went back upstage, looking forward to trap some other dumb-fuck like me.
I, glad not to be kicked into a riot van, ran from the venue like a dog with its tail between its legs. I was out of breath, but I still ran some 100 metres without looking back. Going back inside the venue was out of question. My T-shirt was torn underneath my arms, lips felt swollen, but there was no pain. Probably adrenaline was saving worse things for later. I sat down on a pavement, waiting for the heartbeat to slow down. A day ago, I had run with weights on, and found my heartbeat hovering around heart attack area. Now it felt that limit had already been surpassed. I took cognizance of my condition. Jaw seemed fine, it had taken its share of punches. Arms ok. Right wrist, a bit damaged, but moving without glitch. There was terrible shake in my knees that persisted as I walked towards an auto stand, guided by the metro line. As I passed the cars, and looked at my image in their windows, an image of a hobo stared back at me. Two important lessons struck me at that time. First: Don't get involved in shit unless you have got balls to face the consequesnce. I was lucky that it were the bouncers that caught me, had it been cops, I would have been in a situation so messy, that I won't have been so flippant about it. Second: Work-outs aren't half as futile as they seem to be. If not in offense, at least they help you in defense, let you take a few punches before you are splayed knocked out on the floor.
Aftermath:
I reached home before G and his friends. I had messaged him, not to worry about or wait for me. TV was replete with the Breaking news, I had just been part of. Metallica said that they were totally dissatisfied with the security measures at the venue. In all probability, they were not even going to perform the next day. Cops said that they had not been informed about estimates of the gathering, so they were helpless. Organisers bullshitted that they had lost equipment worth $200,000. Fuckers were not even through with one scam and they were planning another. As G's observant friend had pointed, they had already cleared the valuable instruments before calling the show off, and now they were going to scam the Insurance companies.
G came back some half an hour later, and filled me up on the things I had missed. After I was thrown off from the venue, some rioters tried to set fire to the stage. The same curtain I was tearing before getting trapped. But it was made of a fire resistant material; no fun there. The merchandize section got completely looted, cops in this case were themselves partaking with some merchandize, so vandals were fearless about this loot. Even G's friend, who had been keeping his calm through the event, grabbed a bandana for a souvenir. DNA networks got a banishment order from organizing any concert in future. It remains to be seen how long it lasts. People in Bangalore were not disappointed. Their concert went as planned, masters of destruction kept their date with Bangalore, but missed the destruction by some 2000 miles.
1 comment:
dude. thats awfully great man. someone has rightly said, concerts are something to remember for a long time.
PS: hope ur doing good now.
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