The big hunt
My husband is a compulsive job hunter. Oh and before his current and all prospective bosses blacklist him for lack of commitment let me clarify that he is NOT a compulsive job changer. That he spent something like nine years in his first job is more than proof enough. However a few months into a job and the hunt begins… rather, resumes. Never will he admit that he has no real intentions of switching.
When we were newly married just as I was putting up our nameplate he announced, “In six months we’ll be out of this place.” I dropped the hammer on my foot and while limping around painfully wondered why I was investing so much effort in making a home when we’ll be out in a few months. We stayed on for six years.
Let me put it this way.. The pleasure is in the journey not the destination. It’s the hunt that thrills him. That first call from the consultant, the preliminary interview, the next stage and the next.. parrying questions from a panel of company experts, the salary negotiations… the whole deal…that’s what excites him.
Come Sunday and my completely non computer savvy husband can be found puttering on his laptop. He spends hours updating, revising, renovating and beautifying his CV. He even invested in a book on the art of resume making… I didn’t even know such books existed. He then went on to try out various formats. “Different styles suit different companies,” he informed me gravely.
As a relative lay person in the field resume-making, I could never really figure why one wasn’t enough. Why would anyone need to ‘update’ a resume even while there was no enhancement of qualification or position, I wondered. Experts however seem to differ.
My dear husband is never satisfied. Otherwise a frugal spender he readily parted with an exorbitant sum to try out the services of a CV specialist. The specialist promised to draft him a deadly resume along with the assurance of forwarding it to some hundred consultants. However to his horror the ‘deadly’ resume turned out to be a rather dead one. It was littered with basic grammatical and spelling errors which stood out like red flags to my editor eyes. He safely retreated to self help.
Then there comes the first call. When the phone rings his eyes light up and I can feel his pulse quicken at the thought of a consultant at the other end of the line, the hunter in him at a total alert. A bit of cross questioning and he sets up his itinerary. “I have a videoconferencing after office today and if that works out I’ll be flying down to Chennai (or Mumbai, Pune, Ahmedabad),” he will announce with aplomb.
A complete workaholic the only leaves he takes are for attending those unending interviews across the country. He is never too tired or too tied up to rush into the arms of a waiting interview panel.
Sample this.. For that interview at Chennai he woke up at 4 am to catch a 6 am flight. After the interview he waited at the airport for his 9.30 pm flight back, got home after midnight and was ready for work the next day. Is he too tired.. nopes, not he. This, by the way, is the same man who is always, yes always without exception, ‘too tired’ to go out for dinner over weekends. We’ve had just about two holidays together in our 14 years of married life because – yes you’ve guessed it — he’s too tired.. but miss an interview.. nah.
One Saturday I found him getting ready for a meeting at CCD for a position even I, a total proletarian to the placement game, knew he would never take up. “What’s the point?” I tried to reason. “Practice,” said he solemnly. “It’s important to keep in touch,” he added.
There are other reasons he cites — ‘I might not like the company, but if I get a good enough offer I might be able to push my current company for a hike.’ And another one – ‘If I don’t keep going the consultant will forget about me and stop calling.’ Never will he admit his love for the hunt. That would be like admitting that job hunting was a mere hobby.
We’ve just moved and the other day as I was considering joining a gym. He peered over my shoulder into the membership form and said, “Go for a quarterly membership. I have a tentative offer. We might be moving.” Did I get worked up? Na na. Not for nothing have I been married for fourteen years. I gave him a serene smile and confidently ticked on ‘Gym plan – annual’.
Oh and by the way anyone out there who needs advice on changing jobs, job trends, how to negotiate salary, how to make a killer resume you know where to go. He’s really really good.. I’ll vouch for that.
Protected: Far from the madding crowd
The renuion
May 2010
A reunion with Loreto girls.
Wow, though I. It had been over 20 years since I met up with everyone.
It was to have been a rendezvous with three pals, then there were five, another one joined in and then another one. Finally on a hot May afternoon eight of us gathered for lunch.
Time works in strange ways; it changes some things beyond recognition even while leaving others untouched.
It had turned skinny girls into plump women while leaving the smiles intact.
It had (quite magnanimously) allowed the plump ones to keep their curves while taking away their self-consciousness.
It had turned jet black hair silver, while leaving quicksilver tongues untouched.
It had (quite magnanimously) allowed the plump ones to keep their curves while taking away their self-consciousness.
It had turned jet black hair silver, while leaving quicksilver tongues untouched.
It had transformed gawky teenagers into lively women, with their ability to giggle intact.
One thing was for sure the teens were far far behind us.
Or were they?
The excitement of the reunion melted the years away and turned us back into rowdy teens. Someone upturned a glass full of water while someone else knocked over the tissue box. The rest chatted animatedly, as comments flew around and camera’s clicked in a bid to savour and capture the moment.
The young couple at the secluded table next to us beat a hasty retreat followed by barely concealed hoots from the rowdier ones, while the others tried unsuccessfully to shush them. Waiters hovered around trying in vain to get us to place an order. Who had time for food when we had a quarter century of tales to consume?
Looks came under the scanner first…
‘You so look the same..’
‘When did you get cholesterol deposits on your eyes?’
‘Why on earth don’t you colour your hair? I hate to be seen with an aunty.’
‘You were so thin in school, what happened?’
…. then the catching up….
‘You? A principal? Unbelievable.’
‘Your son’s 17, how lucky is that! I’m still struggling with my four-year-old twins.’
‘…92 pc in her boards…. Great.’
‘Do you still sing?’
‘An HoD? Can you actually tell off students?’
‘… dad’s real estate business? Woah!’
‘… in Jaipur? Wow great place.’
…. And the unending memories
25-year-old school gossip that still seemed so interesting — the scandals that seemed so huge back then, the shared punishments, the dreaded subjects.
Of course there were the teachers, the quirky and scary, the elegant and the frumpy — all of them doing their bit to make ‘young ladies’ out of us. There was the tough librarian thanks to whom we never could still turn corners down in books, the oh-so-propah English teacher who taught us to appreciate Shakespeare and get the pronunciation just right, the nun who walked around with a pillow to sit on, the music teacher who exhorted us non-singers not ‘slide over’ the notes… the memories were endless.
As we relived them our school days seemed to come alive.
Finally the order was placed.. rather, over placed.. each thought the others were big eaters. Between bites of paranthas and kebabs the talk continued till responsibilities beckoned.. there were businesses calling, kids to be put to sleep, homes to be taken care of.
With promises to keep in touch and meet again we dispersed, each becoming a grown up again leaving behind our teens in the restaurant.