Julian writes: whose tune is it anyway?

(Filed under: Internal. Private. Do Not Let Eleanor Ever See This.

I am writing this while still in a sort of euphoric daze, the office finally quiet after a day that felt like a cross between a diplomatic reception and a Victorian automaton show gone slightly wrong.

Shaila arrived at 10:03. The exact minute is important because I had spent the preceding nine minutes adjusting my shirt collar in the reflection of the microwave door. She entered the office with a kind of calm precision that made the rest of us look like clockwork figures operating half a beat behind. The team’s reaction was mechanical.

Alex stood up too quickly, stuttered something about “global partnership potentials,” then knocked over his water bottle. Paul stared for a long time, almost studying her as if he were mentally sketching the whole encounter for a future satirical piece. Maja said “Welcome!” with the sort of brightness you hear from someone pretending they’re not irritated.

There was a strange atmosphere all morning, like everyone had been wound up, and not entirely in harmony. You could feel the tension in the air, as if the whole office was a contraption built to amuse, impress, and possibly misfire at any moment. I began the tour.

Shaila listened with remarkable attentiveness, even when I explained the printer’s spiritual role in our daily operations. At one point, the machine clanked, shuddered, and produced a sheet of paper with half a spreadsheet and half of last month’s biscuit order. She raised an eyebrow in a way that suggested both amusement and mild alarm. She fits here, somehow.

When I introduced her to Eleanor, there was a brief encounter moment when Shaila’s poise met Eleanor’s seriousness like two elements in some historical re-enactment. Eleanor stood stiffly, as if expecting danger or disappointment, whereas Shaila clasped her hands serenely, observing everything. In the corner, someone’s phone started making a mechanical groaning noise from a dodgy WhatsApp notification, which only heightened the surrealness. (NOP really must update its ringtones.)

Lunch was the turning point. Shaila laughed (!) at my remark about English people apologising to furniture. It wasn’t a polite laugh, either. It was rich and genuine, the kind you feel in your ribs. And I… well… I felt something shift. Inside me. Possibly permanently.

Her insights about Delhi publishing were razor-sharp. Her humour was dry but warm. She asked questions that made me feel seen, professionally anD perhaps personally.

Maja noticed. Of course she noticed.

She barely touched her sandwich, and at one point she muttered something about “imported fascination” before disappearing to “check emails,” which is code for “seethe in the corridor.”

The afternoon included a roundtable discussion. But honestly, after lunch, everything felt slightly unreal, as if the office furniture was watching, the walls listening, and the whole place humming with a low, theatrical growl.

When Shaila prepared to leave, the tension in the room lifted like a stage prop being moved off-set. She thanked everyone, then turned to me last.

“Your humour,” she said, smiling, “is even more English than I expected.”

Reader, I nearly fainted.

After she left, the silence in the office felt settled. I’d been part of a spectacle I’d not quite sure I understood, but can’t stop thinking about.

I am absolutely smitten. There is no point pretending otherwise.

Maja avoided me all afternoon. She claims she’s “fine,” but her typing has been louder ever since. If Shaila returns (and I hope she does) I will try to behave like a normal adult human. But I suspect that today will stay with me for a long time.

Something mechanical in my chest has been wound up and set in motion. And yes, dear reader, I do not know yet which tune it intends to play.