The MICA Interview experience
Despite insidious rumours to the contrary, the
Slacker did acquire an education at some point in the hoary past. Indeed, by
most measures he did quite all right, despite that regrettable tendency to
slack off. This included acquiring an MBA from what was then, at least,
considered a premier Business School. Naturally, this meant giving the dreaded
CAT and sitting through the interview process at several institutes, but it was
the process for MICA that was so wonderfully random – one might even say,
bizarre – that it spawned what was my first-ever blogpost. Now why this was so,
it is easy to speculate. MICA geared towards advertising, which means it does
attract a different type of applicant from the IIMs of the world. As perhaps
the only person there who was on the cusp of being a Chartered Accountant, I
knew my chances of getting through were virtually nil, no matter how ‘creative’
I fancied myself to be, so I was more observant and less involved than I might
otherwise have been.
Without further ado, then:
So it
happened something like this:
I’d invited
my favourite cousin, Fenderis the Wolf, son of my Uncle Fenris (you may have
head of him, Grandpa Loki’s eldest) over for tea yesterday, and as it oft
happens in polite company, he opened the conversation with:
“Jormund,
my man, how have you been?”
“Not worse
than usual,” I replied in my usual, despondent tone.
“How did
your GD-interview with Mickey’s [My
little euphemism for MICA] go? That test and interview you told me about? I
recall you were pretty chuffed about being invited for it.”
I made
non-committal noises.
“Come now,
Jormund, do tell,” he insisted, “it was for something quite different, right?
To do with the Advertising Industry and what not? That’s what Mickey is all
about isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Integrated
Communications Marketing to be more precise.”
“Sounds
jolly,” he responded, “and with you being the creative chap we all know you are
it must’ve been a breeze.”
I made a
sound that in a sea-serpent less well-bred than myself would have been termed a
snort. Fenderis poured himself a cup of tea and settled himself comfortably by
the fire, taking care to keep his bushy tail out of harm’s way.
“I’m
waiting to hear all about it,” he said.
"Well,"
I said, relenting, "The first thing you must know is that Mickey had kept
the process at Just a Ball In Mickey’s Sphere [Jamnalal Bajaj Institute of Management Studies].”
Fenderis
raised an eyebrow.
“Isn’t that
the most exalted Ball Sphere in Bombay?” he asked.
I nodded,
and went on.
“The first
thing you need to know about JBIMS is that it’s at the other end of the city.
The second is that it only lets in 42 creatures in each year. Just 42. I mean,
imagine, that’s a bloody drop in the ocean.” [Oblique reference to JBIMS’ reservation policy that results in only 42
of 120 seats being in the open category]
“Don’t get
off-topic,” interrupted Fenderis, like a faculty-member at a MBA Coaching
Institute, “we’re talking about Mickey here.”
“That’s
right,” I said, “I’m sorry. Anyway, I was told that I had to show up there at 8
in the morning.”
“That can’t
have been easy for you,” said Fenderis sympathetically, “You rarely wake up
before nine.”
“Don’t even
remind me,” I said bitterly, “but it had to be done, so I arrived there a few
minutes before that time, and guess who I met in the vicinity?”
“Who?” he
asked, piqued.
“Bugs
Bunny!”
“No
kidding,” said Fenderis, “Bugs himself? I’ve been a fan for ages. What was he
there for?”
“Much the same
thing as I was,” I replied. “He wanted to go to Mickey as well. I didn’t know
he was Bugs at the time, but he introduced himself later.”
“Well, well
that must’ve been nice. What was he like?”
“Oh,
awfully decent chap. We had lots in common, went to the same college, speak the
same language, share some common interests. In fact we stuck together through
most of the process. But to move on, when we did reach JBIMS we found that
Mickey was conspicuous by its absence. Nor had it left a note. I cross-checked
the letter I was carrying from them twice to make sure I was in the right
place. Then someone figured out that folks as important as Mickey must be
somewhere in the higher echelons of JBIMS so we began climbing the stairs.”
“Like a
stairway to heaven,” said Fenderis indulgently, pouring himself another cup of
tea.
“Not quite
that far but I’d say about halfway there. When we reached the fourth floor we
realized that most of the other people whom Mickey had called had settled into
a largish room and were making themselves comfortable. Not having anything
better to do, Bugs and I did the same. There was still no sign of Mickey. Then
eventually two of his minions emerged – a harried looking female and an impish
bloke. They settled on a table and demanded a pound of flesh – no less than
five hundred rupees from each one of us for the privilege of going further in
the process…”
“Hold on a
minute, didn’t you already pay them more than twice that amount?”
“One
thousand two hundred to be exact,” I assented, “and I had to borrow those from
Papa Jormundgand.”
“And you
didn’t even get a copy of their prospectus against this 1200?”
“That’s
correct,”
“But Mickey
still demanded a further 500 from all of you?”
