My First Job at Hindustan Zinc Limited: The Day I Fought a Battle That Wasn’t in the Job Description
Hindustan Zinc Limited, 2004
There are first jobs — and then there was HZL.
Hindustan Zinc Limited was a giant in mining and metals: structured, hierarchical, and system-driven.
And there I was — a freshly minted IIT graduate, quietly waiting for my University of Waterloo call letter, treating HZL as nothing more than a temporary stopgap.
It didn’t take long to sense the mismatch.
Instinctively, I knew this wasn’t an environment where I would stay long.
But life, as it often does, had other plans.
The Unexpected Reunion
On the very first day of induction, I noticed a familiar name on the HR list:
Surbhi Shrivastava.
The same Surbhi from my school days — admired, visible, graceful, socially confident.
Back then, we had never really spoken.
I was the quiet topper, known more through exaggerated stories told by teachers and backbenchers than through actual presence.
So when I introduced myself that day, her response was simple:
Professional courtesy.
Polite indifference.
No recognition. No reaction.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
But at 23, ego speaks louder than wisdom.
And in that moment, I made a silent, slightly immature promise to myself:
“Hate me or like me — but you will remember me.”
A Necessary Admission — The Real Driver
With the honesty that only hindsight allows, I must admit:
Much of what I did that day was driven by Surbhi.
Not romantically.
Not dramatically.
But psychologically.
Her indifference triggered something deeply human — the desire to be seen by someone who once existed in my past as a distant figure.
My desire to impress her wasn’t mild.
It was fervent. Almost feverish.
Charged with a quiet rebellion.
Fuelled by restless, defiant energy that somehow felt purposeful.
That same inner momentum would eventually carry me toward my next defining destination — IIM Bangalore, a couple of years later.
Whether it was truly about her, or about a deeper loneliness — that quiet feeling of being left behind and searching for direction — I cannot say for certain.
The Minor Skirmishes Before the Storm
The final presentation day did not arrive in isolation.
In the weeks leading up to it, there were small, almost invisible skirmishes:
Training discussions
Technical reviews
Subtle exchanges of confidence and perception
Nothing confrontational. Nothing dramatic.
But each time:
I prepared harder.
Spoke sharper.
Pushed deeper technically.
And each time, in my private 23-year-old scoreboard, I walked away thinking:
“The boy won.”
Whether I actually won — or merely believed I did — is another matter.
Those weren’t real victories.
They were ego checkpoints in a workplace I had unconsciously turned into a personal arena.
By the time the final presentation arrived, the psychological stage was already set.
The PPT was no longer a review.
In my head, it had become the final round.
The Bloodbath Before My Turn
After two months of HZL-sponsored training at IIT Kharagpur’s Mining & Metallurgy department, we returned for final presentations.
32 engineers. One last review.
The session was led by the HR head, Narendran — Surbhi’s boss — known for integrity, sharp analysis, and uncompromising standards.
He was ruthless.
One by one, confident engineers walked in… and walked out dismantled.
Not unfairly.
Not emotionally.
But meticulously.
The kind of honesty leaders rarely offer because it makes rooms uncomfortable.
But that day, in my mind, he stopped being just a reviewer.
He became:
The gatekeeper between me and the validation I craved.
He had done nothing personal.
Yet my internal narrative cast him as the final obstacle.
And when a 23-year-old ego decides someone is the gatekeeper,
they enter the arena — whether they signed up or not.
The Ego Switch Flips
Watching that intellectual demolition, I realized one harsh truth:
My presentation, in its current form, was ordinary.
So I requested to go last.
Some colleagues exchanged knowing smiles.
They sensed something was coming.
Prepping for War
I went back to my room and rebuilt everything from scratch.
Reconnected with faculty contacts from IIT Kharagpur
Reworked ore optimization logic
Strengthened process assumptions
Reframed efficiency calculations
By the time I finished, it wasn’t a PPT anymore.
It was ignition waiting for oxygen.
The Final Presentation
The panel assembled.
I began.
Five minutes in — silence.
Not polite silence.
Heavy silence.
The kind where papers stop rustling and even the AC sounds louder.
Ten minutes in — posture shifted.
Chairs leaned forward. Pens clicked open.
Fifteen minutes in — the room locked in.
Attention was no longer requested.
It had condensed.
I stopped clicking slides.
Walked to the board.
And began rebuilding the logic live.
Ore production stopped being a chart.
It became a living system under interrogation.
Assumptions peeled apart
Operational limits reframed as negotiable inefficiencies
Flow diagrams redrawn in chalk
Thermal losses challenged as inherited complacencies
Sensor placement redefined as strategic intelligence
This wasn’t a presentation anymore.
