A day in a life

Darkness. Sheer, pure, unadulterated darkness. A silent hum, from
some unknown device, somewhere in the flat, did nothing to disturb the
glutinous tranquil. A small digital clock, testament to the greatness
of Man, blinked the earliness of the hour silently to itself, revealing
to any onlooker (and there were none) that it was 6.42 am. Perhaps a
portentous hour - not today - the digital clock lay unobserved, and the
moment passed, ceasing to exist, never having really done so to begin
with.

*

6.43 am.

I will have them all.

*

A demon shrieked in Michael Yamachandran's ear. A maelstrom of sheets,
hands, face, legs and body erupted from the poly-cotton womb that had
enclosed them, and somehow a single entity managed to teem, as it moved
from bed to bathroom. The shower spouted flame and ice in a cycle that
could not be better designed to awaken and sterilise its user, who
emerged, vibrating, awake, but somehow less prepared to face the day
and everything it held. A toothbrush tore around a mouth; a razor
sliced hair, narrowly avoiding breaking the delicate covering that kept
the inside from the outside; leaving aside its bloodlust for another
few hours. The chaos carried on.

*

The apartment was as still as ever it was at this time of the morning;
it was, Michael thought, one of his parents' better investments.
Secluded, yet central, the view over St John's Wood was as serene as
one could hope for this far in the core of London-town.

Michael listened to the silence.

The preparations for his day continued; Michael scraped butter over
bread, picked the contents of his lunchtime sandwich, easing a slice of
processed cheese between the slices of fresh (white) bread. Today was a
jam-and-cheese sandwich day; something that signified nothing other
than the fact that Michael had neglected to visit the local Europa to
avail himself of anything more substantial. But Michael liked jam and
cheese: simple, yet satisfying. Don't knock it, thought Michael, till
you've tried it.

*

The city groaned, heavy under the weight of the few moments that had
passed that day, already regretting that it hadn't called in
sick.

*

Michael checked the various zips on his person; his wallet,
mini-rucksack, trousers, all sealed, all safe, and ready for a foray
into the real world. Several weeks into his graduate trainee scheme at
a nameless City firm (with both a capital and small 'C'), Michael was
just getting into the routine of a real life, a real job, a real
salary, and having to wake up in the mornings. How he missed university
- never again would he complain about 5pm lectures if the day could
just start a little later than 8 in the morning.

Checking again that travelcard, keys, wallet, phone, travelcard? yes,
everything was there. He was ready to face the world; the city, the
City. The door opened, the door opened, the street exploded.

*

The Tube awaited.

Oceans of people; oceans with waves, ripples, and little biting fish,
packed so tight, brushing against each other so fast, so far, so many.
Big small fat short dark light brown black white and sometimes yellow
all have their meaninglessness in common; nothing means anything as far
as any of them are concerned, none of them mean anything; atoms in an
sea, seas in an infinite ocean. All struggling to make a difference, to
push their stones up their Sisiphyian hills, and to do it exact from 8
to 8 or 9 to 5 or whatever was fashionable or appropriate. None of them
could see how cyclical, banal, pointless their lives were; none of them
would see it. The ocean opened its maw and swallowed all
indiscriminately, and all at once.

There was no escape. They would all be lost.

*

Michael nudged, dodged, picked up a copy of Metro, and managed to make
his way down to his line. Southbound, change at Baker Street, then onto
the City. He hummed silently to himself, squeezed in between a large
African (or possibly West Indian) lady wearing a ridiculous hat, and a
small Chinese man, who wore no hat at all. He smiled at them both, used
to his different-ness making others who were different look at him
differently; but Michael was not yet used to the tube. On The Tube, it
didn't matter what colour you were, what accent you spoke with, what
school you went to, everyone was equally alien.

On The Tube, "no-one could hear you scream".

Michael raised the Metro over his eyes and read the accounts of the
various bits of City-wide gossip that the Editors of Metro felt should
reach the minds of the world's weirdest commuters?

*

A tube change, too many stops, a lot of bad smells and crowded
carriages later, Michael made it to his destination, so alike the
destination of thousands of others this morning.

Michael didn't really have any profound feeling about his job, it was
simply something that kept him doing fairly tedious things 9 hours a
day, for enough money for him to modestly enjoy himself the rest of the
time; but he was definitely relieved to break through the underarm
atmosphere of the underground and into the crisp, pleasantly sunny
wintry air.

His office building gleamed with 'newness'. It had probably been there
for more than a century, but somehow the Corporation managed to make
everything seem impossibly clean and better than anyone could ever
manage at home, on their own, even if aided by a fleet of Filipino
cleaning ladies. Michael didn't really think about it too much, but
simply binned his now well-used newspaper, and started his journey into
the bowels of the building. Or, in fact, the 8th floor, where he
worked.

