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Favor Returned
by Ajay Tulsiani At my office, cars are parked in the compound outside the building. There isn’t any basement or another structure with floors and inclines where employees can conveniently park their cars. Instead, the vehicles sit idly in the open air, their headlights staring at whatever lies ahead. After traveling by train, I walk from ten minutes from the station, enter the office's premises, then past the parked cars before entering the building. At noon I was leaning by one car, looking at the sky above, trying to ‘admire’ life. The book titled ‘Learn To LOVE Yourself…’ said so. Other tips were to eat fruits, go for morning walks, and adopt a pet. I bought a potted plant last week. Cheered me up for a day. The water spray cost a hundred rupees. With enthusiasm, I woke up the next morning and ensured that each leaf glistened with water drops. Like I was bathing my own kid. Three days later, the kid died. I hadn’t watered it. At least the plant found peace. Admire life. I look at the cars around. Red, maroon, green, grey. The chairman of the company comes in an open jeep. He can afford to drive an open jeep in the city. No one dares to question his choice. I’m advised everyday by some colleague to buy a car. Even my intern smiled at me yesterday and asked me to learn driving and buy some second hand car. She thinks I am poor. It hurt me enough to not talk with her since then. It’s not that I have a driving phobia. Wish I had. It’d give me an official reason to not buy a car. I’m not a miser. As much as I try, I cannot wipe off the fog of indifference around me. I long for affection towards anything. Two people have called me a moving corpse. I have no friends. Somehow the colleagues aren’t what I am looking for. They crack jokes with each other, and the office floor is filled with banter. They celebrate birthdays. I don’t like birthdays. It’s an excuse to treat the other person like shit for the remaining three hundred and sixty four days. To be fair the colleagues are polite. I don’t like when they pick on each other. But they never pick on me so I’m safe. A few of them are smoking around me. They're planning to go for some movie. There was a time when I had friends. Went for road trips where we’d sing songs. A motorbike’s drilling sound stops my thoughts. A senior rides in the premises. His biceps bulge beneath the sleeves of his striped shirt. The rhythmic beats of his Bullet roar as he stops before the security cabin just to the left of the gate. He’s wearing a black helmet with a golden eagle embossed at the front. To avoid him, I go in the canteen and sit in some corner. I’m not really hungry. I have a sandwich at Rs Eighteen. I’ll have a heavy lunch. But what’s the point? The saved money will just rust in my wallet. I don’t have any friends to throw any random party. That isn’t bad actually. I was always a loner. But of late it’s like I don’t want anyone. I want time to freeze. The self-help book says depressed people are afraid of responsibility, to take a risk in their life. Stupid book. What do I have to be afraid of losing? It'd be nice if my imaginary sorrows would betray me and chase someone else. Someone like the intern who called me poor. A familiar giggle annoys me. “Hey, Donk,” says Ishita. She sits in front of me with her water melon juice that has a fancy pink straw with two loops. She brings the straw from her house. For some reason she calls me Donk, though that’s not my name. I asked her once for the reason, and she said, “I get this feeling that your personality goes with Donk.” Whatever. I hate her. We are supposed to work on some power-point presentation together. She’s been trying to talk to me since the past two days. I suggested we divide the work and complete it in separate cabins away from each other. Later, we could combine the work. She giggled, shook her head and left. Strange. “So how are you?” she asks. I say in a faint voice, “Fine.” I don’t ask a question. Her face is tiring enough for me to listen to her voice. “You shouldn’t be fine,” she says. “You should be great.” She spreads her hands as if she’s speaking to an audience. “This world is there for you. Waiting for you to experience it. Live each day. Celebrate each day. Who knows you might die tomorrow?” I pull out my cellphone from the trouser pocket hoping for someone to call. A savior of a salesman. She snatches my phone and says, “You should stop this habit. You need to put the gadgets away while eating. Look at me. I switch off my cell phone whenever I eat or work or talk with friends. And look how cheerful I am. That’s how you must be.” “What if I get an important call?” “Is any call more important than your life, Donk?” I hate that name. She continues talking. “I have told all my friends that if I’m not answering then I’m busy. My priority is myself…do