Will She Be Mine (13 page)

Before I left the government organization, Dwapayanan threatened me in indirect terms that people who left defense organizations to work for private companies sometimes got slapped with breach of confidentiality law suites.

I laughed. “My aunty is in the union cabinet,” I said airily. “You must have heard of Mrs. Kumar?”

He wasn’t entirely sure whether to believe me or challenge me. Would an MSITian bluff? There was indeed a Mrs. Kumar in the union cabinet of ministers at that time, though she was in no way related to me. But he didn’t know that. He played it safe and tried a different approach.

“Private jobs have no security,” he said disdainfully. “If you stay with me, I promise to promote you every year. Your career growth under me will be unprecedented. Plus, you’d get a chance to do your PhD.”

I was unmoved by his promises. It was the government sector and even I wasn’t such a fool as to believe my boss could override all processes to promote me on an annual basis. It didn’t happen to someone like me who belonged to the general category. My first promotion after a year had been a provision allowed by the existing processes that Ananthkrishnan had foretold in advance when I joined, to move me from an ungazetted to a gazetted post. But it wasn’t an annual process to be repeated for every post. Anyway, Dwapayanan wasn’t about to give up. He proceeded to try from a different angle.

“Do you think we get no offers from the private sector?” he asked. “I personally receive feelers from private players from time to time, but I know of people smarter than either of us who lost their jobs without notice in the private sector.”

I had a faint smile in my eyes as he spoke. He was quick to detect the mirth on my face and intensified his attack.

“You're not yet married. Think how embarrassing it would be for you if you got fired from a private job after marriage. It would hurt your family and parents and also embarrass you in the eyes of your in-laws. It’s difficult to live a life of uncertainty which the private sector presents.”

“I’ve no such fears,” I said at last with a carefree air, determined to thwart all his attempts to demoralize me. “The department I'm joining in the private company is headed by my maternal uncle- my mother's brother.”

He felt quite lost now. If he disbelieved me, it didn't show on his face. Suddenly the hardworking boy who finished his official assignments well in time claimed to possess powerful relatives at every place where it mattered- one of whom was in the union cabinet of ministers while another headed an organization in a private company. I hardly cared what he thought as long as I got away from him in one piece.

My college friend, Saurabh Pal, or PS as I called him, visited India around this time for his sister’s wedding. He had earlier written me a letter at my Delhi address which I asked father to read out over phone. It was still the age of snail mail. In his letter he provided me his father’s India phone number where he’d stay during the trip. I counted the days for his arrival and accordingly called him up a few days later.

It was a good get together, although over phone. His father stayed in Kolkata, close to the Eastern boundary of the country, whereas I was posted in Bangalore, closer to the southern tip. He could have flown down to meet me, but perhaps didn’t have the time, or feel the need. On the other hand I couldn’t afford a weeklong trip to visit him by train, since I couldn’t afford the faster mode of air travel. In India, train travel had always been by far cheaper than air, though it took over 24 hours to travel one way to where his father stayed compared to three hours by plane.

Among the other things we discussed, he proudly mentioned some of his escapades with women in the US as proof of his masculine prowess, starting with someone called Kathy. Only I seemed to be lagging behind on all fronts in life. I made a mental note. I had to pick up speed fast. We talked just once as he left India soon after, providing me with his US telephone number and also his email id. I didn’t have my personal email id yet, but had the option of creating a free id on the internet to keep in touch with friends like him. On his next trip to India he promised to meet me, wherever I happened to be. It was prohibitively expensive in those days to call the US from India, so he said not to worry. He’d call me from there whenever I got my own telephone.

I’d soon get one, I decided. It was time to move up the value chain in life. After serving my notice period at the imaging organization, I happily bid my colleagues good bye to join my ‘maternal uncle’ in the private sector. With a chuckle I wondered if my mother’s brother had ever seen the insides of an office. He was a farmer by profession.

