by Bipin Aurora
He went to his room, he hung his polyester jacket in the closet. He had one wool jacket as well, a dark grey. It was a little frayed at the sleeve, but he would try to hide the frayed part. He would get away with it—he prayed he would.
He put on his striped pajamas (they were his favorite). He turned on the television. The Rifleman. A good show. Andy Griffith. A good show. Superman. Another.
“They are old shows,” said the others.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Why do you like them?”
“Why, I do not know. The heroes are nice, kind.” “Nice? Kind?”
“The Rifleman—Lucas McCain—is a widower (he has one son). Andy Griffith—Andy Taylor—is a widower (he has one son). Superman is not a widower, but he lives alone. And he is an orphan. His parents …”
“You like these kind of shows, then? Shows about widowers and orphans?”
Pranab Roy laughed. Had the others made a joke? Had they said something wise? He liked the shows because the people on them worked hard. They were good people. Was that so hard to follow?
The days passed. Pranab Roy stayed at home, he watched his TV shows. But was it enough? He ate pizza, he ate TV dinners. But was it enough?
He had to make a living. To pay the bills. The interviews called—all the job interviews. He put on his jacket (polyester? wool?), he went.
They asked him about his experience. He an swered. Again they asked. He answered. One day Pranab Roy was at an interview. It was in a tall glass building, so many offices in the building. A tall man sat on the other side of the dark wooden desk. He was a handsome man—fair-skinned, with only a hint of grey in his hair. He looked distinguished. Would Pranab Roy ever look the same way?
The man asked questions. Pranab Roy answered. The man asked more questions. Pranab Roy answered. The man asked Pranab Roy about his experience.
“I have done systems design,” he said.
“What else?”
“Data modeling.”
“What else?”
“I have worked, I have worked.”
Too general. The other was not impressed.
“Systems integration,” said Pranab Roy at last.
The other’s interest was piqued.
“That is important here, Mister Roy, very important. The systems integration, that is. Could you give us an example? The systems, the subsystems you worked on?”
Pranab Roy was at a loss. He had done systems integration, of course he had. But on what? This was an interview, for God’s sake: he should have been more prepared. The system—the world? The subsystems—work, home, happiness?
He stuttered, he fumbled. At last he tried again. “We were developing a new system, sir.”
“Yes?”
“The design, the development, the QA—all that was done.”
“Yes?”
“But we needed to look at the whole system. To see if it worked. To see if we could do things to break it.”
The other smiled. He smiled again. “And what was the system?”
“The system sir, yes.”
“The system, Mister Roy, what was the system?”
“God, sir,” he said. But no no, that was not the system. “America, sir,” he said. But no no, that was not the system. “Happiness”—what of kind of system, answer, was that?
The other did not look impressed. “The system you worked on, Mister Roy, the subsystems?”
Again Pranab Roy was at a loss. His mind was blank. Was it the TV shows he watched all the time? Was it his jacket, his polyester jacket?
“The visa system, sir. Yes yes, that is it. Immigrant visa. The Immigrant Visa System (IV). Yes yes, that is the system I worked on.”
The other still didn’t look impressed. “And why didn’t you say so?”
“Sir?”
“You hesitated—why didn’t you just say so from the very start?”
Pranab Roy was at a loss. Why indeed didn’t he say so? Why didn’t he get to the point—right to the point?
“I am sorry, sir,” he said at last.
Sorry: what a strange word it was. A word of weakness, not strength. Why did he say it? Was it necessary to say it?
“This systems integration that you worked on, what kind of tools did you use?”
“Tools, sir?”
“You did systems integration, you didn’t do it by hand. Tools—what kind of tools did you use? Mapping? Interface protocols? Methodology—was there a methodology?”
Again Pranab Roy hesitated. Tools, of course he had used tools. Methodology, of course there had been a methodology. But what were they? What were they exactly?
“I know a few things, sir.”
“What is this?”
“One time, sir, the TNS name file was not up-to-date. I fixed it.”
“Was it a problem related to the integration?”
“We needed a remote connection, we did not have it. I fixed it—I established the connection.”
“And this problem, was it related to the integration?”
“The integration, sir?”
“This problem that you fixed, good, very good. But how was it tied to the integration?”
“The performance was bad, sir, we needed to partition the data sets. I came in on a Sunday—a Sunday I tell you, sir …”
And then Pranab Roy went into some detail about the Sunday. It was an overcast morning, a brisk wind in the air. “You know how the weather is, sir. The cold wind, it comes in from the sea …”
“The sea, what sea?”
“The bay, sir, I mean. The bay nearby.”
“The bay? What bay?”
“The Bay of Bengal, sir …”
The Bay of Bengal, what kind of talk was this? The Bay of Bengal was far away, ten thousand miles. They were talking about integration, systems integration. The project he had worked on at his most recent job. The job in America, in Ohio. The Bay of Bengal—nonsense, all nonsense—what did it have to do with systems integration?
The other looked at Pranab Roy, he sighed. He sighed again. This Pranab Roy may be a good man, a decent man. He may be a smart man. But he was not right for the company—that much was clear. Was it not self-evident?
