I went last evening for dance class, as usual. I’ve been going there for nineteen years, so I walked in as I always do, briskly, sure of where I wanted to go.
An irate watchman surprised me by yelling out at me for walking in like that. “How can you just go in without making an entry?”
“Sorry, I had no idea,” I said, mildly. “When did this begin?”
“It’s been there for months now!” he said, grumpily.
“I didn’t have to make an entry last week,” I pointed out, writing my name. “And I come for dance class every week!” I looked at the next column and paused.
“Flat number,” said the watchman, curtly.
“I’m going to the hall…”
“Why?”
“For dance class,” I said again.
“Okay, leave this one.”
My pen hovered over the next column. I could not figure out what I was expected to write.
“Who do you want to meet?” asked the watchman, as if talking to an imbecile.
“Erm… I teach dance here. I don’t want to meet anyone.”
The watchman had to be satisfied with the response. I left the next column blank as well, and he pounced on me. “Gadi number!” he said, angrily.
I looked down at my feet. I was walking. Finally, the watchman smiled – reluctantly and sheepishly. I smiled back, signed the register, and walked in. I wonder if he’ll make me write an entry next week.
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