“Okay, friend?”
“Great. Thank you, Andy.”
“Thank you, Chandra.”
They shook hands and moved on. He was glad they hadn’t hugged. It felt more genuine this way. Why should such a simple exchange of compliments be occasion for high drama?
Bryan was walking his way now, with his broad surfboard smile and a lime-green T-shirt.
“Chandra,” said Bryan.
“Hey,” said Chandra, an old hand at this now.
He looked at Bryan’s sheet, which bore the words (in very small letters), Smug. Fake. Pretending he’s got no problems.
“Bryan,” said Chandra, “you’re a warm, genuine guy whom I’m feeling very fond of. Really, it has been a pleasure to meet you and I know you’re as human as the rest of us, even if you don’t feel the need to wear your troubles on your sleeve. You’re not concealing anything. You’re just a big-hearted, generous man.”
“Oh, man,” said Bryan, slapping him on the arm. “You got me.”
Chandra felt a rush of irritation, and realized why at once. Bryan was fake. This was nonsense.
“Chandra,” said Bryan, “you’re a good, humble…”
But Professor Chandra wasn’t listening.
And now Bryan was hugging him, whispering more mellifluous homily, like a game-show host before he moved on to the next contestant.
And on it went. Some were better than others, but none engendered that early euphoria he had experienced with Andy. Most disappointing of all, people often used the same words to describe him. “Humble” appeared regularly, and Professor Chandra knew he wasn’t humble. He could be whimpering and pathetic, contrite and penitent, but not humble. If he’d been humble he would still be a research assistant at the LSE.
Even Elke, when the two met, said something platitudinous, and Chandra found himself disappointed that her card was free from the words “monster” and “baby killer,” containing only “cold,” “aloof,” and “scary”: clichés and cop-outs, easy to repudiate.
Only Daisy said something interesting when she told him he was “An old-fashioned man who believes that women are simply different to men and should be loved instead of understood. In many ways that’s more realistic, and I find nothing weak about you at all. You are so strong for coming here and being so honest. The things you said moved me, and I’m not easily moved. Go in peace, Professor Chandra. Go with God.”
The end was a little much for him—and didn’t it suggest he was in the last throes of life?—but he appreciated her sentiments. At least she had meant it. He tried to say something equivalent in response, but kept using the word “warm” (as opposed to “cold”) and couldn’t think of the opposite of “racist,” so he said, “You appreciate lots of different cultures,” which caused her to look at him suspiciously.
But it was almost over now. Chandra could hear Rudi Katz praising everyone and felt relieved…until he saw Pam. But he’d known it all along. They’d been avoiding one another, shooting surreptitious hurt-filled glances. Andy was walking toward him, rubbing his hands together and saying, “Well, that was kind of fun, wasn’t it?” to which Chandra replied, “Sorry, Andy. I think I forgot someone.”
“Sure,” said Andy. “No problem.”
When Professor Chandra turned around, Pam was directly in front of him, her large brown eyes like the twin barrels of a mascara-lined gun.
“Hi, Pam,” he said.
“Hello.”
“I’m sorry I missed you.”
Pam winced. “I could see you looking at me.”
“Then I’m sorry for doing that.”
Sighing, Pam looked at Chandra’s card and said, “I guess I’ll start then.”
“Sure.”
“Chandra,” she said, somehow looking him in the eye while still reading his card. “You are self-important, superior, and pompous. You think everything is about you. You never listen, and you don’t get women. You think you know everything. You think you’re right all the time. You’re contemptuous and arrogant, but you’re not weak. You only pretend to be weak.”
Tears were running down her cheeks.
Chandra put his arms around her, shutting his eyes, holding her to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for everything.”
He didn’t know how long they remained like that. Pam was crying, shaking, but when he let her go she wiped smeared makeup from her cheeks and smiled at him. She didn’t seem embarrassed.
