<p>Job-seeking has never been more funny than in the case of a chap I used to know years ago. This fellow swam into my ken a few days ago while I was seated in a friend’s shop talking to him. “My God, is it really you!” I exclaimed when he accosted me, for he had changed completely from the boy I used to know as MM (short for master misfit). “Fallen on evil days, sir,” said this specimen from behind the forest of hair covering his face.<br />“The last time I saw you about five years ago,” I reminisced, “you had got a job in a barber shop. Now to look at your forest of hair one would think Veerappan was hiding somewhere in it and you never saw a barber shop in your life.” “That barber fired me the next day.” “Why?”<br /><br />“I nicked a customer’s face while giving him a shave and followed it up with another cut. As the boss had warned me that for every cut I made five rupees would be cut from my wages I tried to cut my losses by joining the two cuts with the razor. As the customer was howling and the boss was attempting to murder me I had no option but to run for dear life.”<br /><br />When both my shop-keeper friend and I had finished splitting our sides with laughter I asked MM what he did after that. I realised that trying to become a barber was a mug’s game (continued MM). So I got a job in a laundry shop. Everything went well for sometime, as I was still learning the ropes. Then the boss gave me a shirt to press. <br />When I burnt the shirt in one or two places the boss lost his shirt and came at me with raised fist. The next moment I was off like a jack rabbit, touching the ground only once in two minutes. If I had not bumped into a bullock-cart two miles from starting point I’d still be running.<br /><br />“Now that I have run into you I hope my troubles would soon be over,” he said. And mine would be about to start, unless I am damn careful, I told myself. “Let me be your cook,” he offered. “No deal,” I assured him. “You’d end up setting fire to my kitchen, if not the whole house. The only safe place for you would be in the middle of the Sahara desert.”<br />“Or the Arabian Sea,” suggested my shop-keeper friend. “All he’d need would be a brick tied round his neck before entering the sea.” “No, on second thoughts, it would be cheaper to get him into a home for the destitute,” said I, on the crest of a brain-wave. <br />And, thank God, that’s where he is at the moment of going to press. As he is still there after one year without setting fire to the place, I am sure that he has at last found his niche.</p>
<p>Job-seeking has never been more funny than in the case of a chap I used to know years ago. This fellow swam into my ken a few days ago while I was seated in a friend’s shop talking to him. “My God, is it really you!” I exclaimed when he accosted me, for he had changed completely from the boy I used to know as MM (short for master misfit). “Fallen on evil days, sir,” said this specimen from behind the forest of hair covering his face.<br />“The last time I saw you about five years ago,” I reminisced, “you had got a job in a barber shop. Now to look at your forest of hair one would think Veerappan was hiding somewhere in it and you never saw a barber shop in your life.” “That barber fired me the next day.” “Why?”<br /><br />“I nicked a customer’s face while giving him a shave and followed it up with another cut. As the boss had warned me that for every cut I made five rupees would be cut from my wages I tried to cut my losses by joining the two cuts with the razor. As the customer was howling and the boss was attempting to murder me I had no option but to run for dear life.”<br /><br />When both my shop-keeper friend and I had finished splitting our sides with laughter I asked MM what he did after that. I realised that trying to become a barber was a mug’s game (continued MM). So I got a job in a laundry shop. Everything went well for sometime, as I was still learning the ropes. Then the boss gave me a shirt to press. <br />When I burnt the shirt in one or two places the boss lost his shirt and came at me with raised fist. The next moment I was off like a jack rabbit, touching the ground only once in two minutes. If I had not bumped into a bullock-cart two miles from starting point I’d still be running.<br /><br />“Now that I have run into you I hope my troubles would soon be over,” he said. And mine would be about to start, unless I am damn careful, I told myself. “Let me be your cook,” he offered. “No deal,” I assured him. “You’d end up setting fire to my kitchen, if not the whole house. The only safe place for you would be in the middle of the Sahara desert.”<br />“Or the Arabian Sea,” suggested my shop-keeper friend. “All he’d need would be a brick tied round his neck before entering the sea.” “No, on second thoughts, it would be cheaper to get him into a home for the destitute,” said I, on the crest of a brain-wave. <br />And, thank God, that’s where he is at the moment of going to press. As he is still there after one year without setting fire to the place, I am sure that he has at last found his niche.</p>
