QUEST

It was 11 p.m. already. Not that he realised it. Gone where those days when his watch determined the amount of work he had to do. Because from then to now, lay his new ambition. A very common one though. To be rich and famous.

The scheduled leaving hour for the office lay five hours back. But then leaving on scheduled hour does not guarantee promotion. Overtime does. It also promises money and recognition. His was the only light on. And except an occasional loud yawn of the peon, nothing broke the undying silence. No motion. No movement. Just himself. Solitude was his best friend since six months now. It wasn't like that six months back. But then six months is a long time.

One last draw of the cigarette before it joined several others in the ashtray. He crushed it. Like he had done to others. Then glanced at it. Battered and mutilated, it had joined many others in the ashtray. The state, in a way, symbolised his. Under his seniors, he was just that. Battered and mutilated. Yet, his state was by choice. So he indifferently placed the last file in front of him.

The ink on the sheet was fresh. It loathed that smell, the one of varnish. So he stretched out his hand for the coffee cup next to the file. It was empty. Empty since an hour now. He knew that. But the thought of getting up for a refill didn't seem encouraging. So, instead, he drew out one more of his cigarettes. It was the last one of his 3rd pack for the day.

It was 12.30 now. He realised it. What he didn't realise was the distinct presence of nicotine and caffeine oozing from his eyes. They were red. And hurting too. The smoke didn't particularly appeal him. But it kept him awake. A sufficient reason to carry it on. He threw the jacket on his shoulders. His work was over for that night. Finally. He didn't bother to clean his desk. It would only be a couple of hours before he was seated over here again.

Leaving aside his car, the parking zone was empty. The thought of reaching home didn't mean much to him. There was no one waiting there. His quest had forced him to break off with the girl he had loved the most. After that, he didn't want anyone to wait. He headed for his favourite spot. Which was, the Sea. It was breeze over there. It soothed him. Refreshed him. He knew the breeze. Had smelt it. And even felt the taste of it.

He stopped twice on the way. Both times to buy something. First for sandwiches, second for cigarettes. Radio let out jarred music, so off it went. He found himself disturbed, shaken a bit. It was not his work. That was for sure. It was not the solitude. Definitely. But still something was not right. He sensed it but could not put words to it. Gradually, the thought passed by giving way to one that brought a smile to his face.

Day after tomorrow would bring employee appraisals with itself. And if rumours were to be believed then he would be getting a raise. A promotion. Something he had and still was striving for. The fruition of his hardwork. He parked his car. At any other hour, the parking would have humiliated his skills. But it was nearly 1 p.m. So he didn't care. The breeze was as he had imagined it to be. Soothing and refreshing.

That smile was still there. But was giving way to the same kind of uneasiness. Then at that moment, the picture of the crushed cigarette flashed in front of him. The smiled vanished. The image, though, not horrendous had something to it. Maybe he was looking at it in the wrong sense. But then why did the picture flash in the first place? It definitely symbolised something. His ex-colleagues? Maybe. After all they were also treated in a similar fashion by the company. Extracting their best. Then kicking them when they were no more required.

He had survived the earlier retrenchment. He credited it to his creativity. Realistically, it was his overtime. He had, then, never bothered to ask himself why. It was not important. He was still there. And how he remained there seemed important to him. Now, he wondered why. Even he could be kicked out anytime. Maybe even tomorrow. After all who has assured him of his promotion.

If so, then what was he working so hard for? His cigarette was out again, neatly placed between his first and second finger. What had he gained in his quest? A caffeine addiction. A health checkup every four months with a possibility of lung infection. A screwed-up social life. What an irony. Spending all the earned money in curing him of the infections, he had subjected himself to, in the course of earning it.

It was only because of the threat of the cop that he decided to move. He didn't want to. He, suddenly, had a lot of thinking to do. He was back at his place. The night seemed long. And sleep, a rare commodity. The nicotine was still going strong. He lay awake. A question which he had suppressed for so long was finally letting loose before him. He realised that he was at a crossroads again. And it would be long or probably never again before he came across another one. It was the time to make a decision. Decision on whether his Quest was really worth it?

© NIMESH SHAH 1999

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