Thank God for small mercies!

At my workplace, I hardly speak. During meetings, I listen to the crap but seldom talk. I have my lunch by myself. Even the post lunch stroll is unaccompanied. I go home alone. By now, you might have gleaned it.

I am a misanthrope.

In the last four years, my work location has changed 5-6 times. But Uncertainty always ensures I be assigned the busiest and the most public place in office.

My first place was next to the women’s loo. Some might want that kind of luck, but it was the hardest part of my job. It is well known that women talk. But, in the safe haven of the loo, the topics become bitchy.

The discussions are heated.

And the volume, loud.

The facilities manager ought to make women’s loos sound-proof since these caring mothers, loving wives and adorable daughters fail to realize that it ain’t vacuum and sound waves do travel outside.

And impinge on the ears of the person sitting there.

In my case, very sensitive ones.

Thank God for small mercies that I did not understand Tamizh that much, or I would have been privy to what should have been reserved only for female ears. For that matter, I don’t care much about male ears and much less for the gossip.

My next place was in a big room, right next to the door. Anyone walking in, being taught well by elders, was compulsively polite. They used to greet me the time of the day and, naturally being quite concerned about my health, used to enquire, “How are you?” Good friends (yes, I do have a few, despite everything) asking this once in a while is great, but not petty acquaintances and certainly not colleagues. Colleagues, who will not stand still for two minutes when you die , as is the custom in my company to ‘honor’ and ‘remember’ the one who passed away. It wasn’t infrequent that the same people asked me the same question every time they passed by. Since even I was taught well by elders, I was polite for quite some time.

That was one of the toughest weeks I had.

My innate sarcasm bubbled through and I started answering thus: ‘Better than you’ or ‘Was feeling good till you walked in’ or ‘Why did you come today?’ or the plain old ‘Please go away’. People, not being much touchy and dumb enough not to understand sarcasm, still asked me, “How are you?” Since I work as a Consultant, improving processes is a part of my job. I took a print with the following words:

Good morning/ Good afternoon/ Good evening.
I am fine. Thank you for the concern.
I bite.
Door to your left.

Next place was beside the cafeteria door which was next to the loo. My friendly colleagues, out of habit, used my desk as a receptacle for keeping water bottles (empty or full), lunch boxes (empty or full), coffee cups (empty or full) and what not, sometimes leaving oil or tea or coffee rim imprints on it. They would wail their ‘Sorry’ while leaving, magnanimously letting me follow the clean desk policy.

I bore with it for two full days.

Then I used to mix the coffee with tea or hide their lunch boxes, sending the owners on a wild goose chase from his seat to mine and back to his and so on. One fellow even quarreled with his wife on phone, accusing her of forgetting to pack him lunch. As luck would have it, he, too, spoke in Tamizh, and I think I missed the good parts.

Now, I sit in front of a printer. One that is common to the whole floor, seating about 30 odd characters. Most of them are women.

Only components missing are a loo nearby and a cafeteria across the aisle.

Then I can become a full-time sociopath.

Thank God for small mercies.