Hard @ Work

Education failed me or more accurately, I failed at it. I had to choose between a degree in commerce or arts, both of which I had no interest in. It was perhaps, my state of mind at the time that led me to not take things as seriously. My only distant idea of an education was long gone – I wasn’t going to study to be an engineer. The rains had arrived, and I travelled to some colleges to apply for Arts and Commerce seats. I was told I wouldn’t get in, but I submitted my forms anyway. I did not check back to see if I had made it into the rolls.

The years leading to this point, I had burdened my parents with high telephone bills. VSNL and MTNL worked together through the 90s to cheat Indians, charging them exorbitant amounts for a few hours of shoddy internet connectivity. This was still the fag end of the of the bank jobs era where computer engineering was just a phase, and the internet, a place for people to consume smut.

I was hooked to tech back in the early 90s thanks to my dad’s decision of buying a PC, and easy access to his friend’s Intel 386 PC. My extended family mocked me - “Oh, he’s going to find a wife on the internet one day”. My uncle was right. I did find my wife on the internet, as did my uncle’s son, his daughter, and they both earned their bread after studying computers, as did the rest of my cousins and their children. Memories like these make me proud, because I predicted the future back in 1994.

Much later in 2000, a tech magazine I read religiously, posted an ad on their newly launched web site. They were looking for someone to download freeware and shareware software to bundle into CDs as part of their monthly offering. For youngsters across India, those deprived of internet access, their only fix of software and games would be this disc.

With nothing to lose, at the age of 18, I applied for this job with no hopes whatsoever. I dressed up in my faded formals, my bony structure acting as a hanger to hold up my droopy, full-sleeved shirt, tucked in extra-tight into my long pants, belt holding everything up. I wore my casual shoes, not messing my soft, virgin moustache and neatly partitioned hair.

My father dropped me at the gate in our second-hand, beige Fiat Padmini. I don’t know with what confidence I decided to walk into the office, but I stammered to the receptionist asking for one, Ravi. I sat in one of the couches in the lobby, staring endlessly at the surroundings, plants in massive pots, classic tiles and marble and granite, huge paintings on the walls and the towering pillars holding the ceiling and dome up. Ravi, this very dorky South-Indian guy in spectacles appeared, said Hi, patted my sweaty back and guided me upstairs.

I had only been on a handful of elevators in my life, let alone a glass one that felt like something out of The Matrix. My mind was already blown. The first-floor corridors smelled nice, of ‘foreign’ deodorants and perfumes and soothing lavender room fresheners. The memory of that place is etched into my brain just by the smell of it. We took a right into a seating area, then his cubicle.

Ravi asked if I knew what the job was about. I told him everything I knew, and more and then some more. Ravi said I might be a better fit for a writer/researcher position this team next door had. He walked me into this large carpeted hall with some 15 people, a couple of them standing around a huge CRT monitor, pointing at it in deep discussion. I was introduced to my new interviewer.

I was given a sealed software package, a PC and told to write about it. I’ve never owned an expensive piece of software before, so I had to ask if I could tear open the box because it wasn’t used. That box was promptly torn open before me, and then I started.

An hour later, I had written what might have been a 300 to 400 word article about a professional vector imaging tool. I didn’t know who would use this, and for what, but my habit of installing every software bundled with this magazine came handy. At home, I would try out every software, every menu and setting, every help file and every splash and ‘About’ screen, just to know what it could do. The writing/reviewing test was easy, but I had never written anything like this before. I hadn’t exactly aced my English in the board exams either.

It was lunch time and I was told to join them, all 16 of us now parading through the canteen like a bunch of thugs. The interviewer paid for my lunch while I dug through my pocket looking for my bundle of notes my folks gave me. I quietly gobbled down lunch and when that was over, I nervously asked if I should leave. I figured the lunch was a way of thanking me for my time. I figured I had bombed it, and nobody was saying much either.

The guy asked me if I could start tomorrow at 10 in the morning and if I wanted, I could hang around through the rest of the day. And so, I hung around! Baffled and excited, I don’t remember asking them about my pay, but they promptly gave me a formal joining letter the following day, a monthly stipend of Rs. 6,000.

That went well. Through my time there, I learnt a lot, accessed their high-speed (then 2Mbps) cable internet, trained a bunch of new folk too and played multi-player games through the late evenings. They even had a movie and TV store PC on the network, and CD writers I could burn discs with! It was crazy!

On the insistence of my parents, I had to pursue my bachelor’s degree in computer applications, from IGNOU, a correspondence university. The classes were only once a week, run by staff who didn’t understand their stuff or care. No notices were sent via e-mail or post, so I had no idea what my examination seat number was, what the dates were and where the exams were to be held. I missed the first semester exams. You had to call them up on a single number, they lines were busy, and they rarely answered when it rang. The guy on the other end was always angry. He had to answer hundreds of calls from registration queries to class timings to results, attendance, to missing marks cards. I hated it. It was one of the worst decisions, but I’m glad it worked out eventually. I am on paper, a degree holder after 8 to 9 years of having signed up for it.

Back at work, I was the cute 18-year-old who loved technology. There were mostly nice people at work, and a couple of arrogant ones, some obnoxious ones too. The company went into a hiring spree and I was given the task of hand-holding and training a couple of older, qualified folk. I even got promoted a few months later and my pay nearly doubled.

Exactly a year later, on the very same date, 9th of September 2001, I was fired. The company had spawned too many businesses, taken on more than it could handle, the dot-com bust happened and more than half the workforce was fired overnight, me included. The incompetent guy I helped train, was spared. He was to become a family-man and I was told to focus on better things such as studies. I knew it was an excuse, but I nodded my head in agreement to avoid offending anyone.

I think I cried a bit on my walk home. I don’t know if it was the sick feeling of losing my job, my big miraculous opportunity gone and with no future on hand. Or, if it was seeing good people I worked with, crying. I don’t like seeing good people cry and it messes me up every time.