The workshop was over. A young man with a pointed black beard arrived with a camera and a tripod. Rudi Katz introduced him as “My son, Max.” Everybody laughed. Everybody was laughing at everything now. There was a thick euphoria in the room.
“Scooch together, people,” said Max. “Tall ones at the back, short ones at the front.”
Professor Chandra stood beside Pam. They weren’t talking or touching, but he wanted to be with her. Rudi Katz was at the front, not far from Chandra. His teeth were gleaming. He looked tired and happy. Chandra still didn’t think Katz was the legend everyone said he was, but he appreciated him more now. Chandra had never spoken about himself in public like this before. He wasn’t sure if he’d learned anything new, or that he’d march into the summer more himself than before, but he had done something different. And he had met Pam, and Dolores. That seemed important.
“You’re all beautiful,” said Max. “Beautiful!”
Rudi Katz stepped forward from the group and hugged his son, and now everyone was hugging everyone, with Katz moving from participant to participant, thanking them for coming, telling them goodbye.
“Chandra!” said Katz, laughing with his mouth wide open. “Well done, sir. Well done.”
They shook hands; no hug. Chandra doubted Katz had called anyone else “sir.”
“Thank you for everything,” said Chandra. “It was a great experience.”
“Keep it going,” said Katz. “Just be you. What else is there?”
Katz shrugged, and now Chandra laughed for no good reason too. “Thank you,” he said.
Rudi Katz patted him on the shoulder, and moved on to the next person.
* * *
—
Professor Chandra ate lunch outdoors at a wooden table, facing the sea. Bryan was with him, as were Pam, Andy, and Sally, who turned out to be very funny, with a deep uninhibited tonsil-revealing laugh. They were in a raucous mood, including Chandra who asked the group if all of them knew who Mindy Kaling was.
“Oh, my God,” said Pam, taking out her iPhone. “Jesus!”
“Daisy was right,” said Chandra, looking at the image Pam had thrust in his face. “She does look like you. Only ten years older.”
“She’s pretty,” said Sally.
“Oh, yes,” said Chandra. “Certainly.”
Daisy was eating by herself at a table closer to the ocean, her fine gray hair blown vertical by the breeze.
“I read her book,” said Sally. “She says, if you love something put it in a cage and smother it with love till it either dies or loves you back.”
They all laughed.
“That sound like you, Pam?” said Bryan.
“Yeah,” said Pam. “Anyone else you haven’t heard of, Chandra? Taylor Swift? How about Beyoncé?”
“How about John Maynard Keynes?” asked Chandra.
“British economist,” said Pam, sounding bored. “Discovered the multiplier effect.”
“Yes,” said Chandra.
“I go to Stanford,” said Pam.
“One sec,” said Chandra, standing and heading toward two women carrying yoga mats. “Excuse me,” he asked them. “Is Dolores in your workshop by any chance?”
“Dolores,” said one of them. “Yeah. She left.”
“Oh,” said Chandra, trying to hide his sadness. “That’s a shame.�
��
“She’s a blast,” said the other.
“Thank you,” said Chandra, returning to the table where Sally was showing them all her tattoo.
“I got it done ten years ago,” she said, and held out her ring finger on which was tattooed “ISIS.” “I’m just really into ancient Egypt. How was I to know?”
“How do you manage at airports?” said Andy.
“I wear my ring and hope nobody looks underneath it,” said Sally.
“So,” said Chandra to Pam, quietly, “are you heading home now?”
“That’s right,” said Pam.
“Do you still think you need more money?”
“I think I need more freedom,” said Pam. “I need to leave home.”
“Get away from your father.”
“Yep,” said Pam. “But it’s not his fault. That’s one thing I learned. Like it’s not your fault you never heard of Taylor Swift, it’s not his fault he doesn’t really know me. I mean, he can only know what he understands, right? I just need to forget about what he sees. I need to see myself.”
“Yes,” said Chandra. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“I don’t mean cut him off,” said Pam. “I mean forget about his approval. Forget about him making me feel bad about myself.”
