First Appraisal Jitters!

19 new emails in your inbox.

I scanned the mailbox in a half asleep metastable state, read emails from my leads, blatantly ignored the rest with a conventional line of thought that people from the other part of the world are jobless blokes who love spamming.

It was yet another usual Monday at office with the usual work, the usual conversations and the usual people. As I walked into cafeteria for lunch towards the table that boasted the youngest prisoners of this corporate giant, I couldn't help noticing skewed faces. Curious to know what happened to their otherwise stupid grins, I paced my steps and lent my ears to their frenzied voices.

"I heard a fresher never gets a 5/5."

"Chandra was saying we have to overrate ourselves in technical aptitude and functional knowledge."

"My manager and I are emotionally attached by mutual hatred."

Okay! We are troubled souls but our lunchtime banter was never this depressing. I had to break in - "What's up?"

"You look pretty cool, Ms Star Performer", retorted Sparsh.

"Jeez, I hate that tag."

"But you would showcase that in your appraisal, wouldn't you?"

"Appraisal?!"

"Lo dekho! She doesn't even read emails."

With an I-know-more-than-you smirk, I was explained, "There was this mail from Andrew Castro, our vice-president apprising everyone about appraisals. Samjhi, madam?"

Ouch! Turns out that Andrew was not a jobless spammer.

As the deadline of the appraisal form completion approached, tensions soared and faces reddened. Seasoned folks like Somali completed it in 15 minutes while overly anxious new joinees would waste their weekends pondering what answers what. Considering the fact that we were ignorant employees, a training session on Appraisal system was conducted by a HR hottie. However, my unfavorable luck sent me out of town and made me miss the invaluable knowledge imparted. Perfect timing, you see. Had I attended the training, I would have said- HR girls had decimal IQs and were consummate bores. I always have something nice to say.

On the second last day, I opened the much discussed online application. An appraisee would have to self-rate herself in 14 competencies, chalk out goals achieved in that fiscal year, answer 5 basic questions and enlist 3 appraisal participants who would further rate her. At the end, employees would be adjudged by a digit in the range of 1-5, 5 being the highest.

Rating oneself was quite easy; the challenge was justifying your rating. To make things knotty, what was expected from the appraisee was already described at length in front of each competency which left little scope to over-rate. All I could think at that time was creative expletives for the HR team, purveyors of head-ache and restlessness.

Mustering the little energy left at the end of day and with degraded writing skills, I set to complete the task at hand. After three painstaking hours I concocted phrases like ‘Prioritized assigned work as per escalations and severity’, ‘Complied with existing processes and kept abreast with new developments’ , ‘Proved as a fast learner and could apply basic classroom concepts and ramp up at a good pace’ - so on and so forth. In just three hours, I had taken important decisions of my life – the purpose of my career, short term and long term goals, areas to improve on – all answers which were non-existent till that momentous day. Out of the blue, my least satisfying aspect of job changed from cafeteria food to missed learning opportunities. There was an innate sense of beauty in the sheer hollowness and falsity of my statements. That day, I left office with a triumph.

Next day, Sangeeta came running to my seat. Let me introduce you to Sangeeta – a colleague who would call you a friend only in the times of need.

“Hi! That bitch assigned me high priority work… blah blah blah … can you show me your appraisal form?”

“Why? What didn’t you understand?”

“What did you write in this question… … Please, can you show me your form?”

“Okay. Just see it once, don’t copy. At least, change the words.”

In a blink of an eye, she copy pasted my entire template. Wow! Can you beat me in foolishness?

One month later, my manager came all the way from Atlanta just to discuss appraisals with his immediate directs. If only he could cut down on travelling expenses, restricted to economical video conferences and saved team budget for hikes and bonuses. Alas! No one listens to my ideas.

My ex-manager and current manager met over a smoke and I was one of the topics of discussion. “She is a 5/5, critical for my team”, said my manager. How do I know this was said? It is the same way I know which department guy is dating which department girl. Office gossip network never falters!

Thus came my Judgment Day. I sat tensed in front of my appraiser, wondering what was going in his head. Finally, he starts, “You are a very good performer, you have done good work. You like your job very much, don’t you?”

My jaw line broke into a smile and inane words spurted out, “Not very much, sometimes it is monotonous.”

There was a long pause followed by, “So, let us start with goal accomplishment and then go back to competencies.”

“Okay, the way you say. All questions sounded similar to me or maybe I had the same answer.”

Oh yes! I said that. Something was definitely wrong with me. I felt like Jim Carrey in the court-room scene in the movie, Liar Liar.

I decided to shut my big mouth. For fifteen minutes, my manager went on saying things that were already known to me. Towards the end, he got bored and decided to take a fun pop quiz.

“Is there some area I can improve upon?”

“Do you have any special requests?”

