Three years ago when my husband and I were short of cash but still heavy with optimism, somebody suggested we move to Delhi. So we landed up here with some loose change and expected things to look golden -- fast. We rented a three-bedroom flat in Ghaziabad for Rs 4,000, a flat that had not been cleaned for five years. We cleared the cobwebs, mended the windowpanes and shared our verandah with a cat and a family of monkeys who just would not leave. To them, I guess, we were intruders. I got my resume neatly typed one morning. And off I went knocking at the Delhi edition of a national daily expecting preferential treatment -- I had, after all, put in a brief stint with their Lucknow edition. After going through a maze of cubicles I stood waiting for a middle-level features editor to leaf through my mixed bag of articles. It was quite an interesting showcase of writing talent, I felt. There was 'Gorging the Gujarati Way', a meaty food piece, a very naughty one on whether aphrodisiacs work, a slightly gushing profile of Dominique Lapierre, and various been-there-done-that kind of travel pieces. After making me wait an indecent while, when I cleared my throat to say "If you please, sir...", he cut me short with a look and said -- Oh, never mind what he said, I shall edit his outpourings into a single word -- "No." After that, I spent months trying to whip up nostalgia (and a job) with delicate references to my close friends who worked in the offices of prospective employers. But intimate lines like "I met you at Mr Bose's office, who was the neighbour of your Aunt Anita when she used to stay in Daryaganj...", "You won't remember me, but I remember you. That was a lovely remark you made that evening over coffee at Mrs Rustomji's place..." and "My uncle's dog used to play with your uncle's dog..." didn't really click. Not surprising, when you come to think of it. I mean, people are so forgetful these days they don't even remember their parents, so I guess it is only natural they didn't recall me. Then the day dawned when our luck turned. No, Delhi didn't turn to El Dorado overnight, nor did our loose change transform into megabucks. But the husband got a job with a salary at a local daily. He would get a 'retrospective salary', but at least they mentioned an amount in his appointment letter and his director promised he would be paid as soon as the company cleared its outstanding dues. Meanwhile, my fight at the job market continued. An ad in a paper called for a reporter-cum-editor-cum-photographer, who would 'spearhead' the operations of a weekly run by an ex-armyman. Now my uncle was a commando, so off I went resume, camera and all. At 10am I was in front of his red-brick bungalow in central Delhi manned by a guard and an Alsatian, who seemed to be having a lot of fun with his tail. I was ushered into a red-carpeted hall with lace curtains. A man sat there, with two other women facing him. There was a seat empty between them, which I took. I sat facing the armyman. The interview started. In the next 15 minutes -- in which the two women sized me up -- I came to understand that the armyman was no armyman. He had been a policeman, who, disillusioned with the corruption in the force, had started a paper that would take his fight right into the heart of the nation's capital! At which point he thrust his fighting machine, the paper, into my hands. It was a very good tabloid to wrap fish in. Could I work odd hours? Was I comfortable with being called to work at short notice? Was I social? Can I run out of this room fast, is what I asked myself. And I did just that. Then there was a respite of sorts. I got a part-time editorial job in a reasonably well-known publishing house. I tried to fit in there desperately. I would travel 40km from Ghaziabad by bike, bus and autorickshaw and enter the office two hours late. Every day. The distance took its toll on me as did the travel and lunch expenses. My other colleagues, who were not from Ghaziabad and did not come to office on various modes of transport, plus had a regular salary, turned Italian during lunch -- nothing other than pizzas, pasta and risotto would do for them. As I had to join them for such lunch, I needed more than loose change. A low BP was a kind of blessing in disguise and I quit the job before I got sacked. Next, I found myself facing an interviewer who wanted to know if I could write funky news pieces. Well, I had worked four years on the news desk and we were trained to present news factually. "But how about a creative take on them?" he asked. How creative can you get with hard facts? "Lissen babe, we are looking for creative people. Say, for example, if a politician's son is arrested for drunken driving, add some fizz to the copy and give a racy headline... Can you?" No, I said. I will not interfere with the integrity of my profession, the media is the watchdog of the public... After some other similar pronouncements I made my exit patting myself on the back, but still very poor in the pocket. Then it happened. I walked up some very dark stairs in Connaught Place. Up there, in a 30x40 feet office space some 12 people were at work. There was something energetic about the place though the phones weren't working, there weren't enough workstations and an office boy called Maggi was moving about taking lunch orders and getting shouted at continuously. I was called to the director's office. He was a youngish sort of man, who semi-smiled through the interview. No, he didn't want to put me through a test, but could I join kind of immediately? I wanted to jump with joy. I didn't. Instead, I managed a ladylike yes. So you tell us, dear reader: Is Paromita creative? Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
HOME | NEWS | CRICKET | MONEY | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | BROADBAND | TRAVEL ASTROLOGY | NEWSLINKS | BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | GIFT SHOP | HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL | WEDDING | ROMANCE | WEATHER | WOMEN | E-CARDS | SEARCH HOMEPAGES | FREE MESSENGER | FREE EMAIL | CONTESTS | FEEDBACK