P. Coleman, accountant and former executive manager, skims the morning newspaper, barely registering the headlines. He has had his usual breakfast, followed by his daily dose of Noctival.
He notes, with minimal concern, the faint taste of regret and nostalgia the pill leaves in his mouth. Unbothered, he takes off towards his office, alongside equally energetic people. He walks past enormous billboards advertising Noctival, the words ‘Sleep is for the weak!’ printed in bold letters across every available space.
Of the many terms that have been painstakingly coined for the modern working class, ‘time thieves’ suits them best. Powered by Noctival, a drug manufactured for the sole purpose of eradicating the human need for sleep, the working class has successfully managed to utilise all twenty-four hours in a day.
Coleman enters his office, deposits his bag and coffee on the desk and joins the throng of office workers pouring out of their cubicles for Mindfulness Monday. Seventeen deep sighs, four eye rolls and eight chants of “Sleep when we’re rich!” later, he returns to his laptop. An e-mail from HR awaits him – “Congratulations on completing 120 hours this week! Click here to avail your complimentary three-minute nap! (terms and conditions apply)”
Despite his attempts, P. Coleman is unable to rest for an entirety of three minutes. The moment he shuts his eyes; he is greeted with images of spreadsheets and cheques and the continuous tick-tock of an approaching deadline. He groans and bangs his head against the wooden desk and then straightens almost immediately when he hears movement behind the door.
As expected, a frenzied employee bursts in.
“Sir! They’ve put out the leaderboard today.”
Coleman wills his lips to lift in some semblance of an eager smile. “Great”, he mutters.
He lets a second pass before he traipses out, standing at the outer edge of the gathered crowd. Workers croon their necks to take a look at the board and some whip out their smartphones, pulling open the camera.
“He’s got a Productivity Score of a 102. How’s that even possible?”, a blue-shirted man grumbles to his colleague, who responds with an unintelligible something about ‘freaks’ and ‘addicts’.
Coleman scans the bottom few names that have been highlighted in red – calling attention to workers whose productivity levels have been exceptionally low, undoubtedly, a consequence of lower intake of Noctival. Coleman feels a slight twinge of envy, wishing he could trade places with one of them.
He then shakes his head. No, Noctival is a blessing. Noctival is the key to the life he has dreamed of since as long as he can remember. Although, to be fair, he hasn’t had a single dream for a very long time now.
Nevertheless, he must continue his Noctival dosage. At least, until his high efficiency and subsequent high pay, allow him a life of luxury.
Fuelled by hopes of a comfortable future with zero Noctival intake, P. Coleman returns to his work. He furiously types in numbers and data, one Excel sheet after the other.
At precisely one o’clock, his laptop chimes, reminding him to eat lunch.
Instead of heading towards the Community Room as he would have any other day, Coleman casts a furtive glance down the corridor. Deeming the area safe, he quietly slips into the Employee Reboot Laboratory.
The Employee Reboot Laboratory is accessible to, and generally avoided by all employees in Coleman’s firm for fear of being called ‘lazy’ and ‘inefficient’. As such, the magnificent structure has been sitting relatively unused for the past few months. The lab houses twenty Reboot Capsules, built of soundproof glass and emitting waves that supposedly dull the effects of Noctival on the human brain, thereby allowing the user undisturbed sleep.
A blissful half hour later, Coleman finds himself back in his office, preparing a presentation for an upcoming meeting. Laptop charged, briefcase packed and material (partially) learnt, he heads off to the Conference Room, where he is soon joined by other employees.
What follows is a brief, uneventful discussion on the how-to’s of promotion and advertisement.
P. Coleman hardly listens; his tie is suddenly too tight and he forces short breaths out of his lungs. A sweat breaks out over his skin. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, and the black laptop screen in front of him reflects his distorted image.
“…too much? Coleman, what do you think about it?”
“Huh?”
Coleman looks at the speaker and swallows. “Yes,” he manages to get out, “yes, that sounds about right.”
His answer receives several raised eyebrows, questioning eyes, and a silenced chuckle.
Coleman takes a deep breath, willing his eyes to stay open and his mind to remain focused, for his disjointed, muddled thoughts to cooperate, to form a legible sentence.
At last, he hones in on the ongoing discussion, occasionally punctuated by jargon and numbers until the speaker turns to him. “Now, Coleman,” he says with an exaggerated cheer, “what do you think about our latest innovation?”. He points at the presentation slide behind him.
Coleman follows his pointed finger and reads the large, bold text. “REM Premium – Subscription-based sleep hours, starting at only Rs.299! Buy now!”
Coleman’s gaze glasses over. He is overcome with a train of recollections – of bedtime stories, of terribly shrill alarm clocks, of the slight shaking of his body to wake him up, of the faint, comforting rhythm of breathing, of a morning, of the simple pleasure of waking up well-rested. The absurdity of his situation strikes him.
He leans back in his office chair and rests his head on his hands for a fraction of a second. He exhales.
“How about I sleep on it?” The words slip out softly, almost involuntarily.
They hang about in a silenced room, floating, unsure, anxious. They linger in the air, invisible, yet so heavy – a sincere confession of an exhausted man.
And then, the tension is broken. The employees burst out laughing, a deep, booming sound.
The speaker thumps Coleman on the back.
“That’s the spirit, Coleman!”, he rasps.
Written by
Anoushka Chopra
Class XI
