The Invisibles

I kno, the job sucks. But the job has to be done, and most often than not, it falls into the hands of the chap who is lowest on the pecking order. And quite a few times, I fit that description. So, there have been a few days, only a few, I must add, nonetheless, there have been a few days when I have stayed later than the regular hours at work. Regular hours at work end at 530 officially, barring some of the kind who wish to impress upon others that they are the hard workers. So, generally, the office is deserted by 550, and even the stragglers leave by 6. this here is the story of my office after six.

 

Its hot and humid. The AC is switched off at 530, and by 6 the sweat really starts to build up. The cave that has been passing off as the office is dark, humid and hot by 615. a security guard comes in for his rounds. Now don’t get the impression of a capable guard who can shoo away burglars. The chap who comes in is an old, wiry guy wearing a dull, discoloured uniform comprising of the regulation light blue shirt and dark blue trousers. No shoes, few of the chaps don’t even have chappals. A torn topi that was not meant for his head. Not too uncommon in an environment where uniforms outlast people in the job. He walks in, with a bunch of keys jangling from his hand, almost too heavy for the hand to carry the weight. He shuffles up to the cabin nearest to the entrance, stops, and with an ease and assurance that come after years of practice pulls out the right key in the first try. Key in hand, he opens the door, shuffling up to the switchboard to switch off the appliances in the room. Shuffles out, and the key locks the door. The tired, slipper clad feet carry the frail body to the next door, where he repeats the same process over and over again. He completes the circuit of the entire office, closing the 15 doors, checking the 15 boards, locking the 15 cabins. Having completed the circuit of the entire floor, he goes back, making some notes on the thick hard bound register that he habitually carries. A short while later there is more shuffling, and this time the originator is an old, stout woman dressed in an elaborate, though faded and well worn sari. She carries a purse which is not really cheap, but not exactly new either. The visible contents of the purse are one hard bound register, of the type that is omnipresent in our offices, and a handkerchief. The handkerchief comes out, removing the clouds of incomprehension that had formed. Incomprehension? Well, that old, poor, proud and somehow bitter figure fits into the office as cleanly as chalk fits in average South Indian 3 compartment tiffin box, which is so ubiquitous in my office.

The movements are rehearsed, approaching military precision, yet totally adverse in their intent. Unlike the need for doing things right, as expressed in the precise movements of the military, her movements are orchestrated to be energy conserving and time saving. As if carrying treasures form King Solomon’s mines, she carries the purse with her, never letting it be beyond arm’s length. From table to table, cabin to cabin, the purse moves with her.

On approaching the table, she sets down the purse, takes out the handkerchief, makes one sweeping motion (more symbolic than effective) on the table, moves to the phone, lifts the receiver, makes another symbolic sweep over the phone, and moves on. Table, purse, sweep, phone, sweep, purse. The routine is as predictable as the movement of the hands of the clock.

There is a similarity. Apart from the fact that they are in inconsequential jobs, living out the time that they have left on this planet. It is their invisibility. The same guards and the same cleaners pass by me innumerable times in the day and yet I fail to notice them. It is not that I do not see them, I do. Yet the mind does not register their presence, their existence. It is not just me, it is the general reaction (or the lack of it) to them. It is si hard to believe that in their life, they are probably the centre of universe for a handful of people, or at least a primary pillar of support for them.

In the job that I am, I do wonder if it is a curse or a blessing to be invisible. I debate the pros and cons of the situation, and have come to varying conclusions. Yet today, I understand that there is no curse, nor is there any blessing. It is merely a way of life. As with so many things, you accept it, get used to it and finally claim it as your own.

And that’s the way it is.