My New York-to-Delhi flight landed, its wheels whirring in
satisfaction on the runway, as if with a sense of accomplishment. I had just
been offered my first job as an Assistant Editor at a prestigious
not-for-profit organization in Delhi. I was to join the next day. I collected
my belongings, mostly afraid of not being able to collect myself entirely for
this brand, new opportunity.
Day one. I walk into my editor-in-chief’s office, only to be
sent out. A copious amount of c(attitude) wafted through the room, mingling
with her cheap perfume. When I finally did get a chance to speak with her, she
was already eyeing me scornfully. Then her eyes moved to my resume, sitting on
her desk.
‘Your resume’s all over the place!’ she remarked. I could
almost hear mastiffs growling in her epiglottis.
‘Well, M’am,’ I tried to be at my polite best, ‘you have to
be able to see the common thread running through it all..’
‘Who hired you? Are you related to the Director?’ she barked
out her next question.
‘Sorry?’ I displayed surprise at this one, more in sheer
amusement at the non-profit’s dynamics, than in righteousness.
‘Alright, the only role I have for you, at the moment, has
nothing to do with the interests you’ve listed. We don’t have any slots there.
Is this acceptable to you?’
‘M’am, I was hired to fulfil a role linked with my education
and expertise, so I don’t think that’s quite fair..’ I trailed off.
‘This is all we have. Take it or leave it,’ she beamed at my
squirming self.
‘M’am, please, I’ve started work with a lot of aspirations.
Please see what you can do..’ I pleaded, getting the gnawing feeling, I was
doing so vis-a-vis a stone-heart.
‘I don’t have all
day, so tell me if you’re ready for us to place this responsibility on your
shoulders,’ she smirked in satisfaction.
‘M’am, I can’t take up this role..I’m willing to wait for a
new..’ I was cut-off by her grinding her teeth.
‘Look, even men don’t propose after just the once, so, who
do you think you are?’ she laughed, spewing a little spit-spray into the air.
Back at my desk, I tried smiling at the middle-level editors
who only source of entertainment seemed to have been eavesdropping on my
conversation.
‘Hi,’ I said to the one I was to report to, touching her arm
slightly.
‘What are you doing? You have to prove your worth around
here before acting friendly,’ she was reprimanding me already. I stared at my
laptop, wondering whether I’d imbibed too much Americana, while making the
fatal mistake of returning to the famed Indian workplace.
I excused myself to take a break and call my
‘seasoned-corporate-fellow’ friend, asking for his advice on if there was a
special way to deal with this hell-hole,
but my phone was out of battery.
I returned to my desk and slumped, poring over an article.
This was supposed to be one of the most exciting days of my life! When I could
display my prowess at manipulating the written word, while of course, it seemed
now, preventing others from manipulating me.
‘She wears barbed wire and eats broken glass,’ someone said
to my back. Taken aback, I flipped around in part-panic, to see a smiling face
standing behind me.
‘Hi, I’m an illustrator here,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ I managed slowly at this point.
‘Santosh,’ he extended his hand.
‘Priya,’ I replied, still surprised.
‘Ya, our editor-in-chief..she wears barbed wire and eats
broken glass,’ Santosh said again, placidly.
‘What?’
‘She wears..’
‘Ya, I heard you. What does it mean?’ I quizzed him.
‘She’s very demanding and she’s on the board of directors,
so this organization can’t do without her,’ he declared slowly, like he was
decoding a mathematical theorem.
‘Well, why did they hire me, if they don’t have roles for
me?’ I said grumpily.
‘Let’s get coffee!’ he suggested.
Coffee tasted confused, like I was. Santosh maintained way
too much deep eye-contact, all at once for my liking and as we finished our
last sips, I decided to give the conversation with the editor-in-chief, loaded
with sharp objects and other ‘cutting edge’ weapons, yet another go.
‘M’am? May I come in?’ I asked her.
By this time, she was sitting with a male colleague of hers
and they were both giggling over something.
