Sunday, June 15, 2008

Howard Roark and Me

“Then there was only the ocean and the sky and the figure of Howard Roark.
THE END”

I read these last few words aloud to myself, and tossed the book aside. I switched off my bedside lamp, pulled my blanket up to my chin and lost myself in thoughts of the man with whom I had just fallen in love. Howard Roark. The ideal human being. Man, as he ought to be.

The loud ringing of the telephone woke me up. I yanked the receiver,
“Hello?” I said
“Ms. Kumar, do you intend to attend the meeting?”
It was the dreaded voice of my boss, Mr. Singh.
“Yessir. Am on my way.” I replied, tripping over my stilettos as I tried to stand.
I put down the receiver and rushed to the bathroom. I was supposed to give a presentation on the design of a new cell phone. I had worked hard in preparing the perfect design which would please our client, the “TALK” cell phone company. Moreover, I was due for a promotion and was confident that a good show in front of the “TALK” people would speed it up. Now, I had messed it all up. I had returned from a party the night before at midnight and then I had cuddled up in my bed with that book thinking that I would fall asleep while reading it.

I am no bookworm. In fact, I read books only when I am unable to sleep. By the time I read a couple of pages, I can hardly keep my eyes open. However, that night, things were different. I was simply unable to put the book down. I completed the 694 pages long philosophical treat without a single yawn, dreading to glance at my watch.

I raced down the staircase and charged towards my sparkling red Hyundai i10. As I clambered inside, clutching a huge bundle of files, I turned the rearview mirror towards myself and went numb with shock at what I saw. Ripe, orange hair, high cheekbones over gaunt; hollow cheeks; cold, steady eyes and a contemptuous mouth. The face I saw was like a law of nature. Unquestionable, self assured in almost an inhuman manner. I blinked, the reflection blinked in response. I lifted my hand to my face and patted my soft cheeks. The reflection patted its hollow ones. Could it be…? I tried hard to push away the bizarre possibility from my mind. However, I was forced to face the truth in the form of the hard lined face my rearview mirror reflected instead of my own feminine countenance. I felt as if I had swallowed a ball of lead which was slowly moving down my throat, gradually sinking in the pit of my stomach. I felt a violent jerk, a flash of brilliant white light and sudden warmth enveloped me.

I shook my head vigorously. Glancing at my watch, I drove out of the garage at full speed. I needed to reach the office quickly, yet the impending insults Mr. Singh was likely to throw at me were hardly the reason for my crazy speed. I stared at the speedometer and wondered why I had never hit 150 km/h before. I sped through the lanes faster than I had ever dared and was soon joined by the heavy traffic of the main road. The traffic didn’t deter me from keeping up my crazy pace. What was the point of having the ability to drive fast and to curb it each day in order to give in to lesser able drivers, slower cars and traffic rules? Why celebrate mediocrity in the form of controlled speeds when cars have the capacity to do so much more? I reached my office in a record time of seventeen minutes instead of the usual forty five.

I stepped out of my car, feeling confident in a way I had never felt before. I took long strides as I entered the office building. The receptionist greeted me with a smile. “The clients have arrived.” She said.
I wasn’t nervous at all. Usually, I would repeat the opening lines of any speech/presentation at least ten times to myself before facing the audience. But that day was different. I was different. I was Howard Roark.

I entered the conference hall, stacked my files on the table, switched on the projector and gave a curt nod to a glowering Mr. Singh, who sat to my right.
“Well, Ms. Kumar, please begin without any further delay.” He said in his gruff voice.

I started with describing the basic design of the model. I didn’t refer to the notes I had so laboriously prepared. I didn’t talk about the design I had discussed with Mr. Singh the day before. He glared at me while I expounded an entirely different model. I pointed to the screen behind me which showed the slides I had prepared and declared,
“This is the perfect example of the hypocrisy which must be done away with. This design is a farce. It fails to recognize the correct usage of space and shapes, curbing rather than enhancing utility. The silver edges are an absolute waste of metal. The unnecessary silver paint and the dainty curves make the phone look more like a piece of cutlery rather than a communication device.”
The clients, Mr. Singh and the man serving tea were all staring at me in disbelief. I walked up to the white board, picked up a marker and drew a new model. I cut across the surface with crisp, straight lines. I didn’t succumb to any unnecessary “beautifying” curves and dents. I crafted the design with bold, confident strokes, focusing solely on the purpose of the object I was creating. When I was through with my frantic sketching, I turned around and said, “This is what a cell phone should ideally look like.”
I sat down. From the way Mr. Singh looked at me, I realized that I had been staring at the clients in a way which wasn’t exactly defiant or scornful, but had an unnatural assured quality. I had explained my new design with a certain sense of finality, leaving no room for contradictions or questioning.

I drove home in a trance like silence, the speedometer hitting 150 km/h once more. I entered my house and walked straight to the dressing mirror. I was staring at the figure of a tall gaunt looking man with laming orange hair. I looked down at my body. My hands, my feet, my polka dotted shirt and knee length skirt. I was undoubtedly a woman. Why did the mirror show something so different? Before I had a chance to ponder further, I heard a loud noise, like a clap of thunder, and felt myself go cold. I shivered as goosebumps covered my arms. I stared at the mirror in disbelief as the tall man started shrinking; his hair grew longer and darker. His cheeks filled out and the hard lines of his face softened. His shirt shortened while his trousers metamorphosed into my gray, knee length skirt. Finally, I was looking at my own reflection.

It was all coming back to me. I could hear the enthusiastic applause which had followed the presentation. The marketing heads of “TALK” had loved my design. Mr. Singh had jumped out of his eat and had shook my hand vigorously, exclaiming, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”
He had assured me that I would be promoted next week. Later, he had walked unannounced into my cabin. He looked at me suspiciously.
“What got into you?” He asked.
“Sense.” I replied calmly.
“Hmm… Brilliant. They loved how you explained what wouldn’t work before getting to your actual design. Only a genius could’ve done that impressively.”
“Hmm… er… thanks.”
“What caused the sudden transition?” he asked, his eyes looking searchingly at mine.
“The Fountainhead.”
“Huh? Oh! I should’ve guessed that.” His face relaxed and broke into a smile.
“What? Why?” I asked, confused.
“That book is the very reason why I am your boss today.” He stated passively.
“Huh?”
“Er… you aren’t the only one who has discovered how to snatch quick promotions.” His smile was wicked and friendly at the same time.

I picked up the book lying on my bed, kissed its cover and put it in the drawer. I would read it again on Wednesday night. After all, I was due for another presentation on Thursday.

1 comment:

Ahimaz said...

I read this first, went to that WP post that has Marx affixed. It seemed you've boxed with Rand like Mickey Rourke. I haven't read her but I know she's early YA material.

By the way the tale, for all its delusions of grandeur, has in your narrative prowess lots of spark and promise.