Safety and security

We have a very active security team at work, headed by a retired major. Our defenses are tighter than that of our country. You think thats an exaggeration, don't you? Allow me to prove that it is not. An army of security guards patrol the basement and the reception. There is an access controlled room in which a smaller army (an armylet?) stares fixedly at a bank of screens to catch any suspicious activities in the corridors. This team of diligent soldiers also monitors potential dangerous situations outside our office. When a bandh is called in West Bengal, an email alert is sent to all employees within minutes. If an army of militant Bengalis should show up in Bangalore in a bad mood, they're going to be in for a surprise, I promise you that. There is one security personnel for every 20 company employees. The Indian army doesn't stand a chance. We even have a hotline number that we can call to report security violations. So there. The other day we received an email from the sterling leader of this team informing us that a pair of cigarette butts had been found near a door next to one of the balconies. The email had attached a picture of the offending stubs and a lecture on how closely we had escaped being charred to death. I felt so cared for. Working here is akin to being cocooned in your mother's womb. Every vehicle has a company sticker 'to be prominently displayed' on it. God forbid if you should try to enter the parking lot without one. Of course, these stickers must have all the protection built into the Indian currency to prevent a terrorist with a bomb from just printing one out at his local printing press. Goes without saying.
Then one day, a scooter went missing from our parking lot. A scooter belonging to an employee. One minute it was there, the next it was not. No email was sent out about this shocking incident of course. One would not want to turn us into a panicked, frightenend mob. The word spread nevertheless. Insidious rumours did the rounds. It was like finding out that Santa Claus is your father all over again. We clustered together like spooked sheep. What was left to believe in in this world, if one could not believe in the shiny moustaches of our major and his efficient team. It was a dark day. And then we figured it out. This had nothing to do with our pet army. That scooter was clearly related to Houdini and had given us all the slip. Applause all around. I hear the clomping boots in the corridor and heave a sigh of relief. And look, there's a mail coming in about the mosquito menace in Bangalore and bird flu in Bangladesh.

My morning coffee

Coffee has been around a long time. Centuries. No, scratch that. Multiples of centuries. It cannot be construed hyperbole to say that millions of people all over the world drink millions of cups of coffee every day. So you can't blame me for feeling a trifle put out that the coffee machine in my office does not understand what coffee is. I am convinced that this machine has existential angst in the extreme. You walk up to it and its gleaming panel of buttons. You look at the large container of beans sitting atop it. It looks confident. It exudes the air of someone who knows what they're about. You choose your coffee. The beast comes to life and makes a series of noises that would earn it a place of pride in the porn industry. Finally, with a deep sigh a stream of liquid emerges and you dutifully collect every last drop, fully intending to swallow, not spit. The task proves impossible. The only way you would swallow this stuff is if every last taste bud in your mouth had gone on vacation to the Maldives. How difficult can it be? Coffee has been around for eons. Coffee machines are hardly bleeding edge technology. Then why, why, why can I not start my day with a decent cup of caffeine? I return to my desk with my mug of steaming not-coffee. I intend to ignore it pointedly. The long day stares me in the face. There are problems to be solved and people to be nice to. Stronger men than me would break. What do I do?
Just sigh and thank the good lord that my taste buds can't form a union.

Fire drills

We had a fire drill in office today. This is something that my office is fond of doing. It's a hobby, collecting people for a fire drill. We have one. And a few months later, just in case we got hit on the head and have lost all memories of the past few months, we have another. This is complicated stuff. You have to remember that when you hear this shrill sound, you must leave your seat, walk down the stairs and stand in a line next to the building. Practically rocket science. Alright, I'm simplifying. There is also this annoying man in a suit with a loud voice and a bullying manner who shows up and attempts to teach us how to build stretchers with a coat and two handy sticks. Of course, we are a bunch of nerds who come to work in shorts and T-shirts, but we do have a hidden stash of formal coats and long bamboo sticks kept handy. A small fire is lit and a hapless volunteer gets to murder it with an extinguisher. We all then break into manic cheers because when there is a huge conflagration all this training is going to ensure that we don't do our favourite impersonation of headless chickens. We will all turn hero and build stretchers for each other. I worry that fist fights might break out about who carries who. Or whom. Since violence in all forms is abhorrent to me, I oozed off to a Barista during today's drill and practiced amnesia over a long, cool glass of iced coffee. If any fire had approached me, I would have heroically, though regretfully, put my coffee to good use.