“And this, ladies and gentlemen,” said Sunny, “is what modern economists fail to understand. Why? Because they don’t take into account the human mind. Ask yourself this. How does anything happen out there in the world of objects? How do I move this cup, this glass, this microphone, this chair? That’s right. I decide to move it. And I make this decision with my mind. Economists say we’re all subject to their models, but the truth is we make our own models, and we can unmake them, every day. The secret is to know our own desires. To own them. When we own our desires, we can be the change we want to see.”
Professor Chandra was fairly sure this was a quote from Gandhi. Now the MBA students would go home believing the Mahatma’s core message was “Get what you want.”
Sunny tapped his head and closed his eyes.
“The treasure house is within. Thank you.”
The room applauded. Sunny stood and applauded too, pointing out individuals in the audience and laughing, putting his hand on his heart and saying, “You! You! You!” before bowing, his hands pressed together in namaste, and sitting down.
A woman in a red trouser suit in the front row was standing with a microphone in her hand, thanking Sunny along with “our sponsors,” which seemed to include every bank in the developed world, before inviting questions.
Martin Cheung raised his hand at once, which meant the question had been planted.
“Dr. Sunil,” he said, which made Chandra wince, “I think we all know that we, as individuals, can think ourselves successful.” A cheap trick, thought Chandra; a way of convincing these weak-minded MBAs that they agreed with everything his son had said.
“All successful businesses, after all, attribute their success to positive thinking, at least in part. But can the same be said of entire nations? Is this why Asia is rising, or why much of the world is in recession? How far can your theory be taken?”
Sunny’s eyes had been closed during the question, but now he opened them as if deigning to return to the human plane once more.
“A nation is nothing but a dream of the people,” said Sunny. “Its leaders guide its dreams. George Bush left America weak and depressed, so look what happened to their economy. Narendra Modi gave Indians hope, and look what has happened to India’s economy. These are oversimplifications, but what I am saying is simple. We think together. We dream together. What is a river but millions of drops of water, and what is a nation but millions of people? Our nations’ fates are formed by the aggregate of its people’s thoughts, and, as always, negative thoughts bring negative fates. This may sound harsh, but it’s a natural law, I’m afraid.”
So growth rates, thought Professor Chandra, were subject to the will of the people. He wondered what else this might apply to. Infant mortality? Volcanic explosions? Tidal waves? Cricket scores?
A young woman in a blue blazer was on her feet now. She held her iPhone aloft in her right hand, speaking from notes on it, presumably. It made Chandra think of the Statue of Liberty.
“My name is Claudette Brown,” she said, in a French accent. “I’d like to thank Dr. Sunil on such a thought-provoking lecture. Really, there’s so much to think about here, so much to process. I wonder whether what you’re actually talking about is genius. And maybe this is what we neglect nowadays; maybe we’re killing genius in business and we need to let it flourish again. When we think of Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg, it almost feels like a different era now, like they might not have been allowed to exist today….”
Professor Chandra listened while Sunny explained that he was a genius and everyone who had assembled here to listen to him could be too if they would only pay him huge quantities of money to show them the way. And now he was telling a story about Deepak Chopra who had said about him, “He puts the whiz into wisdom,” with regards to Sunny’s digital detox programs and spiritual productivity seminars.
When Chandra relaxed his eyes, half-squinting, he didn’t see a shaven-headed man in early middle age anymore but an attention-seeking little boy. Of course Sunny had wanted his father to see this. He was trying to reverse his own strings, strings Chandra had fashioned with his bare hands, layering one over the other until they were tough as ropes. Professor Chandra hung his head, feeling only embarrassment, and worse, shame, but now everyone was clapping; some were whistling, or making that undergraduate “whooping” sound that was impossible for anyone with an IQ over eighty. The collective noise sounded like a circular saw, passing first through his right ear and then his left.
The woman in red was closing the event, thanking the sponsors once more, telling the audience how lucky they were that the fabulously busy Dr. Chandrasekhar had managed to take time out from his hectic schedule to be there, and now Sunny was surrounded by admirers, shaking hands, posing for selfies, and Martin Cheung was looking for Chandra, beckoning him over. Screwing his flyer into a tight ball before dropping it into his champagne glass, Professor Chandra hauled himself to his feet and fought his way across the room.
“Dad,” said Sunny, taking off his glasses and holding out his hand. “How are you?”
“Exhausted,” said Chandra. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“What?”
“Your talk. I’d have taken an earlier flight.”
Sunny raised his eyes to heaven. “I did, Dad. It was in the email.”
Martin Cheung and the woman in the red dress laughed, as did three sycophants who were also listening intently.
“The one in Chinese?”
“No,” said Sunny, his smile tightening. “The one in English.”
“I didn’t get any bloody email.”
“You sure, Dad?”
Chandra wasn’t. Sunny’s emails were often pages long, usually including zealous pastings of his articles.
Sunny turned to the others. “Allow me to introduce my father,” he said. “Professor P. R. Chandrasekhar.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir,” said the woman in the red dress. “My name’s Susan Katto. I’m the Associate Director of IMB.”
