Out of A Story…

The road winded upwards leading to a colonial styled building, I got out of the car and walked through glass doors, an embellishment that reminded the visitor that he was not in the 1800s. Small banter is made with a fellow school mate in the lobby. Waiting. I do this a lot now a days. Waiting. I was a full 40 minutes early. Early but perhaps not early enough. After all the chap I was talking to was an hour early. A woman hurries down the stairs and immediately, without a smile or any form of acknowledgment demands “Has anybody attended to you yet?”. Suppressing an urge to bang my feet together and shout a “No, Ma’am”. I settled for a casual, “no”. Soon, the papers were being processed and I was walking behind her amidst a rows of closed doors. A door is knocked. It opens. I enter. The time is 1025 , 20 minutes early. It took me a little off guard, perhaps a mental unpreparedness. Not that there was anything to prepare for, but it gets you, being thrown into a perceived hostile environment a little before you expect it. But we cope, we all cope. The interviewers, were right out of a story book. The rather plump women, with her hair tied in a pony tail pushed to one side, as she rested her head on her hand, leaning over precariously. It seemed she was just about to fall over and spill the mug of coffee in front of her. She was probably the girl, who set at the front row in class, knew every answer but chose only to share those that were appealing to her discriminate sense of what is important. She was that girl who read ahead of her age group. The one who argued with the other girls about issues such as gubernatorial elections, and received “whatever in return”. A sly sense of wit, misplaced because most could not comprehend her brilliance. Contrasted to her, the man was a short and slight man. His hair thinning, he spotted a pencil thin mustache. A typical Chinaman. He laid too far back in his chair. He too seemed precariously close to falling. Only he seemed like he was going to slip on to the floor. Perhaps poor sitting posture is a requirement for teaching Law. He smiles, almost like a comic, waiting to burst into his first joke. His first joke came. He lighted up and built up upon his coworkers “you’re reading all the wrong books, this economist…rubbish”. He added to that with a bit of a sing and dance “yeah, you should read the Yijiang times or something, all this capitalist propaganda!”. Entrenching himself further in the stereotype of being the Chinaman, communist. I was there, having a conversation with character’s out of a book. Real people yet it felt surreal. Characters in books appear so brilliant, so well thought out, their conversations. Here, in real life, I experienced two characters, only their well thought out conversations, weren’t actually planned. A casual conversation turned into a conversation on Chinese Foreign Policy, and whether I’d choose to be a High Court Judge, Hot-shot Lawyer or Law Minister. I chose Law Minister. I thanked them, they smiled and said “no, thank you!” in almost scripted politeness, and I opened the door, I left. I glanced at my phone, it read 10:40 am . My interview was scheduled for 10.45 am . Books liberate. That morning I forgot the mundane inutile workings of the institution I labour in, liberated by characters out of a book.