The breathing printer

There is a machine which sits a metre away from me,

I never notice it.

Probably because there is nothing to notice as it lies there steady in the non-working mode.

But once in a while when it  oozes out colorful papers from its big belly, I behold its ugliness at work.

Those papers that come out mean a lot or maybe not, to someone. But nothing to me.

I am only aware of a rhythm a loud breathing sound which soothes my  nerves – sometimes over worked, sometimes under worked,

My colleagues don’t hear it.

They’ve spent too many years in the same place to notice.

I do. Loud and slow. Strong and sure. The not-bothered, not-worried breath.

A sample of life  from a  machine,

And yet more lively than the familiar sounds, smiles, banter and worries.

Chitrangada