you know I have thirteen groups on watsapp? …school friends, college friends, yoga class friends, dance class friends…I love talking with them, interacting with different types of people.” She laughs then continues, “My friends have assigned a nick name for me. Don’t tell this to anyone, it’s a secret. I’m actually embarrassed, but they call me butterfly. Because I’m so cheerful.” “You are indeed.” If I argue, she’ll continue exercising her mouth. Besides, she’s my senior, and I can’t fight with her. Not sure if I would if our designations were reversed. “You know something? I think there’s something wrong with you,” she says. According to the self-help book one must talk about their problems, experiment with friends, meet different kinds of people. Maybe I should give it a try. Her cheerful nature is what I need. I raise my glance to her face and say, “I’m just a little depressed.” “See.” She nods like a parent who’s caught her child’s mischief. “I knew there was something that was bothering you. This butterfly can sense negative vibes around it. My friends call me whenever they need any advice. They tell me I should start a practice of counseling people, you know one of those freelance writers who work for magazines where they address problems of the common people. Something like that.” “Have you done a course?” I’m terrible at small talk. She laughs before saying, “You don’t need a course for that. It’s God Gift, Donk. I’m mature way beyond my age. All my friends agree on this. You can call me your mature friend from now on, O.K.” “Thanks.” I smile. She’s made me smile. Wow! I feel a sudden surge of energy that erects my spine. She thinks too high of herself, but she loves herself. She’s capable of being happy. We’re polar opposites. I stare at her round cheeks and continue smiling. The way she holds the glass of watermelon juice and brings it to her mouth, so happy. As if it’s an accomplishment. “See, I made you smile,” she says. “You sure did.” “I’ll take a leave now. I got work to do.” “You can sit. I mean it’s Friday, I’m sure you can sit for a few minutes.” “No wonder you’re in depression,” she speaks loudly enough for others to turn around. “You’re getting paid for work and not to chit-chat. Go to work, lazy person. Then your depression will run away. Come on, get to work, lazy Donk. From now on I’ll call you lazy Donk.” She turns around and walks away. I get up only when she leaves the canteen. The waiter tells me to lift her glass. Employees are supposed to dispose used vessels in the trash tray next to the washroom. Ishita knows this, still the butterfly preferred to fly away. With indifference I pick her glass and dispose it. Four hours later Ishita irritates me again. In my cabin, I have stuck a quotation: rather be alone than alone with people. My colleagues tell me I should date someone. Easier said than done. Women aren't just lying around waiting for any guy to hit on them. Besides, the thought itself is tiring. It's been three months since I downloaded new porn. Being a twenty-five-year-old I’m supposed to be at the prime of my life, upload pictures on Facebook and let the flame of my youth burn permanent memories of thrill in my life. Instead, something unknown is bothering me. At one time I was happy. Maybe I had too many hopes from destiny. Immersing the mind in work kills time. My work is to make power-point presentations of sitcoms telecast by the office. I work for ALM TV Channel. The power-point presentation includes a synopsis, descriptions of the main characters, some information about awards won by the sitcom and feedback by the audience. We generally write standard complements that the story is unique or the character is the favorite of the women in the country and make our own feedback. The sales team shows the presentation to channels of foreign countries. If the channel heads like the presentation, they proceed to future meetings and decide whether they want to purchase the sitcom for their country’s local channel. We dub the show in their language and sell it to them at a price, and a tiny fraction of it forms my salary. I am typing the description of the protagonist. In the sitcom her husband beats her and she cries to God. She begs God to bless her husband with peace and happiness. The husband gets cancer, and the wife prays for his health. Later, the doctor falls in love with the husband. This is the story, and I have to write a one paragraph description of the three characters. “Such a bland presentation,” says Ishita, standing behind me. When did she enter the cabin? Can’t she knock? After a heavy sigh, I turn around. In a sleepy tone, I ask “What?” “Your presentation, Donk. It’s so bland and boring. See,” she grabs a chair, slides it besides me and sits on it, “if you show this to the boss he’ll get very angry with you. And that’s not good, Donk. You can’t be so casual at work.” “My