Some years ago, when McDonald’s was still new in the country, and summer holidays loomed ahead, I tried to persuade the kids to take up part-time jobs at the counter, extolling the dignity of labour and all the moral, though tedious, values that parents hope to instil in their children, but gained no conviction “Eeyew!” said the children, each year that I made the suggestion, “Our friends will laugh at us.”
Passing out of school and hoping to add weight to their college admission resumes, they wanted to earn themselves some brownie points, however, and chose affiliations with neighbourhood NGOs, organisations that welcomed any additional hands they could get on board for however long — to teach adults or slum children, send off applications, gather documents, press charges, post mails, give computer lessons, take up local council issues, find jobs and otherwise make themselves useful any way they could. During their first week, they acquitted themselves commendably, talked of the state of the nation and the condition of the destitute, but by the second week they wore a sense of martyrdom like a halo about themselves, and as the heat and dust and misery got too much, they absolved themselves of their tasks by reporting sick, or feigning sickness in relatives, landing up when their appointed schedule was over to collect the documents that stated they had engaged gainfully in the welfare of the people and country, and wishing them luck.
And now that it’s summer again, and they are both in college, and internships and projects and intervention programmes need to be undertaken if they are to be gainfully employed by some company in the future, they’re seeking opportunities where none exist, or have been filled up, or are otherwise dismissive of less than star quality, which is something that has distinguished itself so far by its lack of evidence rather than proof of it.
You’d think that they’d be grateful for whatever slim pickings came their way, but both have been known to turn up their noses and reject offers because a company is “tacky” or “boring” or otherwise “un-sexy”. My daughter doesn’t want to be associated with banks or insurance companies or FMCG utilities because “that’s so, like, tedious”, and what’s the point of having a father if he can’t guarantee her a corner “in some fun company”. A fun company? “You know, like, where you can have fun and not have to work.”
Having talked his way into one internship but necessarily having to undertake two in the yawning heat before college re-opens, my son began to pester me to call friends and acquaintances to plug the gap, but also to find slots for class fellows who, like him, had woken up late to the requirement, as a result of which I was fielding CVs, correcting their language, building banks of references, and posting them to hard-headed and -hearted strangers in human resource departments with no wish to accommodate youngsters with ready sob stories about why they had not been able to apply earlier, but that their lives and careers now depended on a kind nod, thank you sir.
Meanwhile, this is what I’m expected to do: Play host to out-of-towners who need bed and board during their internships, special dietary — but complimentary — meals to be served, free transportation (preferably with a driver), access to the bar over weekends and any contacts in the F&B industry that can get them into nightclubs without having to pay a cover charge. During the day, when my son’s friends are away, my daughter wants hers over, on day-spends, to cyber-chat, watch movies, model their wardrobes, and have the cook make them something sufficiently “fun” to eat. Maybe I should be thinking of part-timing at McDonald’s.
