My Idea of Equality as on January 18, 2011

It’s a 6:30 am cab for office this winter morning as i recollect the candid conversations with my doctor-cousin a few years back. Anosmia he says it is. When you lose the ability to smell...and to a great extent taste. The Indica takes a left turn from the dump-yard where on usual days the stench is unbearable. Today is different. I look outside the window pane, oblivious to the reek of the rotten waste across the road, the aroma of boiling tea from little shacks and the smoke from broken huts. A copy-pasting job surely kills your appetite but this morning there's more to it.

The tasteless days last for weeks, sometimes an entire month. Anosmia grows with each day. Anger turns to frustration and explodes into despair. The loneliness I am so fond of screeches aloud in my head. The symptoms seem synonymous to PMS. Except for that one doesn’t start shouting randomly at colleagues or burst into tears or argue over non-existent issues. It gives you a perspective though and it's fun. It acts like caffeine, stimulating your brain right from the start of the day. I can't help as my nose and tongue pull me into an egalitarian mode. There’s nothing as a pungent smell or an alluring fragrance; and a bitter-sweet taste or tangy flavour. Everything is simple – Insipid and Equal.

For breakfast in the cafetaria, the 6 foot tall, spike haired, parantha-loyalist Delhite; and the petite, shy looking, dark Tamilian who craves for a vada dipped in sambar – they all look the same. Why the cold war? I feel confused. The Tamilian sniffs the freshly poured sambar and gives me a smirk…not sure why. Reminds me of the numerous Sholay jokes where Thakur is asked to toss the coin, shake hands or pick up the phone.

From the brightly lit conference rooms to our very own ammonia lab (read men’s toilet), I can’t spot a difference. I see a senior manager, an analyst and the floor cleaner – all composing enchanting music, that of a placid waterfalls standing next to each other in the loo. Just that every musician has a different expression. The senior is a visionary, too engrossed, as if in a superior connection with the divine. The analyst is too shy...perhaps intimidated by the senior musician’s presence; frequently looking at his instrument, composing melody at an intermittent tempo. The cleaner is nonchalant, a thorough professional possessing a been-there-seen-it-all manifestation. He performs as though the stage is all his and leaves before the automatic flush could applaud his concert with a thundering drizzle.

From the convoy of Merc and Volkswagen that brings in a troop of fair skinned clients from the west; to the formal-clad assistant manager (whose shirt is crisply ironed and shoes that shine like his slime-ball head) who greets (almost salutes) the guests with all his paan-stained teeth out…..They all look the same.

From the boss in electric blue shirt who actually knew nothing but incessantly had “I knewed” (to be pronounced as “nude”) on his lips; to the loony intern from a premier pharma college who is at other's mercy to swipe him out of the glass enclosure even when nature calls him aloud....they all look the same.

Its ironical that due to some involuntary action, my fingers type in Swami Vivekananda’s Chicago speech on google this morning. It’s the same speech that I would have read a million times since Class III. Not that it is difficult to comprehend; it’s a masterpiece in true literary sense. But the timing is spotless. Swamiji elucidating the importance of equality and tolerance during an era of religious extremism and social evils…And me getting a forceful taste (or rather lack of it) of the need for equality in turbulent times at workplace.

The day at office ends with a very serious dilemma as I approach the customer friendly coffee vendor in the cafeteria. Should I have coffee or tea is the question. Without a blink of an eye, picking up a steel cup he says “coffee saar…strong-aa?” The Sholay jokes start looming large in my head….