Boredom
Because fugney asked me to write something with the topic: "Boredom: Working in a low-paying job". I was bored while writing this and expect you to be bored while reading this. I've succeeded if you don't finish this. Don't bother cursing me. Am too bored.
Redhead stares at me condescendingly while contemplating the possible ingestion of a grain of rice, the remnant of my lunch from day before yesterday. I’ve tried ending his pathetic existence over the course of the past week. Such efforts have included sneaking up behind him with a rolled up version of yesterday's newspaper or the impulsive lunge with my bare hands. On a particularly frustrating day, I almost had him by trapping him under an inverted glass. A few hours and the lack of oxygen would have atleast had him knocked cold, if not dead. But trust Kantabai, that deranged sweeper woman, to lift the glass and give Redhead the freedom he enjoys now. And so, the war continues.
In spite of all these sorry efforts, Redhead has been my only source of joy in the past few weeks. Fruit flies have a short life and the drosophilae of Redhead’s type lead shorter lives in this sort of climate. He would probably have crossed the larval/pupae stage only a few weeks back and soon he’ll die one of those squashy, gory deaths that you see when wood meets pulp. Before him, it was Attila whom I named for his particularly aggressive dive-bombing tactics reminiscent of the marauding Huns. And before that it was Ivana a Mata-Hari style female who enchanted me with her curvy flight. Sadly she died in an unintentional ledger accident.
Redhead can disappear for hours together and the only company I have is the journal and its companion ledger. There was a time when my now deceased father would spend many an hour pontificating on book-keeping being an occupation of the highest dignity. During his last years, computers had come to being and only companies (such as the one I work for now) that could not afford one employed people like me to do the mundane. He lived believing this now-obscure philosophy to the extent that I was forced to take up courses in accountancy to perpetuate this illusion. And finally he died married to a philosophy that was fast being erased by reality. I’m now a dwindling species in a world of accounting softwares. And I try to find meaning in vain.
Redhead makes a return after a possible courtship ritual with one of the females in the adjoining office. He seems to be saying something to the effect of “You don’t spill enough food these days” to feed me. To which I reply with a pitiless stare “You’re gonna die one of these days, bastard!”
The day has just begun and I’m already anticipating the 11 am tea break. The office is lonely. I have a corner all to myself but the rest of the room is occupied by cabinets filled with files from last year, vouchers, receipts and other transactional papers that keep coming in throughout the day. People come in to fetch an old file or to dump out-of-date records. I’m a part of the paperwork and all other lifeless assets in this room.
Redhead takes a few brave steps onto my ledger. “Why don’t you switch jobs?”, he says. “I can’t. This is the only thing I know.”
11 am and a tea helps. The tea is delivered by the snickering chai-waala next door. I wonder if he has a daughter. Maybe she’d not mind the low pay and be willing to marry me. Redhead seems to be reproaching me for such a denigrating thought. “How can you marry his daughter? Surely you are better than that!“ I attend to the day’s vouchers. People sell goods worth millions and here I am recording these sales for a pay nothing short of peanuts.
An hour’s work of accounting entries gets done, interspersed with brave forays by Redhead on my account books and vouchers. I wonder if they study these flies when building fighter aircraft. He’s got speed, that bastard. Times his jumps to precision and lives to see another day. Lunch creeps up and I open a drab chapathi and dal while pondering the disastrous adjustments to accounts that lie in wait post-lunch. Redhead makes merry as I eat messily. Drosophilae are known to breed in clusters, but I wonder if my office must have been marked off by Redhead in an uncharacteristic assertion of territorial dominance. I don’t see any of his cronies or the females come calling. Strange.
There must be life beyond this, I tell myself. Not for myself but for Redhead. He’s unbelievably active for a life so short. I attempt a contrast between his existence and mine. I’ll live much longer and yet live a life less meaningful than his. And yet I find it immensely pleasurable to find meaning in this apology for a job by mercilessly befriending and then terminating already short lives. I’m jealous. That explains it. Jealous that a fruit fly could lead a life more meaningful than mine.
I’m jolted out of this vicious cycle of thought by the thud of files adding to the old files cabinet. The world around me seems to find meaning in mundane activity while I seem to despise both activity and the act of finding meaning. Redhead seems to have returned after another brief rendezvous with his female companion.
Tea time and I decide that I’m bored with Redhead’s quest for meaning. I spill some tea near the window sill. I watch as Redhead’s perambulations around the room on the floor bring him closer to the window. He probably sniffs the tea and flies up to settle a safe distance away from myself and the spilt tea. I pretend to be distracted, confident that my superior intelligence can outwit this biological wonder who, after all, is below me on the food chain. Redhead inches his way to the tea drops. I reach for the thick accounts sheet I’m working on and roll it behind my body as Redhead decides to take his chances. He’s almost near the tea drops while I’m making my plans behind my back. He’s now next to the tea drop and relishes the sugar as he partakes of it. I raise the rolled up accounts sheet much above his head. I lower the book in slow motion without sudden movements until the book rests a few metres above Redhead, poised to squash him. He’s oblivious to the threat and seems to have let down all guard in this saccharine intoxication. The sheet comes down in one swift strike.
On the way back home I play back the victory in my head. Redhead was a good friend but he had to go. There was too much meaning to his life. That only served to accentuate the futility in mine.
The next day plays itself out in dull repetition of the first. Nothing changes around here. Except there’s no Redhead today. Lunch comes and goes and I’m just cleaning my space for work when a beautiful black bellied female drosophila announces her buzzing arrival by executing a zig-zag, turntail, up and over motion around the bad debts vouchers. A new friend. I’ll call her Melina.
