Career Decisions

When I was very young, I had to write an essay on "My Ambition in Life" for school, or some such topic wherein one had to tell what career options I wanted to take later in life, and the reasons for the same. It was scary and strange; I had no ambition. My father threw out a few 'safe' career options like engineering and doctor; and I recall, I wrote something about civil engineering, for no other reason than the fact that my brother in law was one, and I had some idea what civil engineers do.

Years passed, and I somehow squeezed myself out of the tenth boards; the marks were horrible, and for days my parents were pissed off with me. Again, a choice stared at me with an evil smirk. Since it was safe, and kind of the 'in-thing' at that time, I chose the 'science' stream. Thankfully, however bad they were, my marks were decent enough for the school to allow me to do so; it was a simple logic - boys chose sciences, girls went for the arts/humanities. Even though I was not clear on what to go in for a career option, I was pretty sure of what not to be! And that was, a course in medicine. I cannot stand dissections. I feel nauseous. So, the only other option in sciences was the Engineering Drawing section. (Computers were in their nascent stage; I gave it a skip).

Tough two years followed; physics always gave me the shivers; chemistry was ok, but the teacher was a pain; and mathematics left me as cold as a lady sleeping with a foul-smelling drunkard! All the subjects relied on logic, and this was something which God had forgotten to endow me with. It did not excite me at all that two plus two should be four only; in my dream world, it made more sense for it to be twenty two at one time, or five at another.

Curiously, at that time, some sense of my calling started to take a vague shape. Writing interested me. It gave me freedom; and in this, I could create a world of my own which was not governed by straight jacketed logics that ended with smug QEDs! I picked up 'journalism' as my 'extra-curricular' subject. The faculty coordinator was the best that I could have; she had taught me English in tenth; she encouraged me; she corrected my mistakes; she was patient in reading in my stories and offered valuable insights and thoughts; I learnt about editing, proof reading, reporting and packing a punch in the articles.

Eleventh passed; and the crucial twelvth came on. I continued with my journalistic side-subject. Surreptitiously, I continued with my love affair with journalism. My parents were not aware; they dreamt of their son taking up full fledged engineering, and settling to a cozy job; forms of entrance examinations started to come my way; my father did all the ground work. Even though my heart was not in it, I filled them up, and also attended a few coaching classes. Caught between the tug-of-war of the safe and the bizarre (as my mother put it, when I once told her about my journalistic ambitions), I was still unsure. Since my parents or my sisters were not encouraging enough, I was not sure whether I really wanted to be a journalist. That raging fire of ambition was still missing. In retrorespect, I think it was a small flame, that could have been fuelled on; alas it met a cold wave of apathy from family.

At school, when the all-important time for the 'prefect-ship' came on, I forwarded my name for the post of 'School Magazine - Editor'. In the 'journalism' class ( which the students of all the streams of class XII took together), I had a fair chance. The teacher coordinator was favorable, and the competition (two girls) was not that strong. It came as no surprise to me, when I was selected.

The designated day for the ceremonies came on; it was a hot, sunny summer afternoon as the students gathered for a 'Special Assembly' at the basketball court. The principal took over the mic, and started his announcements. I still recall the extravagant pride which overtook me as my name was announced as the Editor for the school magazine that year, and I marched forward to the dias, to take the certificate and the badge.

That afternoon I rushed back home with a special spring in my steps. Impatiently, I pressed the doorbell. When it opened, I rushed inside to the cooler environs of my curtained house. Guess what, I screamed. I have been elected as the editor of school magazine. Proudly, I showed the badge hanging on my shirt pocket. The stares that met me were frozen and frigid accompanied by a heavy stillness and an oppressive silence.

That's all that I remember of that afternoon!

School got over; I cleared the boards; I failed all entrance examinations. Being a day-dreamer, I did make exquisite fantasies of clearing them, but hard work was not my forte ever; and the time that was supposed to spent in learning was wasted in forming 'hawai quilla'.

