“Well,” said the Master, rubbing his hands together in the manner of an evil genius, “what could be more fitting for a septuagenarian?”
Chandra laughed. “It has been troubling me that much of my work is intelligible only to a relatively small number of individuals,” he said. “And my fear is many of us economists no longer strive to be understood, and in this respect we are becoming rather like the occultists of old, thriving on obscurity, trusting the common man will simply accept our judgment rather than entering into a dialogue.”
“Well, I suppose I am one of those common men,” said the Master while Chandra, who agreed heartily, mumbled, “Oh, certainly not.”
“But surely putting our trust in experts is simply a fact of modern life, Chandra. Lord knows, I have no idea how my computer works.”
“The fact of the matter is, Master,” said Chandra, “that in the nineteenth century the economist was a polymath. He was typically a natural scientist, a linguist, a man of God, a philosopher, and a mathematician. I am simply wondering whether economics doesn’t need to restore some humanity to its dismal science.”
“Well, here’s to that,” said the Master, raising his glass. “It would be an understatement to say I’d be fascinated to read what you had to say on this matter.”
They clinked their glasses together and drank while Chandra settled back in his armchair, realizing that, for once, he had little else to say. It felt surprisingly comfortable.
Since Esalen, he had continually been asking himself how many of his opinions were actually his own, and how many were his critical voices manifesting in his mind; those of former tutors and mentors who had rammed their views into his skull. It made him wonder what he actually did believe. And then there was Sunny with his affirmations which Chandra had begun to say in the mornings, and Jasmine with her “Be Happy, Be Snappy” patter. And of course there was always Radha, that permanent resident in his brain, constantly reminding him that every thought he had was proof he belonged in a maximum security ward for the ideologically deranged. The end result was that he had barely written a word in months.
The Master refilled their glasses and asked Chandra about Brexit, to which Chandra replied, “To be honest, Master, I have no idea,” and when the Master came at him with a follow-up about America, Chandra answered, “It’s both fascinating and terrifying to watch history unfold, isn’t it?”
The truth was that he was tired of his own opinions now, tired of having to have opinions at all. But he could see that his reticence was causing the Master, who like most academics was incapable of mere banter, considerable consternation.
“Well,” said the Master, at last. “I do enjoy these chats.”
“As do I, Master,” said Chandra, already a little drunk.
“And happy birthday, my friend.”
“You too,” said Chandra, realizing this made no sense but not caring.
After taking his leave, Professor Chandra walked back through the college which always took on a dark, foreboding character in winter. He lay on the sofa in his rooms, looking at the bottle of claret he had laid out but now lost all desire to drink. He put the kettle on instead and began scanning through his emails again, simply for something to do. There were more birthday wishes, one from Bryan, which made him laugh:
Once in a century, a man is born who burns brighter than all the rest, who shines with wisdom and brilliance, and today that man would like to wish you a very happy birthday.
Perhaps this was why Chandra had never liked his birthday. It always felt like an invitation to evaluate his life rather than celebrate it, to assess his worth, and all he could ever think about were the things he hadn’t achieved, as well as the things he should achieve, and could, if only he worked harder. When he was a child his father never gave him toys as presents, just pens or exercise books, or biographies of men who had reached the very pinnacles of their professions, like Einstein or Napoleon or Ramanujan. It was only his mother who seemed to believe it was acceptable for him to be a child, but she always supported his father in the end.
“He’s doing it because he wants you to be a success,” she would tell him. “It’s to remind you.”
“Remind me of what?”
“That you have to work for it, that nothing good comes without struggle. It’s good for the soul.”
It was a phrase his mother was fond of. Chandra used to say it to his students sometimes when they complained of exhaustion or stress or hinted at impending nervous breakdowns. When he himself was studying for his PhD, he would lock himself in his office on his birthday, working until early morning, driving himself on with cup after cup of coffee, cigarette after cigarette.
Remembering this, Professor Chandra spooned instant coffee into his “Keep Calm and Study Economics” mug before adding milk and hot water and returning to his desk. He was thinking he might watch a movie on his computer instead of reading, but it was then that he saw the email.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Happy seventieth
Hi Dad,
I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch for so long. I needed time to work some things out. I hope you’re not angry. Sunny told me about the plan for Christmas. I’d like to come, if you want me to. I’ll understand if you don’t.
I hope you’ve had a lovely birthday.
Radha
PROFESSOR CHANDRA SPENT MOST of that night drafting a reply to Radha’s email, an ill-advised three-page gush about how happy he was to hear from her, telling her all about Esalen and Hong Kong and Jasmine. He ended it by giving the Englishman’s apology, that tawdry syntax implying it was all in the victim’s head:
For anything I might have done to upset you, I am truly…
After sending it, he suffered an hour of excruciating regret until Radha replied with the single line,
Looking forward to seeing you, Dad.
