Sizzling Success: Knocking Patriarchy Off the Platter -2

UFFF....ITS A TEDIOUS PROCESS

Blog 2 – 23.04.2024

Dreary heat worsened the matter, and this has been the case for the past few weeks. Worse, due to the time given by Tara*, our Assistant Training Manager (through WhatsApp) during our last visit. We had to seize the right moment to make our move. Except it was noon. Everything was blazing hot. Classes were on a ceaseless march until the evening. If we had to make a move, it was now.

Aswitha, Partha and I headed to the bus stop, and we chatted over our gutted courses until the bus arrived (which took an eternity). Before we headed towards our target, we had to have our arsenal of consent forms. 

Printing of consent forms was a tedious task in itself. We followed Max Weber’s idea of bureaucracy quite rigidly – I manned the stapler; Parth got the printouts mailed to the shopkeeper while Aswitha was busy arranging the 2-page consent forms in an even manner. We hurriedly squeezed the papers in our bag and trotted towards the bus stand. 

It felt as if we were headed towards an incapacitating war. Our bags were our shields, our questions were our guns, and our coalition was a comradeship, a platoon. 

Gate 2 yet again. We deboarded the bus as we proceeded with dragging our feet – the sunrays were like piercing bullets onto our sensitive skin. We discussed how we forgot to apply sun lotion out of haste – it was a bid to distract and relieve ourselves from what we were about to uncover.

As we headed towards Chain 1, as last time, we were frequently being misconstrued with aspiring workers over there. The often bombarded question was: “Are you here for an interview?” and, of course, the standard reply was “No, we are here to take an interview.” I am pretty sure we set off many people regarding this. Anyway, what were the other options? To sit ducks and do nothing?

The watch-person gave us cards reminiscent of ‘press’ ID cards handed over to journalists. We rushed a bit towards our previously charted path, which was the underbelly of the complex. Aswitha was new to the enormous building; we had to tag and drag her a bit for two reasons: one, a heat stroke at that point was likelier than overseeing an interview, and two, we needed to hurry since classes were right on our back foot. The HoD would not be pleased if we attended his class late.

Tara arrived to pick us up. As with corporates and colleagues, she was distinctly in those staple formals and name-pin.

As we made a foray into the Staff Area, following Tara, curious eyes and cautious bodies wandered around our presence – it felt like we were unwelcome intruders. This Chain was an MNC – the pictures and a gazillion quotes about its founder’s working principles were plastered everywhere. It was unnerving and felt a bit eerie, with a tinge of Orwellian-ness.

We approached her work stead, tracing her footsteps. It comprised 3 to 4 cubicles – a meeting space, a working space for lower-denominated employees (demographically predominantly male), Tara’s cabin and a waiting room. She was busy with work, so we had to wait awhile. Once Tara gestured for us, we came in individually like ants marching towards sugar.

Our shoddy approach aided us in getting grilled like a Doner Kebab. Our first blunder was to wear casuals. Worse, since Parth turned up at a terse notice, he was in three-fourths! We were schooled by Tara, who seized the opportunity to discuss corporate values and discipline.

This rough start was not the lowest of our lows, not yet. Unable to articulate our project’s aims and methodologies properly, Tara quizzed us like one of those famed gatekeepers who, upon receiving wrong answers, denied access to entry seekers. We decided to show her our abstract suddenly, then and there; Tara glanced at the phone unconvincingly and ‘requested’ us to rephrase our slated aims and interests. We were not in control of something that, ideally, we should have been confident of. It was a research quicksand – suddenly, our futures flashed before us. How would we survive if we stumbled right from the beginning? What about careers, placement, family perceptions, society, and India? It was too much to process for the three of us then and there.

Tara, sensing our apprehensions and our rookie fear, assured us that we were not being judged for our (abysmal) performance and that she was willing to give us a chance by sending us to the meeting room and (coherently) framing our discourse-like how a baby learns new languages. She said she was willing to devote time to us for the same. And so, we three yomped to the meeting room to start afresh. After all these trials and tribulations, like a merry-go-round, we were back to square one. Except, the entire process was not merry. Instead, it was excruciating and harrowing.

It was like choreography. Like an impending play, we rehearsed what we were expected to say (that too in a prompt, fast-paced manner), jotted down endless kilometres of notes and fidgeted nervously on our phones. Well, what if we did not cut it? Was there a means to bypass this formalised system and directly approach the chefs? Or would we abandon this project altogether because fulfilling its exorbitant requirements was becoming daunting each day?

Our orchestra performance was finally delivered to Tara within 30 minutes of her ‘mildly’ censuring us. She was happy with the improvement in articulation, and so were we. However, another bombshell was dropped on her: she had to seek permission from the Director of Human Resources for further approval of our interviews. Disheartened, we left Chain 1 at the earliest possible moment, returning our ‘badges of journalism’ (the ID Cards) and headed to Gate 2, facing ever more depressing classes, with afternoon heat being that fly you would so wish to swat, but you are unable to do so.

While returning, we met Rajiv from the previous day. He was less chirpy this time, to our astonishment. We were left wondering whether it was all a ploy to lure us into the bottomless corporate vortex and expenses extravaganza.

Argh, another day, another painful setback. For how long? Are we destined to lose as India lost to Australia in the 2023 ICC World Cup? The Heavenly Gods and Goddesses decided to turn a deaf ear to our sufferings. We may need to gift them some Chennai buses. Perhaps then would they wake up from their slumber. 

“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.” —Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Reader’s Digest