Of Hanging Placards

There are so many people around talking. All buzzing. My ear catches none specific as their words are so much muffled, or may be I don’t want to zoom in to them. Here and there I hear the digital taps on the keyboards. While I write this, my keys talk to me the most.  Conditioned air passes through my hair, my finger gaps and past each of my breath, leaving me colder at my workplace.

It is a big work area filled with humans who buried their emotions in air before they entered the door. Only droid-heads are visible from where I’m sitting. Some plunging deep into their screen with their pupils expanding, some explaining a business scenario on their desk phone and some sitting easy and chatting with the equally free humans around.

The buzz is accompanied by some short beeps now and then. Everything looks digitized and in place. I look at the wide white ceiling with patterns of AC vents. There is a CCTV camera etched in the middle with a glass dome surrounding it. A little away from the center, just above the isle there is a placard hanging from the ceiling, pegged through two strings to the surface. It says FIRE EXIT with image of a man running towards the arrow pointing the door. There are tiny equi-spaced light bulbs with motion sensors that turn them off when no one’s around or may be when someone falls asleep in the middle of an on-call meeting. I check out every nook of the space around. Sitting on my seat I visit every other seat but mine.

What if the hanging placards had emotions? What if the desks, the screens, the chairs, the desk phones – all spoke to each other about these human activities? Don’t they get bored of the same chores each day? 

They are not humans. They are not supposed to be in discipline. They can think beyond what they have been taught to think. But they have limitations. Humans don’t. Still humans limit themselves. They behave like the hanging placards that have been tied at ends. Like they can flutter but can’t fly. 

Such is the misery of humans trapped in the cold workplaces. Hinged to order. Perhaps that’s what pays them. But the placards are watching. Probably they just sent a telepathic wave around. A fire alarm broke shrieking through the cold, meh waves. The doors have been quickly opened and fixed so that they don’t retract back by the hydraulic lock. Whistles of guards fill the air. Everyone stands and rushes out. The workspace is suddenly filled with life. I’m supposed to plunge into the swarm of humans that just turned interesting and move towards the open door. 

But this alarm is only for a mock drill I guess, there's no real fire. But who cares. The placards got what they wanted – a little warmth back in the cold air.