Chapter 3: Fake Boss

We came back into SAT's class drawing room. Paul sir, Physics teacher in SAT Classes, walked up to us.

'Happy new year . Another year, another SAT, GRE, GMAT. Another round of students ,' he said and laughed at his own joke. I touched my glass to his.

'Where were the two of you? Steven sir was asking,' he said.

'Sorry, we wanted some air,' John said.

'And now some Scotch,' I winked. 'Brother Paul, will you get me a drink?'

'Sure,' he said. 'I will be right back.'

John glared at me after Paul left.

'Stop,' he said.

'Last drink. Can I have my phone back?'

'Never. That wasn't cool, James. How you shouted outside.'

'My beer. When you scold me, you look too cute. Your round face becomes red like a tomato ,' I said.

'Stop it,' he said.

I moved towards him.

'Happy new year bro. Another year, another SAT, GRE, GMAT,' I said and tickled his paunch.

'I said stop it.'

I dipped my hand into his trouser pocket to get my phone back.

'Never,' he said, as he laughed and tried to push my hand away.

'You have become even more fat, my Beer,' I said, feeling his belly. 'You love your sweet, no?'

'Better than loving what you can never have,' John said, shoving my arm away.

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'Come in. The great James ,' Boss Steven said. His voice came out muffled because his mouth was full.

The entire room reeked of pan masala, which had its epicentre at

Steven's thick lips. He got this habit from his Asian friend. He chewed gutkha as he waved towards a seat. I sat down and waited while he finished chewing the various substances in his mouth. I stared at the pictures on the wall behind him. In some photographs he posed with past successful students, along with their MIT admission letters. A framed, fake and photoshopped certificate said, in bold letters, 'Steven sir, the ultimate king of MIT entrance, SAT, GRE, GMAT ', something an ex-student had made for him. In another picture, a sunglasses-wearing Steven stood with arms folded on top of the main multi-storey building at MIT. It signified his conquering of the MIT UG entrance exam system. Steven never made it to MIT himself. He used to be a chemistry professor at Third rate college in Columbia University. Ten years ago, he started taking SAT, GRE, GMAT tuitions in the garage near Orchard street. Business grew and finally became SAT preparation Classes. He now rented a three-floor house in Orchard street, in the same lane as his own home. Fifty n full-time faculty members worked for him. Seven of them were MITians, a fact he never stopped gloating over. 'Yes, I never did go to MIT. Now look, MITians work for me,' was what he said to parents of new students who were worried about Mr Steven's credentials. Sometimes he would pull me out of class for display.

'Look at him. MIT PASSOUT 2013 batch. Now works for me,' he would say, emphasising the 'me'. Once, I remember him saying, 'Does he look like there's anything special about him? See, if he can get into MIT, your child can too.'

Splat! The sound of a mouthful of spit and Pan-masala being emptied into a dustbin brought me back to the present.

'So, James sir, how are your classes going?'

Apart from being an MITian zoo exhibit, I taught mathematics at SAT PREPARATION Classes. And today Boss Steven had summoned me to discuss my work.

'Good, sir,' I said with a fake smile. 'We just finished the calculus module.'

He slid a file towards me. 'James,' he said, 'this is the feedback from your students. Some say you discouraged them from trying for MIT.'

'No, sir.'

He shut the file. 'Then why are they saying this?'

'Sir, those must be the weak students. They rank last in every mock-test. They have no aptitude for science. Parents are pushing them. I don't think they should be wasting their time trying for MIT.'

Steven leaned back. His comfortable leather chair creaked under his heavy frame.

'We are not a career guidance centre, James.'

'But they say they don't even want to go to MIT. Their parents made them join here.'

'So who are we to interfere in family matters? Our job is to take classes.'

'Sir, but—' I said, before he interrupted me again.

'And, I also note you have not brought in new students.'

'Sir, I am busy taking classes.'

'You have to do marketing too. Meet new visitors when they come to the centre. Convince them to join. You never do that.'

