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Shivaswamy shouldn’t have gone to that interview. A man of sixty- two should have at least a tiny semblance of reality. It was an act of self-flagellation, really. He had known what might happen, but he had never imagined it would hurt him this much. He cursed himself a thousand times for going there.
It was not just the interview; nothing went his way that day. Bad luck stalked him throughout the day – the kind of day astrologers call a Shani Dosha, filled with unheard-of difficulties.
For the first time in the history of the Bengaluru Metro, all the trains on the Green Line were stopped for nearly forty-five minutes because of a technical glitch. When the trains resumed service, the station was overwhelmed by a crowd large enough to fill ten trains. The unbearable heat outside was intensified by the delayed monsoon. The black coat, soaked in sweat, clung to his body after years of disuse. The crowd was noisy, and the child beside him cried incessantly.
He decided to call the company to let them know he was running late. He dialled the number of the person who had arranged the interview. She didn’t answer. Frantically, he looked up the company’s details on his mobile and called their front desk. The call was redirected to the company’s head office in Sadashivanagar, not the Dickenson Road office where he was headed. Explaining his situation to the receptionist proved futile; she barely spoke above a whisper. With his free hand pressed against his other ear, he struggled to hear her over the child’s piercing cry one metre away.
Then, as the trains resumed their journeys, the rush prevented him from boarding the first two trains. Finally aboard, he found himself trapped in a space so tight he could only wiggle his toes. His neatly ironed clothes now bore the wrinkles of his ordeal.
If someone were to tell this story to Bengalurians, they would certainly not believe it. They would say that such a thing could never happen in their metro. In the Shani Mahatmya story, no matter how many times King Vikramaditya claims that the swan from the painting jumped out and swallowed the necklace of the merchant’s daughter Alolika, no one believes him. Shivaswamy’s situation was no different.
If you alight at the MG Road metro station, one exit leads you to Brigade Road, while another takes you in the opposite direction, towards Kamaraj Road. Shivaswamy was confused about which exit to take to reach DT Software Solutions. He took the wrong one, which added another fifteen minutes to the delay. If everything had gone according to his plan before he left home, he should have been thirty minutes early for his appointment. But instead, he was an hour late. The question of what this meant for him – to be so late for an interview, with thirty-five years of HR management experience – tortured him endlessly.
That day was different for him in other ways too. Until that point, he had always been the one conducting interviews from the safety of the panel, never the one under scrutiny. As an HR representative, he had mastered the art of questioning others, not of answering as an applicant. After a lengthy technical interview, when it was his turn, he would ask a few HR questions and jot down the words: “The candidate possesses adequate communication skills. Her attitude is satisfactory.” Thus considering his role complete. This was only the second time in his life that he was giving a job interview. A daunting thirty-five-year hiatus separated the first and the second. Would he have written “His attitude is satisfactory” about an applicant who was an hour late? His brain ached.
By the time he reached, he felt utterly drained. The pain in his knee had flared up after he raced up and down the metro station stairs hurriedly. The heat and humidity were unbearable. Sweat streamed down his face, soaking his south Indian salt-and-pepper moustache. A musty odour assaulted his senses when he tried to wipe it away with his handkerchief.
To add to his troubles, he felt an urgent need to visit the restroom. But the woman at the front desk, who was in charge of escorting him to the interview room, was brusque. “You’re an hour late. Senior executives are awaiting your arrival!” However, Shivaswamy just had to go. His diabetes, presumably, rendered him unable to delay this any longer. With impatience, she pointed him towards the restroom and then busied herself with her mobile. But the restroom unnerved him further. It was a luxurious lavatory, dazzling white. One wall was lined with flawless mirrors, and the countertops were adorned with flowerpots, all under a soft white light, like beams of the moon. Shivaswamy felt apprehensive, as though his very presence would taint its sanctity. The pungent smell of bleach powder from the toilets of the Ghaziabad office, where he had worked for thirty-five years, was so ingrained in his memory that he firmly believed toilets were defined by that very odour. How could he adapt to the chemical fragrance of this software company’s restroom? The thought of skipping the interview and returning home crossed his mind. But it was too late now.
As he entered the interview room, the unexpected sight of someone his age caused the three interviewers to look up in surprise. They hastily skimmed the printed profile of the candidate before them, eager to confirm his age.” This is just an HR manager’s position. You’ve retired from a senior role at Bharat Electronics Limited. You’ve come fully informed, haven’t you?” asked the woman on the panel.
It is better if what happened at the interview is never discussed. None of the questions pleased Shivaswamy, nor did his answers satisfy the interviewers. The details and examples he offered appeared disconnected from the company’s requirements. It was evident to everyone, including Shivaswamy, that his application wouldn’t progress further. Despite that realisation, he was exasperated by the interviewers’ relentless provocation. Had it not been cut short, he would have stood up and left the room. Sensing the situation, it was they who finally brought the torturous experience to an end. By the time he stepped out of the room, he was consumed by both despair and frustration.
Would the day get better now? In his anxious state, he set off for the metro station but lost his way again. On a strangely deserted road, there wasn’t a soul he could ask for directions. The blistering sun pierced his neck like sharp needles. A watchman sat slumped on a chair in front of a lifeless bungalow. When woken up, he showed him the correct route, finally.
Going back the same way he had come, after switching two trains, he reached Talaghattapura on the city’s outskirts. He was utterly exhausted by the time he walked home from the station.
Whenever Shivaswamy thought about what happened in the interview that day, he was reminded of a scene from a wildlife show he’d once watched on TV: three tiger cubs, newly taught how to hunt, relentlessly pursued an old deer, struggling to make a kill. The deer, for its part, did not give in easily.
Excerpted with permission from What’s Your Price, Mr Shivaswamy?, MR Dattathri, translated from the Kannada by the author, Penguin India.
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