That's His Day

Who is He?
He works in an office for a salary, He has friends, He has enemies, He has dreams and He has inconsequential people to answer back. Now, He is biting his nails over the last point.

Timidly He walks in. The time is 9.45 am. Authoritatively, He punches the card. A beep. Satisfied that his one day’s salary guaranteed He marches straight, glances right, walks straight again, takes a left and reaches his destination. He does all this with German precision, as if He has been programmed for it. In fact, He has been preparing himself for the day since yesterday, when he reached home from office. And after office he would prepare himself to go to the desolate home. Which even after 2 years of inhabitance feels alien. It’s a vicious circle and He’s always running away from something.

He unloads his bag and slumps down in the chair. A cast-iron frame with black resin upholstery, to give it a leather feel. He couldn’t have cared less. Then He switches on the computer and switches off his mind. He leans dangerously on the chair with his head resting on the brow. He gently closes his eyes and an opportunistic fly lands on his cheeks. He lazily swats on it and ends up swatting himself. The fly is fast. Then he digs his nose, scratches at objectionable places, yawns, make funny noises and many such things which will soon have to be clamped on. At 10.20 am people start trickling in herds. They giggle, crack a joke, laugh vociferously, whine; everything to make their presence felt. He on the other looses himself. He Prunes his hair, tugs in carelessly loose ends of the shirt, sits straight, hides the frayed shoe with the other (pointless, because both are tattered) and tries to look like a seasoned professional. He fails miserably.

Someone wants him dead.

At least that what He feels in Someone’s presence. At 11am Someone enters the room. Sooner Someone shows up, than He pretends as if the entire load of work in this world is dumped on him. He buries himself in the computer screen, concentrating hard on a word file (though he doesn’t know what it contains). All the time dreading to be called by Someone. The air becomes heavy.
Soon the summon comes. And by hoarseness of the voice He knows what was coming.
With He standing besides, Someone rattles out, “didn’t I tell you…..are you brain dead……were you dreaming……do I speak Martian……” He looks down at his toes, and sees an ant carrying something twice his size. He felt sorry. Not for the ant.
If someone was observing He for a period of time, he would have thought that he must have become thick skinned by now. But He is thin and so is his skin.

At 1 pm. He is sitting idle. And someone barks, “Why are you not doing anything?”
At 1.15 pm. He is reading a newspaper and Someone barks, “Why are you reading a newspaper?” At around 2 pm He escapes to the loo. Not to poop but to spend some quality time. 10 minutes later He emerges only to come face to face with Someone. But this time Someone didn’t have anything to say. May be he ran out of words or he had something more pressing to attend to in the loo. Phew!

He’s a habitual cribber. An inborn thing, which runs in the genes. He picks up the phone, dials a number which he’s so used to dialing and starts doing what He’s so good at doing. Crib, crib and crib. He gives every reason to feel sorry. For the other person in the line.

It’s 6.20 pm by his watch and this time He picks up a book and not a newspaper. Someone is reading a magazine, and occasionally looks at the mobile phone. Usually when the phone rings around this time, Someone would pack his bags and leave for home ( to torment his wife). He knows it and so is as eagerly waiting for the phone to ring. Finally the phone rings. Someone gets up from the chair, packs his bag and leaves the room. But at the door he pauses and says politely, “Hey! I want the work finished today.” He wanted to say ‘no’ but said ‘ok’.
He Thinks.
Someone hated him and the feeling was mutual. He is sad and cursing the place. He wants to jump off a cliff and have a freefall, but doesn’t want to land. But like every mortal, He’s greedy. He needs money to blow on fancy foods, wants to wear fashionable clothes, hit the pubs and movie theatres and show off. If only he could control his materialistic urges, his problem could have solved. The solution is so obvious, that it misses almost everyone. Though He plans to do it someday, he knows very well that there’s no day called someday. But the line has to be drawn. He understands the futility of running after glitzy things. Realization dawns on him that salvation lies is austerity. In giving up and not holding things tight. It’s now or never. He has to be bold and take the step.

At 9.45 am, the next day, He shows up at office again.