Sanjay Shukla

There was once a Tamil-speaking editor named Chilly Chicken (name changed for reasons of decency) who ran a business magazine in Hyderabad like it was a Dickensian sweatshop. His editing team slogged 18 hours a day, their weary eyes glued to their screens until 4:00 am. Then, this despot with a South Indian accent thick enough to slice, would tap their shoulders and say, “Don’t work too hard, go home. Come back fresh at 8:00 am.”

Naturally, when I got an interview call for the job, seasoned veterans warned me: “Don’t commit career suicide. That place is Dante’s Inferno with fluorescent lighting.”

Through sources, I met a 20-something anglo-Indian girl who worked there. She spoke in very polished English. I told her I am a correspondent to a foreign media and I’m doing a story on working conditions in the Indian media. Would you be kind enough to answer some questions.

Surprisingly, she agreed.

I kicked off: “Firstly, how long have you been working here?” She said around 2 years.

“And how many hours do you work?” She: 18 hours a day.

I gasped in mock horror.

“So, you’re here on a Sunday. What time did you clock in?” “10:00 am,” she said. “I’ll wrap up around 2:00 or 4:00 am and be back Monday morning at 10:00 am. We work 14 days straight, then get one day off—which is always a weekday, of course.”

“And your boss? Does he clock in 18 hours, too?”
“Oh no, Chilly Chicken strolls in at 11:00 am and leaves by 10:00 pm. And he doesn’t work weekends.”

When Monday rolled around, I went for my interview, brimming with curiosity and dread. There was this senior editor who talked to me in a very disinterested way. He didn’t seem to have any motivation. This guy from Udipi must have been a very fair person with a golden glow once upon a time. But now he looked like death warmed over – cheerless and grey-faced, with streaks of white hair on his head despite his youth – he wasn’t more than 35. All he asked me was my salary and job title expectations.

The secretary handed me an appointment letter—no interview, questions, or courtesy. Just an envelope. This was unusual; journalists usually meet their editors before a job is finalized. But Chilly Chicken seemed above such trifles.

I opened the letter. Two lines. One for the salary and title, the other for the joining date—two days from now. No room for notice periods, no room for air. When I called to clarify, the conversation went like this:

“Mr. Chilly Chicken, why does your letter say I have to join in two days?”
“It’s valid for 48 hours,” he replied.

“So, tomorrow or day after?”

“Yeny day,” he said in a cringe-worthy drawl that could curdle milk.

That was it. I trashed the letter. Had I joined, I’d probably be writing this from the afterlife.

It’s always the cowardly ones—Chilly Chicken, Narayana Murthy, Subramanyan—who turn into tyrants.

Notice the pattern?

— S.J.