The Fourth Quarter

'December' rings death every time it's uttered, if you're in Sales. The English is shed like a blazer in Kurla bazaar. No more Powerpoint. Bill it. Bill it. The office is a frenzy of ringing phones, window-ridden screens and people clutching their hair. I see them moving in slow motion, mouth parted in mid-swear twist, eyes staring mutely ahead. They're growing their beards, as the days rip off the calendar one by one towards the 31st.

The tableaux springs in the cubicles, to roar like a power saw.

"bhai, approval aaya ki nahin?" arre laga na bhai phone ISV ko" *beep* "kyaaa...nautanki hai.." *beep* *cell rings*.... "dammit i told you this would happen"...."i'll mail it, meanwhile you screw his happiness" *beep*....*beep*... ...*cell rings* "A very good afternoon sir". *laughter* "How are you sir?" "Oh, tell me about it..." *laughter*

*beep* = censured spattering of colourful abuse from the cow belt
*laughter* = response to bad joke from boss or client, very important

People will drive out when it all ends, to the smell of flowing beer. The official messenger windows blink and open, like hungry chicks in an eagle's nest. I think of skipping feet, of a rainbow-skirt in breathing mustard fields. And of sleepy shoulders to lean on by clattering dark bus-doors. The days are filled with shuffled realities, of the smell of hands and the colour of sparrow-wings, sweeping like automobile beams on a soulless highway.