As I enter the premise, a gust of dank, damp air assaults my nostrils making me claustrophobic. The building looks ill maintained wanting repair and renovation badly. Nearing the lift, I look around in vain. There must be an open drain, a choked pipe or unlocked toilets somewhere other wise such foul smell cannot permeate the atmosphere so strongly. Before I can complete my investigation, the lift doors open and a bored lift man walks out announcing, “yeh kharaab hai, upar nahin jaayegi”. Seeing the long queues in front of the other one, I decide to take to stairs which looks well trodden. A few of the steps have broken edges and one has to be careful to place one’s feet properly or suffer a fall. The banister is rickety to touch. It’s just the first floor that I have to reach which is a blessing, I think to myself.
I step on a dusty corridor and just miss wetting my feet in a puddle of water streaming from the water cooler on my left which is obviously leaking. The obnoxious odour follows me around. A huge hall, rows and rows of tables and chairs, loads of unkempt files, a mess of papers , ancient looking fans rotating arthritically and equally prehistoric coolers which make more noise than provide respite from the peak summer heat outside. There is more which meet my eyes by and by. Greasy PCs which have not seen the duster for ages blink longer than they process information.
I am busy taking in my surroundings and therefore miss the tired looking man with the questioning eyes who stare at me nodding his head slightly to give body language to a wordless question, what I am there for. I explain my problem. He offers me a seat and starts rummaging in his files and papers for my document. I take in the bald patch at the centre of his forehead, his receding hairline, , the beads of perspiration on his broadened forehead, the crow’s feet around his eyes, the unbuttoned shirt at the collar and a drenched handkerchief placed around his neck. Sweating profusely in spite of the harrowing cooling systems he leafs through a file for me.
My throat is parched but I refrain from asking for a glass of water. Nor one is proffered to me. I see a huge earthen pot on a stand in the corner with a glass up ended on its cover. The steel ladle reclining casually next to the glass beckons me but being prey to filtered sips I fear to dip the ladle and let the taste of the earthenware satiate my tongue. This is my third visit to this hellish cavern. I have trampled section after section in an interminable search wondering how the babus’ reservoire of excuses of not finding my paper never exhaust!
I mule over the latest excuse that I will be doled out today! My picture perfect office with its latest facilities and centrally air conditioned, glaze tiled rooms pop up in front of my eyes and a few chapters on organizational loyalty mistakenly read a long, long time ago. Does the man pouring into sheaf of printed pages in front of me feel even an inch of loyalty towards his organization working in the stark conditions marked by overbearing discomfort? Is it not drudgery for him to come and spend eight hours in a stifling, muggy cubicle fingering through papers, papers and papers? For that matter, do I, ensconced in the cocoon of insulated comfort, feel more indebted to my organization?
As I wade through these baffling thoughts, the man pulls out my document from amidst a maze of disorder and hands it over to me with a smile. I smile in return and thank him profusely. Peering hard I prepare myself for that ingratiating look which precedes before a request to grease the palm. But astonishingly the man has dug deep into the mound of papers once again quite oblivious of the fact that I still stand there.
I walk out of the rambling, untended structure thankful but this time my nose does not crease as the pungent smell hits my lungs. No, I am wrong, the attitude towards work is not propelled by refrigerated drinking water or a high blast split AC strategically angled to keep one’s temper cool. It is somewhere ingrained into the mind and soul of an industrious man who finds pleasure in fulfilling his duty to his conscience and heart’s content. I silently salute all who still find the motivation to toil hard even under unfriendly, coarse working conditions because they have not given up on the dictum of work is worship.
