Wasim sat anxiously outside the office of Mr. Prakash Parikh, a director at the Research and Development department of Cipla Pharmaceuticals. There were three other young men in the waiting area, presumably after the same entry level position as a research assistant. There was a peon in a khaki dress, sitting on a stool outside the office door, twirling his mustache, chewing some tobacco and staring at a poster of the periodic table. Across him, behind a desk sat a lady in her mid forties, shuffling paperwork and typing furiously. There was a wooden name plate on her desk that simply read, “Secretary.” She had graying hair that was pulled up in a tight bun and held together with two large pins. She wore a heavily starched white sari with an ornate, burgundy border. Her orange blouse had patches of sweat under her armpits. Delicate pearl earrings hung from her ears and a gold chain glistened around her neck.
She looked up and caught him staring at her.
“Nervous?” she asked.
He smiled back awkwardly and shook his head.
As the eldest son, Wasim had seen the good times and the bad. He had witnessed the opulence of his childhood gradually wither away into a struggle for daily survival; his once proud and authoritative father retreat into a shell of obscurity and failure; his mother, once so careless and charitable with money, scrounging for pennies and warding off debtors; his unsupervised and impressionable siblings going astray. The pittance of a salary he earned at the bottling company did little to alleviate the financial pressures on the family and gave him little time to keep up with his studies. But he was almost done, a final exam in two weeks and he would have his B.S. from the University of Bombay.
He looked through the folder that held his transcripts, certificates and letters of recommendation from his high school principal, his supervisor at the bottling company and his Chemistry professor. He remembered the contentious meeting he had with Prof. Shukla a week before. The professor had been less than enthusiastic about this job he was seeking and had tried to convince him to continue his studies, get a PhD and do some real research, instead of being a test monkey for a drug company.
“They are pirates,” he had exclaimed emphatically, “they steal our research and make millions from it. And what do they give in return? Let me tell you. Absolutely nothing. A-one bastards, I tell you.”
The door to the office opened and a portly, middle aged man stepped out. Dressed in a beige suit, a white shirt, a red stripped tie and with his short cropped hair neatly combed, he looked more like a businessman than a researcher. He surveyed the room and without acknowledging anyone in particular snapped his fingers and shouted, “Next.”
The secretary glanced at a piece of paper on her desk and looked in Wasim’s direction.
“Mr. Peshimam, you’re up.”
The office was sparse, smokey and dimly lit. Parikh, standing in a corner, smoking a cigarette, motioned Wasim to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
“So, why do you want to work for Cipla?” Parikh asked.
“Good morning Sir,” began Wasim with his rehearsed introduction, “I have great love for the sciences, I am a hard worker …”
“Yes, but what makes you special?” interrupted Parikh.
“Special, sir?” responded Wasim.
“Yes special. Don’t you think you are special?”
Wasim leaned back in his chair. No, he didn’t think he was special. What did that mean anyway? Unique, maybe. But special ?
“No, sir. Not particularly.” replied Wasim.
“So, Mr. Not So Special, what is your name again?” Parikh asked, in an annoyed and sarcastic tone.
“Wasim, Sir, Wasim Peshimam.”
“Show me your application,” demanded Parikh, extending his arms towards Wasim’s folder. Wasim handed it over.
Parikh flipped through the transcripts, glanced at the letters of recommendation, closed the folder and threw it back at Wasim.
“You are right. Nothing special.” snorted Parikh, as he walked towards the door and opened it.
“Sorry, are we done Sir,” stammered Wasim, “is the interview over?”
“Yes.” replied Parikh, with such certitude, that Wasim realized he had blown the interview even before it really started. Still in a state of shock, he staggered out of the room and slowly made his way out.
Walking back home, Wasim repeatedly ran the interview through his head. Should he have worded his answers differently ? Had he said something that had irked Parikh? Did he smell bad? Was it the clothes he was wearing? Maybe he should have worn a tie, but he didn’t know how to tie one. Or maybe, Parikh was right: he was an ordinary guy with an ordinary application.
As he turned the bend from Claire Road to his own street a sense of doom descended on him. He looked up and saw his mother standing on the balcony. She saw him and waved out to him. As he waved back all the pent up emotions surged out of him and tears welled up in his eyes. He sat by the stairs of the apartment building, feeling ashamed, insulted, worthless. All these years of education and he still could not get an entry level job. He couldn’t even finish an interview. He could barely start one before getting thrown out. He could go for more interviews and eventually maybe land a job, but how much would it pay, and how many years would he have to spend slaving at the bottom before he worked up to something he could be proud of. As the minutes rolled by though, he realized that wallowing in this pool of doubt and self pity was going to get him nowhere. He was stronger than this. He needed to be. He had to make all the effort and money spent into his education count. He was going to make something of his life, be successful. He was going to be a role model for his siblings. He would make his parents proud.
He got up, wiped his face, coughed up some phlegm and spat it out into the street and bounded up the stairs. He pushed open the door to the apartment and rushed to find the satchel that he took to college. He turned it over, dumping the contents to the floor. A folded brochure floated out and landed by his feet. Prof. Shukla had given it to him a few days ago as something he should seriously consider. He had dismissed it then but now with a renewed sense of determination he picked it up, opened it and for the first time in a very long time, he smiled. “University of Heidelberg,” he shouted out, “here I come.”