56. A TWIST IN THE TALE OR A TWISTED TAIL? ( YEAR 1990)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN 

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

CARE: This is Chapter 56 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.

My tenure in Meerut was marked by numerous challenges, none more demoralizing than the barrage of anonymous complaints that descended upon me. In my entire service span of about 39 years, I never received as many anonymous complaints against me as I did in Meerut.  

These anonymous complaints came with a flurry of accusations typed in Hindi and cyclostyled on official legal-sized paper. Every Monday morning, I would find a neatly folded letter in the top drawer of my office table, finding faults with my functioning or casting a shadow of suspicion over my decisions and making malicious allegations. Initially, I dismissed them as baseless and tried to ignore them. However, my strategy did not work. Soon, the content of the letters escalated from veiled insinuations to malicious attacks, tainting not only my professional reputation but also making personal attacks on me. It became a regular nuisance, which I had to face every Monday morning, their content and regularity turning into a source of anxiety. However, the menacing complaints became so vicious that I could not ignore them anymore, and they started causing me immense stress. Ultimately, I reached a stage when I dreaded opening the table drawer on Monday mornings lest a complaint against me should be waiting there. Apparently, the culprit was succeeding in his mission.

Gradually, I also learnt that these letters were placed on every desk in every section on Monday mornings, and the people read them with interest and discussed them scandalously the whole day. 

Despite my efforts to find out who was behind this menace, I failed to do so, and the perpetrator remained elusive. My superior, seemingly unfazed, advised me to disregard the complaints, claiming it was a "common occurrence" in the region. 

Despite sincere efforts, the source of these attacks remained under a veil of mystery. The accuracy of basic facts convinced me it was the job of some insider. Yet, the accusations were fabricated, leaving me with a frustrating puzzle. Each Monday loomed, a dark cloud threatening to unleash another wave of negativity. The constant stress began to take its toll, adding a permanent layer of anxiety to the already demanding workload.

It was clear that someone was deriving some sadistic pleasure by trying to demoralize me. I was consumed by helplessness and anger but could not locate the source of this weekly nuisance.

After a lot of brain-storming, I could decipher only two clues. All the complaints were sent by the same person as they were typed on the same typewriter, which had a couple of broken keys and did not print a couple of alphabet clearly. But there was no such typewriter in the entire zonal office. The second clue was that the complainant was aware of every action of mine. The needle of suspicion thus pointed towards the Head Clerk, who was in charge of despatch and maintained the master file of all the office copies. However, these were only insinuations without solid evidence for confronting him or initiating any action. 

And then suddenly, a phone call changed everything, and the tide turned.

That weekend, I was in Delhi, where my family stayed. Late on Sunday night, as I was about to sleep, a call from an unknown number shattered the quiet of the night. The caller informed me that he was calling from Meerut and that Mehra ji, the Head Clerk in my department, had met with an accident and had been rushed to the Emergency of the local Medical College. When I asked him how the accident happened, he replied that Mehra ji fell from the local bus while boarding it and was run over by a passing vehicle. He was seriously injured. The caller further told me that Mehra ji wanted to meet me urgently. When I asked him who he was, the caller claimed that he did not know Mehra ji and had only called me out of humanitarian concern as Mehra ji requested him to contact me and gave my phone number to him. The anonymous caller asked me to visit the Emergency Room of the local Medical College the next day morning before going to my office. Saying so, he hung up the phone.

I immediately called back that number to learn more, but it kept giving an engaged tone. When the number was finally connected, I was told it was a PCO, a paid public call booth in Meerut. The PCO operator did not know who the caller was.

I could not sleep after that phone call and kept thinking about it for a long time. I felt sad that the gawky-looking Head Clerk, silently sitting in the corner of the hall opposite my room, had met with a dangerous accident. Suddenly, questions started popping up. Why has he conveyed this news to me? How come he had my Delhi residence number with him? Remember, there were no cell phones in those days. Why did he have to use the services of a stranger to convey this message? Why did he not ask any of his family members to call me? But why does he want me to visit him in the hospital before going to the office? Why? Why? Why? My mind was getting lost in the whirlpool of questions.

