That mad house called workplace!

mere rashk-e-qamar tune pehli nazar

jab nazar se milayi maza aa gaya

You reach your office well in time, and just as you park your car, this wonderful Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan qawwali starts playing on your car stereo. The couplets ring a chord in your heart, you decide to wait until this one is over, and as you do, you slowly melt in his mesmerizing music oblivious of the pangs of your work life. As it is always, this singing Buddha takes his own time, yodeling, chanting throwing you into a psychedelic spell from where you just don’t want to return.

But alas, like all good things, this one also has to end. It ends, and you are forced to shut down the engine and alight.

At the office entrance, as you swipe your attendance card, you realize that you are late to work, again! The watchman looks at you, nods his head in dismay, and leaves a sorry sigh. You smile back at him and walk away.

You climb the stairs and lazily walk down to your desk, and as you do, you are confronted with the sights of a typical middle of the week workplace.  People dressed in crisp formal wear. People scurrying around, running helter-skelter with sheaves of freshly printed paper in their hands, taking and giving orders. Not everyone is tense; some are content too, having breakfast at their desks, chatting on their mobile phones, ogling at pictures of their friend’s spouses on Facebook, leaving the loo after a satisfying dump.

Happy faces do posit a smile on your face, but alas, the sight at the end of the corridor vanishes it off. At the end of the corridor, right next to your cubicle, you see your boss standing with a grumpy smile on his face. Upset at your late coming, he throws a straight simple question “Have you sent me that file?” in a stern voice. You immediately transform from this smart office worker into this lost kid with innocent face and ask back “W…Which file, Ssss… Sir?” 

His face turns red; his hands turn into fists and his feet moves front and back, as the body gets in position for a boxing match.  That move is enough to teleport your lost spirit back into your body, and you blurt out “Ah, that report that you asked for yesterday? I have done it. Just give me half an hour. I will email it to you” At this point, there is utter silence in the office; just like someone has pressed the pause button, and everyone is staring at you both, waiting for the next move.

Eventually, the boss speaks. “Okay, I will wait” he says with a look that’s two degrees more sterner than the previous one and leaves, leaving you with a slight shiver and almost wet pants, because only you know that there is no such file like that!

You crawl down to your desk and a smartass wishes you “Good Afternoon” at 7:45 in the morning. You dump your bag, slouch into your ergonomic German office chair, and switch on your computer, open YouTube, search for ‘maza aa gaya by nusrat fateh ali khan full’, put on your headphones, close your eyes, dissolve and teleport your soul to some dargah across the border. Bliss!

mae-kade pe barasne lagin mastian,

jab ghata ghir ke chayi maza aa gaya