Across thousands of grassroots organisations in India, a familiar ritual unfolds every year—the making of an annual report. It usually begins with the best intentions of the founder, moves through the chaos of middle management, is fed with inputs from team members on the ground, is compiled by someone who focuses on the aesthetics of the document more than its content, and somehow ends in a glossy document that looks far more calm and organised than the process that produced it.
This article is written from the point of view of one such report.
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Hi, you can call me AR.vf.VF.VFF.VFFFF.doc.
My pronouns are she/her because I am expected to look flawless while quietly carrying a lot of expectations.
Today, I’m going to tell you my story.
Conception
I was conceived nine months ago in the mind of our leader, in our monthly team meeting, which is where good intentions go to become somebody else’s problem. I was assigned to the newest, youngest team member whose only relevant qualifications were ‘knows English’ and ‘could be relied on to create a page layout where a picture is not hanging at a 17-degree angle with text in three different fonts below it’.
The first quarter
Our young recruit was briefly excited to have some responsibility until she realised that the responsibility of creating me entailed talking to other people. So for the next three months, I lived only in her thoughts, which I do not recommend. They are unstructured, anxious, and all over the place. In this time, two more monthly meetings happened, during which nobody mentioned me because there are genuinely more important things happening (quality of work, launching programmes, forging partnerships, securing funding).
The second quarter
Our young recruit’s probation period is ending, a review is coming up, and suddenly, at the six-month mark, it is time to bring me to life, and to do it fast. Colleagues are messaged, shared drives are scanned, and old e-mails/newsletters/funding briefs containing data are hurriedly put into an AI software that can make sense of them. And while nobody else has vetted the work done, at least now I exist as a note in someone’s to-do list.
The third quarter
Our recruit has received a warning from her boss, who doesn’t want to get in trouble with the founder and has therefore provided the information that needs to go in and two layouts from previous years as ‘reference’. The recruit finds both layouts boring and decides to make me colourful and interactive instead. This takes three weeks. Her actual job continues in parallel. Most of these three weeks is spent looking for photographs where faces are not abruptly cropped, community members look dignified but not too comfortable, and at least one employee appears happy to be there. She will find approximately two of these. One will be slightly blurry. She will use it anyway.
The final stretch
Draft 1 goes to seven people. By draft 4, there are 11 people on the thread. There is also a trustee who has not been to India in 21 years, and yet has decided to restructure my introductory chapter. The committee assigned to me has spent 40 minutes on font size and is approaching consensus, which in this case means everyone has stopped caring. The designer is campaigning for earthy colours. Our recruit chooses bright yellow and magenta. The word ‘jarring’ has been used.
The word ‘vibrant’ has made an appearance. Draft 23: “Can we make the cover more vibrant?” The cover is already orange. Draft 26: “Looks good!” Same person. No acknowledgement of the previous comment. No explanation.
I am declared ‘done’ on the AR_Final Version 37.doc just because everyone is tired of talking about me. The accountant has been given the responsibility of sending me for a sample print after which they collectively find 42 errors. Corrections are made quickly, layouts are adjusted, and the final print is finally done.
What happens after
I am read by the founder, the founder’s three friends, and the recruit who did a proofread at 2 am the night before the final print. But I am also given to funders, partner organisations, taken to conferences, and made part of the new recruitment cycle. What do these people do once they take me home? Well, let’s just say everybody has books that they hope to read one day (but never do).
