by Anil Menon
Anand rose, strode to his bathroom across the hall, enjoying the feel of the cool marble on his bare feet. As he performed his ablutions with quick forceful strokes, he allowed his gaze to wander, acknowledging each eccentric subject of his imperium. The vintage clawfoot bathtub, the Ashok Sanyal that hung on the right side, the slightly stained Bharti Kher quilt on the left, the squeaky Zaha Hadid faucets, the pair of highly-modular and highly-uncomfortable Brno chairs, the cracked golden mirror that had belonged to Nuran ‘Beraham’ Banu, the vicious mistress of the priapic poet Shaikh Qalandar Bakhsh Jurrat; the mirror had cracked with shock, it was said, when it had witnessed the pair’s recondite lovemaking. The bathroom was also home to a ruby-studded fly-whisk, almost certainly from Bahadur Shah Zafar’s court.
The mirror’s report about his sleep-swollen fifty-year-old visage was less pleasing. He preferred to think about work. There was that forthcoming meeting with Eshwar Pillai; that should be interesting. He’d wanted to meet the entrepreneur for a long time.
Wasn’t the new database interface everybody dreaded scheduled to go live this week? Something would have to be done about the Delhi office. Supriya was definitely overloaded—no one denied that having to manage both Ecolog and Hindustan Tools was difficult but the complaints about her were personnel issues, not project issues.
Father would say Social Weather was suffering from success. And Father would be right. People were acting like they had too much to lose. The old Maratha spirit from Father’s days was eroding. He could smell the complacency in the air, the lack of ambition. People snivelled about their job titles. People felt the cubicles could be of different sizes. People wanted more perks. Job titles! Had Tanaji’s men worried about job titles? Then there were the legacy hires; Father’s employees, all mid-level managers were go-getters but—and this wasn’t a criticism of Father, only an observation—but they were also bullies. He loathed bullies.
Entirely his fault. He had neglected his responsibilities. The business of business was education. When he’d studied the Wedgewood Pottery business case at Columbia, he’d been struck by an excerpt from Josiah Wedgewood’s letter to his friend Bentley. In fact, he’d by-hearted the great entrepreneur’s lines. ‘You observe very justly that few hands can be got to paint the flowers in the style we want them. I may add, nor any other work we do. We must make them. There is no other way.’ Exactly. The first five years of an employee’s career were critical; his people simply weren’t getting a rich enough mix of experiences.
People needed to be challenged.
Anand informed Ratnakar, quite unnecessarily, that he was up and about.
‘Okay sir,’ said the factotum, in his scratchy early-morning voice. Then Ratnakar added, equally unnecessarily. ‘Breakfast will be ready.’
Anand took a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, running his index finger over the upper rim of the lovingly-restored 165-litre cream-white 1972 Godrej ‘Housewife’s delight’.
‘Why do you hoard all this junk?’ Padma had asked. ‘It’s not even valuable.’
Returning to the bedroom, he changed his clothes as quietly as possible. Manav designer suit, platinum-white shirt, black trousers, the Indian flag lapel pin made of 24-carat gold. As he buttoned his shirt, he studied his sleeping wife. Padma was practically a cheetah, ready to raise her head and scan the savannah at the slightest rustle. Per usual, she’d already seized the space he’d vacated on the bed, spread out, laid claim to her domain. She didn’t like sharing.
He admired the mass of curls, the naked wedge of her back, the cotton boxers encasing her behind, the long creamy thighs, the clean pink of her upturned right soles. Padma was as fair as her sister was dark. Thirty-six-years old and still every inch the Miss Maharashtra she had been. Her profile invited an embrace, a kiss. Her body would be cuddly, warm. Also leave-me-alone; her mornings had not been part of the dowry.
She was basically a night owl, whereas he was a morning—well, whatever went about early in the morning. He breathed deeply. Horse, chariot, charioteer; Body, Mind and Will. It didn’t matter what the Body felt or the Mind wanted. What mattered was his Will.
Padma stirred, half-rolled over.
‘Whatimeisit?’
‘Just five-thirty.’ Anand sat down by the side of the bed, palmed her exposed left breast, teasing the nipple till it awakened, swollen and brown.
