The Resignation Letter

By Baljeet Randhawa

Can Mechanical Engineering and Fashion Designing be on the same page?
Naïve and idealistic, Patrick joins the promising Rajan Industries for hefty paychecks, lucrative perks and aspiring positions. Like for any other fresher from a prestigious engineering college, his training period isn’t anything less than a ‘honeymoon period’. But actual married life starts only when the honeymoon ends.
What awaits next for Patrick counted in the least popular department, a boss with his brain on sabbatical, a jealous senior expert in ‘Et tu’ moments and inescapable office politics. The threshold of tolerating ugly experiences reaches in only nine months – standard pregnancy period – and what is born after that is Patrick version 2.0: the one who chooses to leave all at once but not in an ideal way this time.
What made it happen? A wearisome job, a provoking boss, his paralyzed creativity or just love?
The Resignation Letter is a coming of age story of a young engineer toppling from a greased and stained job in an outback town and falling over the lavish hanging robes on Delhi’s fashion-street.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Sep 15, 2018

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I am not sure for how long I will be telling you this story. No, it’s not that I will be dying anytime soon. No one can kill me. Can you see those thick layers of gray smoke over me? No, you cannot. And those people coming to me? No, you still can’t. They say this smoke feeds those souls who are inside me, so they did not mind. I don’t mind either – I am no more alone. I have big bungalows, Audis and other fat-ass fancy cars. People who these cars carry are themselves wrapped in Blackberry, Clarks, Armani, Gucci, Ray-Ban, Hush Puppies. But yes, they know least about fashion. I too am not at all fashionable, appealing or advanced. I don’t even see myself becoming all of that in the coming years. Still, people come to me, stay, and eventually leave; though some do return later. Most people (who haven’t yet touched me) don’t even know me – where I am and what I look like. I am not at all famous like Mumbai or Delhi. But it doesn’t evoke any envy in me. I am no human to feel anything, but strangely I feel proud at this very moment. It’s me who is beginning this story. And, the story begins when he first stepped on me. Me, the town called Teerakhpur.

I have two options – I can talk about Patrick or talk about myself. You are acquainted with none. You can look at me through his eyes, but I know you too would be disappointed in the end. No, it’s neither his fault nor mine. I am improving, advancing, growing; but none entirely yet. The way he is looking at me is insulting; or is it my own inferiority complex which is making me feel so? He seems to be a nice guy. But, I think everyone is nice in this world. Or maybe not? I know he will be looking for those malls which he used to visit in Mumbai; those high fashion outlets, cafes, multiplexes, hookah lounges and pubs. Or he might have read on the Internet that I have none; none too famous to be found on web pages, or even if it’s there, I am sure the world would have been very judgmental about me.

Can you see those large grungy blue factories? Those chimneys? I guess you still aren’t here. But I am not big – you must be seeing those chimneys soon if you are on the right track. Before his cab reaches the gate of Rajan Industries or the Engineers’ Hostel, let me take you to other corners of mine, which he may never visit, because I feel he is not the one who visits such places; and essentially this story is not about me – but Patrick. This road goes to the railway station. I know there’s nothing appealing about it, but it is the same road where people buy flesh of cocks and souls of girls – almost at the same price. They call them kukkad and randi. These meat shops close at night and you find those girls in front of them. But what remains same during dusk and dawn are the huge trucks along the roadside with various products of or raw materials for Rajan’s and other small industries around. This road is a delight for the truck drivers.

Then, there is this market – don’t expect much from it, it’s just for your essentials and it’s even famous for cheap clothes and utensils. And, if you can actually see these shops – look above, the chimneys are clearly visible from here.

I know I sound obsessed when I talk about these chimneys or factories; I should be, they differentiate me from the villages nearby. They just grow few crops and cocks (and my definition here is not just restricted to roosters) – I grow individuals. No! I don’t share many emotions with the folks who live here. They are those who I feed, and I am the one who they weed.

Look! The smoke is still there.