It was my first opportunity to work in a multinational company. I remembered Shalini had started working at a multinational bank quite a while back. This was where the money lay, though I was way back in the queue.

My new office’s central hall was impressive and a refreshing change from my last job. In contrast to the dingy confines of my previous office, this one was entirely air conditioned and well lit, spread across four floors with a terrace at the top. The hall in each floor was divided into small cubicles less than 5 feet high. Each cubicle seated four. The managers had a row of differently sized cubicles to themselves, each seating one. Their cabins also had windows with hinges that could be opened to let in fresh air if one so desired.

This arrangement of traditional windows with hinges that could be opened to let in fresh air was something I never again saw in the other centrally air conditioned offices in my later years in the IT industry. The latter offices were all like tombs, though air conditioned. A quick lookup in the net reported modern offices to be precisely that- no better than airtight tombs, with sealed glass panes passing for windows, sometimes causing breathing problems to occupants who sat for prolonged hours, due to unclean air filters, clogged ducts and air exchangers.

I thus joined my first private sector job at Bangalore, but continued keeping tabs on Shalini as closely as I could. I called up her house shortly after and luckily she was at home to take my call this time.

“I heard Ragini’s better,” I said, keeping my fingers crossed.

“Her fever’s gone,” she replied to my delight. “Your medicine worked like a charm this time, doctor, though it took a while to act.”

“
Anyway, better late than never. It’s a relief,” I said honestly, hoping the experience would promote me in her eyes. “I’ve good news too. I recently changed my job.”

“Joined a hospital this time, did you, doc?”

She sounded as if she was smiling upon hearing the news of my job hopping, possibly out of relief that she’d remain in Delhi, peacefully devoted to her job while I’d continue far away in Bangalore, messing up other people’s lives. She didn’t discuss her sister’s illness any further or my contribution to curing her. She didn’t ask why I had looked up my new job in Bangalore instead of scouting companies in Delhi. It seemed like she just didn’t care.

It was disheartening, unless I was imagining things. She’d said nothing explicitly to indicate her lack of interest in my activities, but somehow her careless attitude pulled me down. She didn’t even ask when I’d visit Delhi next or showed any eagerness to meet me. As far as she seemed concerned the episode of her sister’s illness was a closed chapter. She’d probably soon forget my role in the matter too.

I felt dismayed, reliving again the rejections I’d encountered at her hands when she turned down my various proposals for marriage. Nothing much seemed to have changed since then. Then what had she meant by saying I didn’t earn when I proposed to her the last time? I’d assumed it was a hint for me to start earning before proposing- that she was otherwise agreeable to my proposal, and would wait for me. I sighed. Maybe, I’d misunderstood. She wasn’t the waiting type, being too practical and worldly wise. There was no solution in sight to my hankering. Perhaps, it was time to put my hallucinations behind and try to get over her. She had rightly said outside her training institute that I shouldn’t cry over her- but I didn’t know how to do it in practice?

I sometimes suspected she was far too mature for me, and perhaps better grounded in reality too. She also got a fatter purse for her efforts at her banking job than I’d managed in either of my two jobs so far. Comparisons never cease with humans, especially the inane curiosity to know how much the other person earns. I considered it an uncivilized trait and usually restricted my curiosity to my boss's salary- when I deemed him less competent than me- which, unfortunately, was often the case.

At Bangalore, I pushed my way into crowded buses to reach my new workplace in the mornings. In the evenings, while returning from office, I didn't mind the sweat. But the mornings got messy. I didn't like reaching the office drenched, spending the next few hours in a sticky, wet shirt, waiting for it to dry in the air conditioned atmosphere.

Bangalore was slowly getting crammed with IT offices in the 90’s and started drawing hoards of workers from other states as well. At present, people from other countries also travel to this city for jobs. Like most other states, Bangalore's masters never planned roads for the growing traffic. That way, modern cities in the country had a way of growing accidentally, without planning or foresight. At a certain point in any such city’s prosperity that flourishing companies brought, the rulers often took the opportunity to join hands with builders in a nexus to mint money in the name of development. Few thought of the masses beyond paying them lip service.

