The Collectorate was at its quietest before the public arrived.

Between nine and ten, the building belonged almost entirely to the employees. Doors opened one after another. Steel cupboards unlocked. Files found their way onto tables. Conversations started in the middle, as though they had only been paused the previous evening.

Aryan parked his motorcycle in the basement and took the stairs. He had never liked waiting for the lift. By the time he reached the second floor, he could hear chairs being moved inside the section.

Joseph was opening the windows.

A bunch of keys hung from his fingers while he pushed the wooden shutters outward one by one. The room brightened with each window. The smell of old paper gave way to damp air from outside. It had rained before sunrise.

"You're early today," Joseph said.
"I left home a little earlier."
Joseph looked at him for a moment.
"Don't make it a habit."
Aryan smiled and placed his bag beneath the table.
"I'll try."

Joseph had worked in the Collectorate longer than most officers had served in the district. Nobody knew exactly how many years he had completed. Whenever someone asked, he gave a different answer, and after a while people stopped asking.

He walked over carrying a bundle of files tied with cotton tape.
"These came after you left yesterday."
Aryan glanced at the covers.
Revenue.
Survey.
Revenue again.
"Who brought them?"

"They were on your chair when I locked the room."
Aryan nodded. There wasn't much else to ask.
He untied the tape and opened the first file.

By half past nine, the room had settled into its usual rhythm. Cupboards opened and closed. Registers appeared on desks. Someone from Accounts came looking for a file that had supposedly been sent the previous week. Nobody remembered seeing it. After asking four people, he walked away saying he'd check another section.

Satheesh entered carrying a newspaper under one arm and a steel tumbler of tea in the other.

"The bridge road is blocked again."
No one responded.
"They've dug up the whole stretch."
Still no response.
Satheesh folded the newspaper and looked around.
"You people have no interest in what's happening outside."

Without looking up from the inward register, Joseph replied, "We'll become interested once the circular reaches us."

The room laughed.
Even Satheesh.
Aryan continued reading.

The file on his table concerned a boundary dispute between two brothers. The application had been submitted nearly a year ago. Since then it had moved through the Village Office, the Taluk Office, the Survey Department and back again. Every department had added something. Nobody had finished it.

He signed the noting sheet and placed the file in the outward tray.
Another one took its place almost immediately.
The first visitors began arriving a little after ten.

Some stood quietly near the entrance until somebody called them. Others walked directly to whichever table looked least occupied. A woman wanted to know whether her community certificate had been issued. A college student needed an income certificate before the weekend. A contractor wanted a copy of an old order.

Most conversations lasted only a few minutes.
Most ended with another instruction.
"Room Twelve."
"Village Office."
"Bring the original."
"Come after lunch."

Nobody argued.
Nobody looked surprised.

Narayanan arrived a few minutes later and lowered himself into the chair beside the window.

"Eighty-six days," he announced.
Satheesh didn't look up.
"Yesterday it was eighty-seven."
"I know."
"You've started counting."
"I've earned the right to."

Narayanan opened the small calendar inside his drawer and crossed out yesterday's date.

"You'll miss this place," Satheesh said.
"I won't."
"You'll come back after retirement."
"I won't."

Joseph placed a tumbler of tea on Narayanan's table.
"You said the same thing to Krishnan sir."
Narayanan looked up.
"He came back after four days."

"He came because his pension papers weren't ready."
Joseph shrugged.
"He still came."
The room smiled again.

Aryan looked up briefly before returning to the file in front of him.

He rarely joined these conversations. It wasn't that he disliked them. He simply preferred listening. Offices revealed themselves in ordinary conversations far more honestly than they did in meetings.

A clerk from another section appeared at the entrance.
"Has anyone seen the 2017 survey register?"
Nobody answered immediately.
People looked towards different cupboards.

Joseph walked to the last cupboard near the records room, moved aside three unrelated files and pulled out the register without hesitation.

The clerk let out a small laugh.
"I've been looking for that since morning."
"You were looking where it should have been," Joseph said. "This office stopped keeping things where they should be a long time ago."

The clerk smiled, thanked him and disappeared into the corridor.

Aryan had just opened another file when a man stopped in front of his table holding a worn brown envelope.

He looked to be in his late sixties. His white shirt had been ironed carefully. The envelope, however, had softened around the edges from being carried too often.

"Excuse me, sir."
"Yes?"
The man placed the envelope on the table and slid it forward.
"I came regarding my pension."