The marks in the Board examinations were decent, much better than my tenth ones, quite above the averages, but still way short of the coveted nineties that was the buzzword of those days! Worse, my English marks were nothing to write home (or anywhere, for that matter) about; I got the 'see-we-told-you' stares. I was not good for being a journalist if my English marks did not even cross the 70's threshold, that too in the easy-and-scoring CBSE board exams! Perhaps, they were right, I conceded.It was just a whim. I was not cut out to be a journalist. In any case, what did I know about the profession - zilch, zero, shunya! To our family, they were the obscure breed that wore khadi kurtas with the ubiquitious jholas, chasing the politicians and stars relentlessly, an image fossilised by the myriad Hindi films! Plus, what side of journalism? What other interests did I have besides films and music? I was pathetic at current affairs and politics, which constitute a large chunk of the stream. I had no interests, I had no vision, I had no knowledge, and was just clinging to this word 'journalism' as a savior to show that I could have an ambition, without really anything great to show barring a few odd stories and articles that a few handful had appreciated.

Another choice, another crossroad. The day I forwarded my choice for English Literature in college, all hell broke loose. What will you do after three years of college? Why dont you re-appear for the entrance exams next year ( I had failed all, including SPA)? Why dont you at least take sciences so that you are in touch with it? Eng Hons is for girls, they argued! But, this time I was adamant. Two years of PCM were enough for me! I did not want to be burdened with something that I did not want to do at all for another three years. Thankfully, my father was by my side. In between, a career in govt. services (following my father's footsteps) was a choice. But for that, one had to be a graduate; English did help there in a small way. I played along that, thinking that quite possibly a secure job would be my calling some day.

As a rough shot, I did apply for the Delhi College of Art and Commerce's Bachelor in Journalism course, which was probably in its initial years at that time. I flunked the entrance badly. And the point was driven home with lots of force that I was not meant to be a journalist; I did not have the capability or capacity to be so. By merely writing a few stories here and there, and editing a school magazine, I was being too big for my boots. Get real! I did. Though inwardly, I felt that it was just an entrance exam I had failed ( it was all current affairs based ) , and it was unfair to me. Leave the entrance criterias, why can't I just join it, and prove myself. This always got my blood boiling. I was subject to a stupid system; it's not the entrance exam/interview that should matter, just get me in, and see how I will shine.

Well, that was not to be; and I resigned to the fact that perhaps I was not cut out. Maybe, they were all right. I had better concentrate on the Eng. Hons, and see what best to do next.

With the 'safe' options like medicine and engineering out of the way, I was again unsure of my future. The half-baked idea of becoming a journalist was also nipped;the IAS entrance exams (at later date) did cross the mind quite strongly, but again the effort for the studying put me off totally.

Three years of fun! Three years of uncertainty! They passed all too quickly.

Now what? A simple graduate hardly guarantees a job. A simple graduate in English, guarantees it lesser!

For the sake of doing so, just for the lark, I applied for the written entrance exam of the prestigious Institute of Mass Communication (JNU). It was an interesting paper; it concentrated more on writing skills than mere knowledge of what constituted the Third Front in politics!

I cleared it.

But the elation was shortlived. Seriously, you do not want to do this, they all exclaimed. This is not right, this is not done. On the day of the interview, I kept pleading that allow me to give it a shot. There were 'hurrumphs' and 'grunts' and we were at my sister's place, not even talking about it, and I had an interview after two hours. I faced my father, and told him that I had to give the interview, however bad it went. Grudgingly, he relented. We went to the campus. No good lucks, no 'meetha' given, no smiles, no aashirwaad. I failed.

I had tried for the entrance at CAT; well, 'tried' can hardly be the word. Let's say I just appeared for them, with the time that was supposed to be spent in studying for them gone waste in day dreaming (as ever).

Dreams do not come true in my case. There is not that chance, or luck, or that special moment when everything falls in place. Those are best found in stories (or other's lives), not me!

My parents even went to the extent of finding contacts to pay 'donation' to get me in IMT, Gaziabad. The contact did nothing, the money was (thank heavens!) returned; this time, again, I failed, but certainly not because of my own cause.

Without any concrete plan of action for life, and without any more options really left, I just entered the MBA course being offered by one of the many mushrooming ones in South Delhi. It was not great, but they guaranteed placement. And at least, I would have some post-graduate tag. I took it up, and I sailed through the two years; and I got a job at the end in a tin-manufacturing company in Sahibabad.

Since then ten years have passed!