Yesterday, on the local train, I met a friend who had left his job. That is what he told me though I suspected that he got the pink slip. He was with one of the BPO/KPO/service centers of an investment bank (are there any left?) and this is an extract from that conversation:
I : How was it like ?
He : What was what like ?
I : You know, recession, credit crunch, pre-/post-Lehman …
He : (silent)
I : Come on, you know, living with the threat of a pink slip, loss of job, money, …
He : (laughs) Heard that some pensioners in Japan lost some money and a few people in US and Europe.
I : You are being insensitive.
He : (after staring at me for a while) Where I was, we made money. Yeah, we did not get a pay hike but we got bonus. Nearly 30-40% of fixed pay. And for some, an additional bonus to be paid in the course of a year – 100-200% of fixed pay.
I : Wow, if I am getting a lakh as fixed pay, I will get bonus of a lakh or two.
He : Yeah, if you are getting 20 lakhs, you will get as bonus 6-8 lakhs plus 20-40 lakhs. And that’s just for lower management. And, they can’t chuck you out without paying - unless they can prove that you have been bad.
I : (a little dumbstruck) Then …
He : Now, as for pink slips, there are smart ways to get the job done – and, without paying bonus or any severance amount.
I : What ways ?
He : Let’s assume that I am your boss, a non-technical manager, and you are a conscientious employee who reviews/manages the technical work done in the group.
Now, what will I do:
(1) Divide & rule. Make you co-head with another less technical person; I will route all communication and opportunities to that person and neglect your progress.
(2) To the others in the group, you are visibly not even a co-head. Even if the junior associates abuse you in public, I will do nothing about it.
(3) Increase neglecting you to the extent that you do not get a chance to talk to your technical manager for 5-6 months.
(4) Assign tasks/assignments to you that are low on priority, involves heavy work and lots of time.
(5) I will assign to you associates (if any) for projects who are allowed to keep very flexible timing (say, come to office at 11 am, leave for lunch at 1:30 pm, return at 4:30 pm after siesta, etc.). If you still manage to make the associate do some work, I will allow the associate to go for a long vacation – without even asking you. When you have done most of the work and the associate returns after vacation, I will shift you out of leading that project to completion and allow the associate to take credit.
(6) I will do nearly everything without even talking to you – and further, assign you to a new task rejected by others in the group.
(7) I will reject your request for leave – even for 2 to 3 days. If you manage to get the leave application approved, you are assigned a task which has a deadline clashing with your vacation.
(8) Now, if you are still around, you are assigned to a task in the London office for a period of 3-4 weeks. And due to urgency, I will advise you (verbally and never written) to take from India a business visa rather than a work permit. Recent UK immigration rules are fuzzy about this - at least, fuzzy as far as you can gather from local sources. You are going to work in London on your account or someone else’s account on various trading platforms and systems but you will state that you are just going for tutorials or training. Now, will you make it through Immigration at Heathrow airport and will you return to work with me?
I : But surely there are people who take care of employees … like HR …
He : (laughs)
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wish I Could Say Something True, To Me … (1991)
If the words do come from within,
If the hand that writes is mine,
If the thoughts spelt make sense,
If my heart pours into each mark,
If all that I do were truly, truly
For me, then I could say with cheer
“I am not alone”. But the tragedy
Is in the final dot, for it speaks
Of the loss of clarity, hope and care,
For these scattered dregs of sweet life
Seem to be for another’s – not mine.
If the hand that writes is mine,
If the thoughts spelt make sense,
If my heart pours into each mark,
If all that I do were truly, truly
For me, then I could say with cheer
“I am not alone”. But the tragedy
Is in the final dot, for it speaks
Of the loss of clarity, hope and care,
For these scattered dregs of sweet life
Seem to be for another’s – not mine.
The Garland (1993)
Behind wrinkles her merry eyes twinkle,
Weaving the low-down string through jasmine;
And I to weave another tapestry – a travesty,
Weariness to be dust and the day’s disgust
From the armour well worn, of self-assertion.
The garland’s wrapped and it’s time for the parting chat.
For the expecting wife she prays, and me she praises-
To have each detail is her part till I depart.
A boy or a girl? A baby – the reply to please, maybe;
Of trying trivial troubles, of morals, money, mortals;
Ration, labour, savings, in-laws and to-be-siblings.
