Soon after I had accepted the Coal India offer, I also received the Bank of India offer. The bank’s offer was appealing in many ways, but the idealism of youth can often be too real. Would it be ethical to renege on a commitment I had already made? Should I not keep my word given to a general no less? Plus, the appointment order from General Grewal, the very chairman of the company, printed on an electric typewriter, was way more charming, gracious and personalised – complete with my name handwritten by the general – than the Bank of India offer, which simply addressed me as “Dear Sir”, typed on a clunky manual Remington.
Looking back, it was this dash of idealism that influenced such a significant decision in my life. It only reaffirmed my belief that most of life’s major decisions could easily be made by a toss of a coin, given the countless variables that can interfere with our choices.
I made my way to Calcutta with barely any money in my pocket, counting on Coal India to provide accommodation in their executive hostel for management trainees, as indicated in their offer letter attachments. Their headquarters were located at 10, Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Road, and that’s where I was headed.
I landed in Calcutta on a rainy Sunday afternoon, 9 May 1976, to be precise. I made my way to Naktala, where I had decided to anchor overnight with my close friend, Jayanto Bhaduri. Jayanto and I had become very close friends during our time at the Jodhpur Management Programme. He had since been working as a consultant with a good consulting firm in Calcutta and was living with his parents. I thought I would stay with him overnight and report at Coal India the next morning. From there, I would be taken care of by Coal India.
So, on Monday morning, another rainy day, I took a minibus from Naktala to Dalhousie Square (also BBD Bagh). A good one hour later, during which we passed through the beautiful Victoria Memorial and the enormous expanse of open grounds, the bus entered the terminal stop of Dalhousie Square, facing an enormous red building. This I would learn was the Writers’ Building – housing the state’s secretariat.
After a few minutes of deploying the customary Indian modus operandi of finding one’s geolocation – stopping folks at random and asking for directions – I set off towards the dusty street of 10 Netaji Subhas Road, which was not more than a ten-minute walk. It was about 11.45 am. when I arrived at a handsome three-storey colonial building. Upon reaching the reception area, I presented my letter of appointment and informed them of my purpose to report. The receptionist, sporting a puzzled expression, furrowed her brow, dialled a few numbers, and eventually instructed me to proceed to the HR department on the second floor for further information. It was evident that my arrival had taken them by surprise.
As I ascended four flights of steep stairs to the second floor, a sense of shock washed over me. The floor sprawled out before me was an immense hall – I thought the size of the very Howrah station where I had alighted the day before for the first time – with row upon row of tables at the centre, and cabins ring-fencing the perimeter. Seeking guidance to locate the HR department, I was directed to a specific door adorned with the title, “Assistant Controller (HR)”.
I knocked.
“Come in,” came a gruff voice.
There were three gentlemen sitting in various states of relaxation on three chairs around a table, with some tea and small samosas (I would learn that what looked like small samosas of the north were in fact the standard shingaras of Calcutta).
“Yes, what do you want?”
“Sir, I am V Raghunathan…”
“Yes, so?”
“Sir, I am here to report as per my appointment order as a management trainee?”
“What order? What management trainee?”
“I have my appointment order with me, Sir.”
“What are you doing here today? You are supposed to report on 31 May.”
“Sorry Sir, that’s not what my appointment order says.” Saying so, I took out my appointment order and showed him, adding, “it says any day on or before 31 May 1976. Today is 10 May.”
He did not look at the letter I had pushed in his direction.
“Didn’t you hear me? You are supposed to join on 31 May!”
Clearly, he knew what the letter contained, but didn’t want to acknowledge it. I continued: “But sir, that’s not what the letter says. If the date for joining was changed, I received no intimation. I have travelled all the way. Now that I am here, why don’t you please let me join?”
“What’s your problem? Didn’t you hear me?” he said impatiently. And then he immediately assumed a patient tone and said, “What’s your problem? Why don’t you understand that we cannot have different fellows joining on different dates? Come back on 31 May.”
Well, I did have a problem. Where was I to hang around for the next three weeks? I could hardly stretch my friend’s hospitality for so long. I had too little cash on me to go back home and return in two weeks, leave alone stay in a hotel or a lodge for two weeks. I was desperate.
Clearly somebody had goofed up somewhere and I was being made to carry the can. So I said, “Perhaps you meant us to join on 31 May. But the chairman’s letter clearly gives us a twenty-day window. So perhaps his office made the mistake and that’s why I am here to report today. Why don’t we get special approval from the chairman for me to join today? I am sure I will not be the only one. If a similar letter has gone to others, I am sure others will have the same problem too, don’t you think?” I said, genuinely thinking I was helping solve a knotty problem.
I wasn’t therefore prepared even to understand his train of thought just then, as the man exploded, saying, “Ah, so you have already started behaving like a union leader, have you? And you haven’t even joined! You want to complain to the chairman, do you Mr V Raghunathan? Do you know, my friend, I can find a dozen different reasons to cancel your appointment if you don’t just go back and report on 31 May.”
Only much later would I learn that this precise man had goofed up in drafting that letter sent out by the chairman and he knew that if the matter went to the chairman, he could be in a spot of trouble. So he had been covering his backside by bullying me. But just then, young, inexperienced and desperate as I was, I thought to retreat the better part of valour and left to ruminate my future course of action – future as in the next three weeks.
I walked out of the building and started wandering around. I remembered the beautiful wide expanse of the Maidan and I recalled that it was close by. So I walked towards it, though the walk was a good sight longer way to walk than I had imagined.
I was nearly in tears. How could I just impose on my friend, who himself lived with his parents and siblings? Staying outside, anywhere, was hardly a real option, since I didn’t have the money and I didn’t have the stomach to borrow from my friend. Calling home for help was an option, but unpalatable, as I didn’t want to burden my parents any more than I already had. Besides, a money order from home would take at least a week to reach me. What was I to do until then?
There’s only so much one can do when one has loads of time and very little money in the pocket, anywhere in the streets. And I had done my bit: eaten puffed rice snack twice over (which I would learn was the famous moori) and watched traffic flow past in the distant – what I would learn later – Chowringhee Road, and finally it was time to head home to my friend’s.
One look at my face and my friend knew something was seriously amiss. There was nothing to it but confess the quandary I was in. He asked me to wait for ten minutes, after which he came and said he had discussed with his parents and that I could cheer up, for there was nothing to it! They had a disused room on the terrace. They would clean it up and I could stay there as long as it took me to get my hostel. After some persuasion, I got my friend to agree on my being a paying guest, with the rent to be paid only at the end of the next month, my first payday! He and his family never even made me feel that they had done me a favour, the burden of which I shall never ever be able to undo.
Excerpted with permission from The Lion, the Admiral and a Cat Called B Uma Vijaylakshmi: Learnings from Life and Management, V Raghunathan, Westland.
