There is only so much that one can rail against the world. Studies show (Willpower and the Optimal Control of Visceral Urges - Ozdenoren et al) that willpower is a depletable resource. I can attest to that.
I have remained positive for over a year now. When I heard that I'd have to lose a major organ, when I had to start taking BP meds, when I heard that I'd have to come back to India, when I heard that my HTN over the years may have shortened my lifespan.
I stayed cheerful when I started looking for a job in India. Two months after my surgery, four months after my surgery, six months after my surgery. As I kept fielding increasingly tempting job offers to return to my old line of work. As I tried to occupy my time with language classes, and kept sending out resumés. I railed at the companies who maintained online career portals and ignored them. "What kind of a country are we living in that I have to resort to my father's network to get a foot in somewhere?", I said. I refused to walk that undignified path. But after eight months, I was ready to swallow some of my pride and dignity, and ask for help.
And help they did. The highest of Indian industry. I am fortunate that none attempted to "put in a word" on my behalf. All they did was send my CV down to their HR's, to be added to the pool. I was satisfied. At last, my CV was being read. Even if they were only so that they could reply with a "Sorry, no vacancy. We will keep your cv on file". I despised those who would only consider a resumé if handed to them by an acquaintance. But the names were such as to inspire awe nonetheless.
I waited.
At eight months, I thought I'd reached the lowest I could. Still no hint of a job. I'd been dodging my doctor for six months now. He suspected I might be pre-hypertensive and had wanted to check. But I couldn't face the fact that despite my surgery, I might still be forced to go back on meds. I had far too many things to do in life, where a person taking "heart medication" had no place. Screw my lifespan, I didn't care. I would hold on to my KM classes if it killed me.
Screw my lifespan. I actually laughed when I said that. Out loud. To someone who might well have been concerned about me.
That's when I decided to give up. My qualifications were worthless, as I'd always suspected. I told my parents I was packing up, and in a week, moving to sleepy Coimbatore to take the job I secretly despised. My much-vaunted "plan B". So what if it paid less that the stupid corporate jobs they were offering me? It was technical. It was related to my field, however remotely. And I would forever despise myself if I wrote off my time and efforts in Paris, just to make an easy buck. There had to be some meaning to having given up an extremely comfortable existence in Bangalore, and the quick path up the corporate ladder that had beckoned to me.
I had packed and collected the keys to my grandmother's now-abandoned apartment in Coimbatore when I got the call. From the company I had named in jest, when someone had asked me where in India I would ideally like to work.
The interview went well. I couldn't really tell. When I heard how close it was to where my parents lived, I did one of the most brazen things I've ever done. I invited myself over for a visit to the company. The very next day I had crossed the country and was standing at the plant. It was better than I'd imagined. The sheer scale of... everything, was mind-boggling. I could picture myself standing here day-after-day, year-after-year, never getting tired of the sight. Picture the grandest of the Seven Wonders, and the tone the narrator on the History Channel uses to describe the Grand and Astonishing feats of Man. It was like that. And it was by the sea.
I met THE senior executive. Oh yes, yes, my boy, you should fit in well here (fit in? Does that mean I've got the job?). You speak French? We collaborate with several French companies! Perhaps we can put you in charge of working with the engineers who visit us. Yes, yes, I think it will work out well.
I left, bemused, and puzzled. I had received other, negative, reactions from some as well. I waited two weeks. Not a word. I decided not to get my hopes up, and to head back south. They called. For a "pre-employment medical check-up". Cautious joy. Weren't these things merely formality? Nameless dread. I've had major surgery.
Check-up. Concerns over BP and surgery. Visits to independent nephrologists. Discovery of cystic mass and pleural effusion. I keep the doctor's mention of "tumor" to myself. Tense few days. Harmless after all, he says, and issues me with a certificate of fitness. But a few warnings are added concerning my below-average number of kidneys. No dehydration, no pain meds, regular checkups. It seemed like an awfully conditional certificate, but I sent it on anyway.
Nearly two months pass. Not a word. The dread I had felt had solidified in my chest. I had stopped all other searches for this. I worked up the nerve to call. Just before my evening class. "Your profile is on hold", he said. "Sorry".
How I managed to sit through French class for hours, without cracking, I don't know.
I felt numb. This couldn't be the end. I had already pictured it, three years in this company and I could move anywhere else. I would take two steps up the corporate ladder, and finally rake in the cash as well. Or do an MBA and have a CV full of big names. Assuming I ever decided to leave, of course.
I panicked. And called in every contact on my list. I was done with being diffident. I deserved this job. I had passed every interview of theirs. Let every damned director and MD call and pester them about me. Then I hear the worst. I am told that they are "hold"ing me on medical grounds.
.
.
.
I remember this feeling well. Helplessness. When failure comes to pass in the one way where it is not my fault. Where the objection is to something I have no control over.
People pleaded on my behalf, doctors indignant and outright angry. Who are these fools who sit on the medical boards of companies and, through ignorance, ruin a candidate's life? Don't worry, buddy, we will write to them. A letter so scathing that they will give up their licenses in shame.
I am not convinced. There is no hope. I have no hope. I'm fed up of being that told that "something good will happen". A year of muttering it to myself already qualifies me for the nuthouse. Just let me hide in my little house in Madras and play student every evening at the Alliance Française. I will watch TV all day long, and never think about work.
In time, my brain will melt enough that I will be satisfied with some crappy nine-to-five that keeps me fed.