The other rose from behind his desk, he held out his hand.
“Thank you for coming, Mister Roy.”
Pranab Roy was at a loss. He remained there seated. Then at last he rose—weakly, limply—he held out his hand as well.
“We will be in touch with you, Mister Roy.”
Pranab Roy was silent.
“Let me walk you to the door.”
The tall man walked around his desk and began walking to the door. He opened the door, held it politely for the other.
Pranab Roy was at a loss (or was he just numb?). They walked out the door. The tall one walked, he followed. The tall one walked, he followed. They walked past the open door and down the hall. They walked past the cubicles on both sides. (Cubicles, cubicles, where did all these cubicles come from?) The host pushed open a door with a steel handle and they were out in the lobby. There were six elevators there (or was it eight?). The host pressed on a button. A bell sounded. The host looked up. “Wrong direction,” he said.
He stood there quietly, confidently. How tall the other was. Why was Pranab Roy not the same way?
Another bell sounded.
“That’s for you, Mister Roy.”
“For me?”
Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
The other held out his hand. Pranab Roy returned the gesture.
“We’ll be in touch, Mister Roy.”
“Should I call, sir? If you give me your number, your direct number? Is it all right if I …”
“No need, Mister Roy. We will be in touch.”
***
And that was it. The other turned, he walked away. Such a tall man he was. So confidently he walked away.
The door closed and Pranab Roy went down the elevator. Down, down. Where was he going? To heaven?
To hell? He emerged in the lobby downstairs. People, all these people. People who already had a job. How lucky they must be. How lucky indeed.
Pranab Roy arrived home (it was almost an hour later), he took off his clothes. He washed his face, his feet. He looked at his face in the mirror: too dark. His hair: balding, not enough. He had his pizza (today with Coca-Cola and also some breadsticks). He watched his TV. He watched it again.
Lucas McCain worked on his ranch. Did he go to job interviews and worry about systems integration? Andy Taylor worked as sheriff. Did he? And Superman, what of him?
Pranab Roy lay on the sofa, the TV running in front of him. He lay in bed, he pondered his life. Who he was, why. He had had a bad interview. His heroes, how would they have handled it? Lucas McCain, would he have taken out his rifle? Superman, would he have made a hole in the wall? Andy Taylor, would he have used his charm, just that?
The days passed. Pranab Roy went to his interviews—again and again he went. And was there progress? Again and again he went. And was there success?
One day Pranab Roy was at an interview. There were cubicles all around. (Cubicles, cubicles, where did all these cubicles come from?) There were corridors as well. All these corridors and corridors. Where did they lead?
Pranab Roy wanted to sit down—to sit down right there on the floor. To clasp his palms, to pray. To sing a song from an Indian film. Teri Pyari Pyari Surat Ko. Duniya Mein Hum Aaye Hain. Aaj Mausam Bada Beimann Hai. There were so many songs he could sing.
Or if not these popular songs, then the hymns. There were so many hymns in India, so many sacred songs.
“I am a good man, sir.”
“What is this?”
“I am an empty man, sir.”
“What is this?”
“You go ahead with your meetings, sir, I will sing quietly, softly. I will not disturb.”
They listened to the strange man—and did they understand? Were they impressed?
The days passed. Pranab Roy did not give up—not so easily. He rose, he brushed his teeth. He shaved, he bathed. He put on his jacket and his favorite maroon tie. And he went out for his interview. One interview and then the next. One interview and then the next.
A tall man sat on the other side of the dark wooden desk. He asked Pranab Roy about his experience.
“I have watched The Rifleman.”
“And how does that help?”
“I have watched Andy Griffith.”
“And how does that help?”
“I have watched Superman.”
The other was not convinced. “A nice show, Mister Roy. If you say so, fine. But what is the relevance to us?”
“Lucas McCain, the Rifleman—he is a good man, sir. His son is Mark. The sheriff is Micah. All m’s in the show.”
“Is there symbolism in that?”
“The gospel of Christ, sir. There was Matthew, Mark, Micah. More m’s as well.”
“Is there symbolism in that?”
It was a good question. And did Pranab Roy know the answer?
“I am a good man, sir.”
“What is this?”
“I am a decent man, sir.”
“What is this?”
“I am looking for an opportunity, sir. I seek it.”
Seek: what an odd word to use. What an odd word to emphasize. As if the word were self-explanatory, as if it explained all.
The other looked at Pranab Roy, smiled. “The people you mention, Mister Roy, they are strong characters, all of them. The Rifleman. Andy Taylor. Superman. Are you a strong character?”
“Me, sir?”
“Sam Peckinpah directed the early episodes of The Rifleman. Not many people remember that. He was a good director, a fine director. And you, Mister Roy, do you see yourself as a director?”
“Me, sir?”
“Directors are good men, Mister Roy, strong men. They lead, they lead. Good for the company. And you, Mister Roy, do you lead? Do you see yourself as a leader?”
Leader: what an interesting word he used. Was Pranab Roy a leader? Had he led anything? When? Where?
It was a good question, a perfectly legitimate question. And what was the answer? Did Pranab Roy have an answer?
