by Pawan Mishra
“I wonder what time these shops open.” Tulsi said, looking at the market shops from her window. It was another desperate attempt by her anxiety about the meeting that was moving up the neurotic ladder very visibly by making her nervously more talkative.
“Madam…”
“Yes?” Tulsi was so excited on hearing him speak that she jumped in before he could say another word.
“I am not a jerk, as you may think,” the driver said, looking in her eyes via the rearview mirror. “I have very strict instructions to say no words, answer no questions, and not fiddle around when I am on duty.”
“It’s OK, you can talk,” said Tulsi. “No one would ever know.”
“I don’t talk to anyone while on duty, madam. This is the first time I have spoken to someone.”
“What is your name?”
“Chela Ramani, madam.”
“Chela,” Tulsi asked, “how many people have you driven for ABC meetings before now?” Tulsi finally seemed to have found someone who might have more information about the adventure she was going to embark on shortly.
“You are the second one. I have one more tomorrow.”
“Who is the lucky one tomorrow?” Both of them had a quick laugh at Tulsi’s question.
“That I can’t reveal, madam.”
“Why not?”
“Professional discretion and ethics, madam.”
“All right.” Tulsi was a bit disappointed by this. “Can you tell me who was the first one?”
“Ramta, madam.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“I picked him up from his house. His family came to see him off as he boarded my car—they gave him hugs and farewells as though he was going to war on another continent. I drove him to the office without saying a word, even when he was talking the whole time. I think he was more scared than you, madam.”
“What? I am not scared.”
“Then I was asked to drop him at the airport.” Chela did not respond to Tulsi’s claim. “He was badly sweating, and it seemed it would have taken him only a second to break down if someone just asked him what had happened.”
“What had happened to him?”
“No one knows,” he said. “Madam, we will reach the office in two minutes. Can I remind you please not to tell anyone that we talked?”
“I will not. I mean…I won’t tell. I promise.”
“Here you go. Good-bye, madam, if we don’t meet again,” Chela said, putting the car in park. He got out and opened the door.
“Why? You are the one who is taking me back home after the meeting, right?”
“I don’t know, madam. I don’t have any instructions as of now.”
“All right, hope to see you around.”
“All the best.”
Tulsi came up to the second floor at seven o’clock, two hours before normal business hours began. A twentysomething girl greeted her and ushered her to ABC’s office.
She had longed in the past to find out how ABC’s office looked from inside; its eternally locked state had captured her imagination. Now, when she had the opportunity, she would have given anything to escape it.
Fate has this weird way of making your wish come true by supplementing it with ten other spiteful things, she thought, sitting down on one side of the large rectangular wooden table. Her chair seemed to be the target of figurative daggers from the three chairs on the other side of the table, as if the three chairs shared the same chemistry with the one chair on the other side that ABC did with the suspect being questioned.
Alone in the room, she forced herself to look around and was startled to notice that there was another door at the back. It was impossible to discern from the outside that there could be any space behind ABC’s office. Tulsi became very curious about where that door went.
“Maybe this is where ABC enter from,” she told herself, “and that’s why no one ever sees them at the office.”
“Care for some tea?” the twentysomething girl asked, after knocking at the door.
“That would be very nice.”
“You got it,” the girl replied. “By the way, I’m also supposed to apprise you that the three big bosses are running about ten minutes late because of a prior engagement. So please feel free to ask me if you need anything else, too.”
“I won’t hesitate. I appreciate the kind offer of help.”
“You are very welcome. Let me get the tea for you.”
The girl left and locked the room from outside, and Tulsi nervously let her gaze wander around her. The decor was stunning, comprised of artful antiques and expensive paintings. She would have loved to walk around and explore, but her fear had an upper hand at the moment.
The young lady was back in minutes with the tea.
“How much sugar and cream would you like?” she asked Tulsi.
“Please don’t trouble yourself. You can leave it here and I will make it myself.”
“Very well, then; good luck!”
“Thank you.”
Tulsi did not have to wait much longer. There was a knock at the mysterious door at the back, followed by a ten-second wait before the three most dreaded gentlemen of the firm appeared through the door, one by one.
ABC paused after closing the door behind them to look at Tulsi from a distance, exchanged a quick glance among them, and nodded to each other before approaching the three imperial chairs on the other side.
They sat on the three chairs and gestured to Tulsi to sit down; she had stood up from her chair on seeing them.
They were of light-brown complexion, stout, and somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age. They wore identical white beards, and the same “uniform”: black suits with broad mono-color ties—green, brown, and blue, respectively.
The first one was smoking the most beautiful pipe Tulsi had ever seen. The polished bowl of the pipe was made of hand-carved wood that merged smoothly with the shining black stem. The second one smoked a cigarette. The third one kept his hands busy with a pack of cards on the table.