And the most lethal of all, “How much would you rate yourself, out of 5?”

After many umms and errs, I said he could talk more often to us, requested a leave for Diwali but couldn’t answer the lethal one. To that, I said it was his job as an appraiser to rate me.

Tell me dear reader, haven’t I done enough by completing that form and sharing it with the Sangeetas of my world!

Another long pause followed. “Okay child, you have exceeded expectations. I would rate you 4/5 and I wish you continued success at work. Keep up the good work.”

With that we were done, my 5/5 crashed to 4/5 and so ended my first appraisal jitters.

The Cab in the 'Cab'-inet !

They are the meanest, not quite the leanest !

And if you aren’t used to break neck speeds, screeching halts, and the nastiest maneuvers on the tar, your bowels are in for some shock! Some might call this an epiphany to the Ambassadors in Calcutta. I call it a tribute to the craziest rides Ive ever had.

These yellow soldiers aren't comparable to the speedsters on the F1 circuit in raking pure numbers on the tachometer! But they were built to do things Bernie Ecclestone wouldn't even dare to!
Hindustan Motors built these Ambassadors strong. Calcutta being the largest consumer, they apparently have a factory nearby where you'll find these taxis on the assembly line.

Ive been to Calcutta twice now!

June 2010 and April 2011. The city never ceases to amaze me. The food, the sights, the river, the people, or the laidback attitude. That's the best part actually. I need to learn the I-know-I-am-lazy-but-I-don't-give-a-damn perspective! And don't get me wrong, but they do get their work done almost always.

But one thing that you can never miss are these taxis zipping by! ' Yellow colour + Huge size + Super fast maneuvering '. And they will always go by the meter.

While in the taxi, I've managed to have detailed discussions on the economics of driving a 'stone-age cab in a modern world' and the drivers have always convinced me that although a little high on maintenance, the 21st century cars don't even last a fraction of the years that these Ambassadors will. And the worst of accidents will just etch a tiny scratch somewhere on the body. These were made with hard-forged, furnace-baked Iron and Steel, not with cheaper, lighter alternatives, fitted by tender, gentile assembly line robots. Plus the super powerful engine, it roars! Make it climb mountains, make it race sedans!


Sad, that in India's capital city, you'll only see these beauties at the Railway station, the Airport or ferrying unsuspecting ministers in and out of the Parliament. They've become the exclusive rides of the neta-log and the babus! They've reached where very few manage to. Into the Cab-inet! I remember having driven my grandad's Fiat Premier Padmini when I was young. It was the time when the Ambassador was in vogue. Those were the days when the cars really had 'muscle'. And the driver needed to have a lot of' muscle' too, to be able to toggle around with the super hard mechanical steering and gear shifters.

But they would always take you to "The Restaurant at the End of the Universe", if you wanted!

The Fiat Premier Padmini

Catching the 4.20

What is the gamut of emotions that you feel when you are bang in the middle of this humongous traffic jam in Connaught Place and there is a train you’ve to catch in 20 minutes?

June 7, 2010.

That’s when I had to catch the 12382 Poorva Express to Calcutta at 4.20 in the afternoon.

Monday it was and as usual I hadn't put in anything into my bags on the weekend. Copious amounts of prodding from my mother had just led me to stack a pair of clothes that I intended to carry with me. Some packing, some fretting, a heavy lunch, a little more fretting, a little more packing and a lazy siesta later it was 3.15.

There was stuff to be copied from my computer onto my laptop, books to be packed in, clothes to be stuffed, lunch to be had, packed dinner to be taken along and mid-afternoon CP traffic to be negotiated. We had planned to leave for the station at 3.30. But the darn 'Copying..' popup on the computer was showing 30 mins.



Ok. I could get everything ready by that time. In the next 5 mins, I stuffed in whatever I could from my stack of 'clothes to be carried', threw in a dozen books and did the icing with some toiletries that I needed. Sad, that the coming 10 mins had to be me jumping on the stuffing so that the luggage could be zipped up. Ran to the bathroom, came running out. There was a cat there. A cat ? What was she doing there ... Wildlife running askew in the household. Must be the smell from the T-shirt that I spilled milk on. Bah!
Had to scare the poor girl away. Not today sweetie.. I have a train to catch..!

Apparently my PC in all its wisdom had thought of running faster today, so it was done in 20 mins. I stuffed my laptop in, tagged my bag along, rolled up the chappati, bowed to the deity and rushed out of the house. 15 mins later we were entering Janpath. Not bad I thought. Its 3.50. Another 10 mins and we would be at the station.

But the traffic just wouldn't budge. We were in the Outer circle and the CWG construction seemed to be the reason for this non-negotiable hold-up. Calm down.. calm down .. another 5 mins.. atleast the traffic is moving.

