You press a button and expect the world to move.
He watches nine floors of people going up, going down, going nowhere.
Meet the man who carries everyone between floors while his own life waits on the same one.
The Vertical Parliament opens at 7:00 AM.
The doors slide apart.
The building enters sideways.
There is no grand chamber.
There is one steel stool, one panel of tired buttons, one tiny fan that produces more noise than wind, one red digital display, and one mirror.
The mirror is important.
People look into it for fourteen seconds and fix things they have carried all morning.
Hair.
Collar.
Face.
Expression.
Surajbhan sees the version before the fixing.
07:25 AM
Surajbhan Kushwaha has already taken the building up and down nineteen times.
Nine floors.
Ground.
Basement.
Again.
Gym uncle enters with a smartwatch, towel and a shaker bottle large enough to suggest serious intentions.
Perfume aunty enters three seconds later.
Technically, the perfume arrives first.
For the next fourteen seconds, the lift becomes a shared experiment in smell.
Gym uncle presses 1.
He lives on 2.
“Leg day,” he says.
Perfume aunty presses 8.
“Beta, lift mein smell aa rahi hai.”
Surajbhan looks straight ahead.
“Haan madam.”
The doors open on 1.
Gym uncle walks one floor.
Nobody applauds.
07:34 AM — School Children
Children do not understand lifts as transport.
They understand them as opportunity.
One child has a school bag larger than his torso.
Another is carrying a chart that has already lost one corner and most of its dignity.
The smallest boy enters last.
Before anyone can stop him:
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
Every button glows.
Surajbhan catches the little hand before it reaches B.
“Bas. Ground.”
The child looks personally betrayed.
At floor 6, the doors open.
Nobody is there.
The boy smiles quietly.
One revolution has survived.
08:02 AM — Office People
A man enters already on a call.
“I’m just reaching.”
He is on the ninth floor.
His car is in the basement.
His office is thirteen kilometres away.
Surajbhan presses B.
The man continues:
“Yes yes, parking mein hoon.”
The lift begins descending.
Reality has agreed not to interfere.
Another resident enters on 6 and starts pressing the close-door button.
Once.
Twice.
Five times.
Twelve.
The button has been installed in this building since 2007.
It has survived children, groceries, power cuts, renovation dust and committee notices.
It will not be bullied.
The doors close when they were always going to close.
The resident looks satisfied.
08:17 AM — Flat 704
The married couple enters together.
Only geographically.
She stands by the mirror.
He stands by the panel.
Between them is enough silence for a third passenger.
She says:
“Ground.”
He says:
“Basement.”
Neither looks at the other.
Surajbhan presses B.
Then G.
Both buttons glow.
He has been watching this disagreement in floor numbers since February.
Some mornings they speak.
Some mornings they communicate entirely through destinations.
The lift reaches G.
She steps out.
The doors begin closing.
For half a second, he looks as though he might follow.
He does not.
Basement.
Surajbhan presses the button.
08:31 AM — The Dragon
“Game khel rahe ho?”
A resident has noticed his phone.
On the screen, a warrior stands in front of a dragon.
The dragon is mid-roar.
The battle is paused.
“Nahi sir.”
Surajbhan locks the phone.
He has been trying to defeat this dragon for eleven months.
Seven times, he has reached the final level.
Seven times, the bell has rung.
A parcel.
A resident.
A child.
Someone who forgot a bag.
Someone who remembered a floor.
The dragon is extremely lucky to live inside a lift.
One day Surajbhan will defeat it.
He has already decided what happens after that.
He will delete the game.
No speech.
No screenshot.
Finished.
09:10 AM — Which Floor
A young woman enters on 9 wearing AirPods.
“Which floor, madam?”
She holds up one finger.
Not the first floor.
One minute.
She is on a call.
The doors close.
The lift does not move, because nobody has told it anything.
Surajbhan waits, hand above the panel.
“…no, I said Thursday. Thursday means Thursday…”
Thirty seconds.
Forty.
“…okay, bye, bye, bye, bye.”
She looks at the display.
Still 9.
“Arre, why are we not moving?”
“Which floor, madam?”
“Ground, obviously.”
Obviously.
11:10 AM — The Service Lift
A laminated notice beside the door says:
DOMESTIC STAFF AND DELIVERY: KINDLY USE SERVICE LIFT.
The service lift has been under maintenance since March.
So the delivery boys climb.
Bruno from 801 comes down in this one, in a raincoat, carrying nothing, accompanied by a towel.
Nobody has laminated anything about Bruno.
12:45 PM — Lunch
Two rotis.
Aloo-tamatar.
