a rickety four-storey haunt, with decades old lettering pummelled and peeling. if rot could set to cement, this is what it would look like.

my office, languishes on the first floor. a desk as wide as my wingspan, with a buzzer to call the naib qasid. there's a file cabinet, which so far has anything but files. the average babu consumes five cups of chai a day, a senior joked. the constant rolling wheels of hierarchy, as you pass a hall. the incessant protocol you give based on years of service, rather than quality of service. some of the files are a fascinating read: a clash of egos in short script. others are just yellowed, tattered, mouldy exercises in Rules of Business. a generator that chugs 20 liters of petrol an hour, and drowns conversation from two whole floors. the territoriality of the lower staff. managing the maze of toes: whose you can step on - the Steno in Exhibitions, the Assistant with the fuzzy beard - and whose you can't - the store manager who frequents the Directors, the superintentent who's been working here for over 30 years.


it's a different world.