PART 1:

the INFANT

ONE

Those Three Mails

Patrick’s College, Mumbai, July 2012

‘Who is this Patrick John?’ he raised his voice as he uttered his name. He threw the pages in his hand at the editorial team sitting around the round table. Everyone lowered their eyes as they all knew who he was talking about. Their eyes were holding his image so sharply and precisely that if their eyes were raised, the dean could figure out his face just by looking into their eyes: Patrick’s dark brown eyes with a permanent glow, the stubble over his bony cheeks, his lean torso perfectly sized to match his almost square face; and then there were his words – out of the blue at times, but honest.

The Dean’s anger and students’ panic were echoing within the silence; but it lasted not more than a few seconds, when he repeated:

‘So, no one knows who Patrick is?’ and then he continued, ‘In the very first issue of the new session you come up with such an article; what do you think – what impression are you trying to make on your juniors?’

He was loud, but the loudness in his voice dropped as his words approached the end, or rather it was just a pause. He put down his glasses, and wiped the sweat over his forehead. The air-conditioner seemed ineffective against his flaming fury and fuming words. But those words were still incapable of igniting the spirit of the students sitting in front of him. The cooling devices over there, the round table, his specs and the magazines lying over it, the chairs and the gold-framed wall hanging of Nehruji: everything seemed attentive to his words but not the students. Nevertheless, they were actually listening to him, so he further added:

‘Which year does he belong to and, for God’s sake, or rather proctor’s sake, speak up or else it would not be good for your academic results and your newly formed editorial board. I won’t leave you kids in peace unless you give me a detailed explanation for printing such an article. Moreover, if you still have any copies left to be printed, tell them we don’t need more and, if they have been printed already, burn them! Destroy them! And most importantly, tell me how many copies you’ve got of the first edition?’

‘Sir, five hundred,’ uttered Hritik, college’s editor-in-chief of the Faux Pas magazine, gulping his saliva and avoiding an eye contact with Dean Academics.

‘And, how many copies are you have left with you after the distribution?’

‘Sir, around two hundred copies.’

‘How many exactly?’

‘Sir, 232.’

‘So would you explain to your team about their next job or should I? Wait, let me help you with this. All I want now are those 268 distributed copies in my office by evening. Go to every hostel, canteen, classroom, department, lab; but I want them all. I want them all by this evening. Understood?’

‘But, sir...’

‘No. You aren’t allowed to utter a word. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

They didn’t move until he left and then everyone started whispering – talking and gradually shouting. Hritik heard them, and finally said, ‘It’s useless to talk about it now. I guess you guys better go and collect those distributed copies… and you two,’ he said, pointing towards two terrified sophomores who were still trying to digest their very first experience in the Ed board meeting, ‘you stay here and help me pen down the explanations and apologies.’

He did think of calling Patrick, but then he realized it would be Patrick’s first day at work and he shouldn’t unnecessarily disturb him. He himself should have been cautious and thoughtful while approving his article. He had worked with Patrick, he knew how he was. His calm face was a deceptive outer layer that tactfully covered the chaos in his mind. Hritik had known how difficult times were when Patrick himself was the editor-in-chief last year. How messed up it was when Patrick objected or questioned the workings of various activity groups of the college. He remembered how Patrick was asked to quit the position he was holding, because of accusations made by the student council against him. Politics always went over his head but, his understanding of its presence was quite enough to make him step back. Hence, his final days in college were at peace – for him as well as for others.

Rajan Industries, Teerakhpur, April 2013 (10 months after Patrick joined)

The barefaced sun stood above his head; still the HR executive had no option but to run for life. He was completely drenched in sweat, but he had no time to think about it. One could even see his chubby beer belly and bulged nipples swinging with his moves in his now translucent shirt; but he didn’t care. He knew his mistake could snatch away his job and, even if life was a little less ruthless, suspension was certain. Mindlessly, he first went to every office in the administration building, where his own department – the HR office of Rajan Industries – was a part. There he realized, the copies of their monthly bulletin weren’t yet distributed. He then ran towards the cafeteria where they were kept for distribution along with the meals.

As he entered the cafeteria, ‘shit!’ he shouted on finding those copies all over the tables; and the next second, he sensed there’s something more unpleasant planned for him for the day. His upset stomach triggered again, but he chose to first tackle the mess that he had created. He went to every table with a stiff smile and tried collecting those copies; sometimes even snatching them. He gave vague excuses to his seniors to get those bulletins back. All eyes were on him and then, everyone started scanning through the pages, looking for the faulty news in the issue which made him act so weird. It was rumored that it had a controversial picture of some officials from the last rain-dance party, which had gone viral. Then, it was replaced by another rumor, saying that it leaked some important secrets about the company, before someone could actually reach that anonymous article titled – The crabs at Rajans.