Redhead stares at me condescendingly while contemplating the possible ingestion of a grain of rice, the remnant of my lunch from day before yesterday. I’ve tried ending his pathetic existence over the course of the past week. Such efforts have included sneaking up behind him with a rolled up version of yesterday's newspaper or the impulsive lunge with my bare hands. On a particularly frustrating day, I almost had him by trapping him under an inverted glass. A few hours and the lack of oxygen would have atleast had him knocked cold, if not dead. But trust Kantabai, that deranged sweeper woman, to lift the glass and give Redhead the freedom he enjoys now. And so, the war continues.
In spite of all these sorry efforts, Redhead has been my only source of joy in the past few weeks. Fruit flies have a short life and the drosophilae of Redhead’s type lead shorter lives in this sort of climate. He would probably have crossed the larval/pupae stage only a few weeks back and soon he’ll die one of those squashy, gory deaths that you see when wood meets pulp. Before him, it was Attila whom I named for his particularly aggressive dive-bombing tactics reminiscent of the marauding Huns. And before that it was Ivana a Mata-Hari style female who enchanted me with her curvy flight. Sadly she died in an unintentional ledger accident.
Redhead can disappear for hours together and the only company I have is the journal and its companion ledger. There was a time when my now deceased father would spend many an hour pontificating on book-keeping being an occupation of the highest dignity. During his last years, computers had come to being and only companies (such as the one I work for now) that could not afford one employed people like me to do the mundane. He lived believing this now-obscure philosophy to the extent that I was forced to take up courses in accountancy to perpetuate this illusion. And finally he died married to a philosophy that was fast being erased by reality. I’m now a dwindling species in a world of accounting softwares. And I try to find meaning in vain.
Redhead makes a return after a possible courtship ritual with one of the females in the adjoining office. He seems to be saying something to the effect of “You don’t spill enough food these days” to feed me. To which I reply with a pitiless stare “You’re gonna die one of these days, bastard!”
The day has just begun and I’m already anticipating the 11 am tea break. The office is lonely. I have a corner all to myself but the rest of the room is occupied by cabinets filled with files from last year, vouchers, receipts and other transactional papers that keep coming in throughout the day. People come in to fetch an old file or to dump out-of-date records. I’m a part of the paperwork and all other lifeless assets in this room.
Redhead takes a few brave steps onto my ledger. “Why don’t you switch jobs?”, he says. “I can’t. This is the only thing I know.”
11 am and a tea helps. The tea is delivered by the snickering chai-waala next door. I wonder if he has a daughter. Maybe she’d not mind the low pay and be willing to marry me. Redhead seems to be reproaching me for such a denigrating thought. “How can you marry his daughter? Surely you are better than that!“ I attend to the day’s vouchers. People sell goods worth millions and here I am recording these sales for a pay nothing short of peanuts.
An hour’s work of accounting entries gets done, interspersed with brave forays by Redhead on my account books and vouchers. I wonder if they study these flies when building fighter aircraft. He’s got speed, that bastard. Times his jumps to precision and lives to see another day. Lunch creeps up and I open a drab chapathi and dal while pondering the disastrous adjustments to accounts that lie in wait post-lunch. Redhead makes merry as I eat messily. Drosophilae are known to breed in clusters, but I wonder if my office must have been marked off by Redhead in an uncharacteristic assertion of territorial dominance. I don’t see any of his cronies or the females come calling. Strange.
There must be life beyond this, I tell myself. Not for myself but for Redhead. He’s unbelievably active for a life so short. I attempt a contrast between his existence and mine. I’ll live much longer and yet live a life less meaningful than his. And yet I find it immensely pleasurable to find meaning in this apology for a job by mercilessly befriending and then terminating already short lives. I’m jealous. That explains it. Jealous that a fruit fly could lead a life more meaningful than mine.
I’m jolted out of this vicious cycle of thought by the thud of files adding to the old files cabinet. The world around me seems to find meaning in mundane activity while I seem to despise both activity and the act of finding meaning. Redhead seems to have returned after another brief rendezvous with his female companion.
Tea time and I decide that I’m bored with Redhead’s quest for meaning. I spill some tea near the window sill. I watch as Redhead’s perambulations around the room on the floor bring him closer to the window. He probably sniffs the tea and flies up to settle a safe distance away from myself and the spilt tea. I pretend to be distracted, confident that my superior intelligence can outwit this biological wonder who, after all, is below me on the food chain. Redhead inches his way to the tea drops. I reach for the thick accounts sheet I’m working on and roll it behind my body as Redhead decides to take his chances. He’s almost near the tea drops while I’m making my plans behind my back. He’s now next to the tea drop and relishes the sugar as he partakes of it. I raise the rolled up accounts sheet much above his head. I lower the book in slow motion without sudden movements until the book rests a few metres above Redhead, poised to squash him. He’s oblivious to the threat and seems to have let down all guard in this saccharine intoxication. The sheet comes down in one swift strike.
On the way back home I play back the victory in my head. Redhead was a good friend but he had to go. There was too much meaning to his life. That only served to accentuate the futility in mine.
The next day plays itself out in dull repetition of the first. Nothing changes around here. Except there’s no Redhead today. Lunch comes and goes and I’m just cleaning my space for work when a beautiful black bellied female drosophila announces her buzzing arrival by executing a zig-zag, turntail, up and over motion around the bad debts vouchers. A new friend. I’ll call her Melina.