He awaited the name plate. For 2 months now. And he would peek at the blank surface that hung low at her desk.
She spoke to no one. And no one spoke to her. She followed a fixed path every single day. The office entrance to her seat, in the morning, two three visits to the boss’s cabin, the stout Bengali Mr. Das, then, back again at the seat of namelessness. He never saw her move otherwise. She never seemed to eat, perhaps never visited anybody and never needed a coffee break. Almost impossible. Yeah, she was that. As impossible as the red rose she wore, pinned on the braids of her hair. That was the only ugly side of her.
He saw her submerged in her files. 20th century’s only office, this one, where paperlessness was still a long shot. But that did not seem to bother her. Technology is a complicated thing, sometimes. It conceals layers of information at times and brings to fore, several concealable substances. It enlightens, embarrasses, expands and encroaches, and manages to juxtapose each feature erroneously, with ease.
So it was okay to be in a techno-less space. He had reconciled. It was okay to not be able to check her coordinates online. It was okay to wait for that vendor who had taken down ‘the name to print’, a few days back. It was all okay.
What was not okay was that she wasn’t seen at work in the last one week. Some intrigue that caused. Legitimate. But that could be because this was vacation season. Das was also on vacation. Maybe that’s why! He wanted to ask somebody.
Who would know? Miss Dixit? She would have the list of names. But how should I ask? Would I have to make up some reason? Lemme wait for another day…or should I…
He walked to the pantry. Some coffee would help. He poured something into his glass. 2012 Olympics played on the television. Romanian gymnast. Slender, swift, flexible, very difficult feats, perfect landing. But oh! not the best score. Why not? He wondered as he gulped down the dark concoction. The jury is always biased! He threw the empty paper glass and returned.
“Ashish Sharma”. The nameplate stared at him.
He walked fast to Miss Dixit. “Ma’am, the name-board at workstation 22…there…there seems to be some error…'Ashish Sharma' it reads…and the girl is on leave…you should probably notify the vendor.”
“Workstation 22. Yeah, we have a new hire, Ashish Sharma.” Miss Dixit was irritated. “What girl are you talking about?”
“Arey, madam, woh Mr. Das ke saath kaam karti thi na? White face…brown eyes…roz badi badi files ke saath baitthi thi…”
“Mr. Das?” she suddenly stood up. “Hello, who toh 2 mahine se nahi hai yahaan…kya Mazak hai ye?”
“Achcha? Haan ho sakta hai. He must be at the site. I haven’t seen him either.”
Miss Dixit was vexed now. “Das passed away 2 months back…Is this some kind of a joke? Please leave.” She sat firmly back on the chair and turned away from him.
He walked back numb. Absolute nothingness, feelinglessness. Past the cubicle. Past the heap of files. Past the red rose that lay on her desk.
Past the new, complete, nameplate.
She spoke to no one. And no one spoke to her. She followed a fixed path every single day. The office entrance to her seat, in the morning, two three visits to the boss’s cabin, the stout Bengali Mr. Das, then, back again at the seat of namelessness. He never saw her move otherwise. She never seemed to eat, perhaps never visited anybody and never needed a coffee break. Almost impossible. Yeah, she was that. As impossible as the red rose she wore, pinned on the braids of her hair. That was the only ugly side of her.
He saw her submerged in her files. 20th century’s only office, this one, where paperlessness was still a long shot. But that did not seem to bother her. Technology is a complicated thing, sometimes. It conceals layers of information at times and brings to fore, several concealable substances. It enlightens, embarrasses, expands and encroaches, and manages to juxtapose each feature erroneously, with ease.
So it was okay to be in a techno-less space. He had reconciled. It was okay to not be able to check her coordinates online. It was okay to wait for that vendor who had taken down ‘the name to print’, a few days back. It was all okay.
What was not okay was that she wasn’t seen at work in the last one week. Some intrigue that caused. Legitimate. But that could be because this was vacation season. Das was also on vacation. Maybe that’s why! He wanted to ask somebody.
Who would know? Miss Dixit? She would have the list of names. But how should I ask? Would I have to make up some reason? Lemme wait for another day…or should I…
He walked to the pantry. Some coffee would help. He poured something into his glass. 2012 Olympics played on the television. Romanian gymnast. Slender, swift, flexible, very difficult feats, perfect landing. But oh! not the best score. Why not? He wondered as he gulped down the dark concoction. The jury is always biased! He threw the empty paper glass and returned.
“Ashish Sharma”. The nameplate stared at him.
He walked fast to Miss Dixit. “Ma’am, the name-board at workstation 22…there…there seems to be some error…'Ashish Sharma' it reads…and the girl is on leave…you should probably notify the vendor.”
“Workstation 22. Yeah, we have a new hire, Ashish Sharma.” Miss Dixit was irritated. “What girl are you talking about?”
“Arey, madam, woh Mr. Das ke saath kaam karti thi na? White face…brown eyes…roz badi badi files ke saath baitthi thi…”
“Mr. Das?” she suddenly stood up. “Hello, who toh 2 mahine se nahi hai yahaan…kya Mazak hai ye?”
“Achcha? Haan ho sakta hai. He must be at the site. I haven’t seen him either.”
Miss Dixit was vexed now. “Das passed away 2 months back…Is this some kind of a joke? Please leave.” She sat firmly back on the chair and turned away from him.
He walked back numb. Absolute nothingness, feelinglessness. Past the cubicle. Past the heap of files. Past the red rose that lay on her desk.
Past the new, complete, nameplate.
Wow.. Super :)
ReplyDeleteNice post.. :)
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