Balbir too was there. Who knew what was going on? He smiled mischievously to himself and dropped a text to Patrick – Your spiced crabs are in the menu today. Then he enjoyed his lunch without further looking at the HR guy. In times like these, he missed Patrick – their talks and their arguments. But he gradually understood this place wasn’t meant for him. It was all destined, he believed.

Pawan, the executive’s boss and the HR head of the company, was calling the mess-creator for the third time when he finally answered the call. ‘Yes sir, yes sir, the copies are with me – I guess no one has read that article – yes, yes sir, I am coming to your office – yes sir – yes sir,’ he uttered and hung up the call.

He couldn’t help it and landed in the loo the very next minute. Keeping those copies near the basin, he went inside for a private task whose sound was clearly audible outside. There were three plops – one extremely loud – before the flush was heard. The moment he washed his hands, he suddenly realized that many copies were missing. As he dashed out of the washroom, he saw those bulletins in every other employee’s hand, including the industry’s Plant Head. As the Plant Head noticed him, he didn’t say much, but just asked him to inform Pawan to meet him in his office after lunch. Those precise words gave him a precise shiver.

‘Pawan, I didn’t expect this from your team. Don’t you keep a check on their work?’

‘Sir, I do.’

‘Then how come this happened?’

‘Sir, I seriously don’t know; they say this article was not in the final draft.’

‘You know I won’t buy that. Tell me what brought that stupid article in our monthly bulletin. You know this goes to Rajan Sir. Thankfully, you saw it before mailing it to anyone – but this is not done. And, if it’s not your team, find out who is behind it.’

They both knew there wasn’t anything new in that article that they or their employees were unaware of – it was like sex in Indian society; no one wants to talk about it. It’s in the culture; and so was the culture of Rajan Industries whose true shades were printed in black in their bulletin and was spreading like a virus amongst their employees. Though they recovered as many copies as they could; but as said, it was like a virus – you cannot take it back entirely. Pawan’s tea had gone cold by the time he took its first sip. Yet, like an undemanding kid, he meekly gulped it; and putting down his cup, he replied:

‘Sir, we are looking into it. I am sure my team is not involved in it. But, we seriously don’t know how it happened.’

‘Hope you are not covering up your team, and if those are your words or of your team – if your team really thinks so for our organization, our HR team – what should we expect from others? Let me know if you can’t do anything about it – I have my own ways. And yes, be prepared for some suspensions. Do carry forward my message to your team.’

The Plant Head said it subtly, without even looking at Pawan. He then turned to his laptop. It was a silent gesture asking Pawan to leave. But Pawan wanted to say more – give explanations – even though he wasn’t sure of what to talk about. For a moment, he thought – did Patrick write this? But how can he, when he had left the organization months ago? He left with a blank expression.

Desi Adda Reloaded, Delhi, November 2013 (9 months since Patrick left Rajans)

‘There’s surely something wrong with Patrick sir!’ said Kevin.

‘Come here and help me. And stop peeping into his lappy,’ Roy finally shouted after struggling for a couple of minutes with his new recipe – the one which he assumed might help someone in moving on from a miserable relationship and the one rich in chocolate and his love. Their preparations for the new launch were steady – and if not their bosses, they both were extremely excited about it.

‘I am telling you he is no more into this business, and look what I’ve found.’

‘Stop it, Kevin.’

‘No, it isn’t about this business or any other. It’s his resignation letter.’

‘Yeah. We all know that he gave up some job before starting this business.’

‘Yeah. But you know that he didn’t resign from there?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘No, but still. And why is he resigning now? It’s been a while since he left that company. Is he doing all this to get his experience certificate and join some other company? But why would he?’

‘Why don’t you ask Patrick sir directly?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Then stop looking out for answers in his personal things or from me, there’s still a lot to finish.’

‘Yeah, I guess I should get back to work – but what if our Adda shuts – where will you go then?’

