No management school takes rural management as seriously as IRMA does. We could talk about the institution’s dedicated, effective curriculum, clean image, and respectable standards it has achieved over the years. We could also mention the genuine efforts on part of authorities to inculcate and promote a sense of rural welfare among individuals, thus ensuring that corporate social responsibility does not remain a mere formality in commercial establishments. But that’d be too obvious, and statistical. Let’s focus on something more hidden.
So the examination centre for my IRMA screening test on Issues of Social Concern happened to be HMR Institute of Technology and Management, Bakoli Mod, Plot No 370, Hamidpur, New Delhi-110036. Though sounding quite descriptive, all the details proved to be futile when none seemed to know directions to the venue. An interesting trivia that came out during all this inquiry from random people was the number of blank faces I encountered after reading out the address to them was close to 370. Anyway, a blessed guy on Twitter advised me to get off at Pitampura metro, and take an auto to the destination.
I planned the travel and set off from Noida with time only marginally enough to make the ‘before 9 am’ deadline. While a few stations away from Pitampura, I thought it wise to confirm how to reach the address. When I did, the horror returned in the form of 371st blank face staring at me, and then 372nd, and so on. No one had heard of such a place nearby. Fumbling through the crowded compartment I managed to get hold of a CRPF jawan. After replying in the negative, he consulted with a colleague on phone. Such was the situation—he was yelling Hamirpur in the phone, and I was feebly correcting him to say Hamidpur instead, secretly sure that the officer had heard it wrong and it was all misplaced r’s fault, and soon I’d be told I was on the right track. Alas, such unnecessary precision doesn’t hold good in the practical world. He finally informed me that I had come in a completely wrong direction (“in life?” I wondered), and I’d have to go way back to Jahangir Puri.
I had to choose, and choose fast—to accept defeat, or to continue. I chose the latter. But at the same time, de-boarded and waited for the next metro—to respect the officer’s help. Also I was prepared that I’d miss the exam. While waiting, I made many unfruitful attempts, asking every one out of three people for directions. I’d have easily passed for a freak if I hadn’t shaved and bathed that day (not improbable, owing to the extra-early schedule of the paper). At last I reached Pitampura, and expectedly, found the autowallahs singing the same song. One of them offered to ferry me to the place for 500 bucks. That was the only moment of happiness that morning, since I remember myself laughing, even if it was in disgust. One, I didn’t have that much cash in my pocket then, and two, I could’ve filled out a couple of SSC CGL forms with the said amount. So no way!
Badgering the passers-by, I got to know I should take a bus to Karnal bypass, and an auto form there. I did. After the 15-minute bus journey, it was time for some Magic….Tata Magic. I found myself in middle of a gang-war between two Magic drivers. Apparently one had unlawfully breached into the territory of the other. What followed was a rash race between the two vehicles, each trying to show who the boss was. A fellow passenger even got hurt, a little, due to overspeeding and sudden braking, but what would be that thrill if it doesn’t involve a blood-spill. For me, the conflict turned out to be manna from heaven. Like a clever western country, I could strangle out a personal gain in the way that with increased speed, it took me half the normal time to reach the desired place.
So I was there. No, not at the test centre, but a step closer to it—Bakoli Mod. Now I had to look for HMR Institute. I got to know the address was straight ahead. I started walking, briskly; kept walking on, and on. No trace. Then I started running, literally running. I did that for 10 continuous minutes….well they seemed like 10 continuous minutes. The road never ended. I stopped, gave up, only to be asked by a cyclewallah if I needed a lift, since he clearly had judged the situation well. Chalo aaj ye bhi sahi, I thought. Mounting a bicycle pillion for the first time shrieked an embarrassing cry out of me, at the initial imbalance. I wondered if the Magic ride was safer. Surprisingly it turned out to be smooth. I finally reached as I caught my breath, and thanked the guy for the drop, only to find out that the examination wouldn’t begin for at least next 45 minutes. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had made it! In time, well, in a way.
Now, I don’t want you to miss why I went such great lengths and narrated the story. The rub is this—with such obsolete test centres (actually I should refer to them as Testing Centres), IRMA people want to give the aspirants a hint of what lies ahead if they do get admission into, and graduate from the coveted institute—the nature of work, the workplace, the environment, the people. You will be tested, confronted, pushed into the earth. The trick is if you could bloom—with your resolve. In a way, the classes had started well before you got yourself formally enrolled. Hence if you still think the test was of only 25 minutes, you’re wrong. You forgot to add the 2.5 hours of an eventful commute.