Fortune’s Fool

          I recall my very first job interview in Calcutta with a well-known British company. For reasons not entirely clear at the time, it was called a managing agency house. Some of these companies had peculiarly English names like Bird & Co., Williamson Magor, MacNeill & Magor (the Magors spread themselves about), J. Thomas, Octavius Steel, Carritt Moran, Balmer Lawrie and the like. If memory serves, most of them had something to do with tea gardens, auctions and the tea business in general. Jute also figured prominently. There were other more instantly recognisable flagships like ICI, Lever’s, Nestle, Imperial Tobacco, Bata, Dunlop, Shaw Wallace, Metal Box and so on but one rarely received a call-up from these companies unless you were the son of someone known to someone else who happened to be a bigwig in that organisation. I am talking circa 1970 -71. ‘Influence’ still counted for something. The Institutes of Management in Calcutta and Ahmedabad (IIMs) had just opened their doors to those elite graduates who were admitted there for higher management studies and thereafter, promised a free ride into blue-chip organisations at a stupendous four-figure salary. Well, a four-figure paycheck was not to be sneezed at those days. They were called MBAs, an honorific that was virtually the equivalent of a doctorate.

          Life being simpler then, there was still enough room for those who could not enter the exalted portals of these IIMs but were considered decent enough (at lower starting salaries) to be taken in by many of these companies. You might even say they were quite easily taken in. The expression ‘decent enough’ generally meant the ability to speak fluent English (nothing else mattered), that you passed out of one of the better-known public schools in India; (‘Ah, you’re a Dosco’) carried yourself with a degree of aplomb, were able to wear a tie with a double Windsor knot, be able to tell the difference between ‘advise’ and ‘advice,’ and be able to pour a drink for your boss at the local club. And one for yourself, provided you took small sips standing behind your boss deferentially, with an eye on the refill.

          To know the meaning of ‘What’s your poison?’ went a long way in establishing your credentials. If you could go round nine holes of golf and hold your own, that would be considered an added bonus. Volunteering to play 18 holes would be tantamount to showing off – ‘a bit of an upstart.’ Smoking was not viewed as a deterrent. Au contraire. There were also organisations that went by the generic name of advertising agencies. I had no idea at the time what they did exactly, though I ended up making a career for myself in that profession; but that’s another story.

          Getting back to that very first job interview, the company Williamson Magor had British antecedents and the man who took the interview was an Englishman, I think. This was a preliminary interview, to separate the wheat from the chaff as it were, hence just the one interviewer as opposed to an intimidating panel. I rather fancied my chances because I had been a lifelong fan of the BBC World Service Radio and all their current affairs, sports, music, comedy and light entertainment programmes. Somehow, I felt this gave me a head start over my rivals, particularly as the interviewer was an Englishman. Or so I naively thought.

          To my very pleasant surprise, the man who sat on the other side of the table was none other than the well-known cricket commentator, Pearson Surita, he of the dulcet tones. Now whether Mr. Surita was an Englishman or a distinguished gentleman of Armenian descent long settled in India, was not clear to me. Not that it really mattered. As a cricket fanatic, he was one of my heroes. I immediately felt comfortable. I had long been an admirer of his sonorous voice over the air waves as he described the goings on at Test Matches at the Eden Gardens, Brabourne Stadium, Chepauk and elsewhere. Apparently, he was quite a big shot in the organisation to which I had applied. I could barely contain my excitement as he cordially invited me to sit down at his plush office. There was something avuncular about the man. After all, I suspect he was in his 60s while I was barely stepping out of my teens. It was as much as I could manage to stop me from addressing him as ‘Uncle.’ I went on overdrive with the ‘Sir.’

          Pearson (I feel no awkwardness in referring to him by his Christian name, now that he has joined his ancestors in his heavenly abode) asked me if I would like a cup of tea. In my humble station, I thought it might be impolitic to accept, so I demurred. He sensed my state of uncertainty and poured a cup for me anyway, after ascertaining, ‘Two sugars?’

           Getting down to brass tacks, he asked me if I would be interested in a job as a management trainee in a tea estate somewhere in the Dooars. I was somewhat taken aback at being offered a job without even being asked about my academic record and grilled on my understanding of the company I had hoped to join. And where on earth was the Dooars, anyway? I took courage and decided to deflect, seeing as who was asking the question.

          ‘Mr. Surita Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, is it possible that you could find me an opening as a trainee cricket commentator? I could be your understudy and work my way up steadily. I am passionate about the game and apart from yourself, I have closely followed the sterling descriptions over the BBC from the likes of John Arlott, Brian Johnston, Jim Swanton, Trevor Bailey and of course, yourself. Oftentimes I have enjoyed the commentary more than the game itself.’ Top that for buttering up the boss. By now my throat was parched and I was grateful for the cup of Darjeeling (or Dooars) to slake my thirst. I waited anxiously for Pearson Surita’s response.

          He looked at me and beamed knowingly. Taking a deep drag from his briar pipe, tamping it down every now and then and expertly blowing smoke rings he said, ‘My dear chap, while it was grossly improper on your part to change the subject from considering a job at one of our tea gardens to wanting to be a cricket commentator, I understand your keenness. You are not the first youngster to look at me and start babbling incoherently about cricket.’

          I was brought down. I thought I was quite coherent. ‘I am terribly sorry Sir, but to be a commentator would be a dream come true. How could I have possibly known that my interviewer would be “the voice” I had long admired. I would commit myself willingly to a lifelong career of hard work, fetching and carrying and doing odd jobs at the commentary box for a man of your station; if it will open the doors, if not the Dooars ha ha, for me.’ I was becoming a bit silly and light headed. That said, I was not averse to a bit of understated, but well-placed flattery. It got me nowhere.

          Pearson’s tone was still friendly but he regarded me with a bit of sympathy. Clearly, he had experienced this before. ‘Let me give you some good advice, young man. There is no career prospect for a youngster like you in the world of cricket commentary. All of us, particularly in India, have other jobs as you can see. We are paid a pittance to appear, we travel by train and stay with friends or at our own company guest houses. We have to take special leave from our company to take up commentary duties. It is not a career option. I suggest you go home, think long and hard about it. If you are still interested in a job at one of our tea gardens, I will see what I can do. Good luck.’ Dismissed!

          Naturally, I did not take up the job offer. My dad came to learn that youngsters employed at tea gardens spend all their evenings at the club, drinking, smoking, playing cards or snooker and generally leading a life of debauchery. A bit of an exaggeration but perhaps had some element of truth to it. The nice thing that came out of all this was that I received a very friendly, handwritten letter from Pearson Surita wishing me all the best and to concentrate on getting a good job in the city and to stop indulging in pipe dreams. I still have it somewhere. If only I could find it.

          Today, cricket commentary has moved from radio to television and is a safe haven as cosy, post-retirement billets for former international cricketers. Some years ago, I ran into one of the exceptions, a non-cricketer MBA who has made it big in commentary – Harsha Bhogle. When asked how he broke through the maze defying the odds, apart from being very good at it, he laconically replied, ‘I was just lucky. I was in the right place at the right time.’ He too once worked in an advertising agency.

          As for me, I am ‘fortune’s fool.’ Like Shakespeare’s Romeo.