Let me start by accepting what is “axiomatically true”- I am “highly spirited!” (Don’t cock up your eyebrows at this. If I am not spirited and if I don’t write, very soon you guys would be standing at my funeral. So, in order to deny all of you guys the pleasure of such a mishap, I slowly attempt to walk into “the end” with a few notes here and there without anybody even coming to know of it. )
The whole incident starts with a piece of paper that was lying on my desk. I am generally a very tidy fellow and prefer my desk to be free of all kinds of papers. Even if there is work pending which is a general phenomenon with me, the papers should be at a place which is away from the gaze of the customers as well my boss alike. Now this is an art which can be perfected by employees of a public sector undertaking over a period of time. I won’t say I have quite perfected it, but I am on the “road to perfection”. During the day your table should be full of papers strewn here and there. In between these derivatives of cellulose, one should bury his/her face and constantly bring out a bored and victimized look. This look should continue till your boss walks past you with a certain degree of appreciation. Now interchanging roles- If you are a boss, and your subordinate is presenting such a picture, please don’t be fooled. Even if he is genuinely working, give him a casual glance with a complex mix of appreciation, confusion, contempt and rebuke in varying degrees. This will demoralize the worker. I know you are shocked, but this is what you are expected to do. Oops! I forgot about the piece of paper.
On the paper were instructions to report to the training college of the organization. The words were “divine instructions”- I would be away from my desk, irate clients, a sadistic boss and above all a ‘dry state” for a fortnight. What a respite from the daily dose of office work, cribbing and earthly worries. I jumped in happiness when I saw my pass to “freedom”.
Since time was short, there was no option but to use the “stratospheric” mode of travel. The “Top Boss” was kind enough to sign the small piece of paper which put me on the lap of the “Maharaja” for transhipment to the National Capital and from there to a suburb where the training college was located. It was not the first time that I had arrived into this “recreation resort”. Approximately 500 days back to I had come here, but there was a catch in it. My stay last time was as a “cub” to the organization. This time it was a Tiger who was walking in.
The cab driver who picked me up at the airport felt that it was his prime responsibility to act as a tour guide while he drove me. It was only after I started giving him tit bits about the place that he understood that his action towards me should have been more of a “directive principle” than a “fundamental duty”.
At the gate of this “magnanimously imposing” structure, I was accosted by a group of twenty security guards. They probably had suspicions that I could be remotely related to a certain “Al Qaeda” or “Shri Ram Sene” and hence a stringent search was made of the car as well as me. Although I had nothing in my possession which could be remotely called a part of an arsenal but I was apprehensive about surrendering the bottle of “Bacardi” if they found it in my person. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they did not find the bottle and I merrily strode into the institution with considerable ease.
At my arrival on the reception, I was welcomed with a smile by a chap who was no more than twenty years old. He made me fill up a register (at this point let me tell you that my organization is an extremely register-centric outfit. From stamps to leased vehicles, and from entry into a room to exit from the organization, everything has a register.) A column in the register read, “Vegetarian or Non-vegetarian.” I so much wanted to write “Dinosauratarian” in it. And how much I failed to do so.
He also made me log into a computer and fill up the same details. I failed to understand which one- the register or the computer-made more sense. Also, recently the “top Management” had enumerated a policy which said that all “controllable expenses” should be curtailed and brought down by 25 per cent in the present fiscal. I did not know curtailing which one can be called “controllable”- the register or the computer. Not spraining my brains further, I walked towards my allotted room.
The room given to me was a beautiful one. Did the hospitality department fellows realize that I needed “space” and hence a spacious room with an exclusive balcony was given to me? I could keep an eye on any side from this balcony and this proved to be very fruitful in the coming days. The moment I stepped into the balcony I saw a gang of “cute faces” beneath my balcony.“Should we go for a movie or should we go shopping?” The point of contention was no contention. Do both, I wanted to instruct them. But again I failed to do so.
I seriously like the serene atmosphere of the “School of learning”. It is built like a “resort” with small buildings spread over a vast area of landscaped earth. Exactly in front of my room stood the huge water reservoir that resembled a “Tangri Kebab” (A mughlai version of Chicken Drumsticks). Classes were built in an aesthetic manner with the architecture probably borrowed from a management school. I know you would be thinking that we are such “apes” but let me tell you that there is no law which can penalize you for plagiarizing an architectural idea. Hope you got it. No? Then go, sue yourself. Classes are named after seats of learning in the ancient and medieval history of India. This is surely classy. With all modern gizmos and ergonomic furniture in it, they can closely compete with the boardroom of any “Fortune 500 company”.
