A Room shaped hole in the universe: II

It's a small room. A table, two chairs, a metal cot, and a cupboard built into the wall. Feeble light from an old bulb reduces everything to shades of sepia, including the floral patterns of the old bedspread that covers the cot.

There are other items as well: A small folding chair made of iron, painted vulgar pink, that has warmed the arses of several men and freely moved between their rooms. A Nilkamal plastic chair with washed clothes dumped on it. A violin that longs to be brought out of its blue coffin-case more often.

Kept between the cot and the table, but mostly pushed away beneath the cot, is a dust-bin. (In its final months, a brochure of a networks company will become the bin's lid. On it is a picture of a man in shorts sitting on a beach and working on his laptop, oblivious to the pink sunset behind him. He's pleased to be connected. Welcome to the human network.)

A cooler stands pushed to the wall. It has become a makeshift table: scattered on it are pungent herbal oils, a comb, a pan, packets of detergent, a newspaper. The table itself, however, is spartan and clean -- the only items on it are a monitor, a TVS keyboard, and a coffee-mug that serves as a pen-stand. (In the pen-stand is the pride of the mug, the love of it's owner -- a shiny, steel-bodied fountain pen which will soon lose its cap. Disfigured and distressed, the pen will slink away quietly, never to be found again.)

But now let us behold the gray haired master of this mini-universe, as he sits at his desk and types on his keyboard that makes as much racket as a type-writer; clickety click, clickety click. What is he writing? who is writing to? We shall never know.

Then someone in the corridor -- a skinny young man with hair mopped over his forehead -- runs and skids to a halt in front of the half open window and asks: "Movie?" The typewriter pauses, the window grants permission. The boy crosses two rooms and knocks on a tightly closed door with smelly running shoes outside it. The door opens only a crack wide and its inhabitant takes off headphones as large as his face and asks:

Badri: What?
Billoo: Movie?
Badri: (A shrug) Ok. But which?
Billoo: Donno
Badri: Ask Sicca
Billoo: Ok

Another short skid, and:

Billoo: Oye! Movie?
Sicca: Okaaayyy D000d... Wait, which?

Passing in the corridor 10 minutes later , I stop in front of the window, part the curtain and grin. Annoyed faces look up through the window at me, posing the question:

smiley: What?
me: What are you watching?
smiley: Straight porn. Not for you.
me: Tell no
sicca: Why? you'll go home now. Munna! Go home. Isn't it late enough already?
me: Tell no, please
smiley: It's a movie, Dr.Strangelove. Are you coming in or not?
me: depends..how much have you finished?
smiley: About 10 minutes. Doesn't matter, we can start again.
me: ummm how long will it take to finish?
(multiple groans in the background) sicca: Abey yaaaar!
billoo: Jimmy acche ghar ke bacche aise nayi karte

I fret a little.

billoo: Watch no, what's the big deal? stay here tonight. Stop being such a Munna.

I fret a little more. and then:

me: Ok

The door opens, I am in.