Evidently, interviewing a candidate is rather a cherished exercise - for the interviewer that is. The candidate is never at ease and almost always hopes such a process might be bypassed. But no, that does not happen. Companies have to interview. They have to poke and pry. And the people they employ to poke and pry do it all with aplomb.
The other day, as I sat and awaited my turn to be poked and pried, I let my gaze take in the entire process as it unfurled in the cubicle in front of me. A glass wall barred all the conversation from getting into my ears. So what I did see was a silent interview - akin to say, something like Pushpak.
The fellow being grilled looked roasted. His hair stood at end - partly because he had cut it that way, partly because the two who sat turning him over the fire were at it with a whole bunch of lit matchsticks. They did not look mean but did try to act so. They did not move their lips for a while, but stared at the fellow's resume. Naturally then, the resume trembled in their hands and the fellow controlled his urge to run away. He crossed his legs, then let his shoes tap the floor, and then decided the best way to face this would be to fold his arms as well.
The grillers - if I may call them so - then realized they had let the resume tremble for too long. So the one in whose hands the resume shivered opened his lips and gestured. In response, the candidate let fly his arms and enacted a few steps from Bharatnatyam as he let his lips part and answer. That over, the one next to the griller with the resume got his paunch to sit straight and spat a question. This the candidate received with due civility and threw out an appropriate answer. I say appropriate because both were impressed enough to stop whatever they were doing and look at him. The fellow was quite elated and plowed on, his legs apart on the chair and his hands in mid-air as they enacted a few more dance steps.
A few minutes later, his hands drifted down to his lap and his lips spurted a smile. That meant he was done answering them. They, in turn, decided to look unimpressed: One pressed his upper lip on the lower and the other began to dig into the resume yet again. An agonizing minute watched this proceeding while the next minute stood awaiting its turn to do so. Three more minutes later, I had had enough of what was behind the glass walls and flicked my stare to the monitor sitting on the desk that nudged into my armpit.
I began to look for a flaw in the monitor. I saw it had scratched its face and someone had abused its left side. The scar of that torture made the monitor look grisly rather than piteous. I had half my mind on scratching its right side as well - not to make it look piteous but to give it some symmetry in its tawdry persona. The other half of my mind, however, was not quite sure whether it wanted to do so and so pulled my eyes back to the glass wall.
The candidate had got up to go. His parting smile was on display. And the interviewers had one on their faces as well. But their smiles were so practiced, they indicated nothing at all. If anything, they meant to pretend they don't want him so that later, when the bargaining begins, he will be compelled to think of himself as one of the several onions and potatoes on sale.
While those onions and potatoes bought themselves into my head, all of them behind the glass wall got up. All shook hands and went off to do what they were supposed to.
I too decided to do what I was to: I got up, asked my way around, and went to meet the one who was to poke and pry into my resume.
The other day, as I sat and awaited my turn to be poked and pried, I let my gaze take in the entire process as it unfurled in the cubicle in front of me. A glass wall barred all the conversation from getting into my ears. So what I did see was a silent interview - akin to say, something like Pushpak.
The fellow being grilled looked roasted. His hair stood at end - partly because he had cut it that way, partly because the two who sat turning him over the fire were at it with a whole bunch of lit matchsticks. They did not look mean but did try to act so. They did not move their lips for a while, but stared at the fellow's resume. Naturally then, the resume trembled in their hands and the fellow controlled his urge to run away. He crossed his legs, then let his shoes tap the floor, and then decided the best way to face this would be to fold his arms as well.
The grillers - if I may call them so - then realized they had let the resume tremble for too long. So the one in whose hands the resume shivered opened his lips and gestured. In response, the candidate let fly his arms and enacted a few steps from Bharatnatyam as he let his lips part and answer. That over, the one next to the griller with the resume got his paunch to sit straight and spat a question. This the candidate received with due civility and threw out an appropriate answer. I say appropriate because both were impressed enough to stop whatever they were doing and look at him. The fellow was quite elated and plowed on, his legs apart on the chair and his hands in mid-air as they enacted a few more dance steps.
A few minutes later, his hands drifted down to his lap and his lips spurted a smile. That meant he was done answering them. They, in turn, decided to look unimpressed: One pressed his upper lip on the lower and the other began to dig into the resume yet again. An agonizing minute watched this proceeding while the next minute stood awaiting its turn to do so. Three more minutes later, I had had enough of what was behind the glass walls and flicked my stare to the monitor sitting on the desk that nudged into my armpit.
I began to look for a flaw in the monitor. I saw it had scratched its face and someone had abused its left side. The scar of that torture made the monitor look grisly rather than piteous. I had half my mind on scratching its right side as well - not to make it look piteous but to give it some symmetry in its tawdry persona. The other half of my mind, however, was not quite sure whether it wanted to do so and so pulled my eyes back to the glass wall.
The candidate had got up to go. His parting smile was on display. And the interviewers had one on their faces as well. But their smiles were so practiced, they indicated nothing at all. If anything, they meant to pretend they don't want him so that later, when the bargaining begins, he will be compelled to think of himself as one of the several onions and potatoes on sale.
While those onions and potatoes bought themselves into my head, all of them behind the glass wall got up. All shook hands and went off to do what they were supposed to.
I too decided to do what I was to: I got up, asked my way around, and went to meet the one who was to poke and pry into my resume.
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