I solemnly swear that all instances quoted in the piece below are absolutely true. No, really. It’s all true.
N was down with a terrible stomach ache, and I had just returned from the medical store. I stood in the lower basement, my thoughts on my girl, hoping she was doing okay in my absence and wishing the elevator would hurry up.
When it didn’t arrive for a while, I realised that one elevator was stuck on the sixth floor while the other was on the eleventh. I pressed the button again. Not that it was required or made any difference, but one does these things in moments of desperation.
Finally, the one on the sixth floor began to move. I relaxed. It reached the ground floor and stopped.
Really? Today, of all days?
I willed it to come down.
It didn’t.
After a long, lazy pause, the one on the eleventh floor began to creak its way down. It reached the ground floor and then… yeah, it stopped too.
I was almost stamping my feet in frustration and contemplating the stairs when it moved again and finally reached me.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just one instance of the elevator behaving weirdly with me.
It hates me!
There, I said it!
I know this sounds like the ramblings of a batty old woman, but it’s true. I know because this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.
The first seeds of suspicion were sown way back during my working days in Mumbai. I was on an official visit to the Stock Exchange when, one day, the elevator decided to come to a standstill midway.
On a twentieth-something floor, no less.
It stood there, a smirk on its face (or so it seemed to me), enjoying my mounting panic. Mercifully, a colleague was with me, and together we sounded the alarm. After much hoo-ha, the doors were prised open, and we found ourselves stuck between two floors. Too high to climb up, too low to jump down.
It all looks so easy in the movies. In real life, however, you either need to be the really sporty kind or have a Spider-Man boyfriend to bail you out. Since I was neither, a tall stool was procured, and we were able to step down to freedom.
Then there was the more recent incident.
I had just stepped into the elevator when I spotted a lady rushing towards it. Before she could even motion to me to hold the doors, I was already reaching for the ‘keep door open’ button. I threw her a reassuring smile to let her know I was holding it for her.
Except the elevator had other plans.
Slowly, inexorably, the doors began to shut. No matter how hard I jabbed at the button, they continued closing. I even tried wedging my foot in, but the otherwise all-too-sensitive sensors pretended not to sense it at all.
Knowing my history with elevators, I had a feeling this one would squash my foot with wicked glee. I pulled back, just in time.
And then, right before my horrified eyes (and the lady’s very, very annoyed ones), the doors shut with a gentle, malicious click.
I could only imagine what it must have looked like to her. I had smiled reassuringly, pretended to hold the doors open and then shut the elevator in her face.
What kind of a mean person does that?
She now refuses to acknowledge me when we bump into each other, and my hopes of making friends in this new place have died a silent death.
But that’s not all.
Every time I’m in a hurry, I’m sure to find both elevators parked on the floors furthest from me. And when I try to summon them, I can almost hear them arguing.
‘You go.’
‘No, you go.’
‘I went last time.’
‘So what? You are just a floor away.’
‘I don’t care. It’s your turn.’
And so on.
Quite like H and N when I call them to do a chore.
If I hesitate for even a moment, or stop to pick up my bag, or pause to smile at someone, the elevator tries to squish me. Once, it actually carried away my stole. Carried it right into its evil jaws while I barely managed to save myself.
I tell you, it’s personal.
I have now taken to dashing in and diving out without giving it a chance to mess with me. Of course, this means I sometimes knock over unsuspecting people. And no matter how profusely I apologise or how earnestly I try to explain this strange vendetta, I end up looking stupid.
All the while, I can practically hear the elevator laughing its mean little laugh. And if I so much as turn to give it a nasty look in return, I only succeed in further damaging my credibility.
What? Did I hear you say that an elevator is an inanimate object and cannot have feelings?
Hah!
You, dear sir, have no idea.
I’m not crazy, okay?