The interview

Interviews are like first dates: good impressions count and awkwardness is inevitable, but outcomes? Utterly unpredictable. Reading along these lines, I was reminded of one such interview.

Bidding my friends goodbye on the kerb, I pushed my cycle onto our driveway. Under the jasmine arbour, my parents were having chai, the scene picture-perfect. Dad beckoned me over, pulling a big yellow book from his bag. “Remember Friday’s interview at five. Rajan uncle said this helped his son crack it. Read it well.”

Interview? Why? I was perfectly happy at my current place — two blissful years in a cosy haven with friendly faces. But no, this was an intercontinental organisation, and my parents deemed it the ticket to a glorious future.

Much as they had my best interest at heart, I lacked the level of enthusiasm they were displaying for this interview. Sensing no point in holding a pity party, I picked the book warily and flopped on the bed. It was a hard-bound one in lemon yellow, slightly worn out at the edges, with a navy-blue cloth strip running along. Reluctantly flipped through the pages. Boring to read but the illustrations alongside interested me enough to immerse in it for the next hour.

Until mom’s voice from the kitchen brought me back. “Dinner is ready!”

Friday arrived too soon. The oak-panelled room was silent, the antique clock ticking judgmentally. The attendant seated me at a glass table and disappeared. My nerves were a circus, complete with acrobatic thoughts of fleeing. Before I could execute a daring escape, a cheery voice boomed, “Good evening, dear!”

Startled, I spun around to face a tall, rosy-faced foreigner, her blue eyes twinkling behind silver-rimmed glasses. My reply was an incoherent mumble.

“Sit down, dear,” she said kindly, opening a folder. To my horror, it was my file — left casually on the table, forgotten in my nervous haze. As she examined it, I tried to appear composed, which mostly involved avoiding eye contact.

Curiosity eventually got the better of me. I stole a glance. Her face was generously oval, her cheekbones high, and her demeanour as warm as freshly baked bread. She caught me staring, smiled, and I instantly regretted my existence.

“Hmmm, you’ve done two years of basic training. That’s good!” Her sweet, encouraging voice filled the room. She asked about my hobbies.

Hobbies? My mind went blank. She might as well have asked me to recite the periodic table backward. Noticing my silence, she switched to Hindi. Unfortunately, even my native tongue had deserted me.

She offered water, pouring it from a glass tumbler with a flourish. My trembling hands managed to spill it on the table. Excellent. Now I was parched and humiliated.

Despite her gentle prodding, my lips remained pursed, a stubborn fortress against the words threatening to escape. She stood up, and panic surged. Was she about to throw me out?

Instead, she walked over, took my hand in a tender grip, and led me to her seat. I followed like a condemned soul. Then, to my utter disbelief, she hoisted me onto the table. Yes, the table. Right under her nose.

“Come on, dear, say something. Anything!” she cajoled, her face alight with mischief. My legs dangled helplessly. My forehead glistened with sweat. Her persistent kindness only deepened my awkwardness.

She tried humour, snippets of Hindi (complete with an odd accent), and even a few exaggerated expressions. Nothing worked. Finally, she threw up her hands and said, “Why not sing? Any song will do, even a film song.”

Sing? Was she serious? At that moment, I would have preferred the floor to swallow me whole.

But then, she said something else — something so absurd it shook me out of my paralysis. She said, “You know Laila mai Laila, sing that…” I can’t even recall her exact words, but they gave me the courage to do the unthinkable.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”

The words escaped in a trembling whisper, as if pried loose by sheer desperation. I sounded like a rusty hinge, but I didn’t care. Her face lit up as though I had performed an opera.

I kept going, my voice gaining a tiny shred of confidence with each syllable. For the first time in the entire ordeal, I felt human.

When I finished, she clapped softly, her eyes shining with approval. “Well done, dear!” she said, as though I’d just aced a doctoral thesis.

Walking out of that room, I realised something: it wasn’t about perfection; it was about showing up, taking a chance, and surviving to tell the tale.

And survive, I did — with a story to share and a newfound appreciation for nursery rhymes as I clinched my first standard admission in a convent after completing lower and upper nursery in Montessori.

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