The bench on the beach


Anyone who knew the blogger well enough would tell you he didn’t like beaches. He saw beaches merely as places where debris would end up after being set adrift. To a certain extent, it was the lack of effort on the part of pieces of driftwood that they ended up on beaches. A few days of lying around, and the sand gets to their cracks and they stop grinding whatever they could grind altogether. In other words, the beach was a place of non-apparent decay. For men, they were of similar or no significance – either you wander around aimlessly and land up on the beach, or you are gay and don’t mind sand in cracks.  The blogger was not interested in being either. So when his company had put him on the beach, the blogger had begun to seriously contemplate both, his purpose and his sexual orientation. If only the blogger, and indeed the world, knew that the beach was just the company’s way of romanticizing the ‘bench’, there would have been less fuss.

By less fuss I do not mean no fuss. The blogger already looked a shade jaded and disillusioned by the lack of activity he was involved in. The only time he had had to get his head down and work was when there was a captaan sort-of-a-thing hovering around his head and making things extremely uncomfortable whenever he sat idle. He couldn’t say he enjoyed work, but atleast it kept his cogs from rusting. The sudden dearth of any productive activity was unsettling. Had the company forgotten he existed? Did they consider him incapable of any revenue earning activity? The blogger was man of few words and even fewer thoughts, but he couldn’t help but think that the company should have put him to some use. A few hours later, his trail of thoughts had led him to think that the time on the beach was the company’s way of honing a consultant’s patience; you need plenty of it on the job.

The blogger didn’t mind being a consultant, of course. It was mostly because he had heard a lot of positives about the occupation. Apparently, consultants made great boyfriends and husbands – they were good listeners, even better actors, knew how to appease their client with little, could keep their own thoughts and feelings where the sun doesn’t shine and had little or no knowledge about what they were speaking anyway (It makes the client feel more important). His own girlfriend begged to differ though.

One month in


It had barely been a month since the blogger had found his new home. The air conditioning hummed as it bit through his skin; each tiny freckle of coldth finding its way through his flimsy blue shirt even as he pulled it tighter around himself. Like it was going to help. He shivered on.

 A girl passed through the corridor next to the blogger. Had she cared enough to glance at his screen, she would have realized he was staring at his Facebook homepage. Thankfully she didn’t. She didn’t realize that the blogger was hopeless refreshing the page over and over again in search of a remotely interesting update. The lecturer in the room, in his rather unruly tone, rambled on about a technology that made the blogger wish he had his fingers curled around a steaming cup of filter coffee.

The lecturer knew the blogger; by face, no more. He had seen him at the coffee vending machine. He’d often wondered if the kid perenially stood there, but kept his thought to himself. He knew that the blogger had no apparant interest in what he was teaching. The glassy-eyes had become oh-so-obvious through his teaching career. However, there comes a time when you stop minding such students and instead focus on the vast majority of the class who do seem to give a damn.

A bespectacled kid next to the blogger leant over to him and hissed, “Did you complete the diagram?”. The blogger’s sleepy eyes stole a glance at his neighbour before he shook his head. Class diagrams were never a matter to which he would have considered devoting large parts of his weekend. “I’ll do it before lunch,” he replied lazily. His comrade gave him a warning stare before fixing his eyes on the lecturer again.

The browser was minimized to the taskbar and a software tool unconvincingly opened. Unconvincing because of the sheer effort the blogger seemed to have to put in to locate the respective shortcut. The processor pretended to be busy as it lazily opened a bunch of boxes that looked like they would have been more presentable left in the horse’s mouth. The pointer glided across one of the boxes and clicked twice. It thought for a moment before deciding to freeze the screen.

If there was one thing the blogger had learnt through engineering college, it was to hit Ctrl+Alt+Del blindfolded, a hand tied and the keyboard upside down. So he did. Of course, if everything was that simple, why did computers have other keys anyway? The screen refused to budge. The 4GB of RAM had proved to be just as useful as parrot-feed to a wild panther.

The blogger looked around him. No one seemed to really care about the mess his PC was in. Over the dull hum of his pretentious processor, he heard the clicking of a few hundred keys. Ya right, he thought to himself. If they were really coding, the company should either have earned manifold revenue or not hired them in the first place. You can leave the coding to those who do it best. Our job is to sell the code, useful or not.