Presenting an interaction between my boss (B), a senior manager and yours truly (ME).
ME: Sir, there is a tribe of monkeys in the PPC Department and I don’t think I can handle them all by myself. It is scary to walk in there.
B: Those lousy bastards! When will they ever do one thing right? How long has that stuff been inside the shop without any acknowledgement or material movement from their side, 3 weeks? I think its time to summon the General Manager about this. Its bloody ridiculous!
ME: Yes, sir its been about that much time sir, but…
B: Why doesn’t it seem to bother them? Its not like I’m asking them to do me a favour. Its their f#$&**g job!!! I’ll see what I can do, my boy. Tell me which monkey in particular is troubling you.
ME: Sir, I meant the real ones sir, they’ve parked themselves outside the PPC Office area making faces at passersby; and at the same time imitating Stallone-type grimaces at those trying to get in.
I made three overnight bus trips, each of about 300 km, between Hosur and Madras within a span of eight days. The last one being on the night of August 8th, it was a Saturday and a wet Saturday night. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you about my karmic connection with the rain Gods. If not, it is about time. The situation is this – every time I leave a city for another, it rains either that evening or the night. This has happened each of the last ten times that I’ve travelled. The most recent one being the ride from Madras to Hosur. Thankfully, I was already inside a bus when it started to drizzle. Then the coach began to get stuffy with fellow travellers shutting the windows – it spoilt the ride, the rain I mean. The whole four days that I spent in Hosur were characterized by bright sunshine, outdoor sport, and being outside for the fun of it all. But it poured like hell on the evening of the 5th, the night of which I was to leave. It happened in Alwar and in Madras. The bally thing is spooky.
But besides all that, I am now back in Hosur and have been assigned an entire shop to myself. This is the Protoshop and I help build new vehicles that are designed to meet export requirements. The part I like most about it is that the shop is the analogical equivalent of a hospital ward and the trucks are babies who need to be looked after until they’re fit to be released to the wild world. I’d have hated the assembly line, this is more in tune with what I wanted – freedom.
However, with just a handful of skilled workmen and an enthusiastic trainee, it falls on yours truly to also get the ol’ arms messy with whatever oils and greases and coolant fluids and power-steering oils and other hydraulic oleic substances. I can’t make knuckle cracks anymore, the movements of my knuckes are smooth – I can feel it dammit!
Another fun bit is knowing that the vehicles are all over-powered with high power to weight ratios. I had a chance to be taken on a road test. The 9 tonner was flying at 110 km/h with a payload consisting only of the driver and myself. I had the seatbelt on but I have to tell you, that seatbelt was of no use. I was clutching the seat with my left hand and the door with my right. The engine hissed all the way and I could feel the thrust quite like what one is likely to feel in an airplane taking-off. It was awesome, absolutely awesome.
The morons from Quality came and gave some sign-off points – they pointed out missing stickers and the out-of-spec wheel nut covers. Poor sods, they don’t know what the baby was capable of. Haha! The boy was a ‘Pass’ as far as I was concerned. Man, what a ride.
Oh, and I am incharge of whatever goes on in my shop. I’m technically, a process owner. My boss says it reflects well in a resumé. I have arrived and hello, I’ve hit 500 words!
