So you are a corporate slave. Chained to the eternal grind of nine-to-five, once lured in by the charms of the executive loo, now poisoned by perks, hopelessly trapped in expense accounts, a willing vassal to the God of the Office, you are exhausted after a long hard day of wishing your boss would turn into an eunuch permanently assigned as Pamela Anderson's bikini designer.

And this friend walks in. He looks strange. His skin, once as fashionably tinged with the same too-many-eons-in-front-of-a-monitor grey as yours now has an odd glow. As if he's been spending too much time listening to daisies (or is it buttercups?) bloom.

The walk, once a familiar rat-in-a-hurry scuttle-'n-scurry, is now a lazy, loping stride. He looks younger, fitter, happier; a man with a new lease of life.

And then, suddenly, it hits you. It's happened! The fellow has Crossed Over! He is now on the Other Side! He's become One of Them! His Own Master.

A carefree bird, laughing at your slack-jawed shock and chuckling, "Yup. It's true. I gave it all up. I'm a freelancer now."

Yes, he now dwells where tables are round because everyone is a boss -- his own. Where office and home merge into a seamless, stress-free, set-your-own-pace, patchouli-scented, alfalfa-powered bliss. Where life is a train that always stops when you want it to, and you get off and as you stroll, you look down at your feet and marvel at how the grass is so green, on your side of the railway line.

You're jolted back to earth by the sound of your friend holding forth on the joys of learning to change the diapers of your inner child. And as the noxious green bile of too many office coffees and envy rises up, you think how you've never hated anyone more or wanted anything more desperately than to be what he has become...

And then one day, one fine, snap-'n-crackle-Kellogg day, it happens to you. Just like that, without any warning. This must be like dying, you think. One minute you're a six-figure, hot-stomach-shot-to-pieces, high-blood-pressure-powered Executive Vice-whatnot. The next minute, you're marmalading your toast at 10 o'clock a Monday morning as sunlight dapples your pajama-ed thigh.

The day stretches in front of you like a beautiful unexplored, leafy glade. As you wonder whether you should turn left to watch some beans sprout or right to... suddenly, you catch sight of your bare toes. Nestling softly in...oh lord, can it be?...is it?...yes it is! Something tickly-soft and dewy-lush and glorious-green...oh, glory be...it's grass...as green...no, greener than you ever seen it on that or any other side of that fence!

And soon, you are the envy of friends. "I wish I had your guts, yaar," they whisper conspiratorially. The pale patch on your wrist where once your frenetic watch used to strap you to day-before-yesterday deadlines now fades away. Strangers cite you as the intrepid Livingstone who had the courage to throw it all up. You accept the applause with a secret smugness as you give away your power suits and your Gelusil in a grand gesture of renunciation.

The months gently amble by. The contentment grows over you like a warm golden patina and everyone tells you how much nicer you've become and look. You preen and wallow in your newfound you-ness.

And you discover Time -- to shop for fresh coriander and have oil massages and make brinjal pickle and feng shui and linger in art galleries and clean out your cupboards and air your creative spirit and take Hawaiian guitar lessons and gossip with your mum and worry about that hole in the ozone layer...

Then slowly, you feel the niggling. Tiny but bothersome. A voice saying it wants to go back. Back to the prison, to the other side of the Other Side. To the designation you can look to know who you are, the visiting card to know what to say to that snooty-voice at the reception: "And you are from...?"

The inner child you discovered has become the inner nag. That voice again. "Oh, so goofing off again, eh?" it sneers. "Do you know how much so-and-so made last year while you were smelling the rain?"

That's the funny thing about heaven. And grass. You realise it isn't that divine once you get there. Or that green.

So you are your own master. Big deal! The only thing that means is that when you crack the whip, it smacks your own behind, and, ouch, does it hurt!

And this business about the joy of being self-driven? Well, let me tell you it's much more fun having a driver. That way you get to look at the scenery, somebody else's license gets confiscated and you don't have to worry about parking!

Funny thing is, while they were flashing all that greenness at you, no one mentioned how cold it can get out there on those lawns. Without gratuity and pension and provident fund and whatnot to keep you warm and tanked up for that rainy day. And how scary and lonely without those salary cheques that you realise are like your parents. Always there to take for granted and always there no matter how bad a boy you've been.

But most of all, they forgot to mention that you need to be a pretty decent runner -- to run after people who've promised you money (yours, that they owe you!), assignments/contacts/anything. And how exhausting it can be to do all of this while wearing patient, polite smile, when all you want to do is kick the person's teeth in.

Brooding about the leanness of your bank balance and the not-ness of your body (did I mention what working within an arm's length of the fridge can do to your backside?), you get up for a walk. As you kick a pebble, you look down and suddenly see it:

Scruffy, brown and withered. Funny, you think, it looks just like scruffy, brown and withered...oh my god...could it be...yes it is...grass!

Shocked, you look up, across miles of more such withered, scruffy brown and suddenly there, in the not-so-far distance, a fence. And across the fence, shimmering in the sunshine, a patch of softest, dewiest, lush-est, greenest...grass.

Ratna Rajaiah is currently looking for a way over the fence.
Illustration:Lynette Menezes

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