boss says official presentations should be subtle. I’ve taken the background from a previous presentation.” “Yeah, you would’ve, I’m not doubting your integrity, but it doesn’t mean that the background has to remain same. You can always use a little innovation. What’s the point of hiring you if you’re not giving any inputs?” She shakes her head and continues, “Are you getting my point, Donk? Try to give your inputs to whatever work you do. Be more proactive at work. This background looks so depressing and—” She puts her hand to her mouth and stares at me for a moment. Then says, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “I hope I didn’t hurt you. I’m so sorry, I forgot about your depression.” “It’s all right,” I say. I’m not bothered by her comment as much as her citrus perfume. It’s too strong. “Just a second, I’ll get something for you.” She goes out of the cabin. I crack my knuckles. It’s five. An hour left before I can go home, away from these people, back to my dead plant. Grabbing the remote I change the air conditioner’s mode to ultra cool. Anything to calm me. Ishita returns with a book, that she slaps on my desk. “7 Steps For A Happy Life.” “My best friend gave me this. I can guarantee this will help you very much.” “Thanks, but I really don’t need this.” “Keep it, lazy Donk. It’ll help you. Don’t bother thanking me. One day I’ll take a favor from you and settle the score. Let me tell you something. In this office, no one is a colleague. We’re all best friends, who support each other like a team. We’re a team, Donk. Remember this.” She intertwines her fingers to make a web and turns her two palms to. “The work culture here is very helpful. Can you see?” “Yeah,” I turn my face to the laptop. She sits next to me. “Now, regarding the presentation. This is just wrong, Donk. It’s not acceptable. Wait, I’ll help you.” Ishita is good at power-point basics. The mouse cursor flies under her control, and the background color turns to light pink, each paragraph gets a black border, the Font Face grows to double. Her typing speed is good. She types an entire description, and I just keep staring. She taps the keyboard like she’s firing bullets from a machine gun. I don’t approve her changes. She adds a golden frame to a slide, makes the font cursive, and brightens the actor’s photo. The font color is different for each slide. In the slide where the doctor needs to be described, she adds a stethoscope’s picture at the top right. Her changes weren’t childish. Just out of place for an official presentation. And I’m glad I reversed the changes before showing the power-point file to the boss. In the cabin, Ishita is giving the presentation of another show. It’s about a woman who keeps a dove as a pet. The woman’s husband works in some other country. The sitcom's story is how the woman talks to the pigeon to compensate for her loneliness. Ishita has used a chirping sound in one slide and applause in another. The furious boss removes his spectacles and shakes his head. “How could you even think of something like this?” I am sitting on the other side of the boss. The other chairs at the long table are empty. And I'm glad that it's only the three of us. “Don’t you like this, Sir?” she asks. Her lips shrink. She is about cry. “If you want I can remove the animation, Sir.” “Is that the only problem you see?” He looks at her and gently mops his forehead. Quicker than she inserted, he deletes the fancy photos in the file: the kitten at the top, the snake at the bottom. What had she done? Even I had to bite my tongue to prevent a laugh. At times I'm very bad at not laughing. Where does the depression disappear to when you want it? The boss stretched a hand to me and says, “I explained this to Nitin the other day. Official presentations must be subtle. You’re not in college where you’re doing fancy designs just to impress the audience with your skills. I have to give this to the sales team who will be pitching the sitcom based on your presentation. The content must stand out, not the background.” “OK, got it.” She nods. “Nitin,” says the boss. “Have you worked on the reviews of the list of shows that I had emailed?” “I’ll do it right away, Sir,” I reply. He shakes his head and says, “It’s like you guys don’t want to work.” Slowly, I walk out of the cabin. Before leaving for home I type a sentence on the laptop, increase the font size till it stretches from one side of the page to the other. Then give the print command. I leave it on Ishita’s desk with the book she had given me. The paper says, “Seven Steps To Mind Your Own Business and my name is N.I.T.I.N.” As I turn around, I see her come out of the boss’ cabin with the laptop in her hand. She studies the walls and the floor tiles. I walk past her. She doesn’t pass any comment. I walk to my cabin, pack my bag and leave. |
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