M Chronicles - II

The Interview

“The fiasco at the dentist’s” or “The mishap with Mr M”, as I described the incident to whom so ever cared to listen, was long forgotten by my transient memory. Those who wish to read about the above-mentioned catastrophe may visit https://krishnanvarmak.blogspot.com/2019/12/mind-games.html. I was helped in this endeavour by two unrelated circumstances. Being the first among a family of engineers, my grandfather was a very progressive and pragmatic man. On his 84^th birthday, he realised that further repair work on his dental faculty would be futile. It was time to bid adieu to those tired and worn out warriors. He got himself a better, whiter, sharper set. And when it came to yours faithfully, I could claim the possession of a glorious set of tusks that occupied the pride of my face. In fact, there are rumours amongst certain ignoble circles that my canines could glow in the dark. A highly exaggerated, though not completely inaccurate statement, one should say. Hence, visits to the dentist seemed not imminent. The second circumstance was slightly melancholic in nature. 11 months since my consecration as an engineer, I realised that unemployment was one of the occupational hazards of being a chemical engineer. There was also news circulating that a recent surge in stress related ailments amongst the general population was caused by my condition of idleness. Yours truly was not one to rest on his laurels when the society faced such a malady. 4 whole volumes of illegible notes were prepared, innumerable tests were written and interviews were attended, applications were sent out to all reputable, not so reputable, shady and outright criminal organisations. With regards to my resume, with such achievements as being a part of the school soccer team and participating in a music contest with kitchen utensils, it was as illustrious as any. This preoccupation with my inoccupation spared me no time to contemplate on the past.

The interview contestants could be classified into three classes hierarchically. The novice, the experienced and the elite veterans. A novice who completes 5 interviews gets promoted to the experienced class and when he completes 10 interviews gets further elevated to the elite veteran class. An elite could be identified from his/her rolled up sleeve, bolder hues of his/her clothes and an aura of familiarity with the whole process. An elite is no longer constrained by inhibition to ask for more than one cup of coffee. He/she is not confused whether to turn the knob of the water purifier up or down, which, incidentally, is different for every purifier. The elite eschews such displays of opulence as the wearing of ties and the polishing of shoes. The interview in Delhi, being my 11^th such endeavour, was to be my coronation as an elite veteran. Being a born and brought up in an esteemed tribe that considered integrity and responsibility as its watch words, every small responsibility was important to this Varma. Hence, befitting of an elite, a pull over jacket was preferred over a suit, the belt was forgotten and just to prove my stature, a leaking pen left a stain on my trousers that I was unaware of.  

I was describing to a novice how I tricked an interviewer into believing that process dynamics was, indeed, my favourite subject even though I learnt of its existence only that morning, when a booming voice resounded through the room. “My dear young friends, how are you today? Are you feeling cold?”. Some of us mumbled a meek yes, while others preferred the sanctuary of silence. The voice persisted “My company is looking for honest, confident young executives who are ready to face any challenge. I asked ARE YOU FEELING COLD?”. Coming from the south of the Vindhyas, it would have been blatant chicanery on my part to claim immunity from the winter cold. With the utmost confidence in my honesty, I shouted “YES SIR”. To my appalment everyone else decided to change their option from a meek yes to a meek no. I could feel the head nearest to me turning in my direction. Then the next one, and the next one until all the heads were aligned in my direction. “Just like a row of falling dominoes”, I could hear a small voice in the back of my head. I could see some of the faces nodding in my direction as a sign of respect for the display of honesty in such gruelling times. “Who was that?” the voice inquired. I could not blame his curiosity. The voice began its slow approach towards me, guided by the well aligned heads of my fellow competitors. My breathing mechanism had completely shut down by the time I could see the top of Voice’ head. There was something eerily familiar about those equally white, neatly cropped hair. The top of his head was followed by his clean-shaven face and his impressive torso into my visibility range. A casual inquiry amongst the circles I frequent would let you know that here was chap who could face any calamity with his chest out and head held high. But the sight of Mr M, standing in all his might at such proximity stunned this brave soul.  My body attained a state of total inactivity while my mind went into a state of vigour hitherto undiscovered. I could have declared myself a sage if the roles had been reversed. At this point, the uninitiated may please forgive my treatment of the body and mind as separate entities, but this is imperative to carry the story forward. The mind, as I shall call my brain with reverence henceforth, decided to cut its connect with the present space-time continuum. It started delving into the seemingly insignificant. “How did they manage to trick you? A person of your experience should have known that the strategy of taking the plate of samosas in one hand and the cup of tea in a saucer in the other was bound to fail. You had to let go of one to consume the other”. From this mundane observation, the mind was elevating itself into the contemplation of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle and its applications in daily life, when with a “Well, well, well”, M turned and left the room. The disturbance brought that chain of thought to a halt. Simultaneously, normal operation of the lungs was resumed. “Wow Mr varma, did you know that you could hold your breath for so long? Impressive!”, exclaimed the mind. Sensing that inconspicuousness, for want of a better word, was the need of the hour, I moved to a corner of the room to resolve the Samosa Vs tea issue. My temporal lobe was picking up conversation between my fellow applicants about the reasons for the recent decline in oil prices and how it was affecting the share price of the company. My mind, however, was oblivious to its surrounding and seemed quite enthused in telling me that 100gm of potato had 77 calories in it. Several minutes into this tête-à-tête with my mind, I was starting to appreciate the amount of futile knowledge it had collected through the course of its existence.

