Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVI

"JUNIOR! Run! Fetch!"

If you are somewhere near the bottom of the stairs... well, heaven save you!

Hierarchy. A word that seniors love to drop in here and there. And just about everywhere. “Don’t worry, we don’t believe in hierarchy in this organization.” Or something like, “The hierarchy is just like steps. You can always climb up, and always reach the one at the top.” Or even, “We are all friends here. What’s hierarchy?” In the guise of assuring us that there is no pecking order, they make sure the word hierarchy is drilled into us. So that we never forget where we stand, and never dare to cross over.
So I never questioned my role and ‘their’ preoccupations during – photo shoots, tours, assignments, food reviews. So when my boss brought her 10-year-old son, seven-year-old nephew, and 80-year-old aunt to a dinner that was supposed to be for media only, and then started ordering specific food for her guests because “Bittu does not like chicken” and “aunt cannot digest mutton”, I dared not even think that it was improper. But one day, when I took my mum to one small lunch, she hauled me up at office. “since when have we started taking family to business lunches? Have you ever seen any of us doing it?” “Umm…” But she was rattling off in one breath, “Don’t you think you should ask me, who’s hierarchically above you, for permission at least? You cannot breach…” So that is how it is.
Then came my first photo shoot. Don’t get me shot. I wasn’t the lucky one to be wearing great clothes and brilliant make-up. I was the one who carried the juice to the model, got yelled at if the proper outfits did not arrive on time, if the weather was hot and the soup was cold. Anything that anyone else may have been responsible for did not count. They had to glare or shout at me. For my first shoot I was up at 4 am. I had to pick up my boss, then the senior photographer, and another colleague, who was, fortunately, at par with me, hierarchically.
I reached my boss’ home at 4.30 am. Someone shouted from the window, “She’s getting ready.” The clock ticked, 10 minutes, 20, half an hour, 45 minutes. My phone had started ringing. ‘Senior photographer calling’, it screamed at me. “Yes sir. We are on our way sir. Actually sir (please note, sir is like the necessary punctuation marks when you are speaking to the man with the expensive camera), I am waiting outside ma’am’s home.” I desperately wanted to add, that witch had not even called me in for a cup of tea. My emotions dug a grave for themselves and dived in when Mr Sir shouted, “Why are you waiting outside? Don’t you have a responsibility? Get in there and drag her out if you have to.” “But sir…”
Somehow, we reached our destination, 300km away from the city, more or less on schedule. From then to sundown, I was on my toes, getting breakfast, fetching the towel for the model, taking the sweaty towel back, and every kind of job possible. The junior photographer had to oblige to everyone’s whims and whines.
What were the bosses doing all the while? My ‘ma’am’ had brought her manicurist along. She had also booked herself in a bungalow, for the afternoon lunch and siesta. She needs to look beautiful, doesn’t she? And the photographer sir – well, he had cocktails ready and was “briefing” the model throughout, sitting by her all day, under the shade of the fancy umbrella.