Pristine's Problem | ONC 2024

08 | the art of trading

"Please!"

Those were the only words Alan remembered at that moment despite fifteen years of learning English.

"Please don't tell my father!" his voice laced with angst pleaded for the old man's mercy.

"Token number 1516, please go to room number 4!" the mechanical voice reiterated in its monotonous tone, promptly alerting the client. However, the client paid no heed to the announcement.

Alan was doused in waves of sweat; his eyes protruded in fear and his puny heart trembled in dread of being caught. 

How can I be so careless?

The receipt he had left out of absent-mindedness had his name clearly printed in bold Times New Roman calligraphy and the snoopy man's nettlesome eyes had viewed it merrily.

The old man gazed at Alan's face endearingly. He was quite perplexed about his sudden motion of appeal, however, he pieced their earlier conversation and drew a happy conclusion, which turned in favour of Alan.

"I see! Is the birthday party celebration you mentioned earlier for your father?" the man exclaimed curiously.

Alan remained silent. He was dumbfounded about how, for the first time, his lie had helped him in escaping the biggest mayhem of his life.

"Yes!" he nodded fervently as his eyes glistened in glee.

"I want to make his birthday memorable. So please sir, do not mention my identity to anyone."

The man chuckled fondly. He gently patted the manipulator's tousled hair and shrieked, "Attaboy! Don't worry, son! Your secret is safe with me!"

Alan felt like a preschooler confiding his secrets to a grandfather, who had promised to keep it secure. His smile widened as he thanked the man graciously for helping him out.

Alan grabbed the receipt from the man and maintaining his amiable look this time, he merrily waved back and headed towards room number four.

***

If the shimmering banner titled 'Pandora's Special Agent' had not been hung in the door, then Alan would have terribly mistaken the room he entered to be that of a doctor.

The mystic silence breached the lumber walls of the room as a young man, approximately in his twenties, was seated behind a sleek mahogany office desk. His tawny hair that parted in ways aslant toned immaculately with his auburn attire and gave a gracious view of his tanned skin. The soft bronze cushions of the recliner appeared to be of no use as the SPA arched with his hazel eyes glimmering under the tube light scanning various printed sheets spontaneously.

The young man jerked slightly on witnessing the arrival of his umpteenth customer of the day and smiled courteously.

"Hello!" His baritone voice was accompanied by a 'please-sit' gesture.

Alan welcomed the sweetness with a fatigued face that contained a pair of weary eyes, a subdued smile; he had just escaped a garrulous menace and he was too tired to give some wholesome response. Sitting in front of the agent, Alan felt the atmosphere he resided in similar to an interviewing session.

"Welcome to Pandora's Pacting Magistrate!" the young man introduced as Alan sighed internally.

I have been hearing this the whole day and I think my ears are bleeding!

"I am Hemant Ahuja, and I will be your SPA for the day!"

"Hi Hemant!" Alan fake-exclaimed, "Nice to meet you! I am Alan!"