At work, there is a large window behind & diagonal to where I sit. From my seat, turning slightly to the right I can see the fawn coloured guard tower of the American School of Bombay through this window.
I see the guard in his chair facing away from the setting sun. He is sitting in one of those simple black plastic chairs with stainless steel legs. The chair rests close to the metal pipes that pass for railings & his left arm lies extended on the first pipe.
The guard is gently rocking back & forth in his chair. Again & again. Just to break the rhythm, he tilts sideways. His hands now cradle his neck as he bends forward, allowing his spine to stretch. And he continues to roll gently, now being practically unaware of his own movement.
The view of the world from the tower is insignificant & I should know. I have almost the same view. I feel a strange kinship with this man who sits less than 30 metres from me and does not know I exist.
It takes a moment but I understand why, eventually. I close the drapes & turn away, a luxury he does not have.
Right now, I can sit at a desk typing these words & he can sit on a black plastic chair with an insignificant view.
But we both see only dead-ends.
Song for the moment: The Pretender - Foo Fighters
P.S: Anyone out there know of any openings in Editing / Publishing / Writing with decent pay, in Bombay, let me know.