Out of the corner of my crooked eye, I spotted that. That was this obscure, but rotund orange blob... at first I thought Nagpur had presented the world's biggest santara, but then i focussed. The blob transformed into a semblance of the missing link between Neandethals and Homo sapiens sapiens. The thought was brushed aside, as work overpowered me.
And then, close enounters. Hello Sweetness, I mumbled to myself, as a beaming perfect 32 came across, and sat down beside me.
"You know, you can lean on my broad, more than macho shoulders. " He seemed to exude.
"Icky", i seemed to feel.
"Sooooo," he breathed out.
"Wellllll", I craned away... just a little, trying not to be obvious and match up to the syrup all around.
"Good to know you work here," he grinned.
"Good that I work," I echoed the grin.
"What have you been doing?" Ahhhh. Here it was. The first in a series of inquisitive blitzkreig.
"Where Do I Begin...." Andy Williams was welling up inside of me. The bolus was building up. It was right up the oesophagus, when I composed myself. A stitch in time, lest our man of equatorial vastness be covered with the detritus of my ill-disposition.
"Oh, just work," I managed to blurt.
Another beaming, "I can see that, but what exactly is your profile here?" He clarified the brief.
"My profile? I write."
"Oh, and what is it that you write?"
"Ummm..." a tough one that was. What exactly did I write? "Uh, I do the ideas, and whatever follows that," I said, trying not to look addled.
He sensed that, which is credit worthy. "Oh tell me what have you been working as before this?"
Easier, I thought. "A copywriter."
"Oh, do you copy and write?" I should have seen this coming. Wasn't it clear, the way people found ways to stab you with obtuse wit? But this one was very commonplace - the average joe's rubber lancet.
It didn't bother me. I had heard this one to its death.
"Yes, I copy and then I write, it's the perfect way to find satchitanand. Remember Sri Sri Ravishankar? He once visited me in my dream. He was dressed in white... I could see the glow of his aura, and it wrapped me like a warm mitten on a dark, wet, wintry night. He hugged me, and kissed my forehead. And, holding my chin with his benign thumbs and thin, nimble fingers, spoke to me in a voice as gentle and as serenading as an evening in Paris. He told me the Truth. Truth about working to achieve moksha. He said, Beta, why are you bothered so? Look at me, into my eyes. And I am sure there was this divine sparkle, which kindled a spark. But that's besides the point. He told me that Nirvana, is in my own hands - my own fist. The fist that holds a pen is the fist that holds Brahma's essence. Unto your fist, you have the power to move the universe. Write beta write. But do not write what you think of. Write of what they think of. Write what they want you to write, and they shall be happy. When they are happy, you will be happy. And with happiness around you, you will feel one with the fist.
"This is what Baba told me, and you know what he told me next in my transcendental dream?"
Silence.
"You know?"
Silence.
I opened my eyes. Blob, aka terror on the wheels, for some mysterious reason I still cannot figure out till date, had vanished.
He'll be back... a voice whispered. I looked around. It was another copier paster. Like me. Eternal sufferers sailing on a Titanic with Celine played live as "entertainment". We exchanged glances, and pasted onto our respective documents whatever it was we had Ctrl+Ced.