Tulsi hated passive smoke. She just couldn’t stand the smell. In public places she usually held her breath and walked fast to go past a smoker quickly. She always felt as if the smell of cigarettes clung to her for a long time if she allowed it inside her nose. So she held her breath as long as she could—almost to a point of choking at times. But she had no choice here other than to try to breathe less than normal to minimize her discomfort.
“Tulsi, first of all, a big thank-you for your flexibility in making this meeting on short notice,” said the man with the pipe. “I am Andar; the gentleman on my left is Bandar; and to his left is Chandar.” He took a puff from his pipe.
“I will come to the point without further ado,” said Bandar. “Tulsi, things haven’t been working very well. We have bad news for you.”
“We are here to relieve you from your responsibilities, effective immediately.” Chandar wasted no time.
“What do you mean?” That was all Tulsi could manage to say.
“As you know, the whole Coinman thing was the most disreputable matter that has ever come to our table, and a disciplinary action has been determined on the key engineers of the incident,” Andar explained.
“Being one of the chief architects of the debacle”—Bandar took it forward from Andar—“you are impacted by the decision, and it is our duty to let you know that your employment with the firm ends as of today.”
It was almost as if Tulsi’s ears had stopped working; she could only feel voices hum, not hear them. Her vision blurred as well. Her world seemed to crumble before her. She imagined how it would feel to go home and tell her mother, who had leisure travel planned, that she had been fired. All her monthly financial obligations flashed in front of her eyes. She didn’t even have any savings.
Chandar broke the silence. “Are you all right, Tulsi? Can I get you some water? Please understand…we follow our disciplinary process very religiously here. High productivity and a healthy environment ar
e two unconditionally entwined buddies. Our process allows us to abort any attempts toward crucifying either of the two—because as soon as one of them dies, the other follows suit.”
Having said this, Chandar divided the deck of cards in three equal piles and placed one each in front of Andar and Bandar.
Andar took a draw off his pipe. “We don’t necessarily claim that our process is perfect, even as we always strive to make it the best, but at least it works. Core to our process is our proactive monitoring of undesired events. We try to assess these events on a scale that we have developed over a period of time and accordingly apply our disciplinary measures.”
“Do you have any questions so far?” Bandar asked Tulsi.
“I am trying to absorb this, sir.” Tulsi paused to collect herself fully. “My initial reaction is a disagreement; I haven’t breached any discipline here.”
“Why do you think so?” Chandar asked, abruptly stopping his shuffling.
“I wasn’t one of the key architects. Everyone contributed to the plan and helped execute it. How can one determine if something isn’t right when everyone you know is advocating it?”
“While a democratic process is morally desirable for arriving at a decision, it doesn’t necessarily produce the best outcomes.” Andar had quickly taken his pipe out of his mouth to respond before his two partners could.
“I am not saying it was the best outcome,” Tulsi retorted quickly.
“It was the worst, probably,” Bandar replied, “and that’s precisely the point.”
“Honestly, I was disappointed myself in the event. In fact, I dissociated myself from the group after the event,” Tulsi said.
“Tulsi, you can rest assured that this team knows every single detail of what happened and has done elaborate research on the case. We are no longer looking to ascertain who the architects were. We know that factually.” Bandar lit another cigarette as he finished saying this.
“Well, in that case, since I have no option to contest, I’m completely at your service. Let’s move forward with the next step. I may need one favor, if possible.”
“Shoot,” Chandar said.
“Can I have a month here before termination? That way I will have a chance to find a job and may not ever have to tell my family about getting fired.”
“Who else do you have in your family?” Andar asked.
“It’s just my mother. My parents got divorced when I was eight years old. I was their only child. She teaches in a community school because she enjoys her time with the kids.”
“Tulsi,” Bandar said, “one of the biggest ironies in this world is that we all know the right solution to a problem—but we don’t often pursue it. Sometimes we want shortcuts. Other times we extend ourselves outside the boundary of the problem and want to achieve more than just addressing the problem. And that rarely works. Bottom line: we are not going to be helpful on this.”
“We are past the second step.” Chandar seemed to be the timekeeper among the three. “The next step is negotiation. The way it works, we provide you with a proposal with two options. You choose one of those two options, and then sign the respective contract. And we wrap this meeting up.”
Tulsi was sweating again. “What options are you talking about? Should I get a lawyer?”
ABC looked at each other before Andar spoke.
“Well, Tulsi, in addition to terminating your employment with us, we strive to enforce an ‘extinct relationship’ policy.”
“Extinct relationship policy?” Tulsi was clueless.
“In layman’s terms,” Bandar said, “it means that once you are gone from here, you remain gone. No one at the office should ever be able to get in touch with you. Most people facing this in the past have actually moved to a different city—they change their phone numbers, addresses, social website handles, and such.”
Chandar wanted to be done quickly. He said, “The options we offer you are these. Option one: we terminate you and, as per our firm’s rule, pay you six months’ worth of severance. That’s a normal termination. Option two: you resign and we give you a bonus equivalent to two years of your salary.”