‘Don’t.’ She moved his hand, kissed it, smiled, then nestled back inside the Jours de Paris sateen bedsheet. ‘I’m sleepy.’
Anand continued to sit, arms spread in the royal manner, as if the bed were a throne. He was happy. He liked having her snooze by his side. It would have been perfect if there were a little one snoozing alongside her. No big deal. If they were so blessed, great. If they weren’t, still great. They had built a good life together.
As he got up to leave, Padma again lifted her head. ‘Aren’t you going to Bangalore today?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘I’ll be back tonight.’
‘Oh good. Not long then.’ She pulled the pillow back over her curls. ‘Darling, tell Costas to send Preeti over. I’ll need help with my hair.’
Mumble, mumble. Any trip shorter than a week didn’t worry Padma. Anything longer and she felt obliged to perform her wifely duty before he left. This erotic calculus didn’t embarrass her, but it embarrassed him. A little spontaneity, missus!
He paged Costas, the head servant or house-manager as Padma insisted on calling the fellow. Anand instructed him to tell Priya to attend to her mistress as soon as she was awake.
‘Yes sir, I’ll tell Preeti. No problem, sir.’
Preeti, Priya, Pushpa, Rupa. Who the hell could keep track of them all? The house had too many servants. Padma was a difficult mistress. They came, they left, then more came. Padma liked being queen bee.
Perhaps it was boredom. What did she do all day? She could do so much more. His wife was very intelligent, just like her younger sister.
But Kannagi filled every minute with sixty-one seconds of distance run, whereas her Akka—oh well, what did it matter? He could afford to indulge his queen.
‘Good. And Costas, why do I have Aquafina in my house? Have Indians stopped making bottled water?’
‘Very sorry sir. I will restock with Bisleri immediately. Very sorry.’ Costas simply didn’t take the Zero American Products policy seriously. He wasn’t committed to it heart and soul. Still, Padma was fond of the fellow, nothing could be done for now.
As he entered the atrium, Ratnakar pulled back the chair at the head of the hexagonal rosewood table, prepared a cup of Madras filter coffee, piping hot.
He sampled a bit of everything: poha with roasted papad, couple of paper-thin dosas, orange juice, couple of slices of papaya. Ratnakar hovered in the background; one hand cradling a Samsung tablet, hair slick with Brylcream and parted with mathematical precision, trademark safari suit rustling as he moved in anticipation of his boss’s needs. As was usual between them, they spoke in Marathi.
‘Sir, two calls. One last night, the other this morning. First from General Victor Dorabjee. He asked if you were available for dinner sometime next week. He mentioned Doctor Phirozshah Mistry is also planning to—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Phirozshah and Dorabjee. Fuckshaw and Dora-bai. Brigands boys, once and forever. Probably a donation drive. When the Alma Mater came knocking, there was no saying no. ‘Tell them I’m available. Friday afternoon, if possible. My stomach is no longer able to handle a Brigands dinner. The other call?’
‘Nothing serious. Three of our workers on their way to Hapur were rear-ended by a Scorpio. No injuries to our men. It happened around three-thirty in the morning. You know Scorpio drivers. They’re all Mario Andretti. Plus Scorpio had an MLA’s son. No seat belt. He had minor injuries. Ego injuries were severe. There was an argument, some mara-mari—’
‘I’m waiting for the good news, Ratnakar.’
‘Good news is the local inspector’s wife is our employe
e. The Inspector handled things very well. I also spoke with the MLA. He’s much smarter than his semen.’
‘No one hurt?’
‘No sir, no hospital records.’
‘Insurance?’
‘The Inspector took care of the paperwork. No-fault collision. Insurance won’t be a problem.’
‘Make sure he has a nice Diwali.’ Anand waited for Ratnakar to explain why he’d dragged him into this mundane accident.
‘The accident took place on a small bridge near Solakhpur. There was a man walking on the bridge. Migrant-type, twenty, maybe thirty years old. When the cars collided, he jumped off the bridge. Fifty feet.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes. Body has been identified, family hasn’t been notified yet.’
Dammit. Anand sipped his coffee, taking comfort in its reliably superior flavour. Peaberry blended with twenty-percent chicory. Kannagi had introduced kapi to the Dixit household.
