The gongs were sounding. Her head was responding to their rhythmic loudness. The walls were moving in, squeezing out the darkness enclosed. Her eyelids part in the most unhurried motion possible. The gongs mellowed.. TTRRING. The door! TRRRINGG!! Somebody get the door! GET THE DOOR, dammit! Her head moves around, surveying the site. She was talking to herself again. There was no one there in the room.
She walks her zombified self across the hall to meet the wicked bell ringer behind the door, gonging away to glory. He was a huge dark guy with HUGER moustache and a red blood eyes. When he grins, which he never does.. his pearly white teeth make an appearance, forming a contrast against the skin worthy of a place in a wannabe kitsch fashionista’s line. His round hairy belly wiggles every time he chuckles, which again.. he never does. She finally makes her way across the hall which seemed to have stretched across eternity. She opens the door only to find a middle aged woman baring HER teeth to her. It was the maid. She says something in the regional dialect, but was incomprehensible. Everything seemed so.
As she walks back to her room, her eyes falls on a little shiny thing hung on the wall. Something beckons her towards it. As she moves closer, a witchy little figure appears on it. A female form with strange big hair, small eyes and a huge crimson mouth.. SCREAAAAAAAAAM! The maid comes rushing in, inquiring and leaves immediately snickering. She’s evil! That must be her evil witch sister there in the picture. She moves in again braving the sinking feeling inside.. it seems a more familiar picture this time around. Carefully observing the face, she remembers.. that’s.. her. It was a mirror. Cursing her imbecility and bad take-off-your-lipstick-before-sleeping manners.. she calls for a cup of coffee.
The maid walks in sometime with a cup of coffee and a rather disgusted look* on her face. In her broken Hindi, she inquires why she was home at this hour. OFFICE!! She slept through the morning.. it was Monday, and she was “late” to office. Again.
Her head was on the verge of exploding. It could, but it wont.. coz that would be a good thing… and good things don’t happen on a Monday morning. A Monday morning that comes after a Sunday night. After a (drink-all-you-can-coz-tomorrow-is-a-Monday-again) Sunday night. It’s a vicious circle.
She rushes in and out of the bathroom faster than a speeding bullet. Wet hair and all, she grabs her bag and mobile, scurrying out of the door..
Two minutes later, she slowly makes her way back through the same door and bundles in the sofa.. she need not go to that office anymore.. she quit two days back.