“Who would even take option one?” Tulsi asked.
“People whose ego blinds them beyond belief,” Andar said, and laughed. Then he resumed a sober demeanor. “That’s a topic for another conversation. I am glad you are not one of them.”
“Why is the second package so lucrative? Is this real?”
“That’s an excellent question,” Bandar replied, “First, a separation with this package ends the matter in a win-win; and second, the contract clearly states that the person will need to return all the funds should he or she get in touch with anyone from this office—a big incentive for not doing so. Makes our job easy.”
“I will go for the second option.”
Chandar rang the table bell immediately and the twentysomething girl appeared again.
“Deena,” said Chandar, “please prepare a ‘graceful exile’ package for Tulsi. Make sure her mother is not inconvenienced in the process. You should have received all the information already this morning—but if you need anything else, let me know.”
Deena nodded and left.
“Do I have permission to ask a question, sir?” Tulsi said.
“As long as you know that the permission to ask does not include the right to get an answer,” Andar responded.
“Who else have you called for this meeting?”
“That’s classified information,” Andar said.
“Even if I ask about a specific person for a yes-or-no answer?”
“That’s right. So that wraps it up.”
Tulsi got up from her chair, ready to leave.
“Adios,” said Chandar, as all three of them rose to shake her hand. “We wish you all the best for your future endeavors.”
Tulsi paused barely long enough to shake hands with them all, then darted from the room.
27. The Unsought Fate
“Is this what you get for decades of service to the firm?” said a disgruntled Ratiram to himself, as he prepared at home for an early-morning meeting with ABC. “I am not going to give up easy. This firm has my blood and sweat in its foundation.”
His brain was troubled by an unbearable sound at the moment, similar to the one made by a train on squeaking wheels, a dial-up modem, or a thousand females all talking at once. He rushed to his study room, searched for ABC’s invitation, and shredded it within a second.
The office cab was on time, now waiting outside his single-family home. Ratiram could see it, yet knowingly made it wait until the driver honked.
“Your impatience needs to be reported. What’s the hurry?” Ratiram asked, as the driver got out of the car to open the door for him.
Ratiram did not receive a response.
“Are you fasting on silence today?” He had another question for the driver now that they were driving to the office. It seemed that Ratiram’s anger was desperately trying to find an outlet so that ABC weren’t going to be the sole recipients.
“No,” the driver responded.
“Is that the biggest favor your vocal cords have done to anyone this week?”
The driver did not respond.
Ratiram tried again. “I respect your reservations about speaking to a douchebag like me, but that doesn’t mean you should behave like one, too.”
The driver was as calm as a house is at two o’clock on a Monday morning.
“I tell you what: I bet you have been contemplating an essay in response to my questions! Please acknowledge my humble apologies for all the misunderstanding on my part that I wasn’t very polite in expressing.” It was another desperate attempt by his suppressed frustration to avoid having to pop open the lid of his mind.
“Sir…”
The driver couldn’t help turning to look behind him, awed; Ratiram had imitated the driver’s voice.
“Yes?” Ratiram answered to the imitated voice, acting very excited on finally finding
company to converse with.
“I did not like it when you called me a douchebag. I agree, I am easily an asshole at times, but never a douchebag. I hope you are clear on the difference.” Ratiram responded for the driver, in the same imitated voice.
“I understand. But being an asshole has nothing to do with not responding at all!” Ratiram said in his own voice.
“It doesn’t. I am unusually quiet today because my tongue is tired from an overnight enterprise,” the plagiarized voice said.
“I don’t blame you,” responded Ratiram to his other voice. “I would give up speaking forever for a constant indulgence of that nature.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I had tons of relatives show up yesterday evening to surprise me for my birthday. They stayed overnight talking all through the night. The retards made me speak throughout the night,” the pretend voice continued.
“I feel bad for you—having to entertain relatives the entire night and then coming and picking me up early in the morning. I hope this once-in-a-lifetime turmoil at least allowed you to rinse your overnight-smelling body?”
“Frankly, it did not. But don’t worry; I emptied half a bottle of my wife’s talcum powder this morning to cover every cell of my skin,” the imitated voice said.
The driver was fuming with anger by now, but seemed handcuffed by some secret oath of nonviolence.
“Sorry, dude,” responded Ratiram to his driver-voice, “doesn’t seem like that helped even a tiny bit. Your overnight endeavor seems to be more pungent than you might have thought. That makes me take the story you told me with a pinch of salt.”
“I am helpless, man,” answered the imitating voice. “It’s not easy to be born smelling like a skunk and remain that way throughout life. I tell you, my paychecks disappear in visiting doctors, trying all possible scents, blowing twenty talcum powder bottles every week. There is no way out. This skunk shit is worse than forever farting after garlic meals.”
That was it. Stopping the car, the driver turned and punched Ratiram in the face. The driver’s patience had fortunately allowed him to defer doing this until they reached the office.