It happened one afternoon

The incident I am about to narrate took place earlier this week and could happen only to someone like me. And I say this with just a little pride. But before you misunderstand me to be talking about the vice itself, consider what I am about to say.

I was supposed to appear for an interview at a certain company whose name I shall not divulge simply because it is inconsequential to the narrative. I was to carry with me a copy of my resume for that grand meeting, which was to take place in the afternoon. I did not have a printed copy with me and, as is my style, I intended to get that done before I left. This, I discovered, is always a mistake. But we live and learn.

So, the Karnataka Electricity Board decided to take it in their hands to teach me this small lesson. That day, the papers carried a small horizontal column on page 3, of all the areas where the Board planned to cut the power supply. They call such announcements 'scheduled power cuts'. But what we Bangaloreans have realised with time is that they are actually a lot more unscheduled than the other variety. They always begin on time, but their scheduled conclusion almost inevitably gets prolonged. At times, you sense a certain reluctance on the part of the Board when it's time to switch the power back on. Around the appointed time, there is a flash all round the house, and a whirring as the tubelights struggle with themselves. But then they're out again, only to switch on many hours later.

Imagine my dismay when I got up that morning to discover the power would not be back until 1 pm that afternoon. But I dared to hope. If it did indeed return, I would be able to quickly take a printout, and rush for the interview, which was scheduled for 2.30 pm. I would therefore need to get everything else in order, right down to my underwear. I needed to get a set of black formal pants for that and all such interviews to follow, so I headed to Commercial Street and got what I needed without too much trouble. But then I encountered another distraction, whose details I needn't bore you with. Suffice it for me to say, I got back home by around 12.15 pm. It was then time to get ready.

When I was finally about to get into the bath, it was 5 to 1 pm. So I decided to wait a bit for the hour to strike and the power to return. Precisely on the dot, the hour struck (on our grandfather clock, which is fairly advanced in years, it rang 12 times). Even after the last echoes of the last chime had faded away, the house still remained plunged in darkness. Never mind, I thought, I would head in for a bath anyway, and hope the lights returned by the time I was done. I'm not one to be stingy in the bath department and each such cleansing takes a good half-hour. That would give me enough time.

Around the time I began soaping my last shapely leg, I began to get nervous. The bathroom was still in darkness. I began to pray hard, and opened my eyes each time hoping to see the light. But all that would enter would be the soap.

I was then on the verge of threatening God - not the wisest thing to do. "Lord," I prayed, "my faith is on the verge of total collapse. You are in danger of losing me forever." But I was greeted by silence... and more soap! God was smiling indulgently. "Foolish kid," I think He said. And just when I had begun to stop praying, and soap myself with increased vigour, the lights came back on. Just like that!

We'll skip over the rest of the gory details to the time of my arrival at the interview venue. This was not before I had got my precious printout. In my hurry, however, I had chosen not to look up the exact details of the person I was to meet and her phone number. How hard would it be, I had asked myself very briefly, to go up to the reception and ask for Hemalatha?

When I arrived, however, I realised, to my dismay, how much more challenging the situation actually was. The company I was interviewing for was, no doubt, huge, but this was only a branch office. How was I to know it would take up six whole floors in the building - floors 2 to 7? I walked in anyway and approached the reception.

Could I meet Hemalatha, I asked the man at the desk. Not without giving him a phone extension number, I was told. This I could not produce either, so I decided it would be easier to start at the top floor and work my way down.

This was easier said than done. The guy on floor 7 could not help me either. Could he look up the records at least? The time was already past 2.30 and was ticking away fast. The man accessed the records, only to find there were seven different Hemalathas in the building! And what was the likelihood of that happening, I mused ruefully!

So I sat down on a nearby sofa and filled my face with self-pity, which wasn't very difficult considering I was feeling just that. It was nearing 3.00 and I could pretty soon bid the job farewell. After running a string of hopeless schemes through my mind, I slowly, very slowly, decided to make my one last inevitable stand. I called up my sister and gave her my e-mail password - the only completely private thing, or so I thought, in my life! She was precious, as always, and helped me out by opening my mail and giving me the details I needed. I trusted her to let the secret of the password die with her when the time came - God-willing a thousand years hence! But why couldn't I change the password, you might ask. A matter of sentimentality, I say. I had created this password in my college days, when as a young lad! One day I would have to pass on this sacred knowledge to my wife too, and by then, I would imagine, my sister would have forgotten it. But I think that hardly likely. She is after all my sister!

To end this happy tale, I did manage to write the test and even pass, as I discovered later. My handwriting though, not being too great to start with, took a real beating and relived in its nightmarish scrawl the horrors of that afternoon.