At an Indian Institute of Management (IIM) for a three-day placement training workshop, the scenes could not have been more dazzling. It drizzled mildly through the length of the trip and the lush forests sported the sort of unvarnished green my Mumbai-accustomed eyes took time registering. The room I had been provided was spacious with a writer's desk and a soft-glow lamp to boot. It was a mini-paradise.
The cherry on top was of course Andy. I knew her on Facebook since we both were members of Queer Campus, a gay support group. I hadn't chatted with her in ages and had no idea she was at the IIM. On the first day there, I received a message from her: "You are in the workshop, aren't you? I saw you in the audi and would have met you, but I wasn't sure if it was you." I replied instantly. I was overjoyed. If there is one thing that makes me happy, it's meeting a fellow queer traveller.
I was at the IIM to train first-year students for the GD/PI process that is part of the summer internship selection. There were five of us representing our employer, primarily a CAT coaching institute but which does this sort of training to supplement its income. Some 300 CVs were randomly shuffled among us. Once I knew Andy was here, I decided to mentor her.
I browsed through her CV and asked her to come see me. She had mentioned she was worried about something that had been indicated in the intro lecture, viz, the things women candidates ought to keep in mind to create a positive first impression, such as wearing light makeup, or pumps with low heels. "I am not into that stuff at all," she told me. "I dress in very staid, rather manly clothes. And I never wear anything but formal leather shoes."
I laughed when she said this in all earnestness, and told her she had no reason to worry. The point of mentioning possible attires was to ensure that no one dressed gaudily. If you leaned towards the understated in the first place, well, that was the idea, wasn't it? Now seeing her before me, short-haired, crisply dressed, with a serious grin on her face, I muttered: "Andy I am so happy to see you!"
She spoke about her new life at the IIM. It was the first time she was away from home in Delhi, but she was learning to adapt. She was not out, not yet, but planned to be when the summer internships were done. She spoke fondly of Mr Mathew, a professor who taught a course on social transformation. "He made us watch a film about a gay couple in Nazi Germany. It had a fair amount of male nudity and men kissing."
To Andy, who had come to B-school in the hopes of getting a degree that would keep her self-sufficient, Prof Mathew was the very antithesis of what she had expected. He cracked jokes, discussed race and caste with a depth that was prejudice-killing and, of course, showed gay films. "I think I am going to come out to him before anyone else," she said hopefully.
I was supposed to interview Andy for the upcoming summer internship, but hearing her talk it seemed like I was the one in need of enlightenment. She is so bright, this young girl, who spoke about sustainable business and policy prescriptions. Effortlessly, she ran me through her profile and explained how MBA was the natural next step both from a big-picture perspective and also as a means to live life on her own terms.
Meeting Andy and being witness to her buoyant personality was in such sharp contrast to what I had faced only hours ago. It was a tiff I had had with a colleague. Abhinav, an MBA from another IIM, had joined us for the training session. We needed him since the number of students was huge and he had a debt he owed the boss. When I met him, he was telling the others about some friend of his holidaying in Pattaya, and the conversation turned into a ribald mockery of the male anatomy. Abhinav, without context and for no apparent reason, made a snide remark about gay men lusting after straight men.
The boss coughed. Abhinav didn't get it. "I am gay," I explained.
"Oh," he said, "I didn't mean to. I am pretty chilled out about things. We will become friends. I will make it up to you."
"I hope so," I said, not kindly.
"No, I hope so," he replied, making it sound like he needed to exercise caution. Caution against what, I wondered. My making a pass? This was presumptuous and demeaning at so many levels. I got up and left the room. I burnt within. I desired tremendously to go back and create a scene. But equally, I didn't want to give him the pleasure. Murder is a weird feeling. You can feel it for a complete stranger solely because he is repugnant.
I sat in my room for some time and then headed to the auditorium. And then, like rain on parched earth, I met Andy.
The author has switched too many jobs in the past and hopes he can hold down this one
