The showdown
'Cool it', I told myself, 'this is not the first time and certainly not the last. This too shall pass....'
But his rant was continuing, showing no sign of ceasing. The language being used, seamlessly transcending one level of abuse to the next higher. A rant bereft of any logic or reason, bordering on absurdity and abuse. 'Has he lost his mind? Which fool made him a General Manager?...' I had long since stopped paying attention to his volley of abuse. I tried to distract myself with the other inhabitants of the room and lazily looked around. There were two other departmental heads in the room, sitting with their eyes lowered. One seemed genuinely pained. The other just wore a 'couldn't care less, have seen it all' countenance. 'The bastard is surely enjoying the tamasha', I muttered under my breath about the former. I knew for sure. We two never got along, never managed to penetrate the veneer of faked respect for each other. About the latter, well, he is just a poor lamb ever willing to offer his neck for sacrifice. The very mention of the boss's name sent shivers down his spine. He really now could not care less since for once he is not at the receiving end of the vulgarity that went by the nomenclature 'boss' in front of us. With a serious face, ready to break into a sob, he slowly raised his left hand to scratch his forehead.
That was the precise moment the file was thrown at me. In hindsight, I can say that 'the vulgarity' probably did not mean to, but all the same the file did traverse a parabolic path to land at my feet. "So this is your compliance report?", the voice bellowed, "so you think you can take me for granted? who do you think you are? Dekhe nebho tumake". I knelt down to pick up the file. Papers strewn around as if caught in a gale were also picked up one by one, as I took my time doing so. Even as I was at it, the cheap double headed ball point pen dropped from my shirt pocket. Picked up that too. Picked up my fallen ego as well. Picked up my embarrasment as well, of having been stripped naked before strangers. The humiliation was complete. The rape was consummated. A sickening feeling engulfed me. There was a momentary deafening silence. The small diminutive human form before me sunk into his plush leather chair, its eyes raised, staring at nothing.
There are moments in life when you steadfastly refuse to retaliate despite extreme provocation. Most of the time, at least in my case, those are the very moments when you fail in your resolve. Ego takes over reason. Caution is thrown to the winds. That was when I blurted out,
"Sir, if you can't stand me, better get rid of me".
He was aghast. Didn't expect this, definitely.
"What?"
"You heard me".
"You have the gall to ....."
"Sir, enough. Let's not aggravate this further"
"Yes, let us not. I will grant your wish. I will get rid of you, I will transfer you to the farthest corner of the country" (In my sarkari bank, that's the worst punishment that can be meted out, for no boss worth his salt can sack you, unless you are convicted of murder).
"Please do, Sir!".
Brave words!
I stormed out, without so much as 'by your leave'. I managed to catch a glimpse of the 'genuinely pained' among the duo as I was leaving. Thought I saw a fleeting image of a smug face valiantly trying to suppress a grin. 'Good bye, fatso! I made your day', I thought. 'But mine will come too!' Brave thoughts, again.
I descended the twenty odd steps from the fifth floor to my office at the fourth, didn't enter the office but took the foyer directly to the rear block. The toilet blocks, the 'official' smoke zone, are situated there. Pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Inhaled deeply. 'The bastards', I fumed, 'The bastards'. The fag seemed to steady my nerves a bit. I knew it was an illusion. As all things are, in this life. A make-believe. A mirage, beyond which there is only a long expanse of scalding sand.
'What now?'
'Brave words, but what else?'
'Mohan, your big mouth has always been your enemy,' a voice reminded. 'Nah, you did the right thing..' another told. 'For how long, can you bear?'
A thousand thoughts were swirling around the inside of my cranium. The burning tip of the cigarette inched closer and gently touched my fingers. I flicked away the butt and started walking back towards my office. The foyer was dark and most of the folks had already left. I reached my department, pulled open the door, entered the hall and went, as if on a trance, straight to Rahul's desk and parked myself on a seat before him. Rahul was my immediate junior by hierarchy, in the department. He was busy, immersed in a file. I called for his attention. He looked up and no sooner he did so, than I vomitted out the whole thing.
Rahul was aghast. He could not believe. Because he knew how spiteful the monster above his head on the 5th floor can be.
'Mohan, how can you be so foolish?'
'I know. And I am prepared.'
'For what, any idea? You know what he can do to you?'
'Of course I do. He can't cut off my head. Any thing else he might do is no big deal to me!'
'Don't be foolish. Apologise. Now.'
I couldn't believe my ears.
'Apologise? My foot!'
'Mohan, you must. For your sake and for all our sake. Go and apologise.'
I flatly refused. My ego, by then, was far too inflated to even consider the possibility of apology. By this time, every soul in the 4th floor got wind of what transpired at the 5th floor and one by one streamed in and soon there was a crowd around me, some genuinely sad, some not so, but all relishing the scandal. A junior executive saying 'balls' to a General Manager? Well, that was novel. I felt like a monkey with a garish red cap, tail tethered to a long rope and performing tricks on the road side, at the beck of the master, amidst a crowd that laps up every moment. Suddenly I needed to be alone, but at the same time not exactly letting go of the opportunity to be the cynosure of all eyes. Free advice was pouring from all quarters. All advocated apologising. The chorus got louder and louder and I could no more think clearly. At some point, it appeared that all the counsel emanating from around me made sense. 'Perhaps I should apologise'. 'okay, he was unreasonable but mine was no way to talk to a senior boss....'
