In the Pyramid

Suddenly, the Pyramid was all the rage in the organisation. That was but natural since it was the General Manager’s wife who had introduced the concept to the place. Everywhere I went,  I heard raves about the Pyramid. “But what exactly is the Pyramid?” I queried, and was met with blank looks, some humming and hawing,  and some “It’s a miracle” kind of answers.

So I decided to have a look at the Pyramid myself. It was a simple conical tent made of plywood, emanating strong fumes of new paint on the outside and decidedly musty inside.

Inside, the floor was splattered with wood shavings and splotches of white paint, and in the centre was spread a white bedsheet.

Beside the Pyramid  stood a pot of water with another smaller pyramid placed atop it. All along the walls were pinned posters that proclaimed the myriad wonders of this conical tent.

My fuzzily vague friends were not wrong after all. The posters said the Pyramid was THE cure for just about every mental and physical ailment known to man, from manic depression to kleptomania, from spondylosis to cancer.

I hated to be the fly in the ointment but I still needed answers. So I asked, “How does one avail of the wonderful benefits of the pyramid?”

 I was told to enter the tent and meditate, then come out a whole new woman. For how long, I asked,  and was told I could sit in there for as long as I wanted.

So I sat in the close interior, trying not to visualise ‘Nam prisoners in their cages. I sat  till I could no longer bear the paint fumes, the smell of the wood shavings . The woman in charge was disappointed. “You probably aren’t sitting in the lotus position,” she said. I forbore to point out that she hadn’t talked of any particular position before I went inside.

A few days later, I sat for seven minutes till a raging headache forced me to flee the confines of the Pyramid. “You probably aren’t facing north” she said. I forbore to tell her there was no directional marking to that effect inside.

Then came the ritual of drinking the Pyramid water.  It tasted like, well, any other kind of potable water to me. Wiser now, I forbore to say so but something in my face must have tipped the woman off. “You are gulping the water down” she told me disapprovingly, “You must take tender sips.”

It was soon borne upon me that I was the rebel in the game of Praising the Pyramid. All the ladies made it their business to convert me to the cause, telling me how their ailments disappeared after a few minutes inside the structure, how they slept better, ate better, felt better, even fought better with their husbands, post-Pyramid sessions.
Now who was I to argue with the mystic Pyramid? So I resolved to emerge, after my next stint inside, with a glowing face and to sing paeans to the P.

Except, it wasn’t to be. I emerged with a wan face and I emerged wobbling. You see, I’d twisted my foot getting out at  the narrow entrance . Just between you and me, I think those ‘Nam prisoners had it better…

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