8:00 a.m.
With a worn-down towel wrapped around his torso, Rajendra
walks into the balcony carrying with him a bucket of freshly washed clothes
dripping still. While he diligently picks up each one, squeezing each piece one
by one for excess water, he is humming an old hymn. The home-grown potted
plants, nodding along with him to that very rhythm. Is he being mindful or is
this is just a force of habit? Who was to know? He seems content. He seems
cognizant of what he’s doing as well as the next thing he’d do. Such is the
beauty of a routine. Shortly, there will, most certainly, be an exchange of
dialogue about lost and found garments, followed by a series of banter on what
the neighbors and/or the inhabitants of this household did and didn’t. Nothing
out of place, really.
Raju’s mornings are quite the usual. He’s probably at that
age where anything unusual will not quite be eagerly welcomed. Anyway, it is
time for him to pick up his Chetak, revisit the list of things he must
accomplish in the day, place that sturdy brown helmet over his head, cramp his
lunch pack in his office bag, and like a Spartan get about with his day. It has
taken years of practice, years of ups and downs, years and years of unusual to
finally, achieve this “usual."
10:00 a.m.
“Sinhaji sirji, good morning sirji” called out the slightly
built, slightly bent, and slightly worn-out man.
His forehead is wrapped with a dull white cloth while his
hand is busy wrapping the long trail of white jasmines.
“Ah, Pappu” smiled Raju, carefully removing his helmet and
then putting all his strength to put to stand his beloved scooter.
“What’s the rate today? Roses look fresh”, he observed.
“Haaan Sirji, just got delivered from the morning ferry”,
beaming with pride.
“That ‘masla’ from Monday? About Shailendraji’s helmet?
Which Sharmaji’s nephew took by mistake?” continued Pappu.
“He came later in the night at 7-8, returned it but with a
big scratch on the back. Huh”
Taking a quick break, he spat out a bright red train of the
day’s very first pan. Simultaneously signaling his helper to fetch the next one
from the shop next door.
Raju was about to move along when Pappu began with a
mischievous grin,
“But you know Shailendraji sir, right? he’s not the one to
let go sirji.” Raju wrongly picked this as his exit starting towards the door,
only to have Pappu raise his voice and continue.
“They all went to Hari’s shop then, one chai-samosa, and all
hearts found their right place. What do I have sirji? You tell? I stand here, I
sell my flowers, I want peace and good for everyone” now folding his hand and
bowing his head.
Raju finally did jump at this open window, quickly picked up
his tiffin, and his bag, and started towards the staircase. All this while,
profusely nodding and mumbling something incoherent but maybe “good” or “see
you later”. Pappu blithely backed down and called out a concluding “Ram Ram” to
definitively close his story.
Still struggling to straighten his now all the more
cluttered line of thought, Raju reached the half-closed doors to the office. Shyam,
the guard, saluted him and smiled only to remind him of his dentist visit the
day before.
To Raju’s courteous
“How’re your teeth?”, Shyam enthusiastically narrated the previous night’s
adventure at the Civil Hospital. Vividly describing the machines excavating in
his mouth, the doctor’s frowning over his forehead and naturally, about the
pain equating his endurance, all the while opening only that one single lock to
the chained door. Would be quite a security you’d imagine? Raju was now the
fifth audience of this dramatic narrative. There were many more to come.
Rajendra took to his desk. Namastes resonating across the
floor from the scattered other 4 residing in the premises. Neatly placing his
calculator, Raju opened the first file from the top of the pile on his desk
when Raghu, the office boy was known for his almost magical appearance, did in
fact, magically-so appear in front of him and served him his wildly famous and
sought-after morning tea. It is an open secret that the quality of his tea
keeps going low with each tick of the clock. And the clock indeed does keeps
ticking.
11:30 a.m.
Midway through his third file, someone knocked impatiently
at his desk. Raju looked up to find bespected Deepakji looking irritated and
restless.
Deepakji had worked out a theory regarding the next
transfers and promotions. With the recent and also some signs of his
incompetence at his job, he had a record and would in his own words “be thrown
to some village to collect dung”. Thus, began the ritual of peeking into the
manager’s chambers every time someone entered or exited it. Paranoidly
conjecturing that the manager was to receive the file from Headquarters’ and then
strike his name off from the list.
True to his habit, Deepakji began the rant.