“Oh, how do you do?” said Chandra, wondering what IMB was before remembering it was Sunny’s company: the Institute of Mindful Business.
“We’ve all heard so much about you, sir,” said Susan Katto.
“You must be very proud of your son,” said Martin Cheung.
“Oh, very much, very much,” said Chandra, glaring at Sunny.
“Have some champagne,” said Sunny, in the way you’d stuff sweets into a crying child’s mouth.
“So what were your thoughts on Dr. Sunil’s presentation?” said Martin Cheung, handing Chandra a warm glass of Moët.
“Oh, excellent,” said Chandra. “Very nice.”
“So you agree?” said one of the sycophants, a balding be-suited student, probably French or Italian or Greek (it was hard to tell with MBA students—mediocrity was a great leveler).
“Oh, Sunny is quite right,” said Professor Chandra. “Of course, the mind is a rather neglected area of economics. But economics is a science. We tend to stick to describing what people do rather than what they think. Perhaps that’s rather backward of us. I quite agree that one should be positive and so forth, but there are certain things that are rather hard to change, not to say impossible.”
“Like what, sir?” asked Susan Katto.
“Well, if there is only one bottle of champagne in the room, not everyone’s going to get a glass, regardless of how much one desires it. That’s all I’m trying to say—some things just are and we have to accept them, and this, I’m afraid, includes those foolish sets of laws we call economics.”
They were all looking at Sunny now, who had picked up the champagne bottle as if about to feed the five hundred. “I believe everything is attainable,” he told them. “Everything. I’ve seen businesses double productivity just by repeating simple affirmations. And as I’m sure my
father knows, there is never only one bottle, or two bottles, or even ten bottles. Growth is potentially unlimited.”
Chandra nodded. “Yes, certainly, but there’s also something called effective demand, and if we start spending money that isn’t there, well, we all know where that leads. It wasn’t a lack of positivity that caused the crisis. It was too much positivity. Sometimes we have to be content with what we have.”
“Which some would call defeatism,” said Sunny.
“And others would call maturity,” said Chandra.
Martin Cheung snorted in an attempt to conceal his laughter. Even Susan Katto was smiling. This was always Chandra’s advantage when he went up against Sunny. Sunny wasn’t good at humor, which had been Chandra’s specialty for decades. He always began his speeches with a joke. It helped establish the audience’s allegiance. Liberals forgot he was an evil neoliberal, competitors forgot their envy. It made strangers warm to him, trust him. He could see it already in the faces of the students.
“Anyone who has taken a course with IMB,” said Sunny, “learns the most important truth of all—that you can be whoever you want to be. There are no mediocre people, only mediocre expectations. Imagine if Steve Jobs or Barack Obama—”
“We can’t all be Steve Jobs,” said Chandra. “And yes, Obama…but what about the three hundred and twenty-three million Americans who didn’t become president?”
“They didn’t believe,” said Sunny.
“You can’t have three hundred and twenty-three million presidents, Sunny,” said Chandra. “No amount of positive thinking will change that. It isn’t all about the mind. Much of success is just luck, or having the right parents, or being in the right place at the right time. Nobody tells you this, but it’s true.”
The students were laughing now, probably at the reference to “having the right parents.” But Sunny had turned away, was looking at his iPhone. Professor Chandra shut his eyes, knowing he was in trouble.
HE WENT HOME BY himself that night, claiming he was too exhausted to attend the dinner, which happened to be true, but it felt like a lie when he said it. A driver took him to Sunny’s apartment on the forty-sixth floor. Chandra fell asleep without even changing his clothes and awoke on Saturday morning to find Sunny with his mountain bike slung over one shoulder, drinking some juiced green sludge and wearing Lycra shorts.
“Where are you going?” said Chandra.
“Chi Ma Wan.”
“Chi Ma What?”
“Wan,” said Sunny. “Out with clients.”
When Sunny left, Chandra ran after him to the landing saying, “You forgot your sports watch,” but the lift doors had already shut. He watched the countdown: Floor 46, 45, 44, 43…
He spent the morning in front of the television until, at lunchtime, two young Filipina women called Wendy and Melissa arrived to clean and cook lunch. He tried his best to talk to them but they replied in polite, embarrassed monosyllables. Chandra wondered if they had families, or if they were as alone as everyone else in this city.
The Mid-Levels, where Sunny’s apartment was, consisted of row after row of high-rises, each craning its neck over the next in pursuit of an unimpeded glimpse of the sea. To Chandra it didn’t look like the sea. It felt industrial, or digital, something out of a video game. He found himself missing California, longing to be back at Big Sur.
In the afternoon, he visited the sauna on the ground floor before scouring Sunny’s cavernous living room for thrillers or mystery novels, but most of the books were on motivational techniques or management. There were magazines in the bathroom, including the Economist, but this was the last thing Chandra wanted to read.
Venturing into the bedroom, he discovered two more shelves, mainly history and biography, books on Akbar, Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, the Pilgrim Fathers, Marco Polo, Charlie Chaplin, Andy Warhol, histories of the Civil War, the stock market, the Boxer Rebellion, and the provincial insurance company.