Aryan opened the envelope and removed the papers one by one. Receipts. Acknowledgements. Copies of letters from different departments. Every document had been folded and unfolded enough times to leave permanent lines across the paper.

"What is your name?"
"Gopalakrishnan."
Aryan checked the receipt number against the register.
The application existed.
So did the file.
At least on paper.
He followed the movement entries with his finger.

Revenue.
Accounts.
Legal.
Back to Accounts.

No inward entry after that.
He opened the computer and searched again.
Nothing.

"One minute."
He stood up and walked to the Accounts section.
"Has File 3187 come back?"

The assistant there looked over his glasses.
"Which one?"
Aryan read out the applicant's name.

The assistant searched one shelf, then another, before shaking his head.
"Not here."
"Do you remember where it was sent?"
"No."
"Any entry?"
"I'll have to check the old register."
"Can you?"
"Later."

Aryan thanked him and returned to his desk.
Gopal was standing exactly where he had been, his hands resting lightly on the envelope.

Aryan sat down.
"The file hasn't reached our section."
The old man nodded.
"So I should come again?"

"I'll make a note and check with Accounts once more. Give it a few days."
There was no disappointment on the man's face.
Only familiarity.

"I've been coming every Thursday," he said. "A few more days won't make much difference."
Aryan looked at him for a second.
"I'll see what I can find."

Gopal smiled politely, gathered the papers back into the envelope and thanked him before walking towards the corridor.

The next visitor had already stepped forward.

The woman waiting behind Gopal held out a blue plastic folder before she sat down.

"I was asked to submit these here."
Aryan took the folder, opened it and checked the covering letter attached to the first page.

"This belongs to the Election section."
"They sent me from there."
He looked at the reference number again.
"They shouldn't have."

He turned the paper around and pointed to the department code printed near the top.
"This file hasn't been marked to this section."

She leaned forward, read the code herself and frowned.
"So I have to go back?"
"I'm afraid so."

She gathered the papers without complaint, thanked him and walked away.

Aryan watched her disappear into the corridor only because he wanted to make sure she hadn't left anything behind. People often did. Original certificates, receipts, identity cards, photographs clipped to applications. They usually remembered before reaching the staircase.

He pulled the next file closer.

It had been opened before. The string had been tied loosely and the edges of the noting sheet had begun to curl. He flipped through the first few pages, found the latest remark and uncapped his pen.

Before he could write, another file landed beside it.
He looked up.
Satheesh.
"These came from Survey."

Aryan glanced at the pile already waiting on his table.
"I still haven't finished Revenue."
"I know."
"So why are these here?"
"They were left on my table."

"And you decided they should become my problem."
Satheesh smiled.
"They already were."

He walked back to his chair before Aryan could reply.

Aryan placed the Survey files beside the others. There was no point deciding which pile deserved attention first. By the afternoon they would all look the same.

Someone near the entrance cleared his throat.
"Excuse me..."
Joseph looked up.
"The photocopy room?"
"Ground floor. Left after the staircase."

The visitor thanked him and left without asking another question.

Joseph returned to arranging outward registers on the side table. He never seemed to do one thing at a time. Between carrying files, answering visitors and taking papers from one room to another, he somehow knew where every missing register had last been seen.

Across the room Narayanan closed a file and stretched his shoulders.

"Whoever designed these chairs should have been made to sit on them."
Satheesh didn't look up.
"They probably were."
"Not for thirty years."
"That's true."

Narayanan pushed the chair back slightly.
"My back has started retiring before I have."
A few people laughed.
Joseph heard the conversation while passing by.

"That's because you've been saying you'll retire for the last six months."
"I've earned the right."
"You've repeated that too."
Narayanan pointed a finger at him.

"You wait."
"For what?"
"When you retire."
Joseph smiled.

"I've got time."
"You think."

The conversation drifted away as naturally as it had begun. Nobody searched for another joke after that.

Aryan found the page he had been looking for and compared it with an earlier inspection report. Two measurements were different.

Not by much.
Just enough to require another clarification.

He checked whether either officer had explained the difference.

Neither had.

He rested the pen on the table for a moment, read both reports again and then wrote a short note requesting verification of the survey measurements before further action.

Three lines.
No more.
He signed beneath them and closed the file.

A phone rang somewhere near the records room.
Nobody answered.
It rang again.

Joseph walked over, lifted the receiver and listened.
"No, this isn't Accounts."
He waited.

"No. Third floor."
Another pause.
"The extension is written beside the phone."

He placed the receiver down and continued walking as though nothing had interrupted him.

