A great white ox stampeding down in parallel. I glance at it, and I wonder how I'm managing to keep up with the terrific pace. I look down and realize of course that I'm sitting on my friend's back (let's refer to him as Tez, for reasons you will know soon enough), who's rampaging on all fours himself. In order to either bring the bull down or beat it in a race, Tez rams into the bull sideways a couple of times but the bull does not relent. I am worried for Tez, because he's just gotten stitches on his head and one of the ox's hooked horns is dangerously close. My fears are justified soon enough, with the ox lightly etching its horns onto Tez's head, starting a tiny spurt of blood. I worry, but we must win the race! Or bring the ox down! Or something like that. Anyway, Tez runs harder than ever, and the ox gets more and more agressive, burying the horn deeper and deeper into Tez's head, eventually tearing the skin and perhaps the skull. The scene then fades out thankfully. The next moment, Tez and me are talking post-race or post-rampage or whatever. Apparently I made him do what he did, and he's not too happy about having his hair soaked in blood. I feel terribly guilty now, because I do really care for him, and want to do something about it. So we go to a doctor, and get him restitched. Only for God-Knows-Why I'm doing the stitching myself. A short lapse of time, and he's in a much better state. And the alarm rings!

And I'm not having biryani from that place near my apartment EVER AGAIN!