It was strange Padma didn’t like filter coffee. Or idli-sambhar.
Some Madrasi.
‘So what’s the plan, Ratnakar?’
‘The collision and the man’s fall—the Inspector’s report says the two events are not connected. Except one happened before the other, that’s all. It’s simpler all around. All the parties have been informed of these facts. They are agreed that’s the way it happened.’
‘I’m sure they are, the idiots. Why do we have our people roaming around at three-thirty in the morning?’
‘They say they were working late. The Hapur team is behind schedule. It’s been one thing after another with that site. Our chaps swear they weren’t drinking. Genuine accident it looks like.’ Anand wasn’t persuaded. ‘All right, arrange a compensation for the dead fellow. Something fair. Anything else?’
Ratnakar hesitated. ‘What is fair, sir?’
‘Do I look like Yamaraj to you?’ Anand hated this sort of calculus. ‘A lakh, maybe. Wife and kids?’
‘No, he was single.’
‘I’m not going to sit here and work out his compensation. Give it to Sharma-ji. You know who I’m thinking of—’
‘Bhupinder Sharma. HR, Agra office.’
‘Yes, him. The vulture relishes this sort of problem. Just contain it, that’s all. So. Now that my breakfast’s ruined, what’s your plan for lunch and dinner?’
Ratnakar skipped the regular events such as the early morning meeting with the core team. ‘At nine, we leave for Bangalore. Lunch with Eshwar Pillai at one. Pillai has sent his jet. Cessna Citation.’
Anand smiled. ‘Watch and learn, Ratnakar. Pillai has just been sued by SBI, but would you know it? Here’s a man who’ll fuck your wife and then send you the bill for the condoms. You know what the Americans call it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Chutzpah. Go on.’
He watched his assistant taste the word.
‘At four, there’s a meeting with the project heads at the Bannerghata office. Continuing to a small get-together at five-thirty—’
‘For what?’ Anand constricted his eyebrows.
‘Regional performance awards. The Bangalore office has three winners this time. I’ve prepared a summary sheet.’ ‘Ah. Go on.’
‘At seven, meeting with KS Murali, deputy CM. He wants to discuss the upcoming assembly elections in Karnataka. Also, his son-in-law is the new head of Indicus Analytics.’ Anand grunted, took another sip of the coffee. Social Weather had been interested in acquiring Indicus for some time. Perhaps things were ready to be moved to the hot plate.
‘Are we returning tonight, sir? I’ve booked a suite at the Leela just in case.’
‘Is there anything tonight in Delhi?’
‘Nothing vital. Four party invitations. One book release function. Shobha De.’ Ratnakar consulted his tablet. ‘Tomorrow you have a lunch appointment with Professor Nagesh Uppugunduri.’
‘What am I doing with Uppugunduri?’
‘Winner of our C K Prahalad award, sir. Fifty lakhs. Lunch plus photo-op.’
‘Yes, yes, the NRI fellow who studies how oral stories work.’ Anand remembered his brief conversation with the scholar at the award ceremony. Useful stuff for Bottom-of-the-Pyramid corporations. ‘How about moving the lunch to Saturday? I’m considering hiring him as a consultant.’
Ratnakar consulted his pad.
‘Unfortunately sir, he is returning to the States the day after.
And Saturday, you and Madam have a doctor’s appointment. And
Ashtekar-ji did want some photos for the magazine. I can ask the professor to delay his departure?’
‘No, let him return. Pop in, pop out. Janma bhoomi today, karma bhoomi tomorrow.’ Anand sighed. ‘What are our idiot professors doing? Why do we need an NRI to tell us how our illiterates think?’
‘I didn’t know they thought,’ commented Ratnakar, smiling. ‘Fifty lakhs for studying stories?’ He shook his head.
Anand glanced at his assistant. ‘Contemplating a career change, Ratnakar?’
Ratnakar allowed a small smile to alter his otherwise expressionless face.
‘I’ve wondered about other professions, sir. What else could I do,
I wonder.’ ‘Anything, as long as you remain my assistant.’ Anand contemplated his factotum. ‘I’ve had the same question too. Maybe I could’ve been a computer scientist.’