Forward she stretches, and closer attention she fetches:
“A grandchild! You are now man enough for them?
Your ancestors arrack-dealers, hers by royal stealers;
And now by no coconut grove or royalty, but in the ministry;
Do they now complain of the miscast match?”
Awhile in pregnant hush, I spot a blue scar she masks in a rush;
Queries are not for me to utter, of her mate she dare not mutter.
It’s time to part, and she nods at my pining heart;
And hands me the love-pack, the saviour from the rack-
A husband’s tensions of how to please; she mentions
Of how it differs, from those of early customers
For greedy monetary gods, and here to love, the God.
Here, at my walk’s endis the lover, father and husband;
The padlock never oiled creaking, the door never open, complaining;
To sit on the floor of cold stone, to count the moments alone,
The garland still in my clutch, dreams before decay are such.
Weaving the low-down string through jasmine;
And I to weave another tapestry – a travesty,
Weariness to be dust and the day’s disgust
From the armour well worn, of self-assertion.
The garland’s wrapped and it’s time for the parting chat.
For the expecting wife she prays, and me she praises-
To have each detail is her part till I depart.
A boy or a girl? A baby – the reply to please, maybe;
Of trying trivial troubles, of morals, money, mortals;
Ration, labour, savings, in-laws and to-be-siblings.
Forward she stretches, and closer attention she fetches:
“A grandchild! You are now man enough for them?
Your ancestors arrack-dealers, hers by royal stealers;
And now by no coconut grove or royalty, but in the ministry;
Do they now complain of the miscast match?”
Awhile in pregnant hush, I spot a blue scar she masks in a rush;
Queries are not for me to utter, of her mate she dare not mutter.
It’s time to part, and she nods at my pining heart;
And hands me the love-pack, the saviour from the rack-
A husband’s tensions of how to please; she mentions
Of how it differs, from those of early customers
For greedy monetary gods, and here to love, the God.
Here, at my walk’s endis the lover, father and husband;
The padlock never oiled creaking, the door never open, complaining;
To sit on the floor of cold stone, to count the moments alone,
The garland still in my clutch, dreams before decay are such.
Seasons (1994)
Summer’s heated passion lingers over,
Among sweat soaked sheets, like Past –
All alone. Could it have been better?
Shriveled residue like a shrunken raisin,
Awaiting morning dew to fill and cry.
So light is the air, it cares not to caress,
As in winter’s cold, wrapped and fondled.
Spring and Autumn – awaited lovers:
To break the fidelity to lonely extremes.
Among sweat soaked sheets, like Past –
All alone. Could it have been better?
Shriveled residue like a shrunken raisin,
Awaiting morning dew to fill and cry.
So light is the air, it cares not to caress,
As in winter’s cold, wrapped and fondled.
Spring and Autumn – awaited lovers:
To break the fidelity to lonely extremes.
Setting (1992)
Cursed be this son – victim, vandal or voyeur?
Each fleck of ash from the pyre be sin’s attire!
Blame the brother – of bondage – that be the mortal excuse!
But seeking no reply – each cry, tear and look forever accuse!
Gentle vines, dew tipped leaves, tender branches fanning over,
As waving tresses, joy laden lashes, caring limbs to reach forever;
My face laid against Her – past’s pleasure pains present – to hear,
A lullaby, of Life lingering about Mother’s womb for solace dear.
The gentle breeze brought songs from them in flight – like Heaven’s rite,
For a newborn era – as I gazed at my love in yonder hills clad in white;
Across green vales – bejeweled, fluttering like a dainty maiden – to meet,
Did we not walk together hearing the river ripple like whispers sweet?
And here I watch! Those tresses by the roots shorn of a mute mangled prey,
Limbs scarred, pained bosom heaving, shattered within – and I merely pray?
Clarion calls as dreadful dirges deafen, the river gutted, black – Death’s haven,
Poisoned air to rupture sight; my love gone, gaunt, grey – and silent heaven…
Each fleck of ash from the pyre be sin’s attire!
Blame the brother – of bondage – that be the mortal excuse!
But seeking no reply – each cry, tear and look forever accuse!
Gentle vines, dew tipped leaves, tender branches fanning over,
As waving tresses, joy laden lashes, caring limbs to reach forever;
My face laid against Her – past’s pleasure pains present – to hear,
A lullaby, of Life lingering about Mother’s womb for solace dear.
