The Delhi Chapter : Page 38

Day 2 resembled one of those perfect, bright days that have an air of positivity about them.

As I reached, both guards greeted me.

One of them politely swiped me in.

  

It was 9.20 AM by my watch.

Inside, it felt like there was order in the world.

[ Because no one was retarded enough to step in that early. ]


****

So an empty 8th floor.

What a treat to explore.

It would be, I thought to myself.

I plonked my laptop on my desk and hurriedly heaved out my DSLR from another jhola (a bottle green Khari printed one; which I'd picked up one time at the Kalaghoda Festival that happened in February once every year in Bombay).

Photography and cameras were something that always hoisted my interest.

Right from the time that I was little.

And Photo Journalism being a part of my post-graduation in Sophia (Mumbai) among the many other streams of Media, was the perfect excuse to burn an embarrassingly large hole in my dad's wallet, and buy one of those overpriced Digital cameras to flash around everywhere.

[ Whether I'd learnt even a thing about Photography in college, was well, a different question. ]

But even if I didn't have a drop of dexterity, when standing behind the lens.

I always still preferred being the photographer.

Better than being the shot.

So I started scrambling around the place slowly.
Wolfing down it's every detail.

Pictures, post-cards, comic strips, toys-cars.

Mugs, highlighters, lamps and dolls.

Doodles, posters, witty one liners.

Marble-paper kites, constellation of ads.

Files of empty bottles drained to the dregs.

Now giving life to little green saplings.

Some of these objects were just so incredibly arresting, I often forgot to click pictures...

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Trying to somehow remember and gather all the ideas that drizzled onto my head through the course of lunch, I jogged up as fast as I possibly could, before my head dried up.

4 o clock seemed to come about unreasonably early that day.

And Bodhi summoned the both of us (Purnima and I) together to share our ideas with him.

Purnima merrily volunteered to start.

Smart a fair few of her ideas were, I thought.

[ Having studied Advertising from XIC, she clearly knew her stuff.

And I was wary, even embarrassed to share my ideas anymore. ]

"You're bright, you know.

You belong right here.

You should do Advertising."

[ Bodhi said to her, obviously pleased. ]

My scripts, most of them were 'good ideas'.

But more like 5 minute long films!

Precision is the most vital ingredient for Advertising.

[ The first rule he burnt into my brain. ]

[ Bodhi had this thing about him.

An altruistic vein, if you like.

Someone who would suffer your page-long Iliads and Odysseys.

And plough through your pool of inane ideas.
Which you obviously thought could change the world. ]

Point simply was that he cared about your work.

Which made you care a little somewhere too.

*****

The next morning, waking from a dreamless sleep, well before dawn, I went up to the terrace.

And as cool blues changed into warm hues, I recapped Day 1 in my head.

As I watched sunshine gently snuff out starlight, some thoughts began resonating in me.

Far too captivated to stir an inch, I smiled at the beautiful morning...

Not once since the beginning of time I thought, has the sun ever said to the earth, "I own you."

And look at what happens with a love like that.

It lights up the entire world...

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Everyone ate with their hands.
Everyone jested with table manners.
Everyone talked deafeningly.
The CDs sat with their interns.

Everyone suddenly seemed to become an equal down there.

People cracked jokes, dissected soccer games.
Even discoursed about office politics.
Watched matches on the telly hoisted on the wall.
And dug out of each other's colourful lunch boxes.

****

We took a little tour around the buffet spread.

On the menu were the following items:
- Jeera rice
- Roti
- Rajma (of course)
- Boondi raita
- Keema mattar
- Aloo gobi
- Shahi paneer
- Gulab jamun (to end on a sweet note)

Honestly, seemed almost like a wedding spread to me.

Too overwhelmed by the people and hyperactivities, I could hardly concentrate on the food anymore.
So just bought one roti and a bowlful of keema and found ourselves two empty seats in one of the quieter corners.

I could already feel some ideas for the scripts reeling in my head.
And wanted to finish lunch asap to be able to add some flesh to them.

But lunch seemed to be quite the leisurely, gossip-drenched affair for the most of them there at Ogilvy.
No one looked like they were in the slightest hurry to leave.
[ Or so at least this picture seemed. ]

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Anyhow.

I decided to give my nerves some rest and my stomach some food before braving the next operation.

The canteen was stationed on the 6th floor.

And almost as proficiently organised as I'd imagined it to be.

[ Just the sort of thing, you'd consider would be a given in these big kind of places, you know. ]

Purnima had her own home-made 'tiffin'.

(Aloo parantha and pickles, if my memory serves me correctly.)

I on the other hand, needed to buy lunch.

Sweet girl that she was, without a whisper of complaint, she agreed to accompany me downstairs.

The point at which we reached however, happened to be 'peak lunch hour'.

[ Whatever that means. ]

As a consequence, there were no untaken chairs.

And we couldn't earn a place to sit.

The whole dining space buzzed with conversation.

You heard a whole bunch of things.

The sound of noise.

The clicking of dishes.

The music of cutlery.