I looked out of the window at the plethora of cars all lined up in perfect symmetry honking and blaring red lights at the same time.
I had wanted to go to Cal in the sleeper class. That's what an actual train journey is supposed to be. Not the comfort of the 3AC coach. You don't know you're traveling in a train unless you get your nostrils filled with fresh air and dust from 5 odd states. Plus no Rajdhani for me this time. They always travel the night shift so you don't get to see outside the window like a 10 year old with your mouth wide open admiring the people and the places as they go by and you're at your destination when you get up in the morning. Useless! I was in no hurry to reach my destination. I had booked the Poorva since it was the fastest Express train and arrived in Cal at a decent time.

The horn blared unsympathetically one more time!
Go .. Go.. Go.. ! But the Swift in front of us just wouldn't move. Oh.. Its red again. It was 4.10 already. We are never going to make it on time. We were close to Chelmsford Road. We would run towards the station from the outer circle and enter from the Paharganj Side. My mother stayed in the car while Dad and I took out the luggage from the trunk and started hopping around the slow-paced cars. We reached Chelmsford road, hopped onto a rickshaw and reached the station .

5 mins to go.
Before running up the stairs, we managed to steal a glance at the big screen to see which platform to dash for. The weight of the bag was taking its toll now, I was beginning to pant. We paused for a moment amongst coolies and harried passengers getting in and out of the station. There it was. The Poorva Express parked majestically on the platform. We ran down the stairs of the foot-over-bridge and tried to locate my coach. Amidst a hurl of abuses, I squeezed out of a rank of people lined-up, waiting to get into the General compartment of the next train.

And I was in. Located my seat. Sat down. Both my Dad and I were sweating and panting. There were curious glances from fellow passengers, but we were both smiling.
We had just hopped around 2 dozen cars, chariot raced a Rickshaw on the Chelmsford road like Roman warriors, and carried 35 kg of luggage while dashing through a jamboree of people.
It was 4.20. The train gave a nasty jolt, unhappy at being woken up from its slumber. I bid goodbye to my dad.

This was going to be some adventure!

The Curious Case of the Open Lace!

Its rather terse , I warn.

I have been wanting to tell you this from times forlorn.
Every morning when I am scrambling to the stop,
to catch the bus to the metro and hop.
I stop and notice that my laces have come off
I stand and I wonder if I had even tied them on.

I scratch my head

I remember the clue
when I was stuffing the sandwich and tying the shoe.

Sometimes I wait, sometimes I don't
for I am too lazy or sometimes on the phone.
So the laces flow like a doggy's tail
but I carry on, for I am always late.

Moments later I hop off the metro and swipe the card
to sit in a Grameen Sewa Auto which is a "10 by 10" cart.
Filled with people to the brim who enjoy a rambly ride
10 road bumps later, I have to go to my cubicle and hide.
For if my boss sees the clock
he is sure to give me a firing on the spot.

I get to the office all queasy and panting
after running up the stairs and wishing the madam good morning!
I switch on my PC to check for new mail
but find that my laces have come off yet again.

So my routine is pretty routine
but I've yet to ask thee
if I can figure this out before I turn twenty three!

Shoe Shopping!

I am officially an ASS when it comes to shopping! More so.. when it is Shoe-Shopping!

Darn things are so hard to choose! There's a red one, one with a bow, the twitchy strap-ed one, the one with a 2 tonne sole, and the one with a real hard frontal which is known euphemistically to be "unkind" to the person who might be involved in a brawl with the owner of the pair.

So when the mochi bhaiya said he just couldn't put any more stitches on the body and amputating another piece of leather to give it a lil more life would tantamount to barbarism, I had to let go of my favourite pair of shoes :-( ! They all end up being my favourites, I tell you! There has not been a single pair that I bought that I have loved any less. Precisely the reason I give my parents why I take so much time to shop for them. "Shop" ?? Please.. how rude can that be.. I 'hand-pick' those babies..! ;-)



Apparently I was off to Chennai in a few days, so that hurried up the decision to pay a visit to my shoe-shopping addas, Yusuf Sarai & Sarojini Nagar the same evening. My mother, apparently wary of the time I took in selecting a pair, decided to give the visit a skip, citing "kitchen-work" as a reason. Hello! When did women get so bad at lying... Kitchen work stopping women from going to a place full of shops & clothes ?? Bah...!

We skipped Yusuf Sarai this time and headed straight to SN Market. Scouting the shoe-shops on the periphery gave us an idea as to what was “in” this season.
After 5 odd shops, I decided that we shouldn’t waste time and go to our usual shop. So we negotiated the Friday night rush of people, briskly walking to our destination.
Now, SN Market crowd is a curious mix of people.
1. There will be the one-odd gora-gori couple being festooned by “original leather belt” and “Rayban Aviator” salesmen, like honeybees crowding around a flower;
2. then there will be the group of single boys and girls window shopping and giggling;
3. the family junta with the daddy, mummy and 2 kids (or more) going into toy shops and electronics stores;
4. the group of auntyji’s or the recently married couple seen hogging on golgappas and chaat pakori, anything for that matter;
5. the 20ish something boyfriend-girlfriend group with the BF tagging along the GF to clothes stores;
6. and yes there are women going into Chacha Saree Bazaar as well.

