Ravi Subramanian - Devil in Pinstripes

T he sound of soft droplets of water skipping on the floor and a dim ray of light battling to emerge through the tiny crack between the door and the marble flooring were the only signs of activity in an otherwise dark room. Thick peach-coloured curtains drawn to cover every inch of the single four feet by four feet window valiantly defended the large bedroom from letting the morning sun have a peep into it.

On one side of the room was a bed too small to be called a double bed and too large to be a single cot. It was custom designed to fit into the room. On the other side, at an arms length from the bed, was a small table, on which lay an antiquated Intel 486 computer. To the right of the table was a wooden cupboard the ones made of cheap particle board. One of the doors of the cupboard doubled up as a full length mirror. A shoe rack added to the muddle in an already overcrowded room. As if the clutter created by the disorganised furniture was not enough, there seemed to be more pairs of footwear lying around the shoe rack than inside, akin to the dustbins on the streets of Chennai, which usually had more garbage strewn all around them than within. A large poster of Sachin Tendulkar adorned the wall. Around it were a few small newspaper cuttings, all singing praises about Sachin The Master!. It sure did appear to be the room of a die-hard Tendulkar fan.

A couple of trousers, a tattered pair of denims and few jazzy coloured tees hung from a cane wood clothes stand clumsily placed in one corner of the room. A few books lay strewn on the small bedside table. They hadnt been touched for weeks now confirmed by the fine layer of dust which had settled itself on the covers. A Chinese-made digital clock sat dangerously on the tip of the bedside table. The hands indicated 7.12 a.m. It seemed to be working. Only the colour on the snooze button appeared to have worn off faster than the other buttons.

Enter at your own risk were the words splashed on a large poster strategically stuck on the wall that was bang opposite the main door. It was the first thing anyone entering the room would notice. The messy room could easily be identified with a typical, brash teenagers room, where the only way to get rid of junk was to pile on more junk on top of the existing lot, effectively making it disappear from the line of sight.

One could be forgiven for assuming such was the case, had one not sighted a neat looking folder lying next to the computer screen. It was a blue coloured file. Lying on its right, face up, was a brown envelope which had the words New York International Bank, printed in bold, on the bottom left corner.

He walked out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. A few droplets of water drained off him onto the floor, forming a small puddle. Humming a Bachchan hit, he seemed to be in high spirits. After furiously wiping his hands on the towel that he had loosely wrapped around his waist, he carefully picked the envelope and held it up. Stuck on the envelope was a white label which had the name, AMIT SHARMAhis namewritten in capitals. His glance floated from the centre of the envelope to the top. Printed there were two very important words. Though in a smaller font, they were about to add enormous meaning to his life. Those were the words he had spent his life waiting for. He had struggled through his college days, waiting to see that very phrase. The two words Appointment Letter written across the envelope were going to change Amits life forever, or so he felt that day. At that very instant, the door opened and Chanda walked in.

Come. Have your breakfast.

This sudden intrusion brought Amit back from the thoughts he was engrossed in. His thoughts had taken him back in timealmost thirteen years ago. He was about to join New York International Bank. Just out of IIM Bangalore, as fresh as a muffin just out of an oven, a starry-eyed Amits dream was about to come true. A bollywood-like flashback darted across the screen of his mind the proud moment when he had walked out of the shower and held up his appointment letter a letter from New York International Bank. Hadnt he chosen this bank over a career in consultancy with Accenture? Acting against advice from friends, he had made his own independent choice, completely taken in by the flamboyant pitch made by Aditya Bhatnagar during the banks pre-placement talk. There was not even an iota of doubt in his mind he was convinced that he was making the right decision. Chandas entry into the room had interrupted his cherished dream sequence.

Today, on the breakfast table, thirteen years later, he appeared contented. A satisfied look radiated from his face. Idiots, he said to himself as he thought about his batchmates telling him that he was making a mistake. Had he listened to them, he would not be where he was. The stance that he had taken then seemed vindicated today. He was probably the only guy from his batch who had stuck to his first job for thirteen long years. Did he ever feel the need to move from New York International Bank and look for options outside? No way!

Thank you, God, he murmured as he lifted his right hand and dug into the dripping aloo paranthas that Chanda had just placed in front of him. Instinctively, he reached out to the butter box for an extra helping. A downward glance brought his growing belly into focus and alongside his hands beat a hasty retreat. He had been putting on a fair amount of weight these days. Hectic travelling schedules and a sedentary lifestyle were the culprits, or so he rationalised. Chanda had been trying to push him to join the local Golds Gym, but after living for more than a decade with him, she didnt need to be toldAmit would only do something if he wanted to. He was a curious mix of an elephant and a panther. An elephant when something was forced on himwould never move, and a panther when he was convinced about the need to act. If he believed in something, there couldnt be anyone to match his skill and pace in execution.