No country for young women

Big agencies always have Big Daddies coming over. Why, no one knows. Presumably they must do something to fill their time. And skipping from office to office commenting on loo hygiene and the peeling paint on the walls satisfies their life’s purpose.
Note: This entire post is based in reality fictional. 

10 am, Monday in a fictional ad agency in a made-up galaxy far, far away

Servicing hottie: tra la la! Another day of tormenting creative people! Wheeee!
Art Director, smoking, watching her go: if that bitch comes near me before lunch, I’ll cut her.
Copywriter: fuck, really? Wait, I’ll call her now only.
Racuous laughter. The day has begun.

2 pm, Monday, during Creative Director’s siesta, two female copywriters are discussing their love lives brand strategy
Copywriter: servicing cow has sent another mail…FUCK.
Other female copywriter (OFC): what now? The client wants my fucking uterus in the script?
1st Copywriter: NO! BIG DADDY IS COMING TOMORROW.

OFC: WTF?? WHY??? SHIT I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR! FFFUCCCCK! I HATE MY DHOBI!!
1st Copywriter reading mail out loud: Ladies, Heard through the Glassvine that Big Daddy will be in town tomorrow. Please take appropriate action.
OFC: has she marked everyone necessary?
1st Copywriter: YES. Bless her, she always does. Okay, we need to leave early and shop.

Male Art Director: haan! Finally! Stop wearing these old things. Go sexy! We need something to look at!
The combined gaze of the women reduces him to ashes which are wafted towards his computer. His mouse now moves like in an Ouija board.

10 am, Tuesday
Bright and sunny morning. The Branch Head steps out.
“Good morning!” is chirped out at everyone. Cleaners are gently reminded that if any dust is seen, their heads will be parted from their bodies. Secretaries are told to please polish the fucking china and get coffee from a decent restaurant this time.

The office is on time. The punctuality KRA of the quarter has been met with this one day alone.
Branch Head stops short in his journey towards the Creative Dept. Where are the women?
He bounds back in. And stops. ALL the women are in Indian clothes. With dupattas almost swaddling them.
He clutches his hair and almost wails. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE FUCKING PEOPLE? Why do they roam around almost naked on most days and look like they’re attending a funeral TODAY of all days?
A secretary walks past with some possibly chipped cups and his attention is diverted.

11:30 am, Tuesday
Big Daddy enters.
A welcoming committee comprising the Branch Head, Sycophant 1, Sycophant 2 and the new hire, an Account Director in her 30s – is stationed at the door.

Big Daddy walks in: hello, hello, hello all. How are you all?
Handshakes happen, flattery happens and then, Big Daddy smiles: Oh helllooo. You’re new. What’s your lovely name?
He asks New Hire’s boobs, both of whom seem shocked speechless at this level of unprecedented attention.
New Hire’s mouth kicks into action: f-f-f-fine, thank you. Er.
Her boobs are confused. Weren’t they being talked to? Why was Mouth answering?

Glances and bets are exchanged amongst the rest of the (male) party as to how long New Hire will last post this trauma.

12:30 pm, Tuesday
After an hour closeted with the Branch Head, Big Daddy is ready to explore virgin territories. Literally.
Servicing Saviour dials 1st Copywriter on extension: ALERT! ALERT! The Vulture has landed! ALERRRRRT!
Dupattas are stapled into shoulders, hair is scraped back – every woman now looks like she works in an NGO.

Big Daddy enters with welcoming committee, minus the New Hire who’s been sent home for rest and recuperation.
Big Daddy: hello, hello, hello, so nice to be here again!
He speaks from his heart, to the region around he women’s.

Assorted raggedy bunch: hiiiummhgfgh.
Branch Head, maniacally nodding: SUCH a pleasure to have you with us!
Big Daddy surveys the range of dupatta-swaddling: very….PLEASURABLE to be here.
Mentally, every woman throws up.
Lips are stretched, rictus-like.
Beads of sweat start to appear.
Big Daddy is engrossed in a distance evaluation of thick South Indian cotton. What lies beneath indeed.

Branch Head, cracking under the pressure, brightly: Lunch?
Big Daddy: Ah, yes. Great idea.
He points at the youngest sacrificial virgin servicing girl’s boobs: why don’t you come along? I can find out what your seniors are up to.
Strained laughter is heard. German prisons have more joie de vivre.
The Youngest smiles uncertainly. First her boss told her to dress conservatively and then piled an extra dupatta on her. Now she had to go for lunch?

The other women tearfully watched her go.
Servicing girl: poor thing. We should have put a third duppatta.
1st Copywriter: or locked her in the bathroom.
They nod and sigh.
Life goes on.
The duppattas were put into storage till the next quarter.

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