“Do you think I made my daughter feel bad about herself?” said Chandra.
“How should I know?”
“If you had to guess.”
“Yeah,” said Pam. “I think so.”
“But it’s not my fault.”
“Actually, it kind of is your fault. You keep judging her by your standards. She’s not you. She’s not a guy. She’s not from India.”
“That’s why you didn’t like me asking if you were Indian,” said Chandra.
“What really pissed me off was when you said I was selfish and ungrateful,” said Pam.
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, don’t be,” said Pam. “ ’Cause it’s true. But so are you, Chandra. You ever thought of that? Just ’cause you never yelled at your dad or told him he was full of shit, does that make you better than me? And maybe you should have. Maybe you should have told him to go fuck himself.”
“Maybe,” said Chandra, trying to imagine himself saying that to his father.
“You said it with such confidence,” said Pam. “Like you knew everything. Like you’d got everything figured out. You wouldn’t be here if you’d got everything figured out, would you?”
“I’m not sure why I came here,” said Chandra. “Someone dared me to. But I think I really came because I’m confused, even though I’m too old for that.”
“Maybe you’re never too old to be confused,” said Pam.
“Amen to that,” said Andy, eavesdropping. “I’ll be coming here till the day I die.”
“Anyway,” said Pam. “I’m gonna take another dip in the hot tub before I leave.” She stood up. “It was nice to meet you, Professor Chandra.”
They hugged. Chandra watched as Pam went around the table and hugged everyone else.
“I’ve got to go too,” said Bryan, whose suitcase was beside him. “Walk me to my car, Chandra?”
“Of course.”
They set off, passing the reception where Ronnie with the ponytail waved at them.
“I’m going to New York,” said Bryan. “To see my son.”
It was the first time Chandra had seen Bryan look vulnerable. He felt sorry for him now, wished he hadn’t judged him so harshly.
“It’s a long flight,” said Bryan. “I don’t care. I need to process.”
At the parking lot Bryan rolled a cigarette, leaning against his car which, predictably, was a convertible.
“I wonder if I need to process,” said Chandra.
“We all do,” said Bryan. “It’s no big deal. You just need some time out, think things through. Let it settle. You know?”
Chandra shook his head.
“I suppose I don’t do much processing.”
“You’re a busy man.”
“You never told us much about your son,” said Chandra.
“I don’t see much of him. I had him young, before I knew who I was.”
“Right.”
“He’s fourteen and doesn’t think much of his old man. I’m gonna stay in a hotel, see if he’ll talk to me this time.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Yeah,” said Bryan, laughing. “You could say I’ve done this before.”
“I get it,” said Chandra. “I’ve got a similar problem.”
Chandra looked at the sea. He wished he had spent more time looking at the sea while he’d been here. It resembled a rug now, something he could roll up in a child’s dream. Looking at it made him wish he had taken a different path in life. What had he wanted when he was a boy? Certainly not to be an economist.
“Being hated is the worst thing,” said Bryan. “You always think you deserve it. Well, I do. Catholic.”
“God, I’m exhausted,” said Chandra. “I’m just plain exhausted. I feel like I’ve been here months.”
“Yeah, it has that effect sometimes,” said Bryan. “You need to relax now. Go easy on yourself.”
Bryan didn’t look relaxed. He looked stressed.
“It’ll be okay,” said Chandra.
“How about you? You going to see your kids any time soon?”
“I’m going to Hong Kong,” said Chandra, whose flight left in six days. “It’s where my son lives.”
“Wow. The Far East. What does he do there?”
“He makes money.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“So you’ve just got the one son?”
“And two daughters,” said Chandra. “One of them’s young and having a hard time. The divorce hurt her a lot. The other one I don’t really see.”
“Ah, okay,” said Bryan. “I know how that goes.”