‘Yes? What do you want?’
‘M’am..’
‘You know what? You think you’re such a great writer? Do the
cover story for our monthly magazine. Six thousand words. It’s due in five
days,’ she finished my sentence for me. Only, this time, I could see the shards
inside the shark.
‘OK, M’am,’ I muttered and left, not knowing quite what to
make of this rather odd challenge.
I stuck to my desk in
the coming few days and toiled away at the cover story, burning the midnight
oil to meet the unreal target.
When I finally sent it off to the middle-level editor
assigned to me, she didn’t make significant changes in track-change mode, but
changed a few skin-shades when presenting it to the editor-in-chief, in
private.
I was summoned to the glass-eyed prickly chief next. A
little weary, I walked in.
‘Hmm. Priya, you did a decent job, but you couldn’t do it
alone, could you? You did need Rohini’s help after all!’ she declared, tapping
her pen on the cover story, leaving little ink marks on it, like the little
inky, scars on my psyche.
‘HELP’ ran the alarm bells in my head, as I returned to my
desk.
‘Hi!’ Santosh appeared out of nowhere. ‘Coffee? Tea?’
‘I need to get out of this place…’ I muttered under my
breath as we left.
Santosh was the only thing stopping me from losing my mind.
He smiled too much and lingered on, on my eyes too much after the conversation
was over, though. In broad daylight? In the middle of office? I was more of an
evening-person to even just feel my ‘sentimentality’ better. I looked around
the coffee-place and there were at least six ‘innocent’ bystanders lurking,
looking -- randomly, purposely.
‘Santosh!’ I said. ‘We have to get out of here,’ I said.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Back to our desks,’ I replied.
My first week turned into weeks and weeks into months. The
sights and sounds of the folks at work started to blur into one amoebic,
never-ending monster that assaulted my senses and threatened to swallow me at
any instance. The work itself stimulated my surviving neurons.
At the end of each ‘politically’ monotonous day, I’d drag
myself into my car, slump and drive wearily through the traffic python, to go
home, wade through dinner and unwind with a book that lay half-opened on my
face, until I’d wake up the next morning.
‘We’ve a conference next week to prepare for, people!’
declared the chiefy-chief on a morose Monday morning.
‘Priya, write the first draft of my speech and put it on my
table by tomorrow, after proof-reading it,’ she picked on me last.
'Ghost-writing?’ I asked.
‘Yes, ghost-writing’ she repeated. ‘You have a problem with
that?’
‘No, M’am,’ I replied.
On the day of the conference, our team left in cars that
parked themselves at the lobby of a grand hotel.
The announcements and talks began, without much ado. But
twenty minutes before the chief was to go on stage, word went around that she’d
just discovered she’d brought the printed copy of the penultimate draft of the
speech with her. By mistake. And, smartphones hadn’t been invented yet.
For the first time, I saw her face wilt and go a fairly deep-crimson.
‘What am I going to do?’ she asked looking at the faces of
the team of editors and illustrators, that had gathered backstage.
‘M’am..’ I said, very slowly. ‘May I?’
‘What?’ she turned sharply to me.
‘Only I know where the differences between the
‘pen-ultimate’ version and the latest ones lie, and I can fix it for you in
less than 20 minutes,’ I stepped up, a little amused for the first time and
before anyone could say another word.
‘Really?’ the chief-editor took a staggered step backwards
in disbelief.
‘Yes.’
‘Then do it,’ she said, un-frowning just a little.
When the speech was done, members of the audience sought the
chief out, but I knew that once she was done, she’d perhaps look for me. I
walked towards the exit, deliberately.
‘Priya,’ I heard her voice call out to my back.
I turned around, in slow-motion, without saying the word, in
possession of the ‘upper-hand’ temporarily.
‘You are an outstanding writer. And thank you. The Voice,
surprised me, which too tended to be something of a surprise.
I flipped around again, only to walk away in sure steps, the
twin-mongrels of disbelief and disgust trailing behind me.
