Patience

The irritating mornings that comes daily
at eight o’clock straight into the face.
The transparent bucket and mug in the bathroom.
The bathroom itself scrubbed long back.
The same frameless spectacles.
The umbrella cloth that goes on fading.
The sandals that will never see many places.
The door that gets locked behind.
The road laden with dead tar.
The lifeless buses that move over it.
Men who look at blankly.
Men who do not look at all.
The prosaic office building.
The lift that never malfunctions.
The empty sofa in the lobby.
The newspaper on the table.
News about the stocks.
The people who had never heard of even Dostoevsky.
The computers made of plastic.
Many other things made of plastic.
The grey telephone that rarely rings.
The email inbox with no new mails.
People who are online.
People who are offline.
The obvious mistrust
in the Manager’s nods while walking past.
Unknown fears that lurks in the dark.
Salary’s abortive attempts to quell those fears.
Queues in front of ATM counters.
The failed attempt to like a movie.
That detestable sentimentality called music.
The electricity bill.
Its poor quality paper.
The house owner’s face.
The room rent.
Vodka.
More of it.
The same sleeping pills.
Uncomfortable sleep interrupted by morning’s eight o’clocks.