Another day at work....
Ok….so let’s get this clear and into the open. Have not been having such a good time lately. What with work-and-no-work at times. Don’t know what I have gotten myself into. Here are just some of the people I meet at work everyday (apart from my ACJ bunch, my friends, the only possible speck of light who help me maintain my sanity in this inky darkness)
Leave the house. Walk till the Rajendra Place Metro station. A sullen guard sits at the security machine everyday at the same place. He looks at me with disdainfully . Rebukes me (doesn’t ask!) when I leave my water bottle into my bag when I place it into the X-ray machine. I had forgotten. I give him a dirty look. Move on.
Countless people in the train. Actually, countless. I struggle to enter the compartment. Accidentally step on the toes of a fat woman who gives me a look that seems to say, “you fool! Look what you did to me Jimmy Choos!” AS IF! I roll my eyes in despair. Do not mumble an uncalled-for apology. Skulk in somehow. Stand next to a middle-aged man. Can smell his sweat and body odour. Causes me to faint. Hang on to the hand rail for safety and protection (and also to prevent myself from tumbling on the floor, if there is any space that is!) Pull my bag in front of me to prevent men from brushing “up” against me. Stamp out with my Converses. Lash out with my elbows. Violently jerk my head to and fro in tune with music. (Actually all these are measures to prevent myself from being ‘eve-teased’).
Get off at Barakhamba Road station. Wait endlessly to take the escalator, literally spilling over with people. I see a man being pushed down a stair. He doesn’t land flat on his butt. There is no place to fall. He simply falls over some other men who, in turn, heap the choicest abuses on the innocent victim. Poor man. “A brilliant start to his glorious day,” I twitter sympathetically.
I manage to rush up two steps at a time and beat some of the rush to the turnstile-like-exit gates. Receive glares and frowns from doddery aunties who fell back in the line. Ignore the looks. Rush out.
Music is my saviour. People milling on the roads, ready to swallow anyone as a whole lest he/she cause them to stop for a single second. Reach the gates of HT House. A tall, grey, ugly building.
First stop: Guards at the gate.
As I saunter in breezily, the male guards let me pass. They have seen me around. Guard auntie, although, stops me to have a word with me.
“Kahan ja rahin hain aap madam?” asks she in a cackling voice.
“First floor, editorial,” I mumble.
“Intern hain aap?” she enquires, looking at me suspiciously.
“Nahi! Employee hun,” says I, fishing around in my bag for the ID card, the piece of plastic that shall open the hallowed gates of the building and let me in.
“Hmmmm,” guard auntie goes, while closely scrutinising the card, as if somehow I might produce a fake one.
“Phew!” I breathe a sigh of relief as I walk in. It’s disappointing to have to flash your Press card to the guards everyday. I still look like an intern. Not that I help matters anyway by dressing up in Fab India cotton pyjamas and a t-shirt that says ‘Little Miss Chatterbox’. Sigh.
Take the lift. “First floor,” says I, to the bored-looking elevator guy.
Exit. There is the office in sight now. ‘Finger’ the door. It doesn’t like my touch. Says ‘Answer time exceeded’. I try again. In vain. Third time, and I hear the monotonous voice of the woman inside the security apparatus say, “You are authorised”.
Door beeps open. I amble along to the sports department. Drop my bag on the table near the window. Sit down and log into a computer with someone else’s user id. Yes! You heard it right. I have to use another employee code to surf the net. Because I do not have a workstation. Because HT, the brand, does not have enough basic infrastructure for its gazoomillion employees. I have no idea what they thought before hiring us. That they could probably cage us in iron jails. Or make us sit in a corner and watch seniors busily working. And feel bad about ourselves. Of how we have no work or maybe are incapable of doing anything. Sweet.
Check gmail, facebook, twitter, orkut – all the social networking sites that keep us connected to our ever-expanding list of friends (both real and virtual). Check F365, Guardian, Nat Geo, BBC, Reuters, Times – sites that keep me abreast with what’s happening in the world everyday.
Wait for people to come in. Sports work starts late. But everyone comes in real late. Check my watch like a hundred thousand times. Morosely munch on a packet of chips. Everything seems gloomy and dim. Stolen story ideas and unenthusiastic editors. I am waiting for a game tomorrow in Chanakyapuri. The guys playing it already seem quite interested that someone is coming to talk to them about Frisbee. Am eagerly waiting for that. Maybe that will restore my sanity a bit.
