The familiarity of the place. As you open the cabin
door. Day after day. You place your belongings and even the sound of shifting
your bag seems too loud. You switch on the lights. And a thought. A flickering
one. Can you switch on people’s consciences here like that ever? What if you
could? What a different world would that be?
The peculiar smell of this place.
You have known it too well now. The smell of old papers, of rusted iron chairs and of misty
intentions of people occupying them. The smell of
dissatisfaction too lurking somewhere. Sombreness seems to be a vital molecule
of the air around.
Click. And the mammoth printer machine buzzes for a couple of minutes as if grunting for waking it up so early. ‘Oh
you guys, will you ever let me sleep? You just used me entire day yesterday.
Making me work all day long.’ She grumbles.
‘It’s a government office,
sweetheart. We need to have everything in black and white. Hence, we need to make you work.’ You want to say to
her. Oh but wait. Do you really want everything in black and white here? You
laugh inwardly at the irony.
Grey. That’s the shade here. Of
people. Of papers. Of realities. Of truths. And of lies.
You notice the tea stained white
cup on the table. The proof of a long day at work yesterday. Lying quiet. You
touch it, only to be startled by its coldness. Just like the people it
serves. It’s been years since you've been here. And yet you fail to
understand the reason of getting startled by the coldness here - of the place and people both.
The unusual quiet that haunts
your ears right now. But within moments, it will all start again. The ruffling of papers, the
movement of files, clicking of keys on the keyboard, incessant cries of black
telephones, fanatic meeting calls, orders masked as requests dipped in honey
smooth voices, idle gossip burning your ears, your mind alarmed and awake.
And the enormity of it all. The way it gobbles you up. For the entire day.
Weeks. Months. Years too. And throws out the chewed up version of you at the
end of each day.