It was late at night, and I was about to fall asleep when something struck me suddenly. Wasn't there a familiar hint of stammering in the caller's speech? I got up with a jerk and started thinking again.  The stammer was typically that of the Head Clerk Mehra, but the voice was not his. He sounded different. Could it be Mehra himself masking his voice? Could he be talking after covering the mouthpiece with a cloth or paper? The stammer definitely resonated with his speech pattern. I suspected that he was Mehra himself. The detective in me was now active.

If Mehra had met with an accident, why should he want to see me of all the persons? Why should he ask me to reach the Medical College alone without entering the office building? And if the caller himself was Mehra, why was he playing this game?

Something did not sit right. The secrecy, the urgency, the camouflaged stammer. It all led to suspicion. Was I being led into a trap? Before rushing into this fabricated scenario, I decided to investigate.

The next day, I reached the office with a clear sense of purpose. I did not go to the hospital but sent a trusted colleague there to verify whether any such accident had taken place. Once in the office, I noticed that Mehra was not present, although he was usually the first to reach the office.  The staff attendance register, under his custody, came to my desk during the routine course at 10.15am. A glance at the register revealed Mehra had marked his presence against his name, a curious detail considering no one in the office had seen him. It was apparent he came early, took the attendance register out of the cupboard, marked his presence, and left before anyone else came in. It became crystal clear: this was a deliberate ploy.

An hour later, the officer I had sent to the hospital returned and reported that no such person had been admitted there during the last twenty-four hours. He also informed me that Mehra was hale and hearty and had been sighted by the cleaning staff in the office at around 9 am. The web had unravelled, and the picture was clear. I was specifically asked to come to the hospital before going to the office. Had I done so, I would not have seen the Attendance Register. The confirmation that no such accident took place with Mehra solidified my suspicions. His early arrival at the office, solely to mark attendance, was an attempt to establish an alibi. His intentions remained ambiguous, though the manipulation was undeniable. As he had marked himself present in the office, Mehra could get away even with murder and not get caught: his presence in the office would have ensured his security. What were his intentions towards me? A chill went down my spine.

It was amply clear that Mehra was trying to play some game with me, and his intentions were highly suspicious. By 12 noon, Mehra quietly slipped into the office and started working on his desk as if nothing had happened.

I confronted Mehra, but he refused to engage in any dialogue. I drafted a memo and called for his explanation for his absence from the desk for an unduly long period. He refused to receive the memo and vanished. I sent an officer to paste the memo at the door of his house, which was done.

Meanwhile, my boss was transferred, and a new dynamic officer replaced him. When I apprised him of the case, he gave a practical solution: a transfer to a remote branch. The daily commute, he was sure, would serve as a more severe punishment rather than a mere warning, which a temporary absence from the desk would have attracted. I quickly but discreetly got his transfer orders issued for a distant place and served him the relieving letter.

Mehra promptly marched to the new Regional Manager but was told to go to me. Soon, he stood before me with folded hands, seeking an apology. However, his lack of remorse and refusal to explain his actions left me unconvinced, and I refused to budge. He was asked to go and report to a far-off branch.

With his departure from Meerut, the anonymous letters also ceased, and a semblance of peace returned during my remaining tenure in Meerut.

This experience underscored the importance of being vigilant at every step and trusting one's instincts, particularly in the wake of unseen threats. This incident again confirmed that even a hardened criminal leaves a trail of clues behind. Though the mystery behind the motive for calling me alone to the Hospital Emergency remains unresolved even today, the resolution ended a period of immense stress and uncertainty for me.

As I finally managed to twist his tail, I felt satisfied that I could bring a twist in the tale.

(To be continued...)

*****