The Office Diaries...

  Sitting in an office is the most boring experience that anyone can be forced to endure, especially if the person is a complete recluse and lethargy personified. And the work involves counting the number of crows sitting on the boundary wall, or the vultures circling overhead waiting for the inevitable. Life at work is dreary, and I’m a hermit confined to a forsaken corner of the office. 

The only acquaintances are my reporting managers, which perfectly fit the character sketches of Ogres from the best selling “The clash of the uptight ‘uns”. (It is no longer a work of fiction)

A chapter from the epic follows...

Currently comparing my reporting managers to marine fauna does not seem untoward. One of them has somehow managed to prepare for life in the Tundra, and proceeded to convert the color of his hair from black to ‘blanca’. I’m sure Siberia would be very excited. 

The other one looks towards the sky sporadically in prayer, as if asking God why he was blessed with the powers of your everyday Hercules while the lesser mortals around whimper and cower before his majestic countenance. The fact that His face resembles an outcome of a passionate night between a gluttonous cow and a pig with a cleft is easily ignored (if one is a member of the 3 blind mice, that is).  Hail the son of God- Herfooles.

The protagonist in this tale is fraught with misery, and would henceforth be referred to as the ‘Agonist’. His daily battles currently include skirmishes with the afore mentioned monsters of the deep and critical decisions including whether to keep his French beard or to slay, so that he might look weak and pallid, and hence be spared the evanescent encounters with ‘Herfooles’, whose glorious aura scathes our hero’s sensitive skin , scarring him for life.

The current quest set for the Agonist is as clear as Yamuna’s overflowing waters: to venture out in the wilderness, retrieve vital intelligence on enemy movements and then bring it back to his masters, who unceremoniously direct him to shove the entire manuscript up his gnarled cave-entrance-where-the-sun-don’t-shine. They later enquire about the missing manuscript, and upon retrieving it miserable minutes later, a tottering Agonist is told that the corrupted manuscript stinks and should be stowed away back where it was before. Ouch. 

Anal annihilation for our hero is but a daily chore in His palace.

The 'SatMan' in the Arena

The movie 'Invictus' invoked a nostalgic feeling of control inside me; a feeling of Hope not failing the hero when the climax was due. The movie mentions the brilliant work of the poet William Ernest Henley, who penned the magnum opus from a hospital wing, with an amputated leg. For the uninitiated, the words go something like this:

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

 The movie incorrectly mentions handing over of a parchment by Nelson Mandela consisting of these famous words to inspire Francois Pienaar to a Rugby World Cup victory in 1995. The facts differ here somewhat. The 'actual' letter consisted of a part of the speech given by Roosevelt titled 'The Man in the Arena'. Excerpt:

 "It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

The hero in this case, may even fight a losing battle, but fate ensures that his scars remain as an embellishment to adorn proudly; a testament to the fact that he may not have conquered, but he came and he saw all the same.

My journey thus far in life puts me at an exciting phase in life: for once, I can feel the path to follow. It is a path of self-reliance unknown before, and even Satman seems to be a real revelation in this regard.

'Satman' or Satyajit Man-something is the guy who sold me his PSP. He's a college grad in engineering and spends time gaming. But the best part about him is- he earns his games through 'jugaad'. No tantrum throwing on haplessly servile parents (his mom sure isn't!), he believes in managing his own funds using online file storage sites on the internet which pay-per-download (he doesn't just watch porn like us, he sells it too!lol) and has been successful enough to sponsor his gaming needs- a PSP, 2 PS3s and now, an XBox 360!! Talk about some serious male-ego bashing guys! I'm an MBA and still owe my parents 8 lakhs JUST for a 2 year course...sheesh!

Before I turn into a bitching cynic who thinks life is fair to everybody but him, I come across this wonderful movie, which teaches me a simple lesson through an awesome plot: Everybody has problems. Get over it. Believe that you are the master of your soul and the captain of your fate, and do something about it!!

Come to think of it, I notice that even Satman has problems- he's not home most of the time because his college is in some god-forsaken village in rural India(gaming's outta the window!), his mom screams at him all the time and, let's face it guys, his dentures won't really get him a lay either (did he even have dentures or is that look permanent? )

Thus, the moral of the story is: I am capable of random connections between two seemingly unrelated topics. And co-incidentally Satyajit actually has a connection with Theodore Roosevelt (some 6 degrees of separation thing) as he plays out the 'man'... in the arena. 

And I forgot I was talking about my life and the exciting phase again...