The result was miles of traffic jams and sweat. AC in the cars brought little respite. Such transient comforts were fast outlived by the perennial hardships. I once read in the newspaper of a businessman having a heart attack while waiting for his turn to clear the traffic lights. But I was young with no such fears. There was an entire future waiting for me.

Ramesh had told me during the interview to keep a passport ready, so I applied for one and learned that the application procedure included police verification at the address I resided.

On a Saturday, a policeman turned up and rang the doorbell at my apartment. When I opened the door, he stared at me from head to toe as if I was an entity from outer space.

“Rajat Kumar?” he asked at last.

I nodded, quickly flashing my driving license.

He turned it over and handed it back unimpressed. “It has a Delhi address,” he said as if it were a crime, and looked around. Then his gaze returned to rest on me superciliously, as though I was dumb and unintelligent to fail to understand his hints. “It’s sunny outside and I'm thirsty,” he said.

I moved aside courteously to let him enter. “Not too cold,” he cautioned as I went inside to fetch a glass of water.

I sat down after handing him the glass.

“So what if my DL was issued at Delhi, it’s my ID proof,” I pointed out, holding out my driving license for him to inspect again, but he didn’t bother.

It was a valid license, good for driving a car or scooter anywhere in the country. I had got it made when I drove my father's car around. I also brought along the papers of my apartment’s rental lease and showed them to him.

“This is my proof of residence. I've been staying here for about two years.”

He glanced at the papers studiously. “This- and your DL- are documents issued at two different places- records of two different cities,” he concluded finally as if I was a trespasser belonging to another country. His tone suggested that I was somehow at a disadvantage.

I’d heard that if these junior, clerical cops raised any doubt in their verification report, the passport office wouldn’t issue you a passport, irrespective of the authenticity of your claim. Junior level, corrupt officials in public services had been vested with immense powers to harass and maul the general public whimsically, at will.

Was he hinting at a bribe? I was meeting such a cop for the first time and found his beggarly approach frustrating. Didn't he get a salary?

“Who's your boss?” I asked at length, with a view to throw a scare in him.

But he flashed a crooked, unconcerned smile. “Why do you wish to know about my boss? I'm here to verify your address, not discuss my boss.”

“I'll talk to him whether my driving license and rental lease taken together aren't sufficient id and address proofs for the purpose of my passport application.”

“Go ahead,” he said nonchalantly. “Some people learn the hard way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm helping you get an important official document made- your passport- with which you can travel to foreign countries and make a lot of money,” he said in an obliging tone. “I won't come around to verify your address every year, nor ask for a portion of your earnings like the government demands by way of income tax on an annual basis. This is a one time verification which would hold good for the period of validity of your passport.”

“I’m aware of all that. Can you get to the point?”

“I've not met a more miserly man,” he said, using the word 'miserly' as a substitute for 'dumb'. “People are usually smarter.”

“Well, I'm dumb and miserly,” I said in an aggressive tone, challenging him to go on.

He cleared his throat, feeling a little uncomfortable by now with my stiff, unrelenting attitude. “If you apply through an agent or tout to get your passport made, they’d charge you thousands of rupees. Of course, they don’t pocket the bulk of that money. Most of it is distributed upstream as an incentive.”

“Upstream?”

“Forget it. At the end of the day you’d want the officials and clerks at the passport offices to process your application, won’t you?”

“Does some of that money travel up to the ministers too?”

“How can I tell you that? These are confidential things, which the general public in not supposed to know.” He fixed me with a knowledgeable stare. “Returning to touts- even if you go via them, this verification step with the police would still take place. Our demands are nowhere near that of the folks involved in processing your application later down the line.” He paused. “Did you apply for your passport through an agent?”