ToeKnee dropped dead on Friday the 13th. Colleagues acknowledged that he was a reasonably good soul, but prone to cracking ill-timed PJs. The 30-something wannabe journalist is survived by the five sacks of biscuits stowed in his office drawer, including packs of Parle Gs that will now be distributed among the famished masses.
ToeKnee loved his Kindle, the Delhi Metro, Hot Chocolate Fudge, most films by Karan Johar, most songs by A. R. Rahman, learning new languages, Nutella hazelnut spread, and Google Plus — not necessarily in that order. Netflix was a late addition to this list but a very deep-rooted one, which explains why television obviously didn’t bore him to death. That dubious distinction was claimed by a one-litre tub of ‘Death by Chocolate’ ice cream.
As his life flashed before his eyes in his dying moments on Planet Earth, ToeKnee had one regret in life — actually, make that two — NOT travelling on the new Metro Heritage Line to Kashmere Gate and NOT attending the German classes he had enrolled for at Max Mueller Bhavan.
The one thing ToeKnee was proud of: having negotiated nearly four decades as a total teetotaller who didn’t even drink tea, let alone Old Monk.
The one human ToeKnee disliked with all his heart: the woman in the apartment below. The one always whining about her chandelier, a glass monstrosity which the 90-kg ToeKnee put in perpetual peril when he skipped about the house in a futile attempt to match steps with the virtual athletes on his Xbox.