Satheesh looked across the room.
"Wrong number?"
"Wrong department."
"Same difference."
Joseph didn't respond.

He disappeared into the corridor carrying a stack of dispatch files.

The wall clock still showed ten o'clock.
Aryan checked his watch.
Nearly eleven-thirty.

The clock had stopped sometime yesterday. Somebody had mentioned it in the morning. Nobody had removed it.

A clerk from Establishment entered holding a folded circular.

"Has anyone got the Government Order from 2017? The revised one."
Narayanan looked up.

"There are too many revised ones."
"The one about reassessment."
"I had it last week."
"Where is it now?"

Narayanan thought for a few seconds before shaking his head.

"I don't remember."
The clerk sighed.
"I've checked three sections already."
Joseph returned just then.
"What are you looking for?"
"The revised Government Order."

Joseph took the circular from him, read the reference number and walked towards the cupboards near the records room.

He searched the first shelf.
Then the second.

After a minute he reached behind a row of old files and pulled out a thin bundle tied with faded green tape.

"This one?"
The clerk checked the number and smiled.
"Yes."
"I've looked everywhere."
Joseph handed it over.

"You looked where it should have been."
The clerk laughed.
"I'll remember that."
"You won't."

He left with the bundle under his arm.

Joseph dusted his hands lightly against each other before returning to his table.

Aryan had already opened another file.

This one dealt with a land tax correction. The application itself was only four pages long. The papers attached behind it were nearly three times as thick.

He began reading from the first page.

Outside the section, footsteps moved continuously through the corridor. Every few minutes someone paused at the entrance, checked the room number above the door and either walked in or continued further down the passage.

The work inside the room never really stopped. It only shifted from one table to another.

Aryan finished reading the last page of the file, signed beneath the previous remark and closed it. He placed it on the tray to his right and looked at the stack that remained on the table.

There was enough work left for another evening. He rested his hand on the top file, then withdrew it.

Tomorrow.
That was reason enough.

He capped his pen and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

Across the room, Joseph was already moving from cupboard to cupboard with the ring of keys hanging from one finger. Every evening he followed the same order. The old steel cupboard near the records room first, then the two beside the windows, then the one near the entrance. Nobody had ever told him to do it that way. Nobody questioned it either.

Satheesh stood up, picked up his helmet and looked around the room.

"I'm leaving."
Narayanan didn't look up from the paper he was reading.
"You announced that ten minutes ago."
"I've decided to mean it this time."
"You'll still stop downstairs for tea."
"I probably will."
"Then you're not leaving."

Satheesh laughed, tucked the newspaper beneath his arm and walked into the corridor. Narayanan waited until he disappeared before closing the file in front of him.

"He'll retire before that newspaper does."
Aryan smiled.
Narayanan noticed.
"There. We got one smile today."
"It wasn't that funny."
"It doesn't have to be."

He stood, pushed the chair beneath the table and locked his drawer.
"Eighty-five tomorrow."
Aryan nodded.
"Eighty-five."

Narayanan adjusted the strap of his lunch bag.
"See you."
"Tomorrow."

Joseph walked past just then.
"You two keep saying tomorrow as if there's another option."
"There isn't," Narayanan replied.
Joseph smiled without answering.

A few minutes later the room had almost emptied. The ceiling fans still turned above the desks.

Aryan locked his drawer, checked it once out of habit and slung his bag over his shoulder. As he stepped into the corridor, someone called from behind.

"Aryan."
He turned.

Sasidharan from Establishment was walking towards him with a folded file in one hand.

"I thought I saw your father's car outside today."
"My father's?"
"For a second, I thought it was-"
"He wasn't here."

Sasidharan frowned.

"Must've belonged to someone else."
"Probably.."

Sasidharan gave a small nod and walked towards the staircase. Joseph was waiting there.

"Coming?"
Aryan joined him.
They walked down without speaking.

At the basement entrance Joseph turned towards the scooter stand. Aryan continued to the motorcycle parking.

"Tomorrow," Joseph called.
"Tomorrow."

The engine started on the first attempt. He rode out through the Collectorate gate, crossed the short stretch of road and turned left.

The coffee shop appeared almost immediately.

The evening crowd had already begun to gather outside. A few motorcycles were parked in front. Two delivery riders stood near the entrance checking their phones while waiting for their orders.

Aryan parked in the same place he usually did.

The bell above the glass door gave its familiar sound as he stepped inside. The cashier looked up from the billing counter.

"The usual?"
Aryan nodded.
"It'll be ready."

He took the table near the bookshelf. The newspaper had already been placed there.

