The corporate world in the country has seen a radical transformation since Independence. Sujoy Roy revisits his initiation into the field when the ‘White Sahibs’ were paving the way for the natives and life was much less complicated
The sun, it was said, “never sets on the British Empire”. It did so, however, in 1947 in India. During the 1950s, the ‘White Sahibs’ of all shapes, sizes and hues of Calcutta-based mercantile firms started returning ‘home’ feeling, ostensibly, uncomfortable in independent India. This exodus took time and was gradual as quite a few decided to cling on to their chair as long as possible because of the ‘lordly’ lifestyle in India and the frightful prospect of life with an umbrella, mackintosh and the bus-stand back home. This sparked a vertical movement upwards as staff of Indian origin, the ‘Brown Sahibs’ as they were called, moved into those vacant chairs.
It was this writer’s privilege to be an eyewitness as these times and events unfolded, and it today leads him to reflect on the working conditions of today’s generation. Professionals today may find it strange but management education was not the obvious career choice during those days. The writer owes his career to a Jesuit priest at XlRI, Jamshedpur, who coaxed him to sit for the admission test there for Post-Graduation in Personnel Management, presciently commenting: “In two years, your future will be bright as there is a dearth of management graduates in India.” I sat for the test and strangely, did quite well.
Ironically, the toughest task in this saga was not exactly clearing the entrance test but to convince my father — that management was better than doing an MA in English. In logical terms which only a father can command, he made a telling point: “If you study engineering, you become an engineer; if you study medicine, you become a doctor, similarly with law, a lawyer. Don’t tell me by studying management, you become a manager. Only efficient clerks work their way up to become a manager.” Needless to add, it took a lot of persuasion to convince him. It needs to be mentioned that this writer’s father was a successful criminal lawyer of his times at a small town in Bihar. The fact that prospects of a course and new career options were unknown to him was a reflection of the times, an information arbitrage between the big metros and the smaller towns, which exists even today, but is noticeably less.
I still remember my first day at the job. I was appointed as a “covenanted” officer by virtue of my education in management, and designated as a labour Welfare Officer at a Jute mill near Calcutta (now Kolkata). Those were the times when the British sahibs still enjoyed certain privileges that others did not have. They sat in closed-door chambers while the Bengali babus occupied the hall. The so-called joining-cum-briefing conversation with a Scottish gentleman heading the Jute mill was predictable. We ‘talked’ for some 40 minutes where he talked and I listened. I was told to report for duty at 7.30 am at the mill. Also, I was told to shift to my allotted fully-furnished quarters, where I needed to carry nothing except my clothes in a suitcase. The building was almost 100 years old and majestic, built on arches for safety from high tide entering the premises with marble flooring, a huge veranda overlooking the river some 100 yards in front — simply a picture postcard view. We even had a dress code — white cotton trousers, a white shirt and a hat, a concept alien to today’s generation one suspects. Now that my days as an employee are behind me, it is safe to admit that most of us never followed the dress code in one particular aspect — hat was never worn. Imagine an employee walking in with a hat today! He will probably be hooted off the premises.
Day one of shifting to my quarters, three separate knocks on the door were enough to knock down a small town boy like me with the proverbial feather. One fellow collected my shoes for polishing, another walked off with the flower vases to arrange flowers in them and the third took my clothes for washing and ironing. I reckon there is hardly anyone in the younger generation who has ever known pampering to this degree!
My job ‘deliverables’ were simple — to ensure that the 4,000 strong labour worked eight hours a day without any fuss, and to intercede where the Pusher became too aggressive. For those for whom the concept is alien, each department had a ‘Pusher’, a rather unthinkably derogatory designation by today’s management parlance, whose job was to “push” the workers to work freely using expletives whenever necessary or otherwise.
All the managers and officers, in whispering campaigns, were given nicknames by the workers, some not-so-flattering and some descriptive. I was the ‘Bachcha Sahib’ because of my young age. I will never forget the one time I tried to act tough by strictly enforcing mill safety rules, prohibiting female workers from taking their babies inside the mill — and was taught a lesson in return! It so happened that the workers were meant to keep their babies with an 80-year-old woman while they worked, but never would because she would spank the kids. What followed next morning will always remain etched in my mind as a nightmare — some 30-odd babies were crawling in my small office room, some tugging at my trousers, some pulling my shoe laces, some nonchalantly emptying the waste matters of their kidneys and the rest in search of food! Apparently the female workers had decided, not very innocently, that I would be a better caretaker than the old lady of the crèche and dumped their babies in my cabin! Needless to say, everybody was mighty amused except me, none more than the Scottish boss who laughed the loudest. I can fairly say without guilt that never again did I ever enforce the rule and cultivated the habit of looking the other way whenever I saw a baby in the mill. Employers today, one is happy to note, are far more sensitive to such employee concerns, and the crèche facilities in today’s offices are modern with trained staff. One wonders if the female employees of this generation would ever register their unhappiness in such a manner! Since they are more enlightened they would probably make a representation to the management or look for employment elsewhere.
At a time when careers in companies are becoming shorter by the day, and life increasingly stressful, it may seem strange that I worked there for three years and the quality of life was, to put it mildly, pleasant and devoid of any tension. Every Saturday, a van took all the managers from the mill campus to the Firpo’s restaurant on Chowringhee Road. I personally spent many an evening in Trincas Restaurant, which at that time had a singer called Usha Iyer performing there in the evenings — a lady we know better as the legendary Usha Uthup.
No reminisces of that time would be complete without a word about my boss in my second job, which was again a British company. He was extremely fond of his gin and tonic during day time and whisky and soda after sunset, followed by a fistful of antacids. A jovial, fun-loving gentleman, he had a soft corner for me because his son, studying in England, shared his birthday, both date and year, with me. Unusually for a reporting manager, he taught me not just the nuances of dealing with people, but also the game of tennis. Though the working hours were from 9 to 5, at 3 o’clock sharp, he would drag me to the tennis court. One day he chided me because I was working beyond 3 pm: “Finish your work by 3 o’clock by working hard or I will presume you are hardly working.” The other things he taught me were the subtle nuances and finer points of horse racing at Calcutta Race Course. Once I chose a horse at random for him and my beginner’s luck worked. A horse considered a donkey in racing parlance won the race and my boss made a fortune. One would hesitate to generalise and say that all bosses of the time were like him, and that none of his type exist today, but my wish for this generation is that may they all find people like him to guide and enrich their careers and lives. Remembering him almost 50 years later is a tribute to a man who changed my life forever.
The unfortunate post-script to this story was that the Brown Sahibs developed a ridiculous penchant for imitation, almost turning themselves into ludicrous caricatures including surnames — Mitra to Mitter, Chaudhury to Chaudry, Bose to Basu and in numerous other ways. Use of vernacular became infra dig. Mercifully this hangover is gradually withering.
Without being judgemental, the life of a corporate executive then was probably far more relaxed than what it seems today — despite unimaginable increase in earnings. It is impossible to compare two different eras because factors, parameters, needs and expectations were different. Needs and ‘desire to possess’ were commensurate with earnings because consumerism had not assumed such aggressive, all pervasive tendencies and proportions.
Perhaps satisfaction and happiness are not exactly purchasable commodities. limiting our needs probably would make us understand and realise the difference between what is ‘pricey’ and what is ‘priceless.’
