Avik's Story

Good morning sir. Good morning madam. When I reach my office; take the stairs or lift for first floor; pass the narrow corridor connecting two massive buildings; pass the room of personal secretary of supreme boss of this office; enter the section and take my own seat, I have to utter these two sentences indefinite times. I wonder why these sentences are never cliché! We use them millions times, but we don’t get bored!! Probably they are like salt, just like the title of my little blog. And, I get to hear only the first part, most of the times though without ‘sir’. The funniest part is I really don’t know whom to call what! Everybody looks Roman to me. So irrespective of ranks I greet everyone with ‘sir’ or ‘madam’. I have noticed a peculiar tradition here. While greeting each other, people raise their right hands a little straight. If hand touches forehead, the person in front must be of some importance; if it’s at chest level, then the person is of equal status; but if the

Sir, your coffee as you ordered . The airhostess leaning against me is quite charming; eyes are professional yet pretend to be compassionate. I close the book I was reading. Narcopolis. I was fully engrossed in Jeet Thayil’s narrative prowess and brutally seductive way of storytelling. I also had a short stint with narcotics, when I was dealing with mounting frustration after coming to City of Joy , Kolkata. I can sense the smell of ganja. I can feel the smoke inside, putting a hallucinating blanket, taking the senses far away. I can imagine the view of my room beside a cowshed, like a dingy. I can relate the story with my life, I had. I can sense all of those here, thousands metres above surface, in a small Bombardier airplane, on the way to my office at Trichy from Delhi . Involuntarily my lips stretch a little. I know that, it is a perfect smile and I hear myself speaking in a formal tone, ‘Thank you Miss’. The window seat, I am accommodated, is supposed to be pleasant

'Dada! Milk has been boiled. Please make the coffee before it’s being cold.' Anup knocks at bathroom door. I frown. Even frustration has no privacy! I just walked 7 kms, and that too in early morning. I sweated like a pig. My leg muscles are on fire. My clothes are on the bathroom floor airing pungent smell. And then, when I see my tummy, I find no change! I deserve to be frustrated man. I put the clothes in a bucket and soak it with water. I’ll wash them later. But I wash sweaty corners of my shitty body. I wish to take a complete bath. My whole body longs for it. But there is a critical choice to make. If I bathe now, the milk will be cold, and I have to boil it again. Boiling milk is always a tough and devastating task for me. Generally, I put the milk on gas and forget. I only remember when milk is overflowed and spilled all over gas oven. That’s why, nobody gives me this job, and I don’t want it too. I come out from bathroom wrapping a towel and head for kitchen.

              “Wake up (a)vik, wake up you crazy!”                         This is the usual call from my co-walker Anup. He stays just at the opposite block. At 5.30 am, when most people sleep and a few walk or run to reduce their tummies, we follow the latter group. The fat we have gathered during our study in Delhi (actually, during our ‘little’ hangouts in Karim’s, Chawla’s, Nizam’s, Momo Point etc etc), has converted our stomachs into some yet-to-be-named hills. We feel them every day with disgust, when we wear some carefully chosen branded new shirts and most importantly, khaki uniform. Friends, who have flat stomach, smile cunningly. Aur bhaiya! Kuch ghat raha hai kya? And those, who have tummies, generally don’t smile. They advise. Isse kuch nehi hoga bhai! Gym join karna padhega. But they only just advise. They never join gym or they never walk.                         We have our own reasons for trying to reduce fat. In my case, it is a simple case of spending tim