He unfolded it, glanced at the first page and turned straight to the local section. Around him the café carried on with its own evening rhythm.

One waiter balanced four cups on a tray while another cleared a table near the window. A group of college students had occupied the long table against the wall. Their bags lay on the chairs while their notebooks remained unopened.

Near the counter, a customer was asking whether a birthday cake could be collected an hour later than planned.

"It can," one of the staff replied. "We'll keep it inside."

The owner was standing a little further back with a laptop open in front of her.

She looked at the screen, checked something on a printed invoice, signed it and handed it back to a supplier waiting beside the counter. Before the supplier had reached the door, someone from the kitchen called her. She disappeared through the swinging door without looking around the café.

Aryan lowered his eyes to the newspaper again.

He read the same paragraph twice before realising he hadn't taken in a single sentence.

The waiter placed the coffee on the table.
"The receipt's underneath."
"Thank you."

The waiter moved away.
Aryan wrapped his hand around the cup.
Before he lifted it, his phone vibrated.

Home.

He answered.
"Hello."
"Where are you?" his mother asked.
"At the café."
"You've just left the office?"
"Yes."
There was a brief pause.
"Come home when you're done."
"Is everyone there already?"
"Your uncle reached an hour ago."
"I won't be long."
"Drive carefully."
"I will."

Aryan placed the phone beside the newspaper, lifted the cup and took the first sip while, somewhere behind the counter, someone laughed at a joke he couldn't hear.

The newspaper remained open beside the cup. He read the headline on the front page, turned it over once and folded it again.

The waiter passed by carrying a tray of empty cups.

"Finished, sir?"
Aryan nodded.

The waiter picked up the cup, left the receipt on the table and moved to the next customer.

Aryan paid at the counter. The cashier glanced at the receipt, entered the amount and looked up.

"See you tomorrow."
Aryan smiled faintly.

"If I'm here."
"You'll be here."

Aryan tapped his card against the machine.
The payment went through.

He slipped the wallet back into his pocket, pushed open the glass door and stepped outside.

The evening traffic had thickened.

Office staff from nearby buildings were beginning their journey home. The road that had been manageable an hour earlier now moved in short bursts. Vehicles advanced a few metres, stopped, then advanced again.

Aryan waited for an opening before pulling his motorcycle onto the road.

The first signal caught him.

A bus drew up beside him. A schoolboy sitting near the window rested his forehead against the glass, looking at nothing in particular. Two delivery riders squeezed between the rows of vehicles before stopping near the front.

The signal changed.
Everything moved together.

He crossed the junction and continued towards the bypass. The traffic thinned after another kilometre.

By the time he turned into the quieter residential road leading towards his house, the noise of the main road had faded behind him. The entrance gate was already open.

The security guard standing near the gate recognised the motorcycle before Aryan removed his helmet.

"Good evening, sir."
Aryan nodded as he rode through.

The driveway curved gently around a wide lawn before reaching the front of the house. Garden lights had already come on.

A gardener was rolling up a hose near the flower beds. Two cars were parked under the portico. Another stood closer to the side entrance with the driver's door open.

Aryan parked beside the steps, removed his helmet and carried it inside. Voices reached him before he entered the living room.

His uncle was laughing at something. His father answered, though Aryan couldn't make out the words. The conversation stopped for a moment when he walked in.

"There he is," his uncle said.
"I was beginning to think government offices had started keeping people overnight."
"They're considering it," Aryan replied.
Uncle smiled.

His mother appeared from the dining room carrying a serving bowl.
"You came."
"I said I would."
"I know."
She looked at the helmet in his hand.
"Go and wash up. Dinner will be ready."
Aryan nodded and started towards the staircase.

His father looked up briefly from the papers spread across the centre table.

"Busy day?"
"The usual."

His father folded one sheet and placed it on top of the others.

"We'll talk later."

Aryan continued upstairs. His room was at the end of the corridor overlooking the garden. He placed the helmet on the chair near the door, removed his watch and office identity card and left both on the desk.

The room was quieter than the rest of the house. He opened the window for a moment. The sounds from downstairs reached him faintly, plates being arranged, someone calling for water, his uncle laughing again.

His phone vibrated. A message in the office group. Has anyone seen File 3187? Accounts says it hasn't reached them.

Aryan looked at the screen for a few seconds.
He typed a reply.
I'll check tomorrow morning.
He placed the phone face down on the table.

Downstairs, his mother called his name.
"I'm coming," he answered.

He switched off the room light, closed the door behind him and walked back towards the staircase.