Over the following weeks, Chandra found himself in higher spirits than he had been in years. It was only when the time came to fly to Denver that his anxiety returned. Ram drove him to the airport and, on arrival, pressed a pill into his hand and urged him to take it with a glass of wine on the plane but not to tell Betina. And so, for the first time in life, Professor Chandra found himself under the influence of a powerful tranquilizer called Xanax, which caused him to miss all his meals and to wake up on the ground in Denver ravenous, thirsty, and feeling as if all his emotions had been pressed and folded away.
After a bottle of sparkling water and a plate of pad thai from a place called City Wok, Professor Chandra rented his usual SUV and commenced the five-hour drive to Cove. It was midnight by the time he got there, crawling along at five miles per hour, terrified by the black road in front of him, the liquid stares of animals in his headlights. Chandra had forgotten that America could look like this. He remembered the icy sidewalks of Chicago, the frozen lakes of New England, but this was more like the Himalayas. Not only was there the darkness to contend with, but also the preternatural brightness, that ever-present snow that resembled a living organism.
The first thing he noticed was Steve’s Lincoln Navigator, hulking hearse-like in the parking lot. He parked as far away from it as he could. Reaching the monastery, he found a map pinned to the door to help him find his cabin. Nobody had waited up for him. Professor Chandra walked by the light of the storage lamps before reaching something that looked like a tree carved into the shape of a house, a hundred meters behind the snow-covered zendō. Everything inside was wooden, rough, and knotted, though furnished in an elegant, if austere, Japanese way, with a low desk and a black meditation cushion in front of it.
There was a hole in the floor with a stepladder that led to a subterranean bunker, a bed fixed halfway up the wall. To get into it, Chandra had to swing his legs sideways off the ladder. He found a bathroom at the bottom too, big
enough for a medium-sized dog with a short tail, and somehow succeeded in brushing his teeth before getting into bed.
* * *
—
He was awoken a few hours later by a woodpecker, quite an eccentric fellow by the sound of him. He would peck once, wait until Chandra was returning to sleep, then do it again, a loud, decisive strike. When Chandra sat up, the woodpecker pecked harder, making a sound like an electric drill, and then paused before beginning again with those slow, solo attacks.
Professor Chandra lowered himself to the ground and showered before putting on his blazer and slacks and climbing the ladder. When he opened the door he found it was still dark. The moon had disappeared and the only light came from the zendō where a group of monks were walking along the veranda in single file, their shaven heads bowed. Dolores was at the front, stately in her robes. Chandra saw Jasmine behind her and almost called out. Her hair had been cut short, though it wasn’t shaved like the others. She looked so focused, her steps serious and precise.
And now he saw Radha, second from the back, her hair long and thick as he remembered, those saucer eyes that he had known since she had to stand on tiptoes to see him. For several seconds, all he could feel was love, overwhelming in its intensity, until he remembered the last two years and began to feel angry and frightened in equal measure. When the monks began to file into the zendō, Professor Chandra followed, climbing the steps and taking off his shoes.
Inside, the monks were taking their seats, their backs turned, facing the wall, the room lit only by candles. Chandra stood beside the statue of the Buddha, looking from brown-robed back to brown-robed back. It was easy to find Radha with her long tail of hair, all brushed and shiny and neat. He stood staring at her before going outside again, kicking at the snow on the path, and returning to his room.
Professor Chandra slept for a further two hours before leaving his hut once more. This time, the sun was up, warming his forehead, and Jasmine was only a hundred meters away, sweeping snow from the path in her monk’s robe. When she saw him she skipped toward him, eyes shining.
“Dad!” she said, throwing herself into his arms in a way she hadn’t in years. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
He ran his hand over her hair. “Aren’t you cold? It’s so short.”
“I shaved it off. It was liberating. It’s grown back a bit now. It’s all right. I usually wear a hat.”
He shook his head. “I hardly recognize you.”
Jasmine put an arm around him. “Radha’s here, Dad.”
“I know.”
“And Sunny. He’s rented a place a mile away. Mum and Steve went there for breakfast. It’s a little McMansion.”
He should have seen this coming. Sunny would never consent to join a company at the bottom rung, so he’d set up a rival one and appointed himself CEO.
“He just wanted everyone to have somewhere to go,” said Jasmine, as if reading his mind. “There’s a TV there, and you can’t drink alcohol inside the monastery. He’s being considerate.”
“And they’re there now, Steve and Jean?”
“Yes.”
“And Radha?”
“Radha’s waiting for you to take her.”
“Right,” said Chandra.
Jasmine shifted so she could look into his eyes. “You seem tired, Dad. I hope you slept all right. It can be hard at first, the altitude.”
“It was the bloody woodpecker.”
“The what?”
“He was right outside my door, the lunatic. Pock pock pock.”
Jasmine smiled. “I think that was the han, Dad.”
“Han?”
She led him up the zendō’s steps to the veranda.