For one, Sarojini Nagar Market and the adjoining Babu Market has like a billion shops for the female species. You just land there and kick me if you don’t find yourself buried under a pile of suits, blouses, sarees, kurtas, kurtis, shorts, tank-tops, tube-tops, and the gazillions other knick-knacks that you girls love donning or blinded by the colours that hit you straight in the face. I am sure, the salesmen there will convince you to buy a suit piece atleast, even if you are like a 60 year old bachelor with no prospects of female company, whatsoever. And OK! I donot know the difference between a kurta and kurti.. Agreed!

So after negotiating several lanes, by-lanes, under-the-tree chaiwallahs, & Cycle momowallahs, we managed to get into the shop that was going to be our respite from the menagerie that Sarojini Nagar becomes on a weekend. The owner knew me well to the point of my eccentric decision making skills. He was calm! He knew I would take my time! I scouted the racks for that one pair that could capture my attention. Rows after rows, shoe after shoe.. I rummaged through several and even tried a few pairs . . . but none felt good enough. Some were not my style, some not comfortable, some not available in my size. My dad & sister finally thought that we needed a change of environment and that we should head elsewhere. They bid the shopkeeper goodbye, who from the corner of my eye heaved a sigh of relief at his most pesky and finicky customer finally walking out.

I then ran my hands through stocks of 10 more shoe shops. Then... suddenly at the 10th shop I spotted a pair in red & black, just the perfect styling, simple yet elegant, not overdone one bit and rugged as hell to withstand the monstrosities that I would be doleing out. It was the perfect candidate to be on my feet. Oooooh! I immediately asked the bhaiya for one in my size to try on and definitely take back home with me. "27 wala design 8 number me diyo" the sales guy called out and the guy above us in the ceiling stock room began shifting boxes. I looked over to my side and saw boxes being flung by the stock room guy over the heads of unwary customers and it still managed to hit none of them. Classic old-school skill!

After a few tense moments of crossed fingers, it came down to the fact that they did not have one in my size and the stock wouldn't be around for another 2 weeks. I was ready to wait, but my folks were looking at me like they would strangle me if I didn't buy one today. So I tried getting my feet into the shoe size that was there, but it just wouldn't get in, how much ever pushing or shoving I did. So we walked out of another store!

I had lost all hope of finding my pick today. After close to 3 hours, we were back to where we had started. Shopkeepers were starting to haul down shutters. My eyes went up to the glowboards that dotted the Sarojini Market skyline. Quetta Store, The Nike Store, Chacha Saree Bazaar, Samsung Electronics, Bata Store. We had crossed the Bata showroom twice that evening, but had decided against going inside. We went in this time. I browsed through the designs. There was this one all-black sneaker, that I kinda took an instant liking to. A pair came out in my size. Tried it on. Fitted perfectly. Comfortable! I paid ! And we were off! The Quest had ended! My daddy and sister raised their heads towards the sky and thanked the Gods!

After skimming through 230 odd pairs, Karan had finally found his match!

Up in the Air & ..uh.. Cuckoo!

The plane starts taxiing to one end of the runway while the crew doles out sermon after sermon on how to save your puny ass when this giant flying bird feels sick. I liked the part where the oxygen mask falls onto your head. I might as well take a swig of the oxygen right now and get high. Yes, pure oxygen will give you a high. Medically proven!

While I sit ruminating, the plane jolts to a stop and readies itself to give me a high. The engines blare out in full throttle, spewing gallons of air every second, and the plane is off, sparing no moment of rest to the Odometer which races to lift speed when the plane leaves the ground. Now I understand why people want to drive a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano or the classic Lamborghini. The speed, the acceleration take you to places where others cannot. The thrill of the G-forces kicking in and making your blood travel up and down. Woooah! I am now 35,000 ft in the air, passing over what seems like an endless canvas of fields, houses and huts that seem like blips down below and my ears keep popping in and out. Rivers, highways and railroads cut across this canvass with ease, and I wonder what would Golgappas at this height taste like? Would an open Golgappa and Aloo-chaat counter in a plane be an interesting notion? Or would this addition in cuisine be the cause of more panic than the convenience it offers to crazy street food loving people like me?


Up in the Air. And thinking about Food! Bloody one – track mind!

The sun seems bright, alright, shining away to glory! And the clouds down below make for nice cushions I would definitely want in my bed. And why not! I have a taste for luxury.

Oh Shut up! I really do!