Leave the house. Walk till the Rajendra Place Metro station. A sullen guard sits at the security machine everyday at the same place. He looks at me with disdainfully . Rebukes me (doesn’t ask!) when I leave my water bottle into my bag when I place it into the X-ray machine. I had forgotten. I give him a dirty look. Move on.
Countless people in the train. Actually, countless. I struggle to enter the compartment. Accidentally step on the toes of a fat woman who gives me a look that seems to say, “you fool! Look what you did to me Jimmy Choos!” AS IF! I roll my eyes in despair. Do not mumble an uncalled-for apology. Skulk in somehow. Stand next to a middle-aged man. Can smell his sweat and body odour. Causes me to faint. Hang on to the hand rail for safety and protection (and also to prevent myself from tumbling on the floor, if there is any space that is!) Pull my bag in front of me to prevent men from brushing “up” against me. Stamp out with my Converses. Lash out with my elbows. Violently jerk my head to and fro in tune with music. (Actually all these are measures to prevent myself from being ‘eve-teased’).
Get off at Barakhamba Road station. Wait endlessly to take the escalator, literally spilling over with people. I see a man being pushed down a stair. He doesn’t land flat on his butt. There is no place to fall. He simply falls over some other men who, in turn, heap the choicest abuses on the innocent victim. Poor man. “A brilliant start to his glorious day,” I twitter sympathetically.
I manage to rush up two steps at a time and beat some of the rush to the turnstile-like-exit gates. Receive glares and frowns from doddery aunties who fell back in the line. Ignore the looks. Rush out.
Music is my saviour. People milling on the roads, ready to swallow anyone as a whole lest he/she cause them to stop for a single second. Reach the gates of HT House. A tall, grey, ugly building.
First stop: Guards at the gate.
As I saunter in breezily, the male guards let me pass. They have seen me around. Guard auntie, although, stops me to have a word with me.
“Kahan ja rahin hain aap madam?” asks she in a cackling voice.
“First floor, editorial,” I mumble.
“Intern hain aap?” she enquires, looking at me suspiciously.
“Nahi! Employee hun,” says I, fishing around in my bag for the ID card, the piece of plastic that shall open the hallowed gates of the building and let me in.
“Hmmmm,” guard auntie goes, while closely scrutinising the card, as if somehow I might produce a fake one.
“Phew!” I breathe a sigh of relief as I walk in. It’s disappointing to have to flash your Press card to the guards everyday. I still look like an intern. Not that I help matters anyway by dressing up in Fab India cotton pyjamas and a t-shirt that says ‘Little Miss Chatterbox’. Sigh.
Take the lift. “First floor,” says I, to the bored-looking elevator guy.
Exit. There is the office in sight now. ‘Finger’ the door. It doesn’t like my touch. Says ‘Answer time exceeded’. I try again. In vain. Third time, and I hear the monotonous voice of the woman inside the security apparatus say, “You are authorised”.
Door beeps open. I amble along to the sports department. Drop my bag on the table near the window. Sit down and log into a computer with someone else’s user id. Yes! You heard it right. I have to use another employee code to surf the net. Because I do not have a workstation. Because HT, the brand, does not have enough basic infrastructure for its gazoomillion employees. I have no idea what they thought before hiring us. That they could probably cage us in iron jails. Or make us sit in a corner and watch seniors busily working. And feel bad about ourselves. Of how we have no work or maybe are incapable of doing anything. Sweet.
Check gmail, facebook, twitter, orkut – all the social networking sites that keep us connected to our ever-expanding list of friends (both real and virtual). Check F365, Guardian, Nat Geo, BBC, Reuters, Times – sites that keep me abreast with what’s happening in the world everyday.
Wait for people to come in. Sports work starts late. But everyone comes in real late. Check my watch like a hundred thousand times. Morosely munch on a packet of chips. Everything seems gloomy and dim. Stolen story ideas and unenthusiastic editors. I am waiting for a game tomorrow in Chanakyapuri. The guys playing it already seem quite interested that someone is coming to talk to them about Frisbee. Am eagerly waiting for that. Maybe that will restore my sanity a bit.
OMG..
ReplyDeleteI can't stop laughing..
I know the guard auntie is so irritating..
I just flash a visiting card and give her a retarded story..
She wakes up every third day..
Dumbass..
The metro thing I completely sympathise with..
Been there done that..
Hilarious..
Keep this up pls.. :)