I sit in front of her, for the first time not trying to vanish into the wonderful foam of the typical royal blue and black rolling office chair. Her expressions are predictable, oh I’ve seen them plenty of times in similar situations and everytime desperately hoped for a change, in vain. Her greetings are classic formal and everytime, it had so much difference as is in a person’s style of walking everyday.
All our meetings end the same way, with the exception of the first one, and it’s because of these impregnated memories that I know when I look into her eyes, and I see my reflection – it contains additional wavelengths in higher intensities called exasperation and awkwardness.
“So, what have you got for me this time?...... oh I see, another script…” The sigh at the end of every period from this eminent editor cannot be missed. There have been times I’ve pitied her for I could not imagine what obligation to my dear cousin makes her read my script every time. Not that I’ve not tried asking my cousin.
“I still cannot understand how your protagonist could love and idolize his friend so much for his seemingly impeccable manners and the very next hour feel that his pal is a narcissistic and rude without anything significant happening between….and then there is this part: Maine, your interest in buying a piano is highly illogical, it would occupy 11.8 percent of the space in your room, which is otherwise being used by those plethora of geometrical shapes that you hang from your ears, the different chemical mediums that are not prescribed by a dermatologist, the multi-colour reflecting articles which I have no idea why you use for, and not to forget your 324 collection of less than 200 pages books and articles designed for hormonally unstable teenagers. Even if you use the piano twice a day for one hour daily, the frequency and the time being used on your current collection of items there would far exceed their theoretical maximum for the piano…… and then after having a tea, he comments to his sister again: the faint chirping , the lovely evening breeze, the empty fields extending without any interruption by houses, the old wooden doors, windows, your wonderful collection of antiques, the beguiling magic of the giant pendulum clock make this cottage the most perfect place to live, and I regret not having bought this in the first place….. …………..’BEGUILING MAGIC OF THE GIANT PENDULUM CLOCK’ just after ‘PLETHORA OF GEOMETRICAL SHAPES’ and ’11.8 PERCENT’, and the story says you logic-obsessed pragmatic guy had a TEA, not a single hint of being doped…”
This was one episode among many similar ones that I badly wish to forget.
I’ve tried quitting, I’ve tried writing differently, but somehow, may be due to the fact that the pen or the computer keypad is not my only bread and butter winner, I’ve refused to modify EVERYTIME from what she find as erratic description and actions of characters highly influenced by my everyday happenings. She even pointed out that my description of the mansion windows exactly fit with her office ones with similar figurines surrounding them. Many years have passed and while I struggled to find my identity through my writing, I was sure of only one thing – there is more to them than the haphazard and inconsistent style for they don’t suit a guy so stable in his personal and office life.
Now I wait for the final time. Letting her skim at my ‘oevre ‘, I try to recollect why I’m here after so many humiliating experiences. I’ve been a normal guy all my life – not very good in anything, mediocre, a just-a-participant. For a long time I thought I loved just participating, then I realized there was another part I loved – observing. Observing participant, observing observers, observing almost anything. Soon, without my realization until recently, observation had become my favorite hobby, most of the times ending without a conclusion, but everyday it was through the emotional spectacle I wore that day. The hobby became the most significant thing in my life. But though I derived immense happiness out of it, something still bugged me, I never knew why I was happy or to say simple who I really was.
Somehow, I just found the answer without any significant event or epiphany. I came to a conclusion that all seemingly insignificant events in my life were the most valuable ones that I base my identity on. Like I said I was not scared to watch her read my script this time. I know who I am and vagaries in the style make sense now.
“FILTERS, the story of a spectator’s world….. hmmm…”
A person proficient at this, the moment I looked at her I knew it. I smiled for a first time inside her office. Then she says “eventful life of a competitive guy…...”
I don’t know how to react but I know something.
The hunt for MY identity continues.
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