It was combustion.
Each equation struck like flint.
Each recalculation tightened the air.
People drifted closer.
Engineers gathered near the windows pretending to pass by.
Finance and audit teams leaned forward, whispering clarifications.
Skepticism softened into curiosity.
Curiosity sharpened into attention.
The project manager stopped taking notes.
And the HR head — who had dismantled presenters all morning —
was no longer being obeyed.
He was being engaged.
I stopped defending.
I started counter-questioning.
Respectfully.
Precisely.
Relentlessly.
I didn’t attack him.
I dismantled the framework of his objections.
Calmly. Publicly. Thoroughly.
Driven by preparation, intensity — and yes, the fierce need to prove myself to the woman standing behind him.
The Final Question
Finally, he asked calmly:
“How did you tabulate this production rate?”
Gentle tone. Precise aim.
He believed he had found the crack.
I smiled.
Slid my calculator toward him.
Read out the numerator. Then the denominator.
“Please tabulate it. Everything is right there.”
No flourish.
No defense.
Just math.
Silence returned.
Thicker this time — but different.
Not uncertainty.
Recognition.
Behind me, I could almost feel the collective exhale of the 31 engineers who had gone before me.
Not victory over a man.
Victory over the fear he represented.
He didn’t speak immediately.
He was thinking.
Measuring.
Reframing.
And for the first time that day,
the interrogation had changed direction.
The Aftermath — And Life’s Irony
The energy didn’t end in that room.
In the days that followed:
Engineers engaged more deeply
Conversations shifted
Finance and audit teams interacted with visible intellectual respect
The shift was real. Tangible.
Several colleagues were genuinely impressed — not by personality, but by demonstrated engineering clarity under pressure.
In hindsight, it almost felt as if some of the CA colleagues had conducted a silent professional assessment — competence, stability, thinking style.
Youth notices such shifts instantly.
And yet, life writes irony with precision.
The internal pursuit that fueled that performance had been directed toward Surbhi.
Nothing personal ever emerged there.
No dramatic conversation.
No emotional closure.
Instead, as the days went by, it was one of the CAs — quiet, composed, and carrying an effortless, unassuming grace — who seemed to take a gentle, early notice of me, in ways small enough to be easily missed but steady enough to be felt. I, slower to recognise such things, only became aware of her presence little by little, until what began as passing familiarity settled into a quiet, unhurried limerence. There lingered, now and then, the mild, comforting sense that this awareness had not begun with me alone.
The original impulse remained; only its course changed, as life so often arranges without announcement.
Surbhi had been the first stir.
She was never meant to be the ending.
A Necessary Apology (With Age and Hindsight)
If my tone that day appeared sharp, arrogant, or confrontational — it was intentional.
And immature.
I was 23.
Driven by ego.
Slightly bewitched by my own internal drama.
Life has humbled me many times since.
That intensity wasn’t wisdom.
It was youth overcompensating.
The Fallout — The HR Masterstroke
I was retained at HZL headquarters.
Assigned a notoriously tough boss.
Given a large, demanding assignment immediately.
At that age, I thought it was punishment.
Now I see it differently.
The HR head didn’t retaliate.
He didn’t let ego interfere.
He redirected mine.
A high-intensity fresher had challenged him publicly — and he chose structure over reaction.
He placed that same fire into an environment that would either discipline me…
or destroy my illusions.
That wasn’t punishment.
That was leadership.
And truthfully:
Comfort has never extracted my edge.
Only challenge does.
A Slightly Funny Thought (In Retrospect)
Sometimes I laugh and think —
if Anil Agarwal had walked into that room that day, my 23-year-old mind might well have assumed he’d make me CEO of HZL on the spot, the position was vacant anyway. Such is the fearless excess of youth.
For one strange afternoon, I felt almost bewitched — as if some restless god of conviction had briefly taken possession of me — and I walked out half-believing I could alter the fate of HZL single-handedly.
Final Reflection
Was it a professional battle?
Perhaps.
But in truth, it was something more personal:
Driven by ego
Fuelled by youth
Sharpened by silent skirmishes
Ignited by one familiar presence
Externally, nothing dramatic changed.
The company remained the same.
The system moved on.
Life continued.
But internally?
That afternoon didn’t belong to corporate victory.
It belonged to a young, intense, slightly arrogant, slightly bewitched boy…
who fought a battle never mentioned in his job description —
and won recognition,
not from the person he wanted, but from the room he unintentionally conquered.
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