A very long time ago, all that we knew of summer jobs came packaged in Archie comics, and nearly always ended in disaster. At the time, we’d do anything to turn over burgers at Pop Tate’s, sell ice-cream scoops at flea markets, or apply for a lifeguard’s job at the beach — but beaches not being so plentifully available (Goa was still hippie karma cola land), at the nearest chlorine-reeking, state membership controlled swimming pool where scolding mummyjis brought their leaking babalogs for lessons that should have been learnt in less unsanitary environments.
The long and short of it was that summer employment, internships, part-time vacancies were simply not available. Certainly not glamorous options that allowed youngsters with no clear career plans to follow a filmmaker around, or work with a stylist, intern with a designer, while being allowed to order lavish lunches at the office’s expense, loll around in comfortable surroundings and spend the day chatting with friends on Facebook. And then come home wearily to sigh, “Is that all grown-ups do, like, I mean, I can do what they’re doing, so what do you get paid so much for anyway?”
In summers past, I’d helped out kids with assignments, some with NGOs, other with writing or editing projects, or even marketing opportunities — they were a lot less picky then — but in recent years, their demands had gotten more sharply focused. Would they get credits? How much would they be paid? Was car parking free? Could they invite friends to the cafeteria for lunch? If they didn’t drink coffee, were they still entitled to coffee breaks? What if they wanted to take a break? Would the certificates at the end of the internships be signed by the department head, the CEO or the MD? It was tougher than negotiating a job for oneself, and without the rewards to show for it because, of course, the company was always “stupid”, the HoDs “didn’t know anything”, the kids themselves smarter, claiming “it’s not like it’s rocket science” about annual budgetary spends, or profit-loss statements, or advertising agency briefs and liaison.
Yet, they weren’t smart enough to apply on their own, preferring a network of “contacts” to do the dirty work for them instead. With most school or college terms ending in April, that’s when the phone would never stop ringing. The end of this year’s semester brought requests from students wanting to work in “graphic design but only on magazine covers”, to learn “professional eye make-up — I do the rest better than anyone else”, to work “in media but not in journalism”, to do assignments as a “motoring journalist” or as “a travel writer, but not in India — I think I want to be sent on a cruise”, even someone wondering if a “researcher’s job in an art gallery could be passed off as a graphic design course in an advertising agency”.
Having more or less catered to most whims — phew! — I was happy that my own daughter had opted for a corporate marketing job to which she’d initially reacted negatively for its six-day week, long working hours and officious atmosphere before finding it sufficiently fun and sophisticated. Not that she’d ever admit it. “It’s like, okay,” she’d say to me, though she gossiped with friends about “what a really cool place” it was.
Her internship ending soon, I told her I was considering assigning another management student for her job. “You can’t do that!” she insisted. Why not? “It’s my job, and I know I’m selfish and cheap, but you can’t give my work away to just anyone,” she cried, extracting a promise that I, at least, would not recommend it to another friend’s child. Oh well, back to the phone book for some more contacts….