It wasn’t deliberate. Kevin wasn’t aware of what chord he had just struck, but Roy didn’t express his anxiety, carrying the same questions – asking the same every passing second – what will happen then? He did not want to center his thoughts over what Kevin said, but he knew there was a possibility of it being true – why was he giving a resignation to his former company now? Is he really joining some other company? What will I do then?

He wished he could go to Patrick and ask him directly, tell him how much he wanted to work for him; but now things had changed. And, he too was a reason behind it. The images of that amorous night blocked his vision – images of their success; those unaccounted drinks; face of Patrick and eventually that of Meera. For a moment, he thought he should never have fallen in love. Is love really blind?

Now he wasn’t much bothered about his chocolate getting burned – the caramel was thick and sticky – the cookies had turned hard like a rock – and he had eventually ruined his dish for the fourth time. There were memories of beautiful days at Adda in his mind and an intact smile over his face – which soon disappeared as his senses felt the burning odor around.

Cleaning the mess, he then finally asked Kevin, ‘When is he resigning?’

‘An evening before Christmas. Will it be our last launch?’

Roy didn’t reply.

TWO

The Introduction Party

Teerakhpur, July, 2012

A magnificent swimming pool, half of whose periphery was adjoining an artificial beach, while on the other side was an all-glass cafe with a rooftop bar. Few stood there – with their curious smiles and glittering eyes – and others stepped forward to explore more. On either side, behind the beach and the cafe, there were two spire buildings, with the same structured entrance gate as that of the main foyer, made of basalt and with similar architecture. With their own sense of exploration, few amongst them entered the building next to the cafe, named The Creative Cottage, and the rest stepped towards the other building called The Other Cottage. The GETs (Graduate Engineer Trainees) couldn’t keep their eyes off of the fine details of The Rajan’s Club.

‘Wow!’ uttered Kamya, GET No. 1, which echoed as a loud admiration for the paintings hanging on either side of the corridor. There were sketches of faces unknown, oil paintings of heavy machineries, a guitarist performing on stage, a large empty auditorium with crimson seats, and finally a portrait of the group founder, Bilmath Rajan hanging on the other end of the corridor. It brought them to three other doors aligned along a semicircular curve. The first amongst the three read – the music room. All four GETs followed Kamya as she entered. There were guitars, both acoustic and electric, synthesizer, drums, and a stage. This might have made the artist sketch the guitarist whose face was almost covered with his curly long hair; and hang him forever on the walls of this club.

The silent admiration for the exquisiteness of their club was soon interrupted when Balbir, GET No. 2, picked a stick and banged over the drums.

‘Do you know how to play these?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I was in the college’s music band.’

‘Really? I don’t remember.’

‘Neither do I’, he wickedly smiled.

Before they could try their hand on some other instrument, Dharya entered the room with his typical cheesy smile.

‘Hellooo guyyysss!! Yourrr ACCHH-AARREE (HR) friend is here! Don’t stare at me like that, I know I look stunning and so do you guys! And girls, you both are looking gorgeous. Ok! I shouldn’t waste much of your time, you got thirty more minutes to roam around the club, and explore it. But be there at the rooftop café, sharp seven thirty.’ No cookies for guessing, yes, he is the same ‘mess-creator’ from the last chapter. The future mess-creator left without waiting for any of their replies; which were just random Thanks and Yeah in varied tones and volumes.

Words yet again ceased as they headed to the next room, The Recreation Room. It was a large room, with just three painting boards, all of sheesham with a rack for paints, brushes, pencils. There was someone at the last board entranced in his own artistic meditation. He wasn’t facing them – and neither did he turn as they all entered.

It was said that no one visited this room much, though it was the favorite place for Mr. Rajan. Apart from a great visionary, there was also a brilliant artist in him. During his final days, it is said – by his family and people who knew him – that he spent days and nights in this very room, giving shapes and colors to virgin canvases – impregnating them with emotions that no one could understand: there were smiles of crying children in torn clothes, broken earthenware pots whose pieces were holding multi-colored water, scattered sindoor and silhouette of a woman, images of struggling footsteps, and of aging dried eyes. And these obscure emotions were adding beauty to the third room which was a museum-cum-library.

To these young sprouts, the flavor of that yellow room wasn’t enough spiced; and just with a quick glance across the room, they came out