The silence is eerie. I come to office in a van that is generally full. Today it was unusually empty. I see our other company vans racing past and they too are not full. The drivers do not know that they will not have much business in the future. The lifts too are barely crowded, very unusual. This is because our office crowd used to be the biggest ever. The people who used to giggle, make jokes and laugh a lot seemed to have been hit by a scare, possibly could be worse than anthrax. It is not and the buildings are definitely not going to crash. People do laugh still, but it sounds artificial. Though the weather is warm, I see people shivering when they talk.

The sword of uncertainty hangs over everyone's heads. No one knows whose and which sword will drop first. The swords are not dropping, they are flying and the sound of swooshing can be heard from any corner of the office. A few enterprising people who are sure and half-sure roam around the office, bragging and showing up false bravado saying nothing is serious, and preaching to people to take life as it comes. They too are scared, but seem to care for the others. They certainly deserve appreciation. People are cuddling up in their corners, shying away from their own colleagues and even their phones. The ringing of the phone is like the sounding of a death knell. Nobody wants it to ring and that adds to the painful silence. One doesn't know whose turn it is next. It could be yours or mine - each one says, but still hope that their name is not called. They discuss in whispers, still there is so much silence, that of the lambs. Literally. Just like a flock of lambs which undesirably lookup and see who is being dragged out of the flock silently, nobody murmers.

The slaughterhouse is a small cabin where some close talk happens akin to the last rites. It is just a one-way talk. A pinch of salt is placed on the tongue in the form of a month's basic. The victim is just waiting for the blade to fly past. He doesn't want this trauma to continue for long either.The lamb has nothing to say or to prove as to why it should live or continue with its normal life. Larger lambs will be slaughtered by bigger butchers. That is what the rule of the killing game says. Sooner or later the blade of the sword will fly and it does not miss. The last rites may take a little longer, but the end is for sure. One final blow comes and the last signature calls up on the paper. The signature too is half-done sometimes, which doesn't anymore carry the lustre of life. Blood flows on the floor and smears the walls. The end has come.

The remaining lambs continue with their eyes gouged out or their limbs chopped off and will have to live on half-feed everyday. But there is no guarantee that they will be allowed to continue like that forever. These lambs will have to tread on the same flowing and smeared blood to the slaughterhouse. The cloud of uncertain terror looms large.

IT's happening.