KALEIDOSCOPE

2003. I was sitting inside my office of the New Sunday Express when a colleague walked in with a white polythene bag half the size of a pillow. The hall had a separate room for the Editor, which remained closed with lights always on even when he was out. "Hey, can I use this room for five minutes? I am going for a party tonight and I need to change," she asked. I didn't know what to say. I never heard anybody using the Editor’s room for any such ‘changes’ before. Apparently, she didn’t wait for my response. "See, I am using this room for five minutes, ok,?". She opened the door and then locked it from inside.

I was alone in the department, and now a pretty girl inside the Editor’s room. Even though the Express office on Mount Road functioned in a very old building, it had a well-furnished washroom for ladies. Why didn’t she use it? I thought for a moment. Should I peep her through the ventilator? I knew if I wanted to do something, I must do it in five minutes. So the countdown began.

The girl wore an orange colour kurta and white pyjama. As the Editor's room was close to my cubicle, I could hear the sound of a polythene cover from the room. "Sir, will you lock the door when you go,? I am leaving a little early," said Palani, the attendant, putting his head inside through the half-opened main door. I said fine. Time was running out, and I had only a couple of minutes left. Should I or not? Questions came one after the other. She must be checking her new dress inside, and I was waiting for the right moment outside.

Apparently, there was no ventilator in the room. What the room had was a horizontal glass window which was fixed later to avoid darkness in the room. If there was a hole, I could have easily peeped through it. The glass window was not a proper choice. She would definitely see my face. Interestingly, there was a small hole on the wooden wall of the room, but I was not sure whether I could see her through it. Again, it would depend on where she was standing. 

It has been only a couple of minutes since she entered the room, but my mind turned out to be a boiling pot of curiosity by then. Her thick black hair must be flowing through her naked back. I couldn’t help but think Big. There was not much time left. "What time you are leaving," asked senior colleague Dasji, putting his head through the half-opened main door. I told him I was working on a story. He was pleased, and happily walked in. I immediately picked the receiver pretending that I wanted to make an urgent call. Dasji returned, with a gesture using his right hand that he would come later.

There was silence inside the Editor’s room. The girl must have removed her orange kurta. As I got up, the phone rang. A contributor wanted to know when his story would appear. I gave him a date, without thinking twice. By the time I kept the receiver down, I could hear a noise from the other end of the door. I saw the girl coming out, switching on the light inside the Editor’s room. Bye, she said.