As if in a trance, I jumped out of my seat and started towards the stairs . Without allowing any thought that might even remotely goad me to retrace my steps, I climbed the stairs to the 5th. Within a minute found myself again outside his office chamber. His secretary was long gone. I gently tapped on the door. I heard no response from the inside. Gently pushed open the door. He was there, for sure. Seemingly lost in a file in front of him. Alone. There was no sound in the room, except for the sound bytes of the anchor from CNBC TV18 that was on in the big plasma TV at one corner.
TV: ' ...the economy, according to the expert, is overheated and the bubble may burst any time...'.
Me: 'Excuse me, Sir.'
He: ...........
TV: '......taking calibrated measures to bring down inflation by a mix of monetary and fiscal......'
Me: 'I am sorry, Sir. My comments were not appropriate. I came to say sorry.....'
He: ............
TV: .'......not responding to rate cuts. He said it is mainly supply constraints that .......'.
Me: 'I say sorry again, Sir.'
He: 'Alright'.
TV: '.....strong policy action would be seen in the coming........'.
Without any idea of how to end this awkward conversation, I left the room and trudged back to my office a floor below. I could not guess how the apology episode went and what effect it might produce, though I had a premonition of how this would all turn out. Hell hath no fury than a proud GM scorned....
The aftermath
I was not disappointed with my prognosis. The retribution came thick and fast. In a system notorious for its lethargy and red-tape, my transfer order created a record of sorts. It was conceived, issued and executed within two hours! The A4 size paper that fell on my desk consigned me to a distant town in the North East, to be released immediately, for 'administrative reasons'. No particular reason for the man above choosing that specific town. Its name just struck him probably. Or may be in his mind that was the farthest place he could think of. There were branches of our Bank even farther to the east, like Dibrugarh, Tinsukia and the like but the issuer of the order could be excused for glossing over those finer options because his knowledge of the geography of India was nothing much to write home about.
Any way, here I was that fateful night, packing my spartan treasures to catch the morning flight to my new destination. I felt assailed by emotions of all hues. I had long since lost the ability to objectively analyse the situation. I did not know who to blame and how to wriggle out of this awful mess. The transfer per-se was not bothering me, what with having seen at least one cross-country relocation at an average of every 3 years. I suddenly realised what was troubling me. It was not the physical hardship of transfer but the humiliation that preceded it. It was not the fear of the unknown but the perverse system that smothers dissent. And the tyranny of the bosses such a system spawns. A gut-wrenching emotion of hatred and vengeance filled my entire body. 'What did you say, dekhe nebho? Well, wait and see you wretch, ebar aami dekhe nebho. Onek dekhechi, ebar dekhabo..'
Time flew by. Nothing much changed for me, except the work place. A new place, a new set of challenges, a new home ( if a 10 x 10 brick and mortar enclosure within which confines one can spend depressing night after night to one's heart's content can be called a home) and above all new friends. Every half empty glass is also half full and the love and warmth of the people in and out of office I received during those 10 months alleviated the pain to a large extent. Other 'essential' commodities to help while away time were also not in short supply there. Yes, time flew. And one fine day, the fax machine to my left in the office rang and spewed out another A4 sheet. The ring was music to my ears and the message, just god-sent. 'S.Mohan..' it said, '.....transferred to Kolkata Head Office...'
So back to Amar Sonar Kolkata. I got out of the airport, parked myself comfortably in the rear seat of the Amby prepaid taxi and was taking in the sights. The madness of VIP road traffic, the blue tin-box buses with the stepney tied to the rear, pedestrians coolly darting across the road with a raised arm, bringing the traffic to a screeching halt (the bongs succeed where King Canute failed. They can even stop the waves of the sea, what to say of traffic?).
As I recount this tale, I still have no idea of how on earth they transferred me back to the same building from where I was unceremoniously ousted just 10 months back. I did not want to delve into what might have happened. By some unexpected stroke of good luck here I am back, and that is what matters. The old Kolkata routine has returned. Leaving home by 8, catching the share auto from Lords Bakery to be comfortably in time for the 8.23 metro leaving Rabindra Sadan, the leisurely walk from Esplanade to the Dacre's Lane corner for that hot cuppa for Rs.3 and a further short walk to the imposing 16 storey edifice a block away. No change in the routine and one doesn't really yearn for any change in Kolkata because for most Calcuttans change is an unnecessary, over-hyped concept. If it is not broke, do not mend it! Cholche evam cholbe.