But the other had heard enough. He was even beginning to lose patience. He rose slightly from his chair, he held out his hand.
“We will be in touch, Mister Roy.”
“Sir?”
“We will be in touch.”
“Can I call you, sir?”
No answer.
“Your direct number?”
No answer.
They rose all the way now, they walked to the door. They walked past the door and down the hall. They walked past the cubicles on both sides. There was a narrow alcove there, a sign. “Men,” it said. Pranab Roy wanted to go there—to follow the sign. But the host had already walked him to the elevators. “We will be in touch, Mister Roy.”
“Sir?”
“We will be in touch.”
And that was it.
Pranab Roy was left there standing by himself. The elevator door was closing—he rushed, he squeezed his way in. The elevator was so clean, yes. But was it not small and box-like as well? A tomb—was it like a tomb?
Pranab Roy stood inside the tomb, shaking his head. His briefcase was heavy—he rested it on the elevator floor. Why didn’t he go to the men’s room upstairs? He should have spoken up, he should have. That was his problem—he didn’t speak up when he should. When he shouldn’t speak up, he did. And when he did …
But why go into all that? The interview had not gone well. It never did. But he would try, he would try. He would get better. Of course he would.
***
The days passed. Pranab Roy was not doing well in his interviews, that much was clear. His clothes were bad—was that it? He was not a leader—was that it? He needed a job, just a job. He needed to pay the bills—so badly he needed to pay them. Things would pick up, they would get better. Of course, they would.
Pranab Roy reviewed his notes—all the projects he had worked on, all the accomplishments. “Bullet points,” he said. “I should speak to them in bullet points. Bang, bang, bang. Be crisp. Do not dally. Lay it on the line for them—give it to them straight.”
He stood in front of the mirror, he combed his hair. And did he feel better? He practiced his sentences. And now? He noticed that there was a twitch in his right cheek. Where did it come from? From watching Lucas McCain? Andy Griffith? Superman? But there was an actor on television who did have a twitch. David Janssen—the Fugitive. Had he learned it from him? Was he himself a fugitive as well?
“I am running, sir—running from the law.”
“Did you commit a crime?”
“A crime, sir?”
“Did you kill someone—a wife, for example? Were you accused of so doing?”
No, he had never killed a wife. Never been married (alas). But perhaps he was running. Running from what? From work? From himself? From the world?
But he needed a job—that was the main thing. How much longer could he live on his savings—one month? Two months? He needed to get better at the interviews. He did, he did. It was as simple as that. Was it not as simple as that?
There was another interview in three days. It was a position in finance. Pranab Roy had some experience in finance—of course, he did. He would try to emphasize the experience. He would.
The day of the interview came. The tall man sat on the other side of the dark wooden desk. He was fair-skinned, a nice complexion. He used cream on his face—Pond’s Dry Skin Cream. It was a good cream, reliable. Was it not the best?
Pranab Roy had rehearsed his experience in front of the mirror. At the first chance he brought it up.
“It was a project for a bank, sir, a big bank.”
“And where was this bank?”
“In New York, sir, a major money center bank.”
Money center bank: he emphasized the words, he let them sink in.
“The ba
nk wanted to expand its business to other states, but didn’t want to reveal its identity. I went to several states, sir—Florida, Texas, North Carolina. I spoke to the State Banking Commissioners. I spoke to banking executives. We wanted to find out the environment. We wanted to …”
“You went to these executives? You spoke to them yourself?”
“How is that, sir?”
“You went to these executives? You spoke to them yourself?”
“We went in groups of two, sir. There was a Team Lead, I went with the Team Lead.”
“How many people on the team?”
“Two people, sir.”
“A Team Lead, a person who was not the Team Lead. Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The other was the Team Lead, you were not?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And why not?”
“Why not what, sir?”
“The other was the Team Lead, you were not. Why didn’t they make you the Team Lead? Was it a deficiency of some kind?”
“A deficiency, sir?”
“You were too short, you wore polyester jackets?”
Polyester jackets: where did that come from? Why did he have to bring that in?
“A moral defect of some kind?”
What was all this strange talk? He was short, he was dark—was that a moral defect? His hair was balding, turning a little grey even—was that a moral defect? A physical defect, perhaps, but moral?
Another man would have spoken up, taken umbrage. And Pranab Roy?
“It was an important project, sir. I learned a lot. Dealing with people. Analysis, sir, strategic analysis” (he tried to emphasize the words). “Penetration, sir—market penetration.”
There was a long pause.
“A deficiency,” said the other again.
“Sir?”
“A deficiency of spirit, Mister Roy, don’t you think so? A deficiency of the soul?”
Moral defect. Deficiency. How the other repeated the words. Seemed to take pride in them. And was there any truth in them at all? Pranab Roy was a good man, a decent man. (Short, perhaps, but was that a sin? Dark, balding, but was that a sin?) He was a follower, not a leader. But do followers not have a purpose in the world as well?
Pranab Roy spoke about the bank again—he spoke for some time. “The travel, sir, it was paid for.” “The per diem, sir, it was good, quite good. The hotels were nice. I saved a little bit of money every day.” “And the bank, sir, an important bank. Money center, sir …”