“Here.” A block of wood was hanging by a string from one of the rafters, a mallet beside it. “Someone hits it in the morning,” said Jasmine, “and it goes clack…clack…clack. Then it gets faster till it’s like clack-clack-clack-clack. You’re supposed to get to the zendō by the third round. Actually it was me hitting it this morning.”
Chandra stared at the writing on the wood which had almost worn out in the middle:
Let me respectfully remind you, Life and death are of supreme importance. Time swiftly passes by and opportunity is lost. Each of us should strive to awaken. Awaken! Take heed! Do not squander your life.
He nodded. These were terrifying sentiments, impossible to argue with. He wished he had read these words fifty years ago, though, in all probability, they would have meant nothing to him then.
“Shall we go and see Rad now?” said Jasmine. She pointed to the bungalow to the left of the zendō. “We’re sharing.”
Chandra nodded and stared at the mountains on the horizon as they walked. He wished he could be like them, cold and impassive. Taking off his shoes outside the building, he tried to count his breaths. He wondered if he had squandered his life. He wondered if his daughter still loved him or if hate had cooled into mere indifference.
Radha was in the bathroom when they entered. He could hear the taps running. The twin beds had been sloppily made. The furthest had a battered gray Samsonite suitcase on it which might have belonged to him once, a pair of jeans and a black bra on top.
“I’ll see you later, Dad,” said Jasmine.
“You’re going?” said Chandra, but Jasmine had already shut the door.
When he was seven he had stood outside the deputy headmaster’s office waiting to be beaten. The cane had a brass ball at the end of it and it was rumored that the deputy, a Mr. S. T. “Stinky” Srinavasan, used to heat it in a fire first. Chandra had hyperventilated in front of him, and Stinky Srinavasan had slapped him and let him go. Chandra told everyone he had been caned “unto death.” This was how he felt now, waiting.
He crossed to the armchair in the corner. There was a leather-bound notebook on top of it which he opened and saw Radha’s big round handwriting, unchanged since fifth grade. I’m getting sick of his shit, he read, and put it down quickly as the bathroom door opened.
“Oh,” said Radha.
Chandra was happy to see she didn’t look older, but there was a fragility about her eyes now, as if she had lost a layer of hardness. She was dressed in a vest and black jogging pants; he could see the muscles in her arms, a scar on her bicep. Her hair fell halfway down her back but was shaved underneath on one side. He wondered if she had become a terrorist.
“It’s good to see you, Radha.”
“You too, Dad.”
They looked at one another, uncertain whether to hug. Eventually Radha sat on the bed, facing him. Chandra stared at his hands. It was like those first moments before a lecture to a capacity crowd.
“So when did you get here?”
“A few days ago,” said Radha. “I wanted to meditate for a while.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“It’s been peaceful.”
“Where are you living now?”
“New York.”
“Oh, New York.”
“Brooklyn. We live in Brooklyn.”
It was too early to ask about the “we.”
“I heard you were in an accident,” said Radha.
“A bicycle hit me. My fault.”
“But you’re okay now.”
“Yes,” said Chandra. “No problems.”
“That’s good.”
He thought of his week in hospital, how it had destroyed him that she hadn’t called. How could she not have called? And why would anyone do that to their hair?
“I suppose you think I deserved it.”
“Dad…” said Radha, looking past his shoulder. “Shall we go to Sunny’s?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
Her winter coat was on the floor, one of those black puffy things that looked like it might be bulletproof. She had a bobble-hat and mittens too.
“I thought we could walk, Dad. If you’re up to it.”
He put on his trench coat and they trudged out of the monastery in silence until they reached the road. The valley looked so far away, all those houses, the couples arguing in bedrooms. He wondered if that was why people became monks—to escape the noise. The snow was undisturbed and the light sharper now, making everything around them feel two-dimensional.
“I can’t really meditate,” said Chandra. “I think about too many things.”
“Me too.”
“Jasmine is good at it, I think.”
“She’s taken to it. It’s been good for her.”
“I hope she doesn’t stay here too long, though. There’s nothing here.”
Radha began to walk faster. He had said it to annoy her, he realized.
“So you’ve been in New York,” he said. “Brooklyn.”
“A year, something like that. I met someone in Paris.”
“You were in Paris?”
“I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t know anything.”
He couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. Clods of snow were dropping from the trees, so big they sounded like bodies. He hoped they wouldn’t see a bear.
“I didn’t really live anywhere for a while,” said Radha. “Squats, then in a van. We went all over the place, demonstrations, protests, that kind of thing. Then I got tired of it.”
“Yes,” said Chandra. “That kind of thing can get repetitive.”
“I met this guy in Paris. Marco. I came to New York with him.”
“So you live together?”
“Yes, but not for much longer.”
“You’re moving?”
“I’m moving. He’s staying.”
“Oh.”
“Like I said in my mail, Dad, I should have got in touch earlier. I just couldn’t bear any more arguments, you know what I mean?”
“I also don’t like arguing,” said Chandra, folding his arms.
Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss Page 24
