LINGARAJU

He was almost invisible.

People would bump into him as they made their way upstairs and wouldn’t bother apologizing. He wouldn’t look up at them either.

I didn’t notice him for a very long time. But haven’t forgotten him, after I did.

Every Thursday and Friday, he would sit on his haunches, his head down in deep concentration and diligently clean the marble skirting, inch by inch, with a small brush and cloth.

This was no small task, considering the office was a big four-storey building, but he would be completely focused on it, never pausing to look up at us noisy interns or glum managers who walked by.

Nobody ever noticed him or appreciated his work. And he never interacted with anyone like the other staff did. Didn’t fetch anyone any coffee or ask for advice or help.

Our attempts at conversation were always met with an awkward smile.

And still he never let the intensity drop. He cleaned and polished, and cleaned and polished until it was time to go home.

Sometimes on a difficult work day, when my motivation is flagging and I’m wishing I’d chosen an easier or more “fun” career path, I think of Lingaraju.