Sunday, September 04, 2005

Playing Somebody's Game

I wonder how our memories get stirred. With nothing more than a wisp, a long stretch of dominoes come tumbling down. Or why would anyone want them to be. For they force us to look at ourselves in the mirror, for what we are, all that we wanted to be, and all that transpired in between. At the end of it all, it’s up to us to painstakingly rearrange those dominoes again.

So there I was, oblivious to the impending total-recall, as the interviewer leaned back and passed the mallet to the compatriot. Now I just had a mildly unpleasant Q & A with Domain. A carefully deadpan face, buttressed with Teflon; no emotion seemed to stick, and I'd no idea if any of my spiel had an effect. Over to HR. Now anybody worth his/her CV would tell you that HR is not, repeat not, to be taken lightly. Their seemingly inane queries are borne out of centuries of scientific enquiry, and are not to be dismissed as boilerplate.
Even those that go like:

"You're from Kerala, so what are you doing in Bombay?"
Gratuitous Answer: To find a job, you moron.
Gratuity Earning Answer: My skill-sets demanded a certain profile...blah.. blah..

Dour sounding Techie & Intelligent looking HR is how corporates play Good Cop/Dud Cop. As in:

God: Go build a boat. And put two of every species in it.
Moses: Yes, my Lord.
HR: Why no shave?
Moses: Lord, I've found one mule already.

So it came finally, like a pebble skipping over water, "Who's your favorite sportsperson?" (Please note the gender neuter. How very equal op). I would have jumped for Isinbayeva (any time, from 5m high) or for Federer (will kill for backhand). Slowly arching forward, I mentally removed the Domain Guru tape & inserted Team-Builder & Affable Employee tape. Good to go. Hit Play.
But very oddly, and at that very inopportune moment, I lost auto-pilot. As my mind shuffled & blinked, I realised I had an awkward situation to handle.

For genuinely, and that's not meant for job interviews, I had a favorite. Very much a favorite. Too long ago, and may be too unfashionable to mention. Even my memory seems too grainy and distorted. Ivan Lendl. Around him revolved all my childhood delusions of grandeur. He was my famous double, what I wanted to be. Rather, what I would be. Destined for glories in lands I'd never been, in a sport I could only watch, winning adulation I could never imagine. His days of glory, made mine; however wretched that might seem. I copied his walk, sucked in my cheeks, and ridiculously tapped my badminton racket against my soles before serving. I read and re-read his comments, his outbursts at Court No.1, and secretly fantasized trying that during PT. I mourned when he lost at Wimbledon; twice over.

Late 80s meant Tennis was more like Disney cartoons; appears rarely, and happens only on TV. A TV called DD, and nothing else. In spite of state broadcasting, I still stalked my Doppel. Color pages of Sportstar. More DD. Over Grand Slams. Fidgeting through News Breaks and Parliament blah. Praying that on the other side of the interminable wait, I find Gaunt Face hale, hearty, and a two-set lead. Patting sweat off his brow with his wrist band. Cool. So do I.

Not that there weren't others who mesmerized this impressionable mind. van Basten, Socrates and Wilander no less. But loyalties are bound in blood at the age of fourteen, and mine was not meant to be any less. It was never fashionable then, what with the likes of Becker & Edberg around, but I stuck with it.

Somewhere along, I grew up, and made my peace with obscurity. Then Lendl retired. I never became a fan again. My racket still finds the soles of my feet, though.

Yes, HR. For once, I speak my mind. Never mind that I had to repeat the name twice; HR mistook him for the Tsar.

Should have played tape.