“It’s here Sinhaji, I saw Raghu bring those files, I Saw him
carry it, I’m sure I saw the Headsquare’s stamp on it. Oh it’s happening
Sinhaji”.
Nervously tapping the desk with added vigor which attracted
Sudhaji’s attention. She’s obviously been over-hearing the conversation for
quite some time, but today decides to jump in.
“It’s going to be alright Deepakji, don’t worry so much”,
offered she in the spirit of being a faithful and kind colleague.
Deepakji, greedily took the bait of compassion and diverted
his engagement. Raju secretly thanked his lucky stars and of course Sudhaji. It
won’t be fair to judge him here, he’s been carrying the weight of these one-sided
anxiety bouts twice a day, six times a week for the past many weeks. A fresh
ear to Deepak was the crutch his much-exploited shoulders needed.
Raghu manifested again and served the trio tea. Deepak now
with great affection placed an arm over his shoulder and solicited his advice.
Raghu put on a determined face. Deepakji looked at him with child-like unwavering
curiosity, even Sudhaji held her breath waiting for him to drop the wisdom
bomb. Without much ado, many more joined in.
“Saheb, I know you’re in trouble, but I can’t help you
here.”, he concluded meekly.
“But why?” enquired a desperate Deepak.
His hands now motioning towards his pocket as if to take out
something to grease his hands. Raghu saw the movement, understood the
intention, took to contemplation for a minute more. Thick suspense hung in the
air, the air hung in overwrought chests, and chests took to banging against
sweat socked shirts.
“Ni Saheb, I can’t”, Raghu gave his verdict,
“I carry these many files, sometimes even 50,” he continued
gesticulating extensively with his hands, “but Saheb, I can’t tell you”.
“But why can’t you?”, implored Deepakji.
Everyone’s gaze now back to Raghu.
“I cannot tell you Saheb, because Saheb my amma never taught
me to read!”, burst out Raghu and swung his head low.
Everyone quietly dispersed to attend to their business of
the day. Sympathetic murmurs, reassurances and the occasional slap on the back,
that’s all anyone could ever do.
1:00 p.m.
One wouldn’t need to check if it were 1 p.m. The sudden yet
oddly gradual crescendo of the bustle of the lunch hour had taken to wings.
Groups, like an amoeba, socked in their comrades and headed towards the
break-room. Pandeyji was the lunch leader to Sinha’s amoeba. He was a short
bald man, with funny anecdotes and one-liners. He’d bundle the day’s newspaper
under his arm and lead the rest of the tribe to the not-formally designated
table. The lunchroom is a blank canvas where conversations splash colors
expanding the spectrum, the flavors treat your eyes and tongues taste a buffet of
words, wisdom, uninvited comments, solicited/unsolicited advice, and some … to
top that all off.
Sinhaji laid down the tiny boxes of his lunch pack in front
of him and got diligently opened them. 15 years of marriage, yet this lunchtime
with his colleagues was his most romantic memory.
Sinhaji lives in a household of 8, his mother, his two elder
brothers, and their families. His mother holds the keys to the kitchen where
food for the whole family is prepared together. All his life, Sinhaji has had
little say in his likes and dislikes. A stern look from his mother, followed by
the old life lesson of how hard his dad had to work to feed them all, has
always coerced him into a polite consensus. It was only after Sheela’s arrival
he felt noticed. She, like the others, had little say in what was to be cooked.
But she, being the smart and caring woman that she is, has her way while
packing Sinhaji’s lunch. She’d sneak in an extra piece of sweet and flavor up
his yogurt whenever the bhaji was not to his liking. Sinhaji would therefore open
the sweet’s pack first. The sight of its content always made him smile. Either
way.
3:30 p.m.
After lunch the clock won’t tick yet the work pile would
grow. Any new entrant would witness some squandered chatter and then die as
quickly it started. The lethargy in the air wasn’t their fault, the government
hadn’t set new ways, no new policies were up for what and what all was there,
were already heavily debated, no new scandal was in the news, even prices of
potatoes and tomatoes were reasonable.
It was now that Deepakji’s eyes, imploring for a break, met
with Sinhaji’s. The duo then headed out to Ajju’s tea stall. Many a friendship
have sprouted here, many a scheme hatched, many a parliament debated and many a
judgment passed. Noticing Sinhaji approaching, Ajju raised his voice,
“