“Bryan,” said Chandra, taking out a business card from his wallet. “I want to wish you the best of luck in New York. I don’t know what happened with your son, but I think that even if you don’t manage to see him, he’ll know you came and that will be good. Whatever mistakes you’ve made…if you’ve made mistakes…”
“I did.”
“I only want to say, what can we do except try?”
But he didn’t mean any of this. Chandra had been trying all his life. All those hours in the library, the cigarettes, the illnesses due only to exhaustion, the praise that had no effect on him, the criticism that did, the envy of his peers, the hours he’d spent envying them, and the work, and yet more work, rolling his rock up a hill while others took a cable car. But how many happy people had he met here? Or was it only unhappy people who came to Esalen?
“I’m lonely, Bryan,” said Chandra. “And I chose it.”
“We choose everything.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” said Chandra.
“But sometimes there’s only one choice.”
“Right,” said Chandra. “Right.”
“Okay, buddy,” said Bryan. “Here’s my number. Let’s stay in touch.”
“Thanks,” said Chandra, doubting they would; he couldn’t imagine visiting Bryan in San Francisco. “Good luck.”
“You too.”
Professor Chandra extended his hand, wanting them to part on his terms, but at the last moment he leaned forward and hugged Bryan, realizing how few men he had hugged in his life, his son included.
He walked back to his room and fell asleep at once, waking at four in the afternoon when he got into his car and drove away, saying goodbye to nobody else. He couldn’t bear any more emotion. Bryan had been right. He needed to process.
Professor Chandra felt more exhausted
still when he reached UC Bella Vista, which would be his home for only a few more days. He tried to sleep, putting on the airline mask that used to belong to Jean, but couldn’t. It felt as if his mind was filled with a new, coltish energy. He thought about getting up and making notes about strings and critical voices, but instead he just lay in bed, imagining the sea was still outside his window.
PROFESSOR CHANDRA SPENT the summer solstice in his garden, listening to the radio. He wondered if he was becoming more himself. He didn’t think so. Instead, it seemed, he was becoming more Western like Pam, thinking about things it had never occurred to him to think about before: his father’s parenting style, his parents’ marriage, whether he had been traumatized, or bullied, or neglected.
But perhaps it wasn’t a Western thing. Didn’t teenagers in Bangalore wear short skirts and drink white wine and canoodle in bars and vomit into drains? Yes, it was a generational thing; this was what had caused Pam to leave the workshop, when he had called her—and by inference, her generation—a shallow spoiled ingrate. Since Radha had vanished from his life, his biggest, most secret fear had been that he was wrong; that she and Pam and their cohorts understood key principles his generation did not; that all their rebellion and self-analysis had taken them to some other level he could not touch. Yes, they lacked conviction, but maybe this was their strength; maybe there was bravery in this; maybe conviction was the recourse of those too terrified by life to face the confusion head on.
But no, that wasn’t it at all. Pam had said it very clearly. It wasn’t about whose generation was better. That was all a giant, floppy red herring. Every generation was the same: insecure, powerless, frightened, bewildered, born to die. The only difference between himself and Pam was that Pam had admitted it, had said it loud and clear. She blamed her father. And Chandra had hidden, had pretended he had no feelings toward his parents other than unquestioning filial loyalty and gratitude. And this wasn’t true. How could it be true?
So what were his feelings…?
His father was a cruel man. Chandra knew this, though he had never said it before. There had been no one to say it to. Not his mother, who had quietly suppressed not only her own feelings on the matter but her son’s too, a practice South Asian wives had maintained for centuries. Not Prakash, who barely spoke about anything until he was old enough to talk about politics (although now, Professor Chandra wondered if Prakash’s obsessiveness wasn’t an escape from his emotions). Not his friends or colleagues, who saw him as far too accomplished to have been bullied by anyone, a view Chandra had always been loath to correct. Not Jean, whose attitude to everything had always been “Stop whining and just get on with it.” But maybe this was why he had married her, secure in the knowledge that she would never dip her finger into the well of his pain.
Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss Page 17