Every week one amazing or the other group joins this “School of learning” for short courses that assist us in carrying out our duties in the organization. I could see porters carrying luggage of entrants coming in. Most were fresh “recruits” and arrived to this place in groups. (Makes me nostalgic about my arrival some years back when I too arrived in a similar manner) I could see the young faces merrily striding into the place with excitement. Their chirpy faces, enthusiastic demeanor and their gaiety to meet their peers were very clearly visible in their expressions. Youth these days was the buzzword in my organization. It was a pleasure to see and hear the buzzword constantly.
At this point let me mention that we are the biggest bunch of hypocrites to have ever stepped on this earth. We have a “different’ standard and a “different” set of rules for us at different places. One gentleman was complaining to the housekeeping staff that his cup of morning tea did not the requisite quantity of sugar in it. I wonder if the same person could make a similar statement to his wife at home (I assume he is married because he looked all hen-pecked). If he did, maybe, he would never get a cup of tea again in his life. There came constant complaints from people about the quality of food, the taste of it and the trivial, “why doesn’t my room have a phone”. As if what was expected that a hotline be installed in his room with direct access to a certain Obama fellow. There are umpteen examples some of which I will quote during the course of progress of this creation.
The best place in this place of learning was the dining hall. Different species of human beings could be observed there. The youngsters were a vociferous lot whose tolerance and patience level was really low. There is a certain fella who can be called “surfer”. His primary vocation was to conquer the remote to the television and keep changing the channels. Whenever I saw him, his affection towards the food would be less and he was more engrossed in “channel surfing”. The action was irritating but nobody ever raised an objection. Nobody after all was here to watch television. Another group of people had descended from the fishermen of some coastal area. Their primary job was to “fish” out the slightly more edible pieces of fish or fowl served. Using the ladle in a manner with surgeon-like precision these “masters’ would “artistically glide” the ladle inside the serving bowl. Then making sure that nobody was watching them (Kiddos! Don’t be an Ostrich, the whole place is watching you) they would in the fraction of a second “fish out” the good pieces and scoot. Some went even further. They carried a separate plate to carry out this action. Guys, do it openly. Your “attempt” to do it on the sly and then being caught makes the whole issue very funny.
Another “experienced” fellow also made me laugh to my heart’s content. Approaching the serving dish he asked the steward suspiciously, “This is sheep? Or is it Goat?” The perplexed steward called his superior who enlightened all of us by saying, “Sir, this is mutton”. Wow! The answer did not satisfy the questioner. He moved on to help himself to some curd leaving a few of us to a round of hilarious laughter. I wanted to walk up to the fellow and tell him, “Sir, this is Elephant in brine mixed with chimpanzee nails. Try it. It is delicious”. I am sure his appetite would have died for the period he would be here had I said that.
Another Gentleman had the habit of collecting cutlery. I cannot for the sake of being polite called him a kleptomaniac, but his collection bordered on this disorder. Next time you want cutlery (not fresh, mind you) or if you find cutlery missing from your home, contact him.
As the evening set in, I sat on the balcony and observed these freshmen. Couples walked hand in hand (one couple after another), groups lazed around on the soft grass while the sporty ones played badminton on the court. Keep them here for a year and I am sure, a male version of Saina Nehwal would come out.
At last, it was “Alas in wonderland” for me. It was celebration time. The “Bacardi” bat was let out of the bag!
After about 100 milliliters of Bacardi shifted its position from the bottle to my stomach, I was nostalgic. I missed all my peers who were here with me the last time to “get some sense” into us. When I saw the gangs of juniors laughing and bantering among themselves, I missed my peers all the more. I immediately called up the “pocket sized dynamite” friend of mine who had been my constant companion through my 730 days of probation. Although he tried to console me (He exactly knows how emotional I become when “Batman” gets into me.), I was inconsolable. Fifteen minutes into the fundas on “Darwin”, “Freud” and “Dickens”, I told him, “okay go to hell” and I banged down the phone on him. Poor fellow always puts up with all my tantrums. Thank you, mate!