“That would
be correct too.”
“Good Lord,
this Mickey likes the colour of money doesn’t he?”
I shrugged.
"That
he does. Anyhow, everyone got into a long queue and after about an hour the
last pound of flesh was deposited into the bottomless envelope that is Mickey’s
avarice. Then the female minions distributed the paper for the Mickey Aptitude
Test.”
“What in
the name of Loki is a Mickey Aptitude Test? Didn’t you sit for the Monstrous
Feline Test already?”
I patted
his head with the air of a patient cousin.
“This is
Mickey, Fenderis. He has to be different.”
“Well so
what was that like?”
“They gave us
an hour and a half. The Test was strange. They wanted to know things like what
sort of wife I wanted, whether she would be rich and slutty or poor and
demure.”
Fenderis
almost choked on his tea, “They wanted to know WHAT?”
“I ain’t
kidding,” I replied, “they also seemed interested in know in how many different
ways I could divide the number 30 into 6 different parts."
"Honestly,
Jormund, that’s a rather poor joke.”
“I’m not
joking,” I said petulantly, “they did, really. Oh and yes, they wanted to know
my thoughts on the Slum problem and made me write a speech to be given to 5-7
year old slum kids on the subject.”
“Strange
chap this Mickey,” said Fenderis.
"That’s
not the worst thing about him,” I said grimly, “but anyway, after the time was
over, the minion took away the papers and asked us to come the next day by
8:50am, or else, she warned Cinderella would turn into a pumpkin.”
Fenderis
looked suitably appalled.
“You
couldn’t possibly let that happen!” he exclaimed, “Poor Cindy!”
“Of course
not,” I nodded, “which is why I actually went early the next day at 8:30!”
“And what
happened then?”
I leaned
back wearily in the armchair.
“I think
I’ve spoken enough for one day, cousin Fenderis, I shall tell you all the rest
tomorrow.”
“Fair
enough,” said he, and bounded out to hunt for meat. I followed him up to the
door and closed it behind him.
********
The
insistent sound of large paws scratching on my door at half-past-midnight could
only mean one thing – Fenderis was back from the hunt. We Elvers like our
sleep, but leaving a loved cousin out in the cold is not something we do, so I
went downstairs and opened the door. Sure enough, it was the large Black Wolf
himself, and he looked like he’d been in several fights, most of them violent.
I let him in, and he made a beeline for his favourite spot next to the
fireplace.
“Something
to drink?” I asked, giving him a sympathetic glance as he licked his wounds.
“Some Dom
Perignon would be nice,” he replied.
I rolled my
eyes and tossed him a can of beer.
“That’s as
much as you’ll get,” I told him.
He prised
the can open with his sharp canines and shrugged “I guess it’ll have to do.”
I took a
can for myself and sat myself on the armchair next to him.
“Good
hunting?”
“Can’t
complain,” he said nonchalantly, “the blood of the Fenris Brood does not yield
easily”
This was
his way of saying “Yes the hunting was good and I got plenty to eat”.
“Need rest?
You can have the spare room,” I said.
“Nahh, not
sleepy,” he replied, stretching his paws, “Look, why don’t you finish your tale
about Mickey and the Ball?”
I took a
thoughtful swig of beer.
“Don’t see
why not. Where did I leave off?”
“Mickey’s
minion told you to arrive by 8:50 or else Cinderella would turn into a
pumpkin.”
“Ah yes,” I
nodded reflectively, “That’s why I made it, huffing and panting to JBIMS at
8:30. Needless to say while going I got off at the wrong stop, and had to walk
back about a mile in these god-awfully uncomfortable leather shoes.”
Fenderis
clicked his tongue sympathetically.
“And guess
what? I needn’t have bothered at all!”
“You mean…”
“Yes. That
whole story about Cinderella turning into a pumpkin was pure hogwash. She was
in no such danger whatsoever. I could have strolled in at noon and it wouldn’t
have made a difference.”
“But then
why did they call you there that early?”
“Honestly,
I have NO idea. When I got there, as usual there was no sign of anybody. After
Bugs arrived we took the elevator and got to the same floor where the previous
day’s action had taken place. This time it appeared that everyone had been
herded into a corner room with a few rack-like chairs and little ventilation.
There was also a list outside which had the names of everyone who had been
invited by Mickey. My name was on Puddle 3 and Bugs was on Puddle 1. But – and
here’s the crux of the matter – both of us were in the bottom half on the
lists.” [What’s a Puddle? A GD group –
they called it something pretentious, I remember, but ‘puddle’ was the best I
could think of to break the bubble.]
“So you had
to wait a while?”
“A long
while. Close on five hours to be exact, before anything got started.”
“Five
hours?”
“Five
hours.”
“No,
really, five?”
“Didn’t I
just say so?”
He licked
his paw and motioned to me to go on.