Ratnakar managed to look interested. ‘Computer scientist? IT? What do they do, sir?’
‘How should I know? Ask Kannagi. She’s their jaat after all.’
He knew Ratnakar would rather milk a tigress with PMS than tangle with Padma’s younger sister.
‘Wasn’t Dhasal-ji also in IT, sir?’ asked Ratnakar. ‘Perhaps he should have stayed on.’
Anand nodded. Durga Dhasal had been too many things. But he didn’t see any reason to share his thoughts on the matter with his assistant.
He had learned the news about Dhasal’s death through Kannagi.
She’d called. It’d taken him a few moments to identify her, to realize she was weeping. The sound had destabilized him, aroused him to rage, made him want to hunt down the source of her distress, strangle it out of existence.
You fundies did this, she’d said, weeping. It’s on your head, Anand, it’s on your head. You and people like you give them strength.
He had been terribly hurt. Hadn’t Durga-ji been his teacher as well? Okay, only for a semester at Brigands, but once a Guru, always a Guru. To think he would wish to harm even a hair—was that who Kannagi thought he was? Yes, her words had been cutting indeed. But later in the day, Kannagi had called again to apologize. He could tell she meant it. She always meant what she said. The girl had no control. Not like Padma that way. Still, who couldn’t forgive her? Of course he forgave her.
He pushed away his plate. ‘Listen, about those jokers. Fire them.’
‘Fire them? It was just an accident. Bad luck.’
‘Fire the entire Hapur outfit. Root and branch, the guilty and the innocent. We’re going to restaff that office. Let’s see if we can find luckier people.’
Ratnakar bowed his head. Anand held out his left arm and allowed Ratnakar to slip on the HMT Kohinoor, Father’s wristwatch, savouring its weight, the backplate’s cold steel, its leather strap, his father’s legacy. He checked the time. The watch kept perfect time.
‘Well Ratnakar, let’s get to work.’
#
‘Look Mitrajit, it’s not the end of the world.’ Kannagi pushed the jar of hard-boiled candy towards the student, but he just stared at it. ‘There’s tons of other things to do. Tons.’
‘Like what?’ The older man’s eyes were swollen, inflamed, and matched his saffron kurta.
‘Like doing something you love and something you’re good at. You’ll figure it out, you’re a smart guy.’
‘Are you mocking me?’
‘Course not.’ Kannagi was taken aback. Talking with Mitrajit Bandhopadyay was way too complicated. Well, she’d asked for it. Nobody else had agreed to be his PhD ad
visor. That should have been a clue. Her colleagues had tried to warn her. Yogesh Sharma, Maya Nair, and Dharmaraj had all warned her. Even Chhotu, who usually chatted non-stop about life, love and the pursuit of liberty while cleaning her office, had paused to warn her: didi, that babu moshai, he’s got a screw loose. Had she listened? Course not.
‘I know flunking out of the doctoral program sounds like bad news,’ said Kannagi. The ten-inch marble bust of Darwin perched on the empty bookstand just behind Mitrajit stared back at her impassively. ‘But it’s not bad news. Way better to flunk out now than five years from now.’
Knock, knock. John Liu poked his balding head into her office. Lunch? She met the Texan’s amused glance; he winked, withdrew.
Kannagi made another attempt to comfort the student. ‘It’s like the Barbie doll says: Math is hard. Not everybody can hack it.’
‘And I’m too old?’
‘Nah.’ Kannagi thought of Donald Knuth, Richard Karp, Linus Torvalds, John Liu. Durga had been in his 70s when he’d taken her on as a doctoral student. She herself was twenty-seven. Positively geriatric. ‘Plenty of Gandalfs in the field.’
‘So I’m not good enough?’
‘Right.’
Mitrajit had an indecipherable expression on his face.
‘You crashed and burned in Analysis of Algorithms,’ she explained, feeling silly at having to explain the obvious. ‘And I threw you some damn easy curveballs. Why didn’t you just stick to the questions I asked? What was all that crap about Advaita, narratology and what not? For example, take your answer to my question on the best possible convergence rates for evolutionary algorithms—’ She gestured to the answer sheet—‘