Deaf in Delhi: A Memoir

29. The Interview of a Lifetime

29 The Interview of a Lifetime I W A S C O M F O R T A B L Y S E T T L E D I N M Y N E W routine as a teacher at the Photography Institute for the Deaf (PID) and was feeling good about myself. As the joint secretary of the Delhi Deaf Association and a teacher in the night school operated by the All India Federation of the Deaf (AIFD), I held a prestigious position in the Deaf community in Delhi. My workdays were busy but brought numerous joys. Teaching at the PID was fun, and doing volunteer work for the DDA gave me a sense of accomplishment. I spent time with my deaf friends in the evening, drinking tea and laughing at the world. I had begun to think that the course of my life was set, just like three years earlier when I thought I was going to be a farmer for life. All this changed when I saw a three-line advertisement in the Indian Express. It was a Sunday in May. My family and I had slept in the open courtyard and had just woken up to the enjoyable early morning cool of eighty-plus degrees. Bhai Narain, Jijaji Sharma, and I were sitting on cots reading the paper and drinking tea. Karishna, Narain’s wife, and Sister Kamla were cutting vegetables for lunch. The six nephews and nieces were still asleep. The advertisement jumped off the newspaper page at me. The National Physical Laboratory in Delhi needed an assistant photographer. The salary ranged from 150 to 250 rupees. I showed the advertisement to Narain, who read it twice and then pressed his lips together—his habit when he was thinking hard. “You should apply for it,” he said. It was not a suggestion; it was an order. I said I didn’t think I could get that job. Also, I found the salary lacking. Narain, who knew the government salary structure, explained that 150 rupees was the “basic salary,” and that with all the other benefits, 160 the interview of a lifetime 161 the total would be about 250 rupees. I was wide-eyed. The fact that the salary would be equal to what Narain was making—he was nine years older than me, had a college education, and was hearing—was unbelievable to me. “No, I do not think I have any chance,” I said decisively. “Everyone who can click the shutter release button will apply for it. This is a government job, and someone whose uncle has a high position will get it anyway. Why bother?” Narain was irritated. “Maybe you will get this job and maybe not,” he admonished. “It will not hurt if you apply. They won’t kill you for applying.” Jijaji Sharma, who had always thought that I was being exploited by the AIFD, agreed. That settled it. I was going to apply for the job. The deadline was still two weeks away, but I decided to get it over with. I went into our living-sleeping-family-guest room and found ruled paper and a pen. The next day, I dropped the letter into the mailbox outside the PID. I did not tell anyone about it, lest they laugh at my audacity. I was also afraid of Nigam and his temper. He would have called me a traitor for even thinking about leaving the teaching job. Then I got busy with my daily routine and forgot all about it. However, three weeks later, I got a form letter from the National Physical Laboratory (NPL). I was invited for a “practical examination in photography” and an interview. I read the letter repeatedly until I had memorized every word in it. Even in my wildest dreams I hadn’t thought that I would be called for an interview. I had not mentioned my deafness in my letter and was sure that as soon as they discovered it, I would be kicked out before the interview. Narain was all smiles when he saw the letter. “I told you it would not hurt,” he said. “I have not gotten the job yet,” I responded. “Maybe, they will laugh at me when they learn I am deaf and tell me to get out fast.” “We shall see,” said Narain, ever the optimist. “Who knows? You might get the job.” He laughed and patted my back. Jijaji Sharma agreed. He frequently got angry when...