The uncertainty and unpredictability were highly coded in those days. You would never know what was about to happen. As compared to today’s world, where apps tell the weather and temperature, from stock market predictions to AI scans everything is more revealed. Humans are living with less uncertainty and life is not that fun anymore. Rarely do you need to struggle for information, and the thrill of that wait and the endeavour to discover the veiled truth has all gone today.

The workplace, devoid of digitalisation, and business places were not struggling to be paperless as they are trying today. Workplaces, and especially ad agencies, when you entered, were filled with the aroma of fresh and rustic papers all around — of all types and material.

Exactly to the right of the reception, a small cabin was dedicated to the accounts department, and a man in his mid-thirties was in charge of accounts. The fragrance of currency notes often came from his cabin during salary days — and that fragrance you never forget. This fragrance tells you the whole story of inescapable materialism that entangles you forever in the world ahead.

Kausar was the name of our accountant, and he was a kind-hearted person. Even if he wouldn’t have been kind, he was respected all around because of his position.

Such people sitting on treasure are surprisingly always in good moods and in high spirits. Even the temporary holding of the keys to treasure makes them psychologically stronger. Maybe this is not true.

On the left side of the reception, there was a hall with three or four tables, and my immediate boss, Mr. Adnan Shabir, and myself, and a comparatively older guy were there too. This department was called the client service department.

The older guy was Mr. Niazi, and his one major client was Allama Iqbal Open University. Often, I wondered at that time about the contribution of open universities to the national literacy rate. Not that I know about it today.

I was too young to understand the political and governance systems, but ministries like National Health and Population Welfare were under the federal government, and these were the most heavy-budget clients for all ad agencies in Islamabad.

My job was not to pause and think, but to deliver whatever had been made in design and deliver it in presentable form. Even the hard papers in my bike’s bag shouldn’t be folded enough to spoil the look of the ads to be presented to government officials.

My mind, however, worked entirely opposite to that: pause, think, and question.

The same cycle of ads for the same reasons, and repetition of messages, and government-style working was quite boring and dull. Even at times, my side hustle of home tuition was more exciting, or at least I had to learn and teach new things.

But during those days, I often encountered some very special people — people you meet once or twice in life for a brief period, and you can never forget.

One of those people, unforgettable, was a very renowned poetess, scholar, and high-ranked government official: Parveen Shakir.