A Phone Call Poem by Ajit Das

If you're a lesser mortal, have you ever tried
to get through a bureaucrat
who somehow supposes taking calls,
picking up the phone himself, dwarfs his official status?

The scene at his residence:
The attendant responds, checks your credentials,
vanishes into a three-room labyrinth,
surfaces again, smelling Odolin or wafting incense,
and replies, "The phone can't reach him"
or sounding vague, " out of station, don't know
when he will return".

The scene at his office:
there he is insulated, the PA giving him cover,
a camouflage, to block the snipping course of a call:
"busy in a meeting"; "closeted for something urgent,
not to be disturbed"; or "away to meet another boss,
a minister, can't say when he'll be back".

The scene on the line:
you're told the boss is in and asked to hold on;
you wait patiently, seconds tick on; but
you're not connected; instead, you hear another voice,
"sorry, he's just left", perhaps doing a vanishing trick!
The PA may ask your number, assuring a return call.
But the call never comes.

The scene of the future:
don't be upset; the boss forgets on some pale, grey day
the closing time will at last stare in his face,
and he himself will be one like the caller
phoning up some peon or PA, reading out his CV,
making such calls, endless, frustrating
to another similar boss.