And it strangely seemed to feel like it was the only piece of the day when you got to meet the 'real people'..

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I can't remember the last time I’d felt that exultant after someone said a nice thing about my writing.

[ I can't really tell why. I’m still actually trying to think. ]

Anyhow, the next assignment was just as big a bummer as the 1st.

[At least for a twit like me.]

Assignment 2:

Ideate for Iodex.

At least 6 crisp television commercial scripts (lazily also called TVC’s).

Typically, 30 seconders.

Before or by 4:00 PM that day.

[ And this is only Day 1 of my internship, yes.]

Bodhi’s deadlines were almost as unbending and inflexible as the auto guys in Delhi.

[ Which I got the best evidence of on my last day when I broke my first deadline, and turned in my portfolio 10 minutes late. More details of that episode, I’ll certainly spill to you soon on a later date. ]

****

So anyway.

Almost just when I was beginning to bask in the success of Assignment 1, he instantly dropped the 2nd one like a sizzling bomb on my head.

He kindly asked us to break for lunch for as long as we wished.

As long as we came back with at least 6 tv scripts by early evening that day.

More scripts were welcome (of course).

I was sure I’d be wallowing and dithering and lurching and stressing to write those TVC’s.

My first ever.

I had never known how to write a telly script.

It’s format, length, setting, nothing.

The only kind of script I’d ever written was that of school and college plays.

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Like a submissive deer, as it were, just waiting to be shot by her pitiless hunter;

I approached Bodhi's terminal one baby step at a time.

He was sitting with his earphones plugged on, devouring some obscure YouTube video.

He had a couple of mangled printing papers festooning his table.

And a rather dubious calendar with sparingly clad women, sitting pretty (read: hot) next to him.

My eyes (almost unselfconsciously) got pinned on that calendar placed on his table.

He somehow managed to realise from the edge of his eye that I had finally manifested.

He paused his video.

Took off his headphones.

Looked  up at me.

And said with a cryptic smile,

"Hmmmmm...

So you're done.

Show."

I surrendered my case on his table, and excused myself to use the washroom.

[Not that I particularly needed to.

But I somehow always feel peculiarly self-conscious when someone reads something I've written in front of me.]

****

By the time I came back, Bodhi had gone back to watching his video.

Which could only mean either of the two things:

a) The story was so insanely boring that I must have lost him exactly from line 4.

b) The story was perhaps in spurts, decently gripping, that he was actually done reading it all.

Hoping for the latter or at least that he'd have some feedback to give;
I stood there and looked down at my laptop on his table.

Certain paragraphs of the story had been dyed with fluorescent green.

Someone had also changed the font to a neat and readable: Trebuchet MS

[ Which I realised, in my time to come, is the font that Bodhi always used. ]

I kept standing there, still not being able to comprehend what exactly had happened.

"SAY SOMETHING!" I screamed to him in my head.
Anything. Good. Bad. Ugly.

Then at long last, he spun his revolving chair, looked me straight up in the eye, cracked his knuckles and broke into a smile (this time, a broader one), in that order.

He: "So, you are quite the writer, aren't you now?

Very, very nice, this is.  

I particularly liked the way you wrote this part.

This part, that and that."

[ Pointing at the little green highlighted portions.]

Which more than sufficed to make my day...

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I actually had to crane my neck up from behind my soft-board to observe the pool of people floating about on that floor.

****

A second later, Purnima pranced back to the seat next to me with her laptop, saying, "Heyi, Bodhi's calling you to his desk.. You're done with your story, right?"

Me: "Oh..

Yup, I'm finished..

How did yours go?

Did he like it?"

She: "Ah good only man..

Yes he liked it..

Pretty much..

Has asked me to think up TVC's on Iodex now!

Cool no?"

Me: "Ya, very cool..

I'd love to read your story, by the way.."

She: "Hey, and I'd love to read yours!
You look like one of those typical Journos you know..
Kurta, jhola and all that..

Like them arty, creative writer types!
So I bet your piece will be todu!"

[ ‘Todu’', ‘Faadu', 'Dhaansu' and such like, are adjectives to describe something of the highest superlative in Delhi, which I discovered much later as I went along living in this place.]

Me: "Haha (still insecure about what that really meant)..  

Well if that was meant to be a compliment, I'm flattered.

Thanks very much!

Tell you what..

I'll just quickly run and show Bodhi this hodge podge of a story..

And come back and aramse chat up with you over lunch..

Yes?"

I said that in my typical sing-song voice.
And rather annoying Colgate smile (like well-trained cabin crew).

[ And just before I was going to get up from my desk and sprint with my laptop to Bodhi's, she stopped me manically like she had something awfully urgent to say right then. ]

"Hey by the way! I must tell you before I forget again!
I wanted to tell you inside in the meeting room itself..

You have beautiful eyes..
And the most perfect smile I've seen dude! 

Your face has this typical Bong loveliness about it..
Pretty thing you are you know!" she snickered.

[ I can't exactly say I wasn't glad at the way she thought.
Even tending to think that she was ridiculously benevolent with her compliments.