Walking into the classrooms on the first day wasn’t easy. I missed my friends. But this time I had come to take the sessions seriously. Even the instructors knew that the “seriousness quotient” was high. A few “wise men” whom I had come to know during my interactions with them the last time smiled and nodded to my greetings as we passed each other. A few faces I looked for were missing and a few I did not recognize formed a part of the school. But then the “serious” part started. I did not have the time to think of anything else. The courses really made more sense as I attentively got into the “study mode”. Time flew and knowledge accumulated.
Trainees did everything here which they would never do at home. Early morning the “experienced” people would be found in morning walks or the yoga class. I wonder what made them get up so early in the morning to tie themselves into such a “Gordian knot”. Phew! People like me like dozing away to glory till it was minutes for the class to start. A cross section also believed in using the gym to glory. The best part came to light when I was walking down to the breakfast table. One of my fellow trainees was playing football with the exercising ball inside the gym. What a messed up effort to become Messi. God save us and every lover of soccer the torture of watching such a sacrilege.
One of the evenings we were subjected to a talk on “Gender Justice”. It was after I entered the amphitheatre that I found that the talk was actually about “sexual harassment at workplace”. The organizers had decided to “sugar coat” the lecture fearing that the mere mention of the word “sex” as a noun or verb or adjective or whatever might thin out the crowd. The speaker tested our patience with wrong quotations from the Indian penal code, illogically minute details of committees formed to address the issue and unrelated anecdotes. What was scarier was that the mere mention of qualifications like “sweetheart” or “darling” could land you behind bars. The talk was unnecessary elongated to such levels that at the end the head of the institution had to ask the speaker to conclude (in fact he wanted to say, “shut up”). When I could not take it any further, I got up and told the speaker, “Instead of enumerating punishments and making every male feel like a sexual deviant, it would be appreciable if you sensitize them”. I also added a few legal jargons and quoted a few sections from the penal code to draw a round of applause. How happy I felt.
The two best things about the trainings at this institution is the visits to malls (we Indians still start running the moment a shopping mall is mentioned. I know, we are compulsive shoppers) and the group photograph. As soon as the classes ended, people ran to get a seat on the bus going to the shopping malls. Like a group of “Scouts and Guides” people sat patiently for the bus to start. Once it reached the malls, quite a few gave such a awed expression as if they had found “The Statue of liberty” in front of them. After two hours when the crowd came out everybody had packets of sizes bigger than them. One gentleman had bought a carton of aerated colas because it was cheaper in “The National Capital”. Please don’t be shocked. The carton did not go back. Every boozer inside the campus knew of this acquisition and whenever the sources to dilute alcohol went dry, this gentleman would be woken up. He went home empty-handed and even lost the money. Do drunks ever pay up?
Oh yes, the group photograph. The cameraman who clicks the “Nikon automatic” is probably dumb. He can’t speak. Well, it is not that he is dumb buy birth. It is just that his vocal chords get temporarily challenged whenever he shoves a sachet of “Guthkha” (An Indian innovation made of a hundred unmentionable inedible substances) into his mouth. He kept on adjusting people by the stroke of his hand or shaking his head in disgust till the Principal arrived. Some chairs were vacant to adjust certain dignitaries who could not make it to the photo session. (Please introduce me to the fellow who invented “Photoshop”. He is a genius who made it possible to circumvent time and be able to be present in the 'present' in 'future') Days later when I saw the photograph I was shocked. A lady who was “fitted” into the photograph was seen sitting at above the “ground level” and a gentleman who in reality was capable of giving close contribution to Clive Lloyd was instead giving Prince Charles a run for his money. Technology, I salute you!
On my last day on campus, I again sat on the balcony with a glass of Bacardi in my hand. The thought came to my mind that this same routine takes place every week. But we never get bored of it. The drama is repeatedly telecast every seven days. It is just that the actors keep on changing. It had happened one and a half years back too when I had come to this place, and it was happening now too. Was it real? Or was it virtual? Was it déjà vu? I know Bacardi and nostalgia make a really potent combination.
As I put my luggage into the trunk of the cab, I saw freshmen bidding adieu to each other. Some eyes were moist. People frantically hugged each other. One couple even stole a moment to be passionate. Cabs moved out one after the other. I too started the drive to the airport. But then that was not the end. At the gate, new cabs were coming in- asking for directions, filling up forms, smiling at each other, showing excitement and full of enthusiasm.
Life indeed moves a full circle.
Really miss that time...
ReplyDelete