The first job

The usual suspects had been discarded with a tinge of regret:

I would no longer be a fighter pilot flying Spitfires over Dover. Nor would I climb in and out of wells in purple tights like my ultimate career hero,The Ghost Who Walks. Neither would I be a doctor since I fainted when the colour red was mentioned in my delicate company. And I would never gesticulate dramatically at the witness,like my old friend Perry Mason,although my father was convinced that this was actually the career for me since I argued with him so much.

I would also not be a manager in a hotel,or a computer programmer,or a physicist,or a guitar-toting singer without a band,or a balloon seller at Chowpatty,though at one time,this last career option almost won out.

“Go and meet my friend Roger Pereira,at Shilpi”,my father ordered me one day after all hope of my ever being employed had been well and truly buried without prayer,“Maybe he will find something that you’re good for.”

Roger,kind Roger,did not throw me out of his office. Though he should have. He did not hire me as his peon,though with all the qualifications I had,he probably ought to have. Instead,he asked me to do a Copy Test with Shilpi’s then Copy Chief,Noel Godin.

I did not know what a Copy Test was. All I knew was I hated tests,rebelled violently against them,felt they were demeaning and vulgarly competitive.

I almost took a detour from Roger’s office to the exit. The only thing that stopped me was the word “Copy”. A “Copy” Test? That should be easy,might even be fun.

Apparently,I aced the test. And I was hired as a copywriter.

I had to write ads? I had to just sit somewhere and dream of things (the words “ideate” and “create” had not yet been introduced to me) and words and headlines and stories,and someone would pay me money every month?

I could do that. I could write,that I knew. But at that time,in India,I just found it inconceivable that anyone would pay good money for someone to “just write”.

My first pay packet came in a brown paper envelope. I counted it carefully: Eight hundred and fifty rupees. I gave it to my parents. My second salary I gave to my grandparents. My third salary,I bought books for myself.

My own books,with my own money. I now had my own money. I felt wealthy beyond imagination. And loved the fact that,at least for a few days every month,my wallet would bulge with eight crisp hundred rupee notes.

Suddenly,I started to work. Except,for me,it wasn’t work at all. I spent every happy hour of my days dreaming and thinking of clever things to write. I worked through many nights without the slightest concern.

I was a writer. I was someone now and would always be someone. This would be my life. And to the bright young men and women I have just hired,I will only say: Have a happy one.

adipochas@yahoo.com

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