BACK TO SQUARE ONE.
You can never trust an alarm clock. It could be as treacherous as your boyfriend.
That scoundrel cooly walked out of a six-year-old relationship. Frivolous reasons soon turned out to be a hoax when he got betrothed to the richest girl in town.
Let us forget him, sigh! (As if I had a choice.) Let us talk about the treacherous alarm clock instead.
It was supposed to ring at 6 am. The kind of time I had only woken up during my university exams. Last-moment cramming always helps you know.
As a computer science graduate, I have been relentlessly struggling to get a well-paid job for the last six weeks. Today is my first day at a new job after a lull.
For three months, I moaned about my separation from my boyfriend and lost my previous job. Realizing that he had moved ahead while I was jobless, I frantically searched for a job that fit my profile but eventually had to compromise for something that could have been better. Anything was fine as long as the money came in to pay the bills.
So here I was, trying to brace myself on the first day of my work.
Google Maps showed that I would reach my office in half an hour if I travelled by my scooty. That was the fastest. Work starts at 8 am, so the 6 am alarm should be OK. Everything was scheduled: morning ablutions, bath, and dressing for 30 minutes; breakfast, preparing and eating another 20 minutes, and then leaving at 6.50. I would need a good twenty minutes to clean my scooty. Thanks to the family of cleaners who left the job without an intimation and thanks to the muddy roads of our city.
So, I planned to start my scooty at least by 7:15 so that I would reach the workplace with 15 minutes of cushion time before I began to work.
But you know, man proposes, God disposes. I planned something, but the alarm disposed of my plan. The stubborn thing refused to give the signal at the right time. Thanks to my bursting bladder, I had to get up, and when I peeked at the clock, it was 6.30. I got up with a shriek. I just had to cut off on some of my plans: breakfast and the bath. That saved me twenty-five minutes. When I sprinted to my scooty, I was shocked to see that the heavy wind had blown off its cover. Some crows took my vehicle as a place to reveal themselves. I needed almost half an hour to clean. When I kickstarted the scooty, it was already 7:25. I drove like a possessed woman, and defying the timings as per Google Maps, I arrived at my destination in 25 minutes.
All three lifts were occupied. I sprinted towards the stairs to take them in order to reach my office on the second floor, but neatly tripped over the doormat. The contents of my handbag, whose mouth was always open like a glutton, scattered everywhere on the floor. I collected the plethora of items in a frenzy. Securing my handbag with the zip, I climbed as fast as possible. I was precisely on time when I entered the office. The first impression is the best, they say. My boss, who could have a clear view of the entrance from his cabin, smiled at me. I smiled back at the middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair.
Someone guided me to my table. While I was still figuring out what work I was supposed to do, I was summoned to the boss’s cabin. I went inside, assuming he wanted to speak about my work. A young gentleman with a sober look was seated in the cabin. A man in uniform, whom I recognized as the security of the building, was standing next to the table. He brandished his pointer no sooner than he saw me and bawled, “This is the woman who took the stairs after this gentleman.”
I did not know that ladies taking steps was blasphemy on this premises. I must have looked at my boss with a poker face. With a sympathetic look, the boss gestured to me to sit next to the gentleman. Clearing his throat, he said, “This gentleman says there was a box with a diamond ring in his pocket when he alighted from his car. It was there until he took the steps to his office on our floor. Upon reaching the office, he realized that there was a hole in his pocket and the box might have fallen somewhere on the route. Having made a futile effort to look for it again through the stairs, he learned from the security that it was an employee from our office who had taken the stairs soon after him. Since the security said the employee looked new to the premises, I guessed it must have been you.” He took a small pause and used that time to fidget uneasily on his chair. “Did you find a box with a diamond ring somewhere on the stairs?” He asked.
Though his tone sounded perfectly decent, I wasn’t a fool not to understand that he was inadvertently calling me a thief. I shook my head in a daze when the gentleman requested that he be allowed to check my bag. I looked at my boss, expecting him to retaliate over this suggestion, but his silence confirmed that he agreed with whatever the gentleman said.
Overcome by anger and shame, I emptied my handbag onto the table. The men looked awed as a hundred things fell from it: compact powder, lipstick, eyeliner, safety pins, hair pins, pens, a hand sanitizer bottle, tissues, used and unused masks, and lo! There was one object, a rectangular tiny box that was not mine. Inside that box, a diamond ring sparkled.
Now I am back to square one, looking for a job again!