The gentle breeze brought songs from them in flight – like Heaven’s rite,
For a newborn era – as I gazed at my love in yonder hills clad in white;
Across green vales – bejeweled, fluttering like a dainty maiden – to meet,
Did we not walk together hearing the river ripple like whispers sweet?
And here I watch! Those tresses by the roots shorn of a mute mangled prey,
Limbs scarred, pained bosom heaving, shattered within – and I merely pray?
Clarion calls as dreadful dirges deafen, the river gutted, black – Death’s haven,
Poisoned air to rupture sight; my love gone, gaunt, grey – and silent heaven…
On hearing a woman sob in Cargese
It is 7 pm. I am hiding in my hotel room.
Next to the road, on a thread-bare bedspread,
Thro’ cheap curtains, there’s no view but I’m OK.
Then I hear a woman sobbing. I repeat, sobbing.
This is not the place for a woman to sob.
There’s the sea to soothe (with a few irritants ashore).
It is scrub land (but city folks’ paradise).
One is loony to be alone (now you know why I hide).
But with savage tourist instincts,
In the land bereft of natives, with the French speaking English,
With the tired cleaning lady covering her bra,
To eat paella or burger? Who cares to be naked on a nude beach?
This is my first touch with life, hurrah!
I listen to the woman sobbing for 10 minutes,
Probably her dog has flu, or her bikinis are wet,
But for the rest of my stay I could think.
Next to the road, on a thread-bare bedspread,
Thro’ cheap curtains, there’s no view but I’m OK.
Then I hear a woman sobbing. I repeat, sobbing.
This is not the place for a woman to sob.
There’s the sea to soothe (with a few irritants ashore).
It is scrub land (but city folks’ paradise).
One is loony to be alone (now you know why I hide).
But with savage tourist instincts,
In the land bereft of natives, with the French speaking English,
With the tired cleaning lady covering her bra,
To eat paella or burger? Who cares to be naked on a nude beach?
This is my first touch with life, hurrah!
I listen to the woman sobbing for 10 minutes,
Probably her dog has flu, or her bikinis are wet,
But for the rest of my stay I could think.
It hurts to see beauty (Nov, 1998)
It hurts to see beauty
with eyes that run dry.
A blood-stained collage envelopes:
a fettered body below azure calm,
tormented by sunset, scared for a while,
you by my side with bindi-
strange calmness between us, forever.
But darkness will rescue-
from feigning, from laughter,
(it is strange that there are no smiles)
from this madness called life.
It is beauty that hurts.
with eyes that run dry.
A blood-stained collage envelopes:
a fettered body below azure calm,
tormented by sunset, scared for a while,
you by my side with bindi-
strange calmness between us, forever.
But darkness will rescue-
from feigning, from laughter,
(it is strange that there are no smiles)
from this madness called life.
It is beauty that hurts.
Fading (1996)
Eyes peered
forever,
at his
blooming rose;
but how
lonely
he feels;
for now,
petals,
they have
withered
away;
senses
fade, for
it hurts
otherwise…
forever,
at his
blooming rose;
but how
lonely
he feels;
for now,
petals,
they have
withered
away;
senses
fade, for
it hurts
otherwise…
Awakening (1997)
Say not, again, “…it’s but your choice…”
does any mortal choose doom?
And never “…you never understood…”
let me laugh at such mirth, may I?
Speak not “…but you are…”
in your ignorance let me be deaf.
Simply selfishly say “…stupid…”
How so … I know … you utter so well!
does any mortal choose doom?
And never “…you never understood…”
let me laugh at such mirth, may I?
Speak not “…but you are…”
in your ignorance let me be deaf.
Simply selfishly say “…stupid…”
How so … I know … you utter so well!
Did I really love you?
Did I really love you?
Were you just a creation
of a moment’s fancy?
But I did care for you.
But I did worry about you.
But I wanted you helpless and mine.
No! I did not love you.
I did not rejoice
in the moments of strength.
You were just not clay to right mold.
Then why do I think of you?
There’s nothing else to do.
Were you just a creation
of a moment’s fancy?
But I did care for you.
But I did worry about you.
But I wanted you helpless and mine.
No! I did not love you.
I did not rejoice
in the moments of strength.
You were just not clay to right mold.
Then why do I think of you?
There’s nothing else to do.
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