“Well,
anyway, as I said, there was a 5 hour wait, followed by a Group Discussion.”
“How was
that? Fun?”
“NOT,” I
replied emphatically, chucking my beer can into the fire.
He
tut-tutted sympathetically.
“Fish-market,
eh?”
“Absolutely.
Not quite the Citylight Fish market perhaps but definitely Wadala.”
“Anyone
particularly bad?”
“Everyone
sort of spoke at the same time. Except me. I didn’t speak at all.”
He looked
at me with mild surprise.“Jormund, my man, I know you aren’t what we call a
silver-tongued charmer, but you aren’t that shabby either. What happened?”
I shook my
head sadly.
“Couldn’t
get myself heard. My voice was on vacation. Must have been the damned tie. It
had choked my neck for about five hours already by that time, remember? I
couldn’t raise my voice above a croak.”
Fenderis
sighed.
“It happens
to the best of us. What about the interview? How was that?”
I smiled
wistfully.
“Well after
that interview I think I can apply for membership of the Grave Diggers Union.
Seeing as I dug my own with remarkable felicity. I don’t think I said anything
right. When they asked my why I wanted to join with Mickey I mumbled something
about entry points. When they asked me to describe myself I gave an answer that
sounded patently manufactured. Then I went on and on about my chosen field like
someone who’s repeating a vague rumour. And finally I managed to put my foot in
my mouth by telling the Mickey was not my favourite cartoon character.”
Fenderis
raised his eyebrows.
“You said
that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“They won’t
want to touch you with a barge pole.”
“I know.”
“Well,
that’s that I suppose. But what were the other folk there like? People in your
puddle, for instance?”
I strained
my feeble memory.
“There was
The Curry Queen, Kari. I knew her by reputation. She was nice, really
passionate about Mickey and most other things.”
“You two
get along?”
“Like a
house on fire. She’s a fan of mythology and fantasy literature
A most
excellent kind of fan!” he exclaimed, wagging his tail.
“We chatted
a lot about that sort of stuff and about culture, the role of religion and so
on and so forth.”
“So it
wasn’t a total washout then?”
“No
certainly not, at least I met one good person that day. She’s the sort you
could talk to for hours on end.”
“Well
that’s good,” said my cousin approvingly.
“Then there
was the chick in red.”
“The chick
in red?”
“Yes, one
of the most intensely irritating specimens of womankind.”
“Do tell.”
I shuddered
involuntarily.
“I’d rather
not. That nasal voice…that pseudo behaviour…that attempt to bribe her fellow
puddle-members with a big lunch if they tanked their GD’s…that patronizing
manner…her attempts to wheedle inside information from the impish minion…you
get the picture”
“Sounds
like the works.”
“The worst
kind. Then there was the chick with the nose ring.”
“What was
she like?"
“Let me put
it this way. Before she went in for her interview she announced that she had
plans to seduce the Puddle committee.”
Fenderis
started rolling with laughter. He’d have rolled into the fire, but I dragged
him to safety.
“I’m sorry,”
he said, still laughing, “she actually said that?”
“She said
it, honest,” I replied. “And accompanied it by removing a button off her
shirt.”
“And did
she manage?”
“No, she
came out asking existential questions about Gujaratis and cool-ness.”
Fenderis
laughed some more.
“Motley
crew. Anyone else interesting.”
“Not
particularly….there was the hunky but slightly psycho guy, the holier-than-thou
female, the overgrown elf, the despicably self-important bloke, you know, the
usual lot.”
“Ah yes the
usual lot,” said Fenderis, and stretched his paws.
“Yes. In
hindsight, if it hadn’t been for meeting Bugs and Kari I’d have called the
whole experience a dead loss.”
“Nothing in
life is ever a dead loss,” said the Wolf, yawning, “except death. That’s a dead
loss.”
I shook my
head, smiling, as I walked to the door and switched off the light. Fenderis
stretched out his length on the carpet as I walked up the stairs.
“Good
night,” I head his lazy drawl from downstairs as I reached my own door.
“Good
night, Fenderis,” I said, and tucked myself in.
Mickey
eventually declared the results of the interview. I, of course, did not make
it. Neither did Bugs or the chick in red. The Hunky but slightly psycho guy,
who we later found out was very psycho, did. Kari was made to wait a long
while, but Mickey eventually relented and let her join as well. If it hadn't
been for this last fact, we'd have completely lost faith in Mickey, among other
things. As it turned out, Bugs is now in Wellington Castle, training to be a knight,
while I vegetate in North Midgard Institute.
(At a time when I’d never thought of actually
being a writer (and did not for many more years), this post did become
unreasonably popular – for years later, fellow-students across colleges would
dredge it up in conversation. Personally, I thought my subsequent work in pure
fiction was far superior, but this was a description of an experience a lot of
people had personally gone through, so perhaps it struck a chord)
