We were walking on a street somewhere. A great deal of dialogue had passed between us. He knew I had come to know how to wear clothes that defined a style. He had eyed a person—who too was waiting like me—with sly disgust when he had entered the room. I was watching from the opposite side and the tight wooden-glass door—used especially with an air-conditioned room—closed for some minutes.

I too had been in his place a few years ago. I did not worry about what quality of fabric one should be carrying in such places. I too had sweat that I used to carry to such places which were almost out of my reach. I did so not because I wanted a piece of the finest cake but a clearance as to how a life could be shaped. Such offices had that invisible power over many to carve their lives and I knew not their working history in detail but I knew they were the only ones who could lend one a card to better life.

I had been rejected all the time because I was naive and did not have peculiar interests. Certainly it was the kind of tongue filled with certain words that I did not have because no one had taught me how to carry it. Neither did I have an inheritance of finest ways to see the world.

The guy who had entered in the room was already perspiring and his underarms had left big blotches of wetness on the outer side of his cream chequered shirt. It was a low quality fabric and he smelled of fresh soap used by most of the lower middle class. There was a washroom on the right side of the hall and he did go inside to wash his face with water and dried it with his sweat carrying white handkerchief. His hair was oiled.

He came out after few minutes and the door closed behind him. He did not look at me but started walking towards the stairs in a slightly embarassed manner. No one could see him. He was dead for others in the manner I was once upon a time. In such situations a person usually fights silently for a space not to breathe—which is easy—but to live and know more about life. There is a history that such faces carry and it is to overcome them. Yet they meet blurred lines and closed doors. The first stage is not the first stage of nascent beginnings where everyone can participate. Its true meaning is known by those who have already tasted all stages beforehand throughout their lives. They do not lack confidence, merely a shiver for a while they can have. They are conditioned and nourished in care and with responsibility.

I went inside the office. I still had that past of lowness within me even though I had bathed in finest lather of a medium quality in the morning at my budget hotel. I had a healthy face now which seemed to hide it partially. It is a wonder and a fact that countenance is synonymous to how less scars and spots you have on your face. It erases anxiety. I might have, in my memory, carried the past but I knew it was acceptable now that I had worked on myself. Importantly on ways to carry a dialogue and to say things that webbed another in a constant amusement. I was a writer.

We were walking on a street somewhere. This was the dream that I had. He did not say it in the office but the word was out on his sleeves. He said it clearly as we stopped for a while:

“You will not get it.”



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