And it began with a blue screen,
Unchanging, unwavering, the circle unending.
Buttons were pressed - ctrl+alt+del.
It chose to cling to the blue,
Only forcefully, fading to black.
It was 7 minutes in darkness, waiting,
A presentation on the projector illuminating the room,
Before another person breathed the same recycled air.
It was a review, they said.
Another iteration to an already scratched out, red-riddled document.
A review where 12 others needed to give inputs.
A review that resulted in emails, opinions, meetings and more red.
A review for something that was supposed to be done yesterday.
Yesterday was Sunday. You slowly inhale the recycled air.
The white walls, somehow, seem whiter.
It was the queue. For food, for the billing, for HR and for the restroom.
It was the lack of clack of your heels as you shuffled.
You shuffled behind fascinating stories of the quality of curry leaves in Marathalli,
Behind the legendary stories of MAC or Sephora.
Behind the person who had a meeting in an hour.
You shuffled behind a rude boss, you shuffled behind a poorly paid employee,
You trailed behind the earth-shattering news of chappals for 250 rupees
You stood behind a chatty Kathy with a client.
It was a cow. Munching on cud. In the middle of the road.
It was the most important phone call for the driver to discuss the latest movie.
It was the thundering white machine.
That would be beaten by two legs moving in Nike shoes.
It would take you to see a man on a bicycle to write this.
The man in the bicycle giving you a thumbs-up as he zoomed past.
He zoomed past this thundering white machine you sit in. Mocking.
The white machine finally came to a groaning halt behind a red machine.
Drops of water dotted the windows as you settled back in your seat.
Slow days were never meant to end with fast evenings.
Unchanging, unwavering, the circle unending.
Buttons were pressed - ctrl+alt+del.
It chose to cling to the blue,
Only forcefully, fading to black.
It was 7 minutes in darkness, waiting,
A presentation on the projector illuminating the room,
Before another person breathed the same recycled air.
It was a review, they said.
Another iteration to an already scratched out, red-riddled document.
A review where 12 others needed to give inputs.
A review that resulted in emails, opinions, meetings and more red.
A review for something that was supposed to be done yesterday.
Yesterday was Sunday. You slowly inhale the recycled air.
The white walls, somehow, seem whiter.
It was the queue. For food, for the billing, for HR and for the restroom.
It was the lack of clack of your heels as you shuffled.
You shuffled behind fascinating stories of the quality of curry leaves in Marathalli,
Behind the legendary stories of MAC or Sephora.
Behind the person who had a meeting in an hour.
You shuffled behind a rude boss, you shuffled behind a poorly paid employee,
You trailed behind the earth-shattering news of chappals for 250 rupees
You stood behind a chatty Kathy with a client.
It was a cow. Munching on cud. In the middle of the road.
It was the most important phone call for the driver to discuss the latest movie.
It was the thundering white machine.
That would be beaten by two legs moving in Nike shoes.
It would take you to see a man on a bicycle to write this.
The man in the bicycle giving you a thumbs-up as he zoomed past.
He zoomed past this thundering white machine you sit in. Mocking.
The white machine finally came to a groaning halt behind a red machine.
Drops of water dotted the windows as you settled back in your seat.
Slow days were never meant to end with fast evenings.