The finale
I am now in a different department, reporting to a different boss. Once in a while, I run into my old pal in the 5th floor, hardly acknowledging each other. For me, he was still the same old vain & mean bully and in his eyes, I was probably worse. I was now and then hearing stories of what could be probably the reasons for my return from limbo to the same old lion's den. Some said the old boss was not what he was earlier and now much mellowed. Others said no, he opposed my re-transfer but could not do much against the HR. I did not want to hear any of this and preferred to keep my own counsel and a very low profile. Nothing has changed and nothing will, in this office, I had decided. Cholche, cholbe. Jemon cholchilo, themonei cholbe.....
Until January 31 arrived. It was just another late winter day. The same routine of auto, metro and cuppa for me. Nothing sensational also expected at the work desk. Just the routine. No fireworks, no nothing. For me. But for the other 800 odd inhabitants of the building, it was a momentous, poignant day. For this was the day Big B retires. After 36 years of blemishless service, with no charge-sheet or letter, at least till yesternight. ( much can happen in the last day of service, the most common being issue of charge-sheet). Big B retiring! who would believe? Does God ever retire? For the old-timers, he was age-less and legendary. His quirks of anger and short temper were the stuff legends are made of. 'Kintu lokta khub bhalo,' they would say, meaning 'but he was a nice man'. Every one is 'bhalo' in kolkata and in our bank in particular. It does not matter if you are efficient in work or otherwise, being nice is one quality that always prevails over other traits.
The farewell was at 6 p.m.Collections were made for the farewell gift. A notice was circulated asking all to be present for the farewell. As it struck five, work was wound up. A steady stream of men was seen proceeding towards the venue hall, which happened to be situated in our floor. By 5.30 all offices were empty. By 5.45, Rahul too was leaving. As he passed my desk, he asked me when I am coming.
'I am not coming,' I told, trying to be as cool and smug.
'What?'
'I am not coming. As you heard'
I knew that only a sick mind would harbour grudges even at the time your tormentor leaves for good. But I had a vicarious pleasure in doing what I was doing. My presence or absence in the farewell would not even be noticed, I knew, so it really made no difference. Nevertheless, it gave me an odd sense of victory. 'You kicked me out? Now I boycott your farewell. From tomorrow, you will be no more in this institution while I will be around for many more years'. I suddendly had visions of him coming to my branch for drawing pension. I make 100 enquiries. I ask him to fill up 50 forms. Make him wait for 2 hours. And then say 'come next week'. The next week I again make him wait. Finally release the pension papers. And then politely ask him to stand in the queue and collect the pension. Month after month, year after year....I was enjoying the reverie. I was completely oblivious to time. An hour passed and then two. I could now hear a slight commotion outside. Ah, yes, the farewell has ended. A great career has ended. The great man takes a final walk out. 'Good riddance', I thought.
Before winding up, I decided to go to the rear smoking block. It was already eight and the pathway was dark, as they put out all unnecessary lights after six. I reached the service elevator at the back and leaned on the stairs' railing. A chill winter breeze was blowing through the open window. Red Cross place was shining with sodium vapour illumination. In the distance, I could see the old Howrah bridge and beyond that, faint lights near the railway station, shimmering through the light mist that had begun to envelope. I did not hear the sound of shoes descending the steps from the 5th behind me. I was lost in the sights afar and in the cigarette in my fingers. A hand tapped my shoulder. I turned.
" Have matches?" It was him. I passed on the match sticks.
He took out a cigarette from his coat pocket, lighted it and inhaled deeply. And let out the smoke slowly in a thin stream. For about a minute, neither spoke. I was staring at my shoes and he at the ceiling. As an afterthought, he inhaled again, turned to me and said
'Mohan, kemon acho, how are you?'
'I am fine Sir, thank you'
'Everybody fine in your family?'
'Yes sir. By the way, sorry I could not come for the farewell, I had to suddenly rush to a hospital to see a friend...' I stopped mid-sentence, ashamed at my own lie. He did not seem to pay heed. After another minute, he spoke. My cigarette was long finished.
'I am sorry, Mohan. I should not have done that.'
'......'
'I regretted for a long time after you were gone. I have this wretched habit of hurting people and regretting later and I do not know why.'
'That's okay sir. It was after all, my mistake that day'
'May be. May be not. That's not the point. It can't be undone now. But the wound can be surely healed. At least we can part as friends'
Another minute of graveyard silence. And then he tossed down the cigarette and extinguished it with his boot. And then extended his hand. We shook. He turned back and started climbing the stairs. One last time, he turned again towards me and said," I wish you all the best, Mohan. Farewell." And then he was gone.
I always used to carry a small journal in my bag. In it were recorded the events of last year, the tiff, the abuse, the thrown file, the fallen pen, the apology, the transfer, the hatred, the craving for vengeance, all in vivid detail. All the smallest happenings that caused distress and misery during the last year were religiously captured in that journal. It had become a habit for me to flip through the pages every other day and re-live the misery, recapture the agony. It had become a painful disease. As I was returning home that day, after the five minute walk to the Esplanade metro, just before entering the station, I stopped, yanked out the journal, shredded it into pieces and flung them into the nearest garbage bin. I suddenly felt lighter and much happier. For one, who had borne the cross of revenge and grudge out of his own volition for a year and who found not a single happy moment to record in his journal of hate during those 12 months, it was a huge, liberating fling!
