Keeping Busy to Keep the Darkness Away

January 10, 2008

Still feeling the fatigue born of yesterday's laborious, tedious, long-drawn interview process, which I underwent for the job of content writer-cum-editor in Netlink Digital Energy, situated in Udyog Vihar, Gurgaon.

Now again, I still cannot find out why I am appearing for these interviews, even though I know fully well that at the moment I won't be taking up a job, even if offered a good salary, because right now, with Babu Bhai's avid participation in our business venture and even his willingness to visit Djibouti in the coming days with me, it has sown the seeds of hope. It has refuelled the famished tanker of our rudimentary business cart.

But still I went. Maybe I am just trying to exhaust myself by keeping myself busy, so that I cannot reflect or think too much about the past. It's a nice way to beat the ghosts of the past -- make yourself busy, as much as possible, so that you are forcefully shackled in the present. The past ghosts die temporarily because they are not getting the oxygen of your attention. 

Now, coming to this Udyog Vihar, Gurgaon interview, first of all, reaching there was quite a ride with tough experiences.

India is struggling. India is strugglingly buzzing ahead, crowds of people hallucinated, masses of people lost in the dream world of wealth, chugging and churning around you like a busy beehive.

On the roads, potholed and smooth, vehicles and people trundle ahead nonchalantly all along. In fact, everywhere you see tiny outlets of survival, the little dots of enterprise scattered around at every available corner.

Rich ones, cozily encased in luxurious cars, cartle ahead fastly. Poor ones move ahead as a compact unit, their dreams, destinations and motivations strongly glued together. All of them, ambulating through public or private transport, lurch ahead with their fair dose of bantering, bickering and haggling.

The journey is full of sweet-sour anecdotes.

As a part of this big individuality or collectivity, you do expect—and it would be better if you do—the best or the worst, the fairest or the wantonmost, ecstasy or agony.

So, open to all these possibilities, I reached Gurgaon in an agonizingly slowly moving vehicle.

Gurgaon, with its real estate development, plus mega malls, complexes, glass-fronted official blocks, rich cars, poor crowds scattered like dots upon its entirely welcoming urban body.

After getting down from the accursed private minibus, as I caught onto my perch at the back of an auto meant for the Phase 5 area, I was horrified to find the right thigh of my trousers smeared with a big, wanton, ill-smelling blot of kerosene oil.

This dirty map on my trousers glared like the unbearable face of India's disorderly march ahead.

I have not the least idea where I could have got it from. Moving across such creepingly buzzing chaos, such things can always be expected. I should only feel lucky that it wasn't cattle dung. That would have been more problematic. 

The strange map was smiling with its deadly chuckle, its ill smell reaching my nostrils with its dirty pout.

I wanted to cry. Just 15 minutes away from my presentation, and my dress was in such a bad shape.

For the slightest of a second, I had the idea of abandoning the presentation altogether, but then, being basically a lazy sort of person and understanding the real value of all that is required to plan a visit to a place 60 kilometres away, I thought it better to move ahead on my path.

I knew that I had nothing to lose, all ends being open for the people of skill and calibre in the dreamland of enterprise that is Udyog Vihar.

So, without allowing the thought and smell of kerosene to plague my conscience, I took a rickshaw to reach Plot Number 571, the pleasantly furnished destination block.

Having penned my entry in the gate register, I went ahead to meet the enterprise- and profit-friendly ambience safely closeted in the three-storeyed block.

Its glass entrance door appeared to apply and exert some pressure against the guy with a blot on his pants.

Yet unconcerned, I went ahead.

It was a high-ceilinged reception hall, square in shape, its two walls having glass in aluminium frames. The glass panel facing the entrance door opened the work vista on four floors, including the basement. The glass front to the left side opened into a rectangular restroom with its table and chairs.

Now, one of the good things with successfully run private houses is that here chairs are padded, cushioned and comfortable even for the chance visitors.

