"Flat Reflections"
By Prabodh Kumar Govil
He had been in this job for many years. There were still three or four years left until his retirement. This was the first place where he had stayed for such a long time. Before this, every two or three years, for one reason or another, he would change both his job and his location.
His job was strange. The daily routine here was extremely dull and monotonous. Over these thirteen years, he had pushed each moment aside, one by one, only he knew how. Yet, when he looked back at the past thirteen years as a whole, even he couldn’t understand how all that time had passed. What remained with him as a witness to those thirteen years wasn’t much — he could count them on his fingers: the hair turning white from the temples to the middle of his forehead, the wrinkles creeping up from his cheeks to his eyes, and the black and brown fibers of his uniform slowly turning white with time.
Every morning at exactly eleven, a gleaming car would speed through the massive gate, kicking up dust, and the routine would begin. That was his first and mandatory salute of the day. After that, everything depended on his mood, his sense of etiquette, and familiarity. Many officers, clerks, and workers would enter the mill. Based on his convenience and recognition, he greeted them in various ways — a salute for some, a nod for others, just a smile for a few, and sometimes, a blessing in his eyes. After all, he had grown older now, and a few people had even started greeting him back.
At lunchtime, his sleepy day would once again be stirred by the commotion. Cars moved in and out, scooters and motorcycles zipped by, countless bicycles lined the walls, and people poured out on foot. Over the years, the small restaurants, roadside stalls, and vendors outside the mill had gathered like weeds, sprouting one by one. He remembered when there used to be just two carts — one selling fruits and the other betel leaves. The fruit vendor would spend most of his time swatting flies while chatting with the betel leaf seller. Occasionally, he would carefully pick out a banana turning black, set it aside, and later, without much care for the flies buzzing around, peel it and slowly eat it.
Sometimes, the fruit seller would leave his cart in the sun and sit with the betel leaf vendor, passing the time. The betel leaf vendor was busier, with customers always lingering — some for cigarettes, some for betel leaves. People, when they have a few idle moments, often prefer standing at a betel shop rather than anywhere else. That’s why the betel shop always had a lively feel to it.
He remembered the long strike once when even the mill’s canteen had shut down. That’s when the tea stall opened. Later, even after the strike ended and the canteen reopened, the tea stall never closed. It kept growing, and now, the road had turned into a bustling market.
The car that arrived at eleven had changed colors many times before his eyes. In fact, it wasn’t just the color — the car itself had changed multiple times. He couldn’t tell a Fiat from a Mercedes or an Impala from a Ford, but he could distinguish changes in size and color. He had no idea about the prices of these cars, but the ever-changing model and color of the eleven o'clock car made one thing clear — its owner was thriving.
In contrast, he hadn’t changed as many trousers and shirts in these thirteen years. Not that he needed to. He wore his factory uniform all day anyway. Upon arriving each morning, he would change behind a nearby tree, hang his clothes on an old hook in the small guardroom, and don his uniform and tilted cap before standing by the gate.
By eleven-thirty, the crowd thinned out. Almost everyone had entered the factory, and he would sit at ease on the roadside ledge. His shift lasted twelve hours. The night watchman took over after him. After a brief chat with the night guard, he would head home without much hurry. During the summer, he often walked back wearing just his vest, with his shirt slung over his shoulder.
Evenings were his favorite time. When the siren blew, he would quickly straighten his cap and stand alert by the gate, watching the faces of the workers returning home. He imagined them soon reuniting with their families, relaxing, and forgetting the mill until the next morning brought it all back. That had been his life for the past thirteen years too.
Another habit he’d developed in this job was thinking — long, wandering thoughts. With so much idle time, his mind drifted far and wide, only returning when a noise or movement snapped him back.
He was the factory’s gatekeeper. A watchman. His duty was at this main gate. He was employed to guard the factory, to prevent any danger or mishap. For thirteen years, he had watched over this one spot, ensuring that nothing wrong happened as far as his eyes could see. During strikes, he was even more vigilant. His heart was with the workers and their demands, but on duty, he never betrayed the factory owners.
He often imagined scenarios. What if the eleven o'clock car lost control and crashed into the gate? What if the driver and the owner were injured? Wouldn’t he have to rush over, help them out, fetch water, and assist in getting them to the hospital? Crowds would gather. People would ask him about the accident. After all, he was the watchman — the first on the scene.
But nothing like that ever happened. The workers never turned violent. The boiler never caught fire. No theft ever occurred on his watch. He was just a man living ordinary days, always anticipating chaos but witnessing none. A man appointed to prevent disasters but left staring into emptiness when none came.
He thought of his retirement. He would return to his village, perhaps start a small business, though he didn’t really need one. His pension and savings would be enough. His children were settled, and his wife, Gomti, had passed away seven years ago. He pictured himself sitting outside his house, watching his grandchildren play, chatting with other old men about the days gone by.
But what stories would he tell? There had never been any accidents, no emergencies, no thefts. The owner’s car had never crashed. The workers had never rioted. The factory boiler had never exploded. What did he have to tell?
Was he a meaningless man? What was his purpose here? What had he been paid for all these years? A man employed to prevent events that never occurred… a man who watched over an undisturbed calm… a man collecting flat reflections of a turbulent mind.
The gleaming car exited the gate, and he quickly stood at attention, saluting.
(The End)
