Piku had applied for the position through a website. She wasn’t expecting a call at all. But seemingly desperate, the firm did call her for 'an informal chat' -- a modern day euphemism for job interview.
The butterflies were doing their routine jig inside her burgeoning belly. A shrill siren was buzzing in her ears.
Premonitions all, she decided to tell herself. Take note! Take note! Each high-heeled step seemed to jingle.
Run, run, she heard.
She was ready to run hadn’t it been Baba demanding to know what exactly was wrong with her life over transatlantic telephony. The haloed apparition of her distinguished Dada in Harvard was haunting her day dreams on a regular basis. Baba’s cleverly manufactured icy tone was just the icing on the cake confirming her status as a black sheep of the family. How she wished for some ungodly lightning to strike her down, or Medusa to return her stare with her petrifying blessings. It was so damn difficult to carry the legacy of an illustrious gene pool!
She sauntered to the Railway Station with a resigned look on her face. She had taken care to dress for the occasion. She had even gone to La Senza to pick out work clothes for that interview. The store assistant had sized her up for a minute before directing her out of the lingerie haven. ‘What was wrong with me’, she thought. ‘Didn’t I see the glass windows dripping with lacy knickers and thongs?’ Her unintentional hosiery hoax left her feeling all the more defeated. She decided to go in a black cotton skirt with a white jacket and a pair of black pumps. She tried smiling at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. An ominous wraith smiled back.
She fled!
The ticket window at the station was closed. She saw people helping themselves from a portentous hole-in-the-wall that looked like an automated teller machine (Readers, pardon my fondness for sonorous syllables!). The panic button went off again. She cursed herself for not learning how to operate on a cash machine. Trying to look inconspicuous, she let everyone jump her place in the queue. A series of ‘thank you’s greeted her sham selfless stance.
Everyone was in a hurry and seemed to accept her offer as a well deserved prize. She stood biding her time looking intently at a free newspaper that a vendor had thrust into her hands. Not a word of the news trickled in through the charade. Black winged letters swam under her nose. Mustering a wee bit of bravado, she sneaked a peek at the machine to see if it made any apparent sense. It did not. It was worse than a cash machine. Her roomie Susan has always drawn cash for her.
Damn Susan and her constant fawning!
Now who was responsible for this disaster?
After the queue had thinned out a bit, Piku inched closer to the machine and touched the screen where it said ‘Buy ticket’. So it was easy after all. Another screen flickered alive with multiple options of myriad destinations, and also options of zones and lines.
Where was she headed? Did she need the Circle line? The district line? The central line? The Hammersmith and City line? The Piccadilly line? The Jubilee Line? The Bakerloo Line? The Victoria Line? Or was it the Northern Line?
Little beads of sweat made their way from her hairline down through the side of her neck. She was having difficulty breathing. The blonde behind her was growing restless, shifting the colossal weight of her body from one foot to another with a bored expression on her face. She smelled of Cool Water. Piku couldn’t see her face.
She gave up. ‘Just remembered something’ mumbled Piku to an indifferent crowd gathered. She didn’t look back. She started walking back from where she came. She dreaded looking at the slim leather watch on her wrist. Her interviewers must have given up on her. She decided to call for help. Susan answered on the second ring.
‘How did it go?’ the eagerness was undisguised in Susan’s voice.
‘I didn’t make it’, Piku croaked.
'Why, what did they ask you?’ the urgency was mounting in Susan.
‘They didn’t …I mean…er…me ask anything’, lied Piku.
‘What? But, why? Did you freak out again? What was it this time? A tricky door handle that you failed to maneuver or a savvy elevator switch that jittered you out?’, Susan was trying to keep her jibes under control.
‘The station..erm..er…I mean the ticket…..the railways….erm….was closed. There was no one at the counter…erm. I came back..I was feeling….erm….like unwell..ahem….it was like raining…..er… and I forgot my umbrella’, Piku buckled under the attacks.
‘What are you trying to say? Was the ticket counter closed? But there is a ticket dispenser right there…Oh no….wait….I should have foreseen this…Oh crap…where are you now?’ Susan cried.
‘At home....just entered..will call and let them know something..what should I tell them?’ wailed Piku. ‘Tell them that you chickened out like a lily-livered moron at the sight of an electronic machine. Tell them that they are unlucky to have missed the chance to see such a techno-phobe. Tell them that in spite of having fancy degrees in your bag, you also carry a bogeyman in your head. Tell them all that….what the hell…will see you in the evening’, Susan had run out of patience.
A miserable Piku ambled into the living room and flung her bag on to the couch. She flicked on the answering machine and it cackled to life. ‘Message one, delivered at 10 am on 23 April, 2010:
‘Hi Susmita, this is Merlyn from Techno-media. I’m afraid we are having to cancel today’s interview with you. Your line manager has had a fall from the stairs and has sprained her ankle. She called to postpone the chat at a later date convenient to you. We regret the inconvenience. See you soon, Cheers! Bye. – End of message…beep!’
Piku sat staring at the wall. She didn’t know if she was happy or sad. Happy, perhaps because she wouldn’t have to narrate the story of her unaccountable misery to Baba. Sad too as she’d have to repeat the nerve-racking journey to the ticket counter. A brilliant idea flashed across her mind. What if she pleaded Susan to buy her next trip for her in advance?
