Your room and my room are next to each other in the office. Still, neither can this room go to your side nor can your room come this side. Both have their own borders. There is a wall in between. The wall is thin, though. If your hand hits the wall — even accidentally — I can hear it in my room. One day, someone was probably hitting a nail on your side of the shared wall; all the walls of my room quivered. I went outside, to see, but there was a thick curtain on your door. It’s common these days to have thick curtains on your doors, so that no one outside is able to see inside. There is a curtain on my door too, I recall.
Sometimes, for some reason, you shout at your clerk. I put my pen down. I want to come and ask you, “what happened?” But then I think you might not like it — that I was eavesdropping on your conversation with your clerk. You don’t realise that even if you take a deep breath, it can be heard in my room.
One day, while working, I dropped my pen. The nib got crooked. I thought I would call for a pen from your office. But I got scared that you might send a reply that you don’t have an extra pen – I couldn’t muster the courage. It happens often, we ourselves ask the question and we ourselves answer.
Every so often, I imagine that the wall between the two rooms gets razed. But then your room wouldn’t exist, my room would also not exist. It’ll be, as if, it is just one big room. But, maybe doing this wouldn’t be right? There must be a reason that two rooms were made.
Every so often, I feel that I can see through this cemented wall. That’s how I got to know that you were not working today. You stare at the roof, then you stare at your palms. You open your files, you close them. You take off your shoes, you put them on.
Every so often, you are in a really good mood. You swirl the paper weight on your table and slowly whistle. You put your hand on this wall and take your feet off the floor while sitting on the chair. I get quiescent, making sure not to alarm you.
Every so often, you meet me in the corridor. “How are you?”, you ask. “I’m good”, I smile and reply. Then you go into your room, I go to my room. That room cannot come to this side, this room is not able to go to that side. Both have their borders. There is a wall in between.
One day, the fan in my room stopped suddenly. Maybe we lost the electricity connection. I waited for a few minutes. Then, fearing the heat, I came out to the corridor — which both the rooms share. I knew that the fan in your room would have gone off too. Still, I peeped in your room and asked, “Is your fan working?”. I meant, “come to the corridor if it's not working”. When it gets humid inside, there’s nothing bad about being outside for a few moments. “The fan’s not working but I have opened the rear window”, you replied. I didn’t think about the rear window, probably that’s why I came to the corridor.
Even though there is a wall in between, I feel eerie when you are not in the office, not in your room. On those days I look at the clock repeatedly. I drink water multiple times. I keep on calling people. I finish all the accumulated tasks. “Is he not in today?” I ask your clerk when I walk out of my room. He tells me that you have gone out, you have relatives over, you got sick, the number of days that you are on leave.
On those days, I think about arbitrary things. Who would’ve sat in this room a hundred years ago? Who would be in this room a hundred years from now? Who would be in your room? Why do people die? Then I think, why do they get born? Then I panic from these thoughts and go to meet other people in the office.
“You didn’t come all these days?” I ask you knowingly.
“I was sick”, you reply.
“Are you alright now?”
“Yeah, I’m good now, thanks!” and you go to your room and I go to my room. You start doing your work, I start doing my work.
One time I was on leave for a long while.
“Is madam not in these days?” You ask my clerk.
“She is sick”, he replies.
“Ah! Alright”, you reply and go back to your room.
The clerk tells me this when he comes home to give me the mail. Next day, I feel better and return to the office.
You probably don’t realise but you shout at your clerk twice or thrice that day. You tear paper a number of times as if you have written something wrong. You ask the visitors to come on some other day.
You come out of your room for some reason. I come out of my room for some reason.
“You didn’t come all these days?” You ask me knowingly.
“I was sick”
“Are you alright now?”
“Yeah, I’m good now, thanks!”, I reply and go to my room, you go back to your room. That room cannot come to this side, this room is not able to go to that side. Both have their borders. There is a wall in between. One room is yours. One room is mine. I ponder that shouldn’t we rather be grateful that the two rooms are next to each other —there’s nothing but just a wall in between.