But the timing of her remark was just the most unfit.
Because I was just about as spaced out then as any soul could be. ]

Had it been any other moment, I'd certainly have said more than just a polite 'thanks'.
And even return-gifted her with a nice word or two.

But given the situation, and that famine inside my stomach; all I knew then is just that I had to run to Bodhi.
And bravely find out what was to become of my piece. ]

Would he be happy and pat me on my back?

Or would he judge me for being average?

Would he be cross and shred my piece to pieces?

Or would he just say, "Don't come back again"? 

I had no idea what the 'standards' were. 

The stock I was competing against..

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The place where I got to sit was right at the end of the floor (perhaps, the farthest seat from Bodhi's).

From where one could see his terminal alright, and sometimes even the crown of his head.

[ When he decided to sit and not lie down on his ridiculously reclining chair ]

By the time I finished, it was nearly noon, and the whole office was in by then.

So once I was done, for the first time when I looked up and studied the place in its chock-full activity, I saw nearly 200 people studiously racing and pacing on that floor.

People sat.

People walked.

People sulked.

People talked.

Some exchanged sweet nothings.

People yelled.

People frowned.

People smiled.

People scowled.

Some strangely even exchanged greetings.

It felt like a football field where you didn't need to try too hard to get lost.

Or get swallowed into the throat of obscurity.

But it created a strange sparkle of the highest power.

An almost infectious positive energy.

A zoo where you found all kinds of animals.

Bursting with life and larger than life dreams.

What a place, I thought to myself again.

What a place, I thought.

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[ That day.

I wrote my short story (applying that same, age-old rule of thumb).
Shoving self-doubt and diffidence into a remote crevice of the mind. 

And it strangely agreed to have my back.
Again.
Again. ]

****

After a little over a half hour, the master swung by to check on us.

Purnima was already done by then, ready to show her piece to Bodhi.

I was still not finished (of course).

Given the snail that I am.

But Bodhi had promised me till lunch-time.

[ Which was still another half hour away ]

So he didn't exactly complain, that I wasn’t done yet.

"No worries. Take your time." he said.

[ Reverse psychology has somehow always worked on me.

Right from the beginning of time.

My dad.

My brother.

My boyfriend.

Have always succeeded.

Well.

Trick is rather simple.

Just be nice and lenient, permissive and indulgent with me, when you want anything done.

Because yelling and snubbing and pushing and shoving makes me do nothing, even today. ]

So (I have no idea how Bodhi figured it), but the minute he was kind about my deadline, I finished my piece in the next 10 minutes.

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Honestly, something I've never accepted out loud (save some of my closest friends).

But every time I sit down to write.

Every time.

Whenever.

Anywhere.

Anything.

A dot, a passing thought.

A midnight dirge, a sleepless song.

Or maybe just an unseen poem in a story.

I just somehow always seem to feel it'll take ages to think

Ages.

And I'm just not quite made of the material.

Truth is, no matter how free-handish my pieces may seem.

They just always somehow tend to feel like flukes to me.

****

There are always the 'what ifs' and the 'what if nots' of the world.

That try to keep a writer from writing.

"What if this one doesn't turn out as good as the last?"

"What if my readers start to think that I suck?"

"What if my pieces look laboured and affected?"

"What if they look tired, retouched and perfected?"

A million and one questions course through the mind.

And make us all doubters of our own skill.

It happens to the best of us.

It does.

[Or so I've heard from my friends, my seniors, etc, who're solid writers; and yet believe they're still not quite 'there' ]

But there is really, just one technique to do this.

[ Personally, I know no other way. ]

You've just got to somehow swing all these questions to one bunker of your head.

[ Imagining no one will ever read your writings. ]

And then muster up the courage to put that pen on a paper.

And try and make different letters appear someway.

Because that is when you really let your heart do the talking.

And the words just write themselves.

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Here they were, one after another:

1. Which is your dream city?

2. What is your dream situation for a proposal?

3. What is your dream job?

4. What is your favourite colour?

5. What is your favourite poison (alcohol)?

6. What is your favourite kind of music?

7. What was your favourite fantasy story as a child?

8. Who is your favourite super hero?

9. Which God do you believe in the most?

10. Which is your favourite style of writing?

My last answer was: Wit.  

And to that he said,

"Now in the genre opposite to your favourite style of writing, write me a fictional short story.

Weaving each of the answers you just gave me."

First I just stared at him, thinking he was positively kidding.

I mean, my answers had NO bloody co-relation with each other!

He couldn't for the life of me, be serious.

Then when nothing about his expression told me it was a joke,

I made peace with the fact that it was an actual assignment.

I got up and left the room with my papers, heading towards my desk..
[ Trying my best not to look busted. ]

It was my first darn assignment, for Christ's Sake!
I couldn't possibly goof up and look like a donkey!

A short story?

Fiction?

Stitching 10 random things together?

Jesus.

****

I settled down on my desk and restively opened a blank white word doc on my laptop.

Fuck.

[ Was the first word that came to my head. ]