The Interview - Story Part 4/4

So here's the last part to the story! This one is 509 words long, making the story a whopping 2268 words long! (this is the first short story I've written that actually made it to the standard short story length! All my short stories are generally too short, even for a short story!)

Apologies to anyone who I've kept waiting! :)
Click here, here, and here to read Parts 1, 2, and 3.

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I felt like I would faint any moment. My head was throbbing with pain from standing out in the scorching heat for so long, my throat was prickly and dry, my shirt was still stained and there were merely nine minutes to go until the interview began. The drive to The Prestige Bank’s Central Branch would easily take fifteen minutes, and that too if the roads were clear, which they would certainly not be at this hour of the day; when majority of the city’s population were commuting to their offices. I sighed. I was defeated, and I knew it.

Out of nowhere, a tear appeared on the corner of my eye. With my head bowed down, I picked myself up and began to walk, lifting my head up only to navigate the staircase. With my pace slower than that of a tortoise, I dawdled over to the staircase and climbed down. Then I headed towards the exit.

I located my bike, walked over to it, then mounted it. My head was still bowed down, in a mixture of shame and grief. My brain buzzed with thoughts and ideas but I ignored it. I didn’t want to think about anything.

My speed remained invariably slow on the drive back home. Even on the deserted Frizex Expressway, I did not speeden up to save time. I felt….numb. As if the energy in my body had somehow been drained out of me. Impatient drivers blared their horns at me, signaling me to increase my speed or move aside to let them go ahead of me, but I did neither, ignoring the angry looks I received from other bikers before they drove ahead of me.

It was almost ten when I reached home. I got off my bike, locked it, then stepped inside the gate. There was no one at home. Abbu* and my two elder brothers were at work, and Ammi** was probably out visiting one of her lady friends in the neighbourhood, I assumed. I went straight into my room and slammed the door shut. Then I walked over to the mirror.

For a long time I just stared at the stain on my shirt. As I glared at it, understanding began to dawn upon me. I realized that the stain wasn’t as big, as repulsive, or as ugly as it had seemed then, nor would it make the Bank’s CEO change his mind about hiring me. It was a stain on my appearance, but that did not change who I was inside. I did not become less capable, less intelligent, or less competent because of it. A stain on my shirt was not a stain on who I was….if it would change people’s opinion about me, that was their problem, not mine.

With this realization, I thrust my hand into my pocket and dug out my cell phone. I decided that I would call the Bank’s General Manager, apologize to him about not being able to come to the interview, and ask if it could be rescheduled.
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For non-Urdu speakers - translations to Urdu words I have used here:
*Abbu: Father
*Ammi: Mother