Passing the reception, Michael paused to greet the receptionist, who
was looking new, and slightly afraid. As he'd been in a similar
situation three weeks before, Michael balled up a small amount of
courage and decided to say hello.

"Hi, I'm Michael, I work on the 8th floor. You're new here,
right?"
"Michael Yamachandran? Yes, I have you on my list?. Here, extension
7294. Nice to meet you." She was from India, and probably remarkably
recently; her accent reminding Michael of his other main point of
contact with Indian women, Bollywood. Michael decided to try some of
his hard-learned Linguaphone/Bollywood Hindi .
"You're from India? Aap khaise hai?" Michael felt a bit
sheepish.
"Actually, sir, I'm from South India, I don't really speak much Hindi.
And we have to speak in English in the building, otherwise they will be
very angry with me." Michael felt so sheepish, he looked around to make
sure there wasn't someone standing behind him with a pair of
shears.
"Oh. Okay, well, have a good day,"
"You too sir," she turned to answer a phone call, which she speedily
fielded in what must have been the right direction; she did it so
quickly and so confidently. Maybe she wasn't new, thought Michael, and
made for the lift.

*

A couple of decafs later (caffeine-intolerance - a curse for someone
that hated the mornings), Michael sat in the stillness of his office.
Being junior, he was one of the few people expected to turn up on time.
He tapped idly at his computer as it performed the digital version of
its ablutions, the blue 'Starting Windows' screen passively looking at
him as it whirred and clicked contentedly. Michael braced himself/hoped
for an onslaught of emails - there would be no more relaxed way of
starting the way than this. The 'you've got new mail' eventually
flashed up on screen, and Michael began ploughing through his
messages.

After moving all the personal ones out of sight of anyone who might
think him making improper use of the network, and looking around to
make sure that there was no one in the open plan office who would mind,
Michael dug the personal mails out and started reading.

When university ended, and friends scatter all across the country and,
often more precisely, all across the capital, into their various new
jobs and existences, the emails had started to flow like Coca-cola in a
fat man's house.

Friends from college, mostly, ('Cambridge, darling') telling Michael
what they were up to, or simply spouting insults or sending mindless
'fwds'. Michael looked up, looked down, clicked out a few emails,
organising a drink they were having that evening, and got on with the
day.

*

The City watched and waited, waited and watched. The hours 9-5 were
filled with their own variety of madness, a more passive kind, the kind
made up largely of people that the city would not own; tourist,
transients, 4 million invaders looking for a t-shirt and a different
shaped can of coke, and maybe a minor celebrity.

Celebrity was everywhere, and nowhere. The City did not care. Fame,
like colour, wealth, race, language; they held no sway, they were not
the currency of life. Such were the odds the City found itself looking
at; such was the challenge for its inhabitants.

To get through each day, with their lives in its hands.

*

"Hey, John, its Michael, calling from? Oh you got my message.
Fantastic. Look? yes. Hmm, no, we have a meeting about that tomorrow.
John, I need to know a date; talk to your design team and let me know.
Yes I'll need the whole spreadsheet. That would be fantastic. Yes,
excellent, great. Fantastic talking to you, look forward to getting
that. Yes, email is fine. Michael dot Yamachandran at the corporation
(one word) dot co dot uk. No, Y-a-m-a, yes, that's right. Ok, thanks.
Bye now!"

*

The weather was getting worse. Inevitable, really, this was England,
after all. The sky was completely dark by the end of lunch, and with
the post-lunch haze came thunder in the distance - unusual even by the
record-breakingly bad standards that the UK held.

Michael stood by the glass window, looking out into the distance - was
it raining out there, somewhere? Of course. Of course it was.

*

"Hey, Naidu, come to the show tonight. It'll be good. I promise. No,
I'm not putting 'on' an Indian accent, I am an Indian. Yes, look Naidu,
I'll call you back, I've got to take a call on the other line. Yes, I
am work - iiidiot. Ok bye," click, "hello, Michael Yamachandran
speaking. Jim, how are you. I'm fine, thank you - yes, well, you know,
busy. Yes, I did call, Jim, I'm just chasing up that document you were
doing for us. Yes - next Thursday. Will it have the? Yes, excellent,
thanks. Brilliant. Right - take care, thanks, bye." Click.

