One day he decided that, instead of grinding his teeth with frustration and sending for someone from the machinery department to repair a malfunctioning machine on site or to forklift it out, he would visit the machinery department himself. This was the beginning of what could be called the Battle of the Goodyear Welted Line, and it was fought on many fronts, against several levels of opposition, including that of the Czechs.
The mechanics were pleased to see Haresh. Normally foremen sent them slips asking them to repair their machines. Now a foreman, and that too the famous foreman who had got to live inside the white gates of the Czech compound, was visiting them and chatting to them on terms of equality, and even taking snuff with them. He was prepared to sit on a stool with them and talk and joke and share experiences, and look inside machines without caring if his hands got soiled with grease. And he called them ‘Dada’ out of respect for their age and abilities.
For once, they got the sense that they were part of the mainstream of production, not a mere auxiliary outfit in a forgotten corner of Praha. Most of the best mechanics were Muslims and spoke Urdu, so Haresh had no language problem. He was well dressed, with a set of working overalls that he had adapted — sleeveless, collarless, extending no lower than the knee — to counter the heat and yet protect the front (if nothing else) of his cream silk shirt — perhaps a foppish appurtenance on the factory floor. But he had no airs of superiority when he talked to them, and this pleased them. Through their pleasure in exchanging the expertise of their trade, Haresh himself got interested in the mechanics of machines: how they worked, how they could be kept in good condition, how he might be able to make small innovations to improve their performance.
The mechanics told him, laughing, that the workmen on his conveyor belt were leading him a dance. Nine times out of ten, there wasn’t even anything wrong with the machines.
This did not altogether surprise Haresh. But what could he do about it, he asked them. Because by this time they were friends, they said that they would tell him when something was really wrong — and they would repair his machines first when this was the case.
Now that the machines were out of action for shorter periods, production increased from 180 pairs a day to about 250, but this was still far below the 600 that was possible — or the 400 that Haresh was aiming for — as a realistic norm. Even 400 would have drawn cries of astonishment from his bosses; Haresh was convinced that it was doable, and that he was the man to do it.
The workmen, however, were not at all happy with 250 pairs, and found a new method to stop the conveyor belt. Men were allowed off the belt for five minutes at a time to answer a ‘call of nature’. Now they staggered their calls of nature, and went off calmly to the bathroom by organized rotation — so that the conveyor belt was sometimes immobilized for half an hour at a time. By this time, Haresh had worked out who the gang leaders were — they were usually the men doing the most cushy jobs. Despite his short temper, he did not behave in an unfriendly manner towards them, but a line had been clearly drawn, and each side was sizing up the other’s strengths. A couple of months after he began his job, when production had plummeted to 160, Haresh decided that the time had come to play his hand.
He called the workmen into conference one morning, and explained to them in a mixture of Hindi and rudimentary Bengali what had been simmering within him for a couple of months.
‘I can tell you both from theory and from working with these machines that production should not be less than 400 pairs a day. That is what I would like to see from this line.’
‘Oh?’ said the man who pasted soles on to shoes — the easiest job on the line—‘Do show us, Sir.’ And he nudged the operator to his left — a strapping fellow from Bihar who worked on the toughest job, the stitching of the welt to the lasted shoe.
‘Yes, do show us, Sir,’ said several other workmen, taking their cue from the sole-paster. ‘Show us that it can be done.’
‘Myself?’
‘How else, Sir?’
Haresh fumed for a while, then thought that before any such demonstration, he needed to be certain that the workmen would not try to wriggle out of increasing production. He called together a few of the gang leaders and said:
‘What is it that you have against productivity? Are you really afraid that you will be thrown out if you increase production?’
One of them smiled and said: ‘“Productivity” is a word that management is very fond of. We are not so fond of it. Do you know that before the labour laws came into force last year, Novak would sometimes call people into his office, tell them they were fired and simply tear up their punch-in cards? That was that. And his reason used to be very simple: “We can do the same work with fewer people. We don’t need you any more.”’
‘Don’t talk about things that happened long before my time,’ said Haresh impatiently. ‘Now you have the new labour laws, and you’re still deliberately keeping production down.’
‘It will take time to build trust,’ said the sole-paster philosophically and maddeningly.
‘Well, what would induce you to produce more?’ asked Haresh.
‘Ah.’ The man looked at his fellow-operators.
After a great deal of indirect discussion, Haresh came out of the meeting with the sense that if the workmen could get two assurances — that no one would be thrown out and that they would earn considerably more money than they were earning — they would not be averse to increasing production.
He next visited Novak, his old adversary, the fox-like head of Personnel. Would it be possible, he asked, for the workmen on his line to be rewarded with a higher grade — and thus a higher income — if they increased production to 400? Novak looked at him coldly and said, ‘Praha cannot up grades for a particular line.’
‘Why not?’ asked Haresh.
‘It would cause resentment among the other ten thousand workers. It cannot be done.’
Haresh had learned about the elaborate, sanctified hierarchy of Praha — it was worse than the civil service: there were eighteen different grades for workmen. But he felt that it could, without unhinging the universe, be given a tiny nudge here and there.
He decided to write a note to Khandelwal explaining his plan and asking for his approval. The plan had four elements. The workers would increase production to at least 400 pairs a day on the Goodyear Welted line. The management would raise the grades of these particular workmen by one level and thereby increase their weekly pay-packet. Beyond the figure of 400 pairs, incentives would be paid in proportion to any extra production. And instead of sacking anyone, a couple of new workmen would be hired at points where it was genuinely difficult to operate at the 400-pair level.
As it happened, about a month earlier, Khandelwal had sent Haresh on a two-day visit to Kanpur to help solve a labour reconciliation matter. An uneconomical depot was to be reduced in size and some workers laid off and though Praha was acting strictly according to the new Labour Manual, they had run into trouble; all the workmen had gone on strike. Khandelwal knew that Khanna had been at CLFC and was acquainted with affairs in Kanpur. He therefore sent him to help sort things out; and he had been pleased with the final result. Haresh had told the workmen who were to be laid off that they should accept Praha’s offer. He had said, in effect: ‘You idiots, you’re getting good money by way of a settlement; take it and start your lives over again. No one is trying to con you.’ The CLFC workers, who trusted Haresh and had been sorry to see him go, talked to the workers at the Praha depot; and matters had been settled amicably.