The security guard at Laxmi Next defies my attempt at defining his height. He is neither tall nor short. He is not taller than me and, perhaps, might even be shorter than me. If he is shorter than me, then it is because he has a paunch. But the paunch does not stand out from his corpulent body, neither is the corpulence evident in his all-black attire. This security guard is not someone who can be expressed in words.

The sight of this man agitates me with the same intensity of feeling that I experience upon seeing a well-rounded bosom that appears to me as revealing the presence of Being in its most sensual manifestation. If there was a gear in my mind that reverses its heading, that gear is activated upon the sight of this man. The man tells me that he works twelve hours a day, of which four hours grants him overtime pay. The sparse moustache which nevertheless manages to form a thick black line beneath his nose is punctuated by two sharp patches pointing down and engulfing the corners of his mouth. His hair is short at the sides and back, and slowly gathers thickness as it rises up to the top, where the hair stands up on its ends, straight up, pointing towards the sky. A streak of red, vertical and short but which disappears into his yet-not-receded hairline adorns his forehead. His eyes are narrow, which gives his look the sharpness of a spear, which, when mixed with the knowing smile that he offers you as you approach the doors of the restaurant, makes the whole experience a little unpleasant, if not unsettling.

When I strike up a conversation with him, his demeanour changes as the hint of an honest smile dances around his lips. He knows he is a good security guard. His goal is to be the best. He walks with a defiant gait, walking the cars out of the parking lot towards the gates, and orders around the bikes who are a little rowdy, rushes towards the doors to hold them open when people arrive and leave the establishment, and chides himself with a tiny disappointed grimace when the customers open the doors themselves. To the impatient customers who raise their voice at him for not finding a spot for them, he charges at them like an animal aiming to gore them on his horns. I imagine that these customers are a little taken aback at the mass of black uniform screaming “Security Guard” charging at them because they come around and find a spot for themselves outside by the road.

When I ask him about his work hours, he tells me he works from 7am to 4pm and then from 7pm to 1am. Then he goes to his room which is behind the hotel where he rests till 7am the next day where the entire thing repeats. He is rather proud of earning overtime pay, which he announces with a straight back throwing his head a little upwards. His shoulders widen as he does this, and he appears a little taller than he actually is. He lets cars stop and disembark their older passengers—men and women with white hair, a little bent forward, shuffling their sandals on the ceramic tiles—even if the driveway is congested. He is a gentleman. He enumerates his job: waiting by the door and holding it open whenever someone enters or exits the building, managing the parking lot, noting down names and letting people inside one group after another when there is a queue, and directing cars and bikes towards proper spaces and moving them around so that he can squeeze as many vehicles in the car park. Sometimes he gets irritated when there are too many vehicles or people parking their vehicles recklessly. He is amused by my sitting down in one of the chairs set outside for customers to wait, and I imagine his actions have become more animated in my presence. One of the patrons shouts “Boss!” at him and extends a thrice-folded twenty rupees note which is immediately touched to his his forehead with closed eyes and then slipped inside his black ‘Security Guard’ shirt.