*

That evening; Michael and some 'Uni-mates' were off to a new
blockbuster Bollywood movie; all-singing, all-dancing, all ludicrous,
very funny, and usually simultaneously uplifting and emotionally
draining. Michael had arranged with a few of his 'coconut friends' -
who were brown on the outside and white on the inside - to see it, on
the grounds that they would be discovering their Indian-ness - and a
couple of his browner white friends were coming along as well - to
discover theirs. Michael didn't know what the opposite of a coconut was
in this context, but didn't give it too much thought.

The bar they were meeting at was fairly crowded, filled with lots of
people in suits, having just finished work. A table in the corner had
been procured by Naidu, currently jobless and having made it in early
as a consequence. Michael squeezed past the enormous obligatory black
bouncer, bought a bottle of wine, and made it over to the corner.
"Eh, Naidu, how?" slapping his friend hard on the back.
"Michael?! Good to see you, man,"
"Where are the girls?"
"Here they come now,"
Sara and Sarah walked in - friends from college - they had been friends
too. Sara's family were originally from Pakistan, though you'd never
guess that she only moved to England 8 years ago from? you'd never
guess.
"Hello darling," kiss, kiss.
"Hi dear, how are you," kiss, kiss. Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss.
Politely.

They chatted; about nothing in particular yet everything at all, and
particularly everyone they'd ever cumulatively known; time flickered
past, and the friends soon had to move on.
"I'll catch you guys up, just got to use the facilities,"
"Ok, where are we going again -"
"The one round the corner,"
"Ok,"

Michael relieved himself; washed up; and saw an aged man gesturing at
some mysterious potions lining the surface of the washroom counter.
Michael pointed, wordlessly at a blue bottle, and got wantonly spritzed
with something. Michael surreptitiously dropped a pound coin into a
ceramic dish, and walked out hastily. He preferred a more solitary
toilet experience.

*

The storm raged, venting its fury onto the London streets, the
threadbare trees offering little protection from the sky's anger.
Michael bunched his coat up around him, and ran through the rain. The
cold burned, his ears wobbled.

He pushed through the significantly less crowded streets in the
direction of the cinema, fighting the weather more than the few,
disgruntled silhouettes that leaned into the wind, their umbrellas
threatening at any moment to turn them into unwilling
paragliders.

The City glowed wetly.

*

Three and a bit hours of singing, dancing, laughter and crying later,
only some of which was exclusive to the silver screen, the friends
parted: the late hour, the wine, the silly movie, each other's company
having completed the evening for them.

Michael Yamachandran began his journey home, a different direction to
the others, a late night on the underground back home, to Swiss
Cottage. The weather was still bad, the cold stinging surreptitiously
at him, as if probing his clothing for a vulnerable point.

Michael found living alone was difficult; in a city as large as this,
in a place as overwhelming, majestic and impressive, away from his
family; it was? odd. Friends, work, filling every waking hour with
activity, with company, in the hectic and restless routine that was his
day-to-day life, there was little pause for self-reflection - little
pause to think about where he was with his life.

But Michael's unarticulated solution didn't always work. There was
still the walk home alone.

Michael thought that he could get a girlfriend - get married. Then he
would be going home with someone, home to something - even if it was as
simple as that, it didn't really fit Michael's picture of himself.
Michael never thought he needed a wife/girlfriend/partner - surely he
was enough of a person by himself, without help, without a need for
anyone else.

No, that wasn't true, thought Michael. But surely he didn't need people
all the time? Michael thought Michael thought too much.

*

The tube was empty; the fluorescent lighting appearing to flicker as
the train passed through the tunnels.

**

Michael Yamachandran got home, showered himself fresh and collapsed
into bed; it had been a good day, a busy day, and tired as he was,
tomorrow would come all too soon. He resisted the temptation to fix
himself a snack (no, too fat already!), or watch late night Channel 5
television.

*

What was one man, one person, in the mix? There were a million others
like him, and a million others like them. Each the same, but different.
Each another member of the cast of a universal diorama; moving
slightly, ever so slightly; scattered more numerously than the visible
stars.

The communities that huddled together like separatist factions fought
no war, shared little knowledge, but they existed; a form of support, a
place from which to grow. Something to belong to if you needed to, or
to discard if you wanted to. The neutral ground, where anybody was
nobody and everybody was anybody, belonged to the City.

The City was nothing without its inhabitants; but its inhabitants
define it in terms of self-loathing, or not at all. The rage,
repression, tension of 12 million people lined the damp grey walls in a
palpable coat.

But Michael Yamachandran slept. Not a perfect man, by any means; lost
in a city that was lost in him. One day, perhaps, Michael would find
himself; as would his friends, as would his family. One day, the
nagging questions would stop. He was sure of it.

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