With a tiny smile hovering on her lips, she settled on the couch and reached sheepishly for the telephone…….
Premonitions all, she decided to tell herself. Take note! Take note! Each high-heeled step seemed to jingle.
Run, run, she heard.
She was ready to run hadn’t it been Baba demanding to know what exactly was wrong with her life over transatlantic telephony. The haloed apparition of her distinguished Dada in Harvard was haunting her day dreams on a regular basis. Baba’s cleverly manufactured icy tone was just the icing on the cake confirming her status as a black sheep of the family. How she wished for some ungodly lightning to strike her down, or Medusa to return her stare with her petrifying blessings. It was so damn difficult to carry the legacy of an illustrious gene pool!
She sauntered to the Railway Station with a resigned look on her face. She had taken care to dress for the occasion. She had even gone to La Senza to pick out work clothes for that interview. The store assistant had sized her up for a minute before directing her out of the lingerie haven. ‘What was wrong with me’, she thought. ‘Didn’t I see the glass windows dripping with lacy knickers and thongs?’ Her unintentional hosiery hoax left her feeling all the more defeated. She decided to go in a black cotton skirt with a white jacket and a pair of black pumps. She tried smiling at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. An ominous wraith smiled back.
She fled!
The ticket window at the station was closed. She saw people helping themselves from a portentous hole-in-the-wall that looked like an automated teller machine (Readers, pardon my fondness for sonorous syllables!). The panic button went off again. She cursed herself for not learning how to operate on a cash machine. Trying to look inconspicuous, she let everyone jump her place in the queue. A series of ‘thank you’s greeted her sham selfless stance.
Everyone was in a hurry and seemed to accept her offer as a well deserved prize. She stood biding her time looking intently at a free newspaper that a vendor had thrust into her hands. Not a word of the news trickled in through the charade. Black winged letters swam under her nose. Mustering a wee bit of bravado, she sneaked a peek at the machine to see if it made any apparent sense. It did not. It was worse than a cash machine. Her roomie Susan has always drawn cash for her.
Damn Susan and her constant fawning!
Now who was responsible for this disaster?
After the queue had thinned out a bit, Piku inched closer to the machine and touched the screen where it said ‘Buy ticket’. So it was easy after all. Another screen flickered alive with multiple options of myriad destinations, and also options of zones and lines.
Where was she headed? Did she need the Circle line? The district line? The central line? The Hammersmith and City line? The Piccadilly line? The Jubilee Line? The Bakerloo Line? The Victoria Line? Or was it the Northern Line?
Little beads of sweat made their way from her hairline down through the side of her neck. She was having difficulty breathing. The blonde behind her was growing restless, shifting the colossal weight of her body from one foot to another with a bored expression on her face. She smelled of Cool Water. Piku couldn’t see her face.
She gave up. ‘Just remembered something’ mumbled Piku to an indifferent crowd gathered. She didn’t look back. She started walking back from where she came. She dreaded looking at the slim leather watch on her wrist. Her interviewers must have given up on her. She decided to call for help. Susan answered on the second ring.
‘How did it go?’ the eagerness was undisguised in Susan’s voice.
‘I didn’t make it’, Piku croaked.
'Why, what did they ask you?’ the urgency was mounting in Susan.
‘They didn’t …I mean…er…me ask anything’, lied Piku.
‘What? But, why? Did you freak out again? What was it this time? A tricky door handle that you failed to maneuver or a savvy elevator switch that jittered you out?’, Susan was trying to keep her jibes under control.
‘The station..erm..er…I mean the ticket…..the railways….erm….was closed. There was no one at the counter…erm. I came back..I was feeling….erm….like unwell..ahem….it was like raining…..er… and I forgot my umbrella’, Piku buckled under the attacks.
‘What are you trying to say? Was the ticket counter closed? But there is a ticket dispenser right there…Oh no….wait….I should have foreseen this…Oh crap…where are you now?’ Susan cried.
‘At home....just entered..will call and let them know something..what should I tell them?’ wailed Piku. ‘Tell them that you chickened out like a lily-livered moron at the sight of an electronic machine. Tell them that they are unlucky to have missed the chance to see such a techno-phobe. Tell them that in spite of having fancy degrees in your bag, you also carry a bogeyman in your head. Tell them all that….what the hell…will see you in the evening’, Susan had run out of patience.
A miserable Piku ambled into the living room and flung her bag on to the couch. She flicked on the answering machine and it cackled to life. ‘Message one, delivered at 10 am on 23 April, 2010:
‘Hi Susmita, this is Merlyn from Techno-media. I’m afraid we are having to cancel today’s interview with you. Your line manager has had a fall from the stairs and has sprained her ankle. She called to postpone the chat at a later date convenient to you. We regret the inconvenience. See you soon, Cheers! Bye. – End of message…beep!’
Piku sat staring at the wall. She didn’t know if she was happy or sad. Happy, perhaps because she wouldn’t have to narrate the story of her unaccountable misery to Baba. Sad too as she’d have to repeat the nerve-racking journey to the ticket counter. A brilliant idea flashed across her mind. What if she pleaded Susan to buy her next trip for her in advance?
With a tiny smile hovering on her lips, she settled on the couch and reached sheepishly for the telephone…….
hey this is a nice story! :)
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