And then I will never think of this company. What would have been the perfect name to add to my perfect cv. A perfect start to my promising career. Perfect.
I have remained positive for over a year now. When I heard that I'd have to lose a major organ, when I had to start taking BP meds, when I heard that I'd have to come back to India, when I heard that my HTN over the years may have shortened my lifespan.
I stayed cheerful when I started looking for a job in India. Two months after my surgery, four months after my surgery, six months after my surgery. As I kept fielding increasingly tempting job offers to return to my old line of work. As I tried to occupy my time with language classes, and kept sending out resumés. I railed at the companies who maintained online career portals and ignored them. "What kind of a country are we living in that I have to resort to my father's network to get a foot in somewhere?", I said. I refused to walk that undignified path. But after eight months, I was ready to swallow some of my pride and dignity, and ask for help.
And help they did. The highest of Indian industry. I am fortunate that none attempted to "put in a word" on my behalf. All they did was send my CV down to their HR's, to be added to the pool. I was satisfied. At last, my CV was being read. Even if they were only so that they could reply with a "Sorry, no vacancy. We will keep your cv on file". I despised those who would only consider a resumé if handed to them by an acquaintance. But the names were such as to inspire awe nonetheless.
I waited.
At eight months, I thought I'd reached the lowest I could. Still no hint of a job. I'd been dodging my doctor for six months now. He suspected I might be pre-hypertensive and had wanted to check. But I couldn't face the fact that despite my surgery, I might still be forced to go back on meds. I had far too many things to do in life, where a person taking "heart medication" had no place. Screw my lifespan, I didn't care. I would hold on to my KM classes if it killed me.
Screw my lifespan. I actually laughed when I said that. Out loud. To someone who might well have been concerned about me.
That's when I decided to give up. My qualifications were worthless, as I'd always suspected. I told my parents I was packing up, and in a week, moving to sleepy Coimbatore to take the job I secretly despised. My much-vaunted "plan B". So what if it paid less that the stupid corporate jobs they were offering me? It was technical. It was related to my field, however remotely. And I would forever despise myself if I wrote off my time and efforts in Paris, just to make an easy buck. There had to be some meaning to having given up an extremely comfortable existence in Bangalore, and the quick path up the corporate ladder that had beckoned to me.
I had packed and collected the keys to my grandmother's now-abandoned apartment in Coimbatore when I got the call. From the company I had named in jest, when someone had asked me where in India I would ideally like to work.
The interview went well. I couldn't really tell. When I heard how close it was to where my parents lived, I did one of the most brazen things I've ever done. I invited myself over for a visit to the company. The very next day I had crossed the country and was standing at the plant. It was better than I'd imagined. The sheer scale of... everything, was mind-boggling. I could picture myself standing here day-after-day, year-after-year, never getting tired of the sight. Picture the grandest of the Seven Wonders, and the tone the narrator on the History Channel uses to describe the Grand and Astonishing feats of Man. It was like that. And it was by the sea.
I met THE senior executive. Oh yes, yes, my boy, you should fit in well here (fit in? Does that mean I've got the job?). You speak French? We collaborate with several French companies! Perhaps we can put you in charge of working with the engineers who visit us. Yes, yes, I think it will work out well.
I left, bemused, and puzzled. I had received other, negative, reactions from some as well. I waited two weeks. Not a word. I decided not to get my hopes up, and to head back south. They called. For a "pre-employment medical check-up". Cautious joy. Weren't these things merely formality? Nameless dread. I've had major surgery.
Check-up. Concerns over BP and surgery. Visits to independent nephrologists. Discovery of cystic mass and pleural effusion. I keep the doctor's mention of "tumor" to myself. Tense few days. Harmless after all, he says, and issues me with a certificate of fitness. But a few warnings are added concerning my below-average number of kidneys. No dehydration, no pain meds, regular checkups. It seemed like an awfully conditional certificate, but I sent it on anyway.
Nearly two months pass. Not a word. The dread I had felt had solidified in my chest. I had stopped all other searches for this. I worked up the nerve to call. Just before my evening class. "Your profile is on hold", he said. "Sorry".
How I managed to sit through French class for hours, without cracking, I don't know.
I felt numb. This couldn't be the end. I had already pictured it, three years in this company and I could move anywhere else. I would take two steps up the corporate ladder, and finally rake in the cash as well. Or do an MBA and have a CV full of big names. Assuming I ever decided to leave, of course.
I panicked. And called in every contact on my list. I was done with being diffident. I deserved this job. I had passed every interview of theirs. Let every damned director and MD call and pester them about me. Then I hear the worst. I am told that they are "hold"ing me on medical grounds.
.
.
.
I remember this feeling well. Helplessness. When failure comes to pass in the one way where it is not my fault. Where the objection is to something I have no control over.
People pleaded on my behalf, doctors indignant and outright angry. Who are these fools who sit on the medical boards of companies and, through ignorance, ruin a candidate's life? Don't worry, buddy, we will write to them. A letter so scathing that they will give up their licenses in shame.
I am not convinced. There is no hope. I have no hope. I'm fed up of being that told that "something good will happen". A year of muttering it to myself already qualifies me for the nuthouse. Just let me hide in my little house in Madras and play student every evening at the Alliance Française. I will watch TV all day long, and never think about work.
In time, my brain will melt enough that I will be satisfied with some crappy nine-to-five that keeps me fed.
And then I will never think of this company. What would have been the perfect name to add to my perfect cv. A perfect start to my promising career. Perfect.
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