Dressed for Work

Very often, I succumb to this terrible habit of not dressing up (or accessorizing as they call it nowadays) or behaving according to my regular day job requirements. And if I am not at work, my dress sense takes a either lateral shift or goes a few notches further down the style ladder. Not surprisingly, people often get confused about what I do for a living. 

As a result, till date people have mistaken me to be an intern, a courier boy, an academic, an event manager, a VJ, a writer and even my Dad's chauffeur (much to my amusement and my Dad's chagrin). And since I am courteous to a fault (or maybe because there is a practical joker hidden in me somewhere), I try to maintain the charade for as long as I can. And at the end of it, if I get discovered, everybody goes home having a good laugh. Needless to say, every unusual profession I took up temporarily turned out to be an interesting assignment in its own way. 

For instance, once on a flight, a lady co-passenger in the seat next to me asked, "Excuse me, but are you an event manager of some kind by any chance?" I thought to myself, "At least not till you mentioned it a moment ago. But go on." So for the rest of the flight, I was this failed-artist-turned-event-manager who had been turned down by studios because he didn't have a godfather and so now he was aspiring to host big ticket events in cities across India someday. I also talked about how unusual my routine was as an event manager compared to her high-paying IT job (she told me so and she looked every bit a software engineer she apparently was). I told her how I had to go about managing everything and everyone right from the stage carpenters to the incompetent but highly temperamental artists who felt that the world kissed their feet whenever they came on to the stage. By the time the flight landed, the lady was really feeling sorry for me for being in such a thankless profession but promised that I would be the first person she'd call if in case she needed any event to be hosted in future. Thankfully, so far, I have not received that call. Maybe my gripes about my profession made her rethink about hiring me. Or maybe she could afford a better event manager.

Much later, when I tried to figure out where she had gotten this outlandish idea - of me being an event manager - from, I was clueless. Was it my unusually long hair for a guy thing (usually copyrighted by rockstars)? Or was it my psychedelic tee (which happened to be a gift from a person who didn't like my choice of wardrobe) and torn jeans? Or was it that long and irritatingly loud phone conversation I had had with a co-worker of mine about a team outing while I was waiting to board the flight which I guess half the people in the airport lounge had heard that day? It could have been a combination of factors. I don't know. Perhaps, some day, I will. 

Then there was this other time when a neighboring apartment resident's mail accidentally got delivered to us. Since the apartment number happened to be the same as ours it landed in my hands. Being the good neighbor that I am, and considering that the cover indicated that it was an important letter enough and not just any other mail order catalog, I dutifully went down, knocked on the neighbor's door and handed over the letter. Before I could say anything about the mix up, the lady asks me, "Hey courier boy, don't you need some signature or proof of receipt for delivering the letter?" Well, yes, she had a point. But since I didn't need that receipt, I just said, "No ma'am, we have gone hi-tech now. All we need is a pic of you holding the mail which I can show to my manager. That should do the trick." And I whipped out my mobile, asked her to pose with a smile holding the letter, took the pic, Thanked her and walked off. So much for good neighbors' service. But I sometimes wonder if she still asks courier boys, 'Why do I have to sign this? Isn't taking a pic as proof of receipt enough?' Poor devils.

Did I tell you the one about my being mistaken for my Dad's chauffeur by his friend? As I was waiting near our car to pick up my Dad, an acquaintance of his walked up to me to offer me a job as his driver. Poaching on your friend's driver? Not a good idea. Naturally, as a principled and loyal 'employee', after some negotiations I resisted the offer, though it was tempting. He felt so good about it that he later brought it up with my Dad. The joke somehow did not go well with my Dad. 

On another occasion, a casual conversation with a very experienced, well-learned and elderly academic about poetry and literature coupled with my premature grey mop of hair led him to believe that I was an academic myself. Fortunately, better sense prevailed on me and I told him in time what I really did for a living. He was surprised and we had a good laugh about it, though secretly I enjoyed his assumption as a compliment. Well, whatever be the case, never incur the wrath of academics. Sometimes, unlike in this case, they don't tend to have a good sense of humor to understand a good joke, especially if they are the butt of it. All in all, it ended well.

Looking back, I could tell you about some more such incidents but then I would only be boring you. I am realizing now how easily people judge you and assume things about you based on the way you dress and behave. I'll have to admit that even I do that many a time. Nevertheless, it is not easy for me to always live up to or down their expectations. But when I can, I try. Just for the heck of it and as long as it does not go beyond a silly prank. After all, keeping a day job and still not looking it takes quite a bit of effort.