44. THE ART OF KEEPING THE BOSSES HAPPY (YEAR 1985)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

The Highs and Lows of A Woman’s Journey in the Corporate World

CARE: This is Chapter 44 of my book Stress, Success and Everything In-Between. These are individual anecdotes but to understand the professional journey in totality, I would recommend reading the book right from Chapter 01 onwards. 

At Gurgaon, with a sufficiently large number of employees of all shades posted in a single outfit, I started observing and understanding office politics for the first time in my career.

The dining room in the institute was initially a haven of culinary delight for a foodie like me. For a few months, I lived the life of a gourmand, enjoying the symphony of clinking silverware against bone china crockery, artistically decorated with crisp white napkins and the atmosphere filled with the soothing tones of instrumental music playing in the background.

But then the inevitable happened. The participants, God bless their culturally diverse souls, decided the background music was not diverse enough. Why only North Indian instrumental music was played as background music? Why can they not play Carnatic music? Why does the caterer serve Butter Chicken, Mutton Biryani, Rajma and Chhole? Why do they not serve Rasam, Sambar, Chicken Chettinad and Curd Rice? 

As the demand persisted, the menu saw a sea change. I also left the membership of the Dining Room as I could not tolerate the high chilly quotient in the food. Homemade lunch became my new norm until one fateful day when I could not bring my lunch from home and was at the mercy of the Dining Room, which basically catered to the participants. 

I had reached there slightly late, and the participants had all left. I saw the Officer-in-charge having his lunch alone and joined him. 

He asked me tongue in cheek whether I would like to try the Khichdi, which was cooked especially for the top bosses? I love Khichdi in any form. As it was not a standard dish in the Dining Room, I could not help asking why Khichdi was prepared. He confided in a hushed tone that the top management had decided to go on a crash diet and had, therefore, desired that only simple Khichdi, papad and curd be served to them for lunch. Thus, the humble Khichdi had reached the dining table of the top five. 

My bowl of Khichdi had arrived. One spoonful in my mouth and hmmm… I realised it was not the ordinary Khichdi I was familiar with. It was absolutely delicious, a Khichdi fit for a king. 

"This is heavenly!" I exclaimed. "How do they cook it?" I asked. His eyes glinting, he leaned forward and whispered, "Oh, it is simple. I asked the cook to add loads of..er..butter or ghee in it.” 

“Ghee? But you said that the bosses were dieting. Right?” The Officer could not care less, “It is their choice to have Khichdi. My job is to keep their taste buds happy. Otherwise, they will not eat it. Managing their sugar levels and high cholesterol is not part of my role. I ensure that melted ghee is also served on the table. If they want, they can pour some on top of the Khichdi. And most of them do it.” He shrugged his shoulders and laughed, his eyes dancing.

“Do they never ask you how much butter or ghee is added in preparing this?” My curiosity was getting the better of me.

“Of course, they do. But do you think I tell them? I deny it point-blank, Madam. My job is to organise their lunch, as per their directions. You see, the bosses must be kept happy and satisfied!”

The top officials with cholesterol-lined arteries and sugar-loaded blood considered Khichdi a healthy option. Little did they realise that their wily assistant, always ready to please the bosses, would not let their discerning palates suffer. And when the inevitable question was asked about the oil content, he denied it with a poker face. He was a champion bluffer. After all, he believed that a well-fed boss was a happy boss, dietary restrictions be damned. 

That day, I observed somebody actually using the art of keeping the bosses happy, even if it meant turning a humble dish into a heart attack on the platter.

(To be continued...)

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