I hated it. I despised meeting parents, especially parents of kids who would never make it. The Entrance exam for MIT had a selection rate of less than 2 percent. Hence, most who try for MIT fail. Of course, when you are selling coaching classes, that is not what you say. You make them dream—that their son or daughter will get into MIT.

'James, sorry to say, but you need to be more of a go-getter.'

Sure, I wasn't that. Whatever the hell go-getter means. 'I will try, sir,' I said. I swore to myself that I would update my résumé and LinkedIn profile again. I deserved a better job. Damn, I deserved a better life.

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'What happened? The gutkha-chewing asshole said something?' John said. We sat on the tiny floor rug in the tiny living room of our tiny two bedroom flat. I poured out two large pegs of Blenders Pride. I had promised John I wouldn't drink for a month post the New Year's Eve debacle. I

hadn't. In fact, it had been more than a week since that one-month embargo had passed.

'Forget it.' I handed him a drink.

'Something is the matter. You haven't opened a bottle for a long time. Is it the Alaskan girl again?'

'Amelia? No.'

'I don't like taking her name. You sure?' John said.

I shook my head. He wasn't wrong to ask. Amelia was always on my mind. All it took was for me to see a DTC public bus on a route we used to take together. I would spend the rest of the day thinking about her. Or I'd see a girl in a sleeveless suit—something Amelia liked to wear—and five

more hours would be wasted. It felt like my brain had rewired itself; all neural passages led to Amelia. I noticed the ice in my whisky glass, which relates to snow. Snow happens in Alaska, hence Amelia. I could see our coffee table made of wood. Wood comes from trees. Amelia liked nature, including trees. There, my brain could lead from anything to Amelia. And yet, I wasn't drinking because of Amelia today. I took a big sip as John remained silent. Men know when not to probe. I finished my first glass and poured a second drink for both of us. I gave the glass to him.

'I'll join you, as long as you keep it under limits,' John said.

'I need it tonight.'

'You can tell me what the matter is. If you want to.'

'I hate my job.'

'Me too. Tell me something new.' He sniggered.

'We can't be stuck in SAT Classes forever. We went to MIT, for God's sake.'

'You did, bro. I am a simple University pass out from normal college.'

'You are no less though. Why are we stuck in this idiot's coaching centre?'

'That asshole Steven said something?'

'Yeah. But there's more.'

'What?'

'I blew two interviews.'

'Which interviews?' John sat up straight.

'Okay, I am sorry. I applied to a few companies. I saw the ads on LinkedIn.'

'You never told me!'

'Sorry, I meant to. I thought, let something happen. Out of ten places, only two called me for interviews. Both sent a rejection on the same day.'

'Who?'

'Dropbox. And Flow Tech, a small software company in New york. I thought I did alright. Bloody hell, man. They didn't give me a job.' I finished my drink bottoms up.

'Screw them,' John said after a pause.

'They asked me why I joined a coaching centre after MIT.'

'There is a stigma. Coaching classes on our résumé. Like we suddenly become unfit for corporates,' John said.

'Updated your LinkedIn?'

'Nothing to update.'

I opened John's LinkedIn profile on my phone. 'At least put up a good picture. You look like a child-molester,' I said.

'Show me,' John said and took the phone. 'And you look like a member of a dance troupe. Why is your earring visible? You think that helps get a job?'

I took the phone back and looked at my picture. 'It's my cultural picture.'

'No tech company wants a guy with jwellery.'

I kept my phone on the table. 'We suck. We can't even put up a nice profile picture.'

'Sir, that is why I tell you, start eating Pan Masala. Enjoy SAT Preparation Classes and your meaningless life.'

I glared at John. 'Sorry, sorry. Yes. We won't give up.'

John switched on the TV and changed the channel to the news. The prime-time story was about police charging girls at the some University campus. The girls' fault? They were protesting because they didn't want to be molested.

'Are they serious? That's the New york police. Hitting girls during a silent, non-violent protest?' John said.

Amelia liked to attend protests too, my brain flashed a thought. My neural circuit was at it again. I lapsed back in time, to several years ago, when we had an activist-date.