Half an onion wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper.
Surajbhan sits on the steel stool with one foot inside the lift and one foot outside.
He tears a piece of roti.
The bell rings.
9.
He puts the roti down.
The doors close.
Up.
A courier is waiting.
“702?”
“Other wing.”
Down.
The courier leaves.
Surajbhan returns to the stool.
The roti has become slightly less interested in lunch.
He takes one bite.
The bell rings again.
4.
He folds the plate.
01:30 PM
One missed call from home.
Then another.
He calls back between floors.
His mother’s knee is hurting again.
Their building has no lift.
“Doctor ko dikhaya?”
“Haan.”
“Dawai?”
“Le li.”
A bell sounds.
“Baad mein phone karta hoon.”
He hangs up.
For a moment, his phone shows the paused dragon.
Then:
7.
He puts the phone away.
The lift rises.
04:15 PM
A child enters alone.
“Lift uncle?”
“Haan?”
“You go up-down whole day?”
“Haan.”
“Bore nahi hote?”
“Thoda.”
The child thinks seriously about this.
“Then sometimes press all buttons.”
Surajbhan smiles.
This is the first career advice he has received that makes any sense.
07:50 PM — The Reception
A family comes down dressed for a wedding reception.
Sarees.
One sherwani.
One small boy in a waistcoat he did not agree to.
The mirror becomes a studio.
Between the sixth floor and Ground, fourteen photographs are taken.
Pallu adjusted. Retake.
Dupatta adjusted. Retake.
Uncle’s stomach adjusted. Retake twice.
Surajbhan is standing in the corner of all fourteen.
He will be cropped out of all fourteen.
At Ground, the aunt checks the screen.
“Lift ni lighting saru chhe, nahi?”
“Haan madam.”
It is the most honest light in the building.
That is why everyone fixes things in it.
08:10 PM — New Resident
A man enters carrying two boxes.
He looks at Surajbhan.
Then the panel.
“Lift automatic nahi hai?”
“It has me, sir.”
The man pauses.
Then:
“I’ll press.”
“Press.”
He presses 4.
Nothing happens.
Again.
Nothing.
Surajbhan says, “Thoda hard.”
The man presses harder.
The button lights.
The lift moves.
For the rest of the journey, he keeps his finger on 4 as though the lift might forget the arrangement.
Surajbhan says nothing.
People trust machinery very quickly.
People take longer with people.
09:05 PM — 704 Again
The couple returns.
He presses 7.
She presses nothing.
In the morning, she had wanted Ground.
He had wanted Basement.
Tonight, they stand closer.
Not close.
Closer.
At floor 7, he holds the door with one hand.
She steps out first.
He follows.
No words.
The doors close.
Surajbhan notices these things.
Nobody asks him to.
10:28 PM
A young man enters smelling of perfume and panic.
“Study group,” he announces.
Nobody has asked.
Surajbhan presses 6.
The boy looks relieved.
He has returned three nights this month from several academically demanding study groups.
Surajbhan has not once requested the syllabus.
11:30 PM
A woman enters from the fourth floor.
She has been crying.
Not now.
Before.
The mirror gives away what she has repaired.
She presses G.
The doors close.
No phone.
No conversation.
Only the lift moving down.
4.
3.
Between 3 and 2, Surajbhan presses stop.
The lift becomes still.
The woman opens her eyes.
He does not turn around.
Five seconds.
Nothing happens.
That is the point.
Then he starts the lift again.
2.
1.
G.
The doors open.
She steps out.
Then turns.
“Thank you.”
Surajbhan nods.
The doors close.
He returns to the stool.
For five seconds, he sits without pressing anything.
His shoulders drop.
His eyes close.
Then the bell rings.
He gets up.
The building knows Surajbhan as the man beside the buttons.
We know which floor we want.
We know how quickly we want the door to close.
We know when the lift is slow.
We know when the fan is not working.
We know exactly when to complain.
Surajbhan knows different things.
He knows Flat 704 is speaking again.
He knows the school child on 5 is now tall enough to reach 9.
He knows the young man on 6 does not attend quite as many study groups as his parents believe.
He knows which residents enter in the morning performing energy and return at night without enough left to perform anything.
And he knows that sometimes a person needs five seconds between floors.
Not advice.
Not a question.
Five seconds.
Tomorrow, for the forty seconds between your floor and the ground, put the phone in your pocket.
Look up.
Say:
“Good morning, Surajbhan.”
The lift will take the same forty seconds.
For once, so will you.
If this found you, it was meant to.
Pass this to one person who has pressed close too many times without seeing the person keeping the journey open.
— An Invisible Shift