Professor Chandra was impressed. He hadn’t realized Sunny read so widely. But he still couldn’t find any novels, not even a Stephen King or a Jeffrey Archer. Drawing back the curtains, he found one more shelf of books on the windowsill, sandwiched between statues of the Laughing Buddha and Jesus.
These were his books: The Economics of Poverty; Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Market?; India and Other Dreams; Why the Third World Matters; Globalize, Mobilize; Fast Unto Bankruptcy; and After the Flood.
Chandra picked up After the Flood and thumbed through it. He was so used to the way undergraduates treated books that at first he thought nothing of Sunny highlighting several passages and making notes in pencil in the margins. It was difficult to decipher his shorthand, which used personalized abbreviations like t for “growth” and “t4” for “therefore,” letters so tiny they suggested shameful secrets. Chandra feared that closer inspection might reveal sarcastic addendums, but instead it was clear that Sunny had simply wanted to understand. They were the comments of a diligent student, one Chandra had spent half a lifetime deriding.
He ended up asking the doorman to call him a taxi, and spent the rest of the afternoon in an Indian restaurant eating masala eggs on toast and trying to speak Punjabi with the waiters. When Chandra returned to the flat, Sunny was still not there, but Melissa the cook was making pizza and singing a song in Tagalog. Chandra tried to talk to her about Hong Kong, Chinese food, Sunny (which made her even more tight-lipped), and the possibility of the entire island being destroyed by a tsunami, at which the poor girl, who couldn’t have been older than nineteen, looked ready to cry.
Eventually he slipped away and returned after Melissa had left, falling asleep in front of the television while watching cricket. When he awoke his son was complaining to nobody in particular about how Melissa had nicked his Japanese knives.
“Wouldn’t know Usuba Bōchō from Boko Haram,” he said.
“Sunny!” said Professor Chandra, forcing himself off the sofa. “Where have you been?”
“I told you,” said Sunny, opening a bottle of orange San Pellegrino.
“Are you hungry? There’s pizza left. She cooks well, this girl.”
“I ate with the others.”
“Oh?” said Chandra, suspecting this was a lie. In his experience Sunny never socialized merely for the sake of socializing.
“Yeah, dim sum.”
“I like dim sum.”
They stood staring each other down in the kitchen, two wounded prizefighters pretending to talk about food.
“We can go for dim sum tomorrow, Dad.”
“Great,” said Chandra, as Sunny headed for the bedroom. “Looking forward to it.”
Chandra went to bed, terrified Sunny would realize he had been snooping in his room and cancel dim sum. He got up early, busying himself in the kitchen preparing dosa, milky coffee, and an improvised chutney from green chilies, spinach, and lime (it was the maids’ day off). Sunny did not surface until eleven, by which time Chandra was wearing an apron and had his head inside the oven looking for even a trace of dirt (those women were unfeasibly efficient).
“Morning, Dad.”
His son was wearing an Oxford University sweatshirt, tennis shorts, and an airline mask pushed back onto his forehead.
Chandra poured coffee into an IMB mug in a thin noisy stream before warming a dosa on a pan and handing it to his son. They ate in air-conditioned silence at the kitchen table.
“Sunny, I hope you weren’t upset by our joust the other day.”
“What joust?”
Chandra spooned chutney onto his own plate. “I just thought I said a few things that might have—”
Sunny took out his iPhone. “What are you talking about, Dad?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Chandra. “It was very interesting, your talk. So many things I’d never thought about before, the subconscious mind and all that.”
; Sunny put his phone on the table. “Just because I have a different opinion to you, it doesn’t mean I have to grow up, Dad. Growing up doesn’t mean becoming you.”
“I agree,” said Chandra. “Absolutely.”
Sunny switched on the espresso machine, a rebuke to the South Indian coffee Professor Chandra had made.
“Sunny,” said Chandra, “for a while now, since Esalen, I’ve been thinking about—”
“Esalen,” said Sunny, brightening. “Yes, how was it?”
“It was wonderful. Well, it was weird too. It made me remember things I’d forgotten, how maybe my father wasn’t the best father. He was unkind to me.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, he was good to me as well, but I just thought, I simply wondered…maybe I’m one of your critical voices?”
“My what?”
“Like when you tell yourself you’re not good enough, or you’re silly, or you’re an idiot.”
“I don’t tell myself those things, Dad. I practice positive thinking. I thought you knew that.”
“Yes, I know, of course. But I mean, I wonder why you need to do it at all?”
“It’s my vocation.”
“But maybe it’s because of me,” said Chandra. “Maybe I made fun of you too much. I never meant any harm. My father did it to me and I thought nothing of it, so I did it to you.”
“Maybe everything isn’t about you, Dad,” said Sunny. “You ever think of that?”
Sunny pressed a button on his coffee machine and now neither of them could hear anything. It sounded like a plane taking off. Chandra remembered Sunny telling him how much the machine cost—it was as much as Chandra’s first car.
“I did,” said Chandra. “But I think that’s a cop-out.”
“Cop-out?”
“Sunny, all I’m saying is, I know I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
Sunny sipped his espresso, his gold bracelet gleaming in the sunlight.
Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss Page 19
