The typist was typically named Sumathi or Rosy. She was the life of the office. Middle-aged clerks were all over her like James Cameron over cocaine. She'd give them what they wanted: a giggle at their stupid jokes, some peeks and a few touches. In return, unaccounted-for leave days and proxy signatures on the attendance register were freely traded. Not to mention the condoning of stupid mistakes she made when jotting down their dictation.
It was this Mannangatti was thinking about as he was fighting another null pointer exception in his cubicle. He had missed the Indian 1970s clerical honeymoon, the U.S. 1980s executive/managerial orgy and the dot-com bubble due to the timing of his birth. The young female colleague/subordinate who speaks with an upward inflection has it easier than Typist Rosy, he surmised. Blonde or not, she gives far less and gets far more. He was God-promise sure the slight resentment he felt had nothing to do with his not being part of the barter action.
He could not command a private secretary to proxy-type for another..eight years at the very least, he calculated. If he played his cards perfectly right and luck held through. So, it'd take longer. After all, Saturn is not very kind even at the eighth house.