Coming back to the reception room, it had black velvet plush sofas, but they were too plush, too soft. You just sink into their fluffy folds. It even makes you uneasy, as if it has grabbed you, holding you like a prisoner.

After all, when we need to sit, our bottoms should be supported against something holding its feet on a sound platform. Here the thing shakes and you feel as if it will slip away from under you. So you sink down, your knees protrude above, and you sit as if in the armful grasp of that thing, strangely pretending to be familiar with you.

The perky, active and agile receptionist sitting behind the circular reception table gives the whole ambience an air of alertness, aloofness, familiarity, businesswoman-like shape, etc.

She sat there in front of her desktop as the veritable conduit of the house with the outside world of clients, information seekers, job seekers, visitors, etc.

Since I had applied for the post of content writer, I was given a question paper to judge my writing prowess and skills, my style of writing, my expertise in grammar, etc.

You know, sometimes you end up writing a brilliant piece. Some other times the creative juices just refuse to flow out of the coffers of your creativity, while at many other times you just end up doing your bit as a mundane, commonplace writer.

I performed as mentioned in the third category, but in the mercilessly professional and objective world of business, even commonplace output seems a sufficient share to satisfy demand, as was proven later.

After that, I was interviewed by a young, hesitating sort of guy who, it seemed, was as hesitant and nervous as me.

Many a time, both of us came to the help of each other, and it went on without him getting the best out of me and me getting any impression of his being an expert interviewer, but he had the grace of forwarding me to the next level.

He told me that since I was new to technical writing, he would test me in this regard.

I was given a topic, Microsoft Silverlight, to search on the web and write a short, brisk account of this newest web application and why the borrowers should go for it.

Though I didn't know anything exactly about what the thing really meant, yet I picked out tidbits about the thing from the internet and wrote a coherent piece, which appeared to give a fair bit of idea about what the thing was really about.

Since I don't know typing, it was a bit tedious typing my write-up.

Then this printout and my earlier write-up were handed over to the HR head, a lady of grace, pleasant buxomness and graceful manners, yet strangely authoritative in her own way.

She did not beat around the bush and easily accepted my writing prowess. I got the stamp of approval once I showed her my two published works of poetry.

Then we came to the most important part—the salary part—which I had cleverly left blank.

She smiled and asked what I expected them to pay me.

In a very easy, honest and simple manner, I answered, "Ma'am, give me the maximum you can afford."

She was amused by it as a human being, but that appreciative smile and glint of unprofessional familiarity were soon clouded over by the business-like air of professionalism.

"No, Mr. Dahiya, we can't go like this in this manner as far as this part is concerned," she said.

So I remarked, "Ma'am, I have very sound reasons to hold myself in modestly high esteem. My work is at least 35,000 rupees per month in hand."

That meant, from the company's point of view, it was above 40,000.

She was visibly impressed with what I had written and the way I had performed.

Now I was set for the final step, the all-important interview with the CEO.

The meek girl who told me about this scheduled meeting spoke in a subdued, hushed voice, as if the top boss would hear us.

Then it was quite late in the night. The boss had gone to a conference.

I was given the option of either waiting for one more hour or leaving for my place and coming back within the next couple of days.

Today I decided to take a rest after all that hurly-burly chain of experiences.

Tomorrow is lined up for the D-day—the meeting with the top boss.

I will go with a positive attitude.

I do wish to settle down for a quiet life with a secure job, safe income and secure future for my family. After all, they deserve this much after all that they have done for me all along my life.

But the problem is, again, I am iron-sure in my mind that it will be very difficult for me to convince myself to take up this job even if they offer 50,000 rupees in hand per month.

Now again the question arises: why am I taking all this trouble?

Maybe I am just peddling around to give myself a feeling that I am giving my best by putting myself in such testing conditions.

Maybe I am just creatively trying my best to engage myself in a way so that I am not lost in the darkness.

Maybe it is just a means to avoid falling into full depression.