Like in love stories everywhere

I sit and watch her from my seat. As I smoke those endless cigarettes I watch her walk, watch her toss her hair, watch her thin figure. Thin like the cigarette in my hand. I watch her small waist, her body. Graceful. Lithe. As she weaves away she leaves this trail of hers. Of perfume. Why is it that I find perfume, a smell so much more evocative than an image? Is it because of the suggestion that here goes a woman or the fact that so much more is left to imagination? Or is it just because it is such a pleasant change from the whiff of tobacco? I don’t know. I watch her and think to myself that I could never tell her. Not today, not ever. So I sit her and smoke away those cigarettes and watch as they turn to ash. Ash. Like I’ll be. One day. Like her. Like these words. Let’s pray they stay. Because I could never tell her. Never.

But I did…

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I could never tell him. From where I sit, I can see his chin. The way he tilts his head. His strong yet soft hands folded so neatly on the table before him. The way he stares in class. The way he asks questions. The way he suddenly laughs at the jokes of the girl who sits next to him. Why? Oh God! Why do I feel such a pang of jealousy then. When he leans back against his chair and tosses his arm casually behind the chair of the girl sitting next to him. When he remains so quiet, and when he laughs so softly at jokes tossed by others. Calm, discreet yet strong, why do I watch him so much? When he doesn’t watch me at all. When he just glances at me. When he doesn’t ask me. I know he’s interested. But why doesn’t he? I don’t think I can ever tell him. Not till he tells me. Not before. Never.

But I did…

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I don’t know how to tell her. Can I? Should I? I know she looks at me. Why can’t I turn my head and look at her? Why do I feel my ears burn so much when I want to turn around to look at her. Why did my parents give me a name which is so much lower on the alphabetic scale. Why does she make me feel so inadequate? I want to tell her so much. Yet I have to restrain myself. And when she laughs at someone else’s joke why does my heart twist around so much? When she tosses her hair back why do I wish I could watch it forever? I don’t think I can tell her. Everyday I lean back in my chair and toss my hand over the chair of the girl who sits next to mine so that I can lean back and see her out of the corner of my eyes. All I can see is her frown. Does she know that I am looking at her? I think she does. She disapproves. What can I do? I don’t think I can tell her. I am too scared to tell her? What if she breaks off? I don’t think I’ll tell her. Never ever. Never.

But I did…

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I told her. But she told me first. Wow! Was I happy. I said YES! In capital letters. I don’t think I could ever be so happy. To answer a question. I am glad she told me. As I am glad I told her. I’d better go now. She’s waiting. I didn’t think it would ever happen.

But it did…

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I told him. I didn’t think I would ever but I couldn’t tolerate it when he threw his arm over the chair today. I was so angry I wanted to fight with him. But he answered yes. And then he smiled at me. It filled me with so much warmth. Why is my heart racing so much now? I want to dance now. I never thought he would say YES! Not with that girl there. But he did. And he danced. I never ever thought he would say it. And he said “YES!”. I never thought it would ever come out of his mouth.

But it did…

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I told her today.

I sat down only to find that I couldn’t see her from where I sat. I didn’t know where she was. As I panicked I got up to see where she was. She wasn’t at her usual desk. Three rows away she was sitting with him. As I walked down the rows to sit where I could see her I could see the anger on his face. For the first time I hated a man for no other reason other than that he had made her angry. So I sat. And watched. And panicked, as I saw them furiously write. And touch each other. When he touched her shoulder. I watched from afar. As she loosed her hair. I watched, as my heart raced. When he smiled I don’t know why I felt such a sense of loss. As I walked out to tell her I didn’t really believe I was still praying. Wishing. And then I saw him dance and say YES! I knew then. I didn’t think I would ever tell her. But then I did. Why did I do it? I’ll never know. As I saw her face fall I knew. I said “It’s O.K. I know.” I don’t know why I told her. But I did. Later as I sat and watched the cigarette burn to ashes I wished it wouldn’t blur. I then prayed that it wouldn’t.

But it did…

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September 29th, 2005 - Posted in Uncategorized | | 1 Comments

Ten reasons to hate accountants

Reason I:

Shareholder’s equity= Net equity= Equity=Shareholder’s funds=Net worth=Shareholder’s worth=Book worth=Book value=Whatever????

I don’t need to know accounts. I first need to learn their lingo.

A rose by any other name smells as sweet, is still a rose. It’s just that talking to other people about a rose can get confusing.

September 21st, 2005 - Posted in Uncategorized | | 1 Comments

a piece of parchment

Wake up in Your room. While the trees outside stretch their branches and stretch You reach for Your glasses. It’s eight and you already know how the day will be. You wake. You reach for your glasses. Toothpaste on brush. Scratch. Brush. Life boring as it is, is the only option.

Check the phone for missed calls. Its eleven thirty in the morning. Sitting on an office chair in a dim cubicled office. You don’t know what You are doing. You sit and stare at the screen. The forty-fourth forward of the day reaches me. As comforting as television. You return to the spreadsheet before me. As comforting as brain death.

Lunchtime is an illusion. Of social connections. Of society. Talk revolves around life. Someones had a kid. You can’t seem to remember their name. Or their face. What is your performance appraisal? When are you going for a deputation? My project sucks. You have learnt new things, all of them useless. Uninteresting too.

Walking back must be one of the few pleasures or privilliges left to man. Though very few seem to exercise it. Colleagues zoom of on bikes and cars. You are in a different time. You like walking back. You walk back. “Sir? Auto?”. You shake your head and walk.

The quiet in Your mind is comforting. Sometimes it gets to you, which is when you wish for someway of talking to someone. But the quiet wraps around You. As you search for people to talk to, you call them up.

What do you talk to them about. How do you tell them about the quiet. The desperation to go elsewhere. The weariness or your passion which sustains you. “So tell me?”, they say. You hang up the phone. You don’t know what to say. Which is why you called up.

Why can’t they write letters. The feel of parchment, the ink. It represents an investment. Something more than the casual fling at a keyboard that just allows someone to say anything that they want and then to dissapear. No memories exist. Unless you remember what you seek, what will you find?

How many times have you asked her to write to you. “Would you I rather”, she says. So you drop it. You hope your eagerness shows. She gets the clue. She never has. Sometimes the silences are better. So you stay quiet. And watch as the silences grow around you. So you think. Quiet.

Somedays as you come back to your room you ask the guard what he has for you. If he has anything for you. He shakes his head. No one ever has stuff for you. So you watch other packages. Brown enevlope and yellow ones. Written in a variety of hands. Lettered with all kinds of ink. Blue and black. With names written in trembling hands, or steady ones. Some with parts underlined twice emphasising the anxiety of the sender. Some bulky. Would they have books. Some thin, they must contain letters. Who writes to them. Would someone ever write to you. The one with the words “Rakhi” and “Speed Post” dually written in opposite corners on the top margin of the envelope. Hoping that these words incite the human touch in a beauracracy large and uncaring. So you wait. Quiet.

Walking down the corridor to your room is the one thing in your day which you wait for. Walking down you nod to the guard. Ask him. He nods no. Routines are comforting. You walk to your room. Quiet. Out come the ciggarettes. You sit down at the computer. Draw the keyboard towards you. Loose yourself in the cool world of green on black. Quiet.

Walking down the road again. Office it is. As you walk quiet immersed in your own thoughts you walk down the corridor. Ask him. He says Yes. You wait there as he hands over a cream coloured envelope to you. Some changes do comfort. You walk back to the room the cream coloured envelope clutched tightly to your chest. Sometimes even a telephone bill is comforting.

September 19th, 2005 - Posted in Uncategorized | | 0 Comments