I was called in for the interview with about a minute left for 12 ‘o’ clock. There were 11 members in the interview board with Mr M right at the center. “Psst! What is your plan? Do you start wishing the members from left to right or the other way around? There is exactly 5 seconds to noon. What if you cannot complete the wishing ritual by then? Do you wish some a good morning and the others a good afternoon?” the mind asked. I decided that left to right seemed the logical way to go. After wishing 10 members the best of mornings, I looked at my watch and then calmly wished the last member a good afternoon. Other than Mr M, the rest seemed to have enjoyed my gesture.  “So, young man, before we begin, don’t you think it would have been prudent not to wear stained clothes for an interview?”, asked Mr M. Only then did the blue blotch on my trousers come to my notice. To my astonishment, it seemed to be growing by the second. “The phenomenon is called wicking”, explained my mind. It went on to further elaborate on the capillary action of the fabric, surface tension of ink and concluded with the working principle of detergents. I duly passed on this information to Mr M and he seemed satisfied. “OK. Shall we begin? Mr Varma, please give us an introduction about yourself” asked an interviewer who was seated so far to the side that she was beyond my peripheral vision. Anticipating this line of questioning, a monologue, which included details of my parents’ professions, the neighbour’s car and the number of rooms in my college hostel, had been prepared and the same was delivered. “When did you become so narcissistic that you forgot the dangers of divulging private information to someone you have not even seen? Shame on you Varma”, exclaimed my mind. “Tell us one quality or skill of yours that would impress us”, asked another interviewer. “They already have sufficient number of hard working, determined, team players Varma. Be different. Tell them how you held your breath for 5 minutes and 31 seconds this morning. They are bound to be impressed” urged my mind. It was indeed an impressive feat by my lungs and deserved recognition. I took the risk. While the round of applause that I expected was not received, at least I got Mr M smiling. “Since you mentioned that your last literary endeavour was a book on independent India, which personality from that book would you like to have a rendezvous with?” asked the interviewer seated next to Mr M. With such towering personalities like Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi and, considering the present political scenario, A B Vajpayee, it was a question of too many. “V Balasubramanian” announced my mind to the surprise of everyone present, including yours truly. Now, the interviewers were put in a spot of bother here. They had to either expose their ignorance or forgo further investigation into the matter. A lesser man would have enjoyed the predicament that had befallen the interviewers. Not this benevolent Varma though. “V Balasubramanian was a journalist, who, during the time of emergency, wrote an article titled “Livestock problems In India”. He went on to write that “there are at present 580 million sheep in the country”. This was in order to escape the vigilant eyes of the censors”, I explained. This sparked a vigorous conversation among the board members about dynastic politics, dictators, dangers to democracy and the death of Journalism. 20 minutes elapsed and an office assistant came into announce that it was time to break for lunch. “I guess we will wind up with one final question Mr Varma. Can you tell us the calorific value of natural gas?”, asked Mr M. Before I could cook up some value, my mind interjected “No sir. But can I interest you in the calorific value of potato?”