Youth, when it is at its peak—like during my days at Orient—cannot apprehend the process of growth and learning. It is the same as when someone joins a gym at any stage of life and starts watching the mirror for abs on the second day, and nothing is visible.

In the same manner, I was learning—initially very small things—like how to get a third cup of tea from the kitchen staff when only two were allowed in a day; how to get a client’s work done by the best designer in the minimum possible time; how to skip a meeting with a very valid excuse and relax at some corner shop; how to avoid a red mark on the card-punching attendance machine. Everything and every moment was learning and growth, but at that age it seemed like a burden to live within certain discipline.

Later, we realise that numbers—performance—break every discipline, or at least change the rules for you if you perform. Even then, performance does not give immediate gains, and in the beginning it is best to look for opportunities to perform. Well, not only in the beginning, but forever. As they say, a tiny success is the ultimate product of many small and some huge failures.

The medium of official communication in our office was English—terms like work order, job order, purchase order, artwork, and other terminology related to advertising, design, and media. All this communication was manual. Computers were usually used for accounts, finance, and billing. Email and the internet were not yet common.

I remember my boss carrying a huge Motorola phone; some mobile operators were setting up around that time. One invention I used, which worked somewhat like today’s SMS, was a pager. The company was DC Pager. It was a small pocket-sized device with a tiny screen. To send a message, one had to call a central phone line, and the message would be delivered to the device holder. It must have been some early form of satellite technology—the origin stage of mobile phones. Messages were brief, and the cost varied according to the number of words or characters.

The art, production, and photography departments were located in the basement of the building. There was a clear divide between the two floors: the upper floor was more administrative and related to business management.

Upon entering the art department, there were two partitions. Three people usually sat on computers—mostly composing and using early design software. On the other side were manual painting sections, with photographs being cut, painted, and prepared.

From the stairs to the doorway, the moment you entered, there was a tall man sitting with one eye of stone, wearing glasses. He looked at everyone with a hint of satire in his eyes, with expressions emerging entirely from his eyes and the area around them. Especially for newcomers, his gaze seemed to signal the circular destiny of the job world—as if it would get you nowhere.

It is quite typical that when people cannot move up the ladder, they either become cynical or vulnerable and insecure. The stone-eyed man eventually became my friend. He was a copywriter as well, and perhaps carried an inferiority complex—being an expert in the local language does not always earn the respect one might otherwise receive in our culture.

The chapters related to my two years at Orient may stretch a bit, as it would be an injustice not to write a few lines about each person who created an impact on my life there.

It is mysterious sometimes how even a slightly or marginally negative people help you grow. Perhaps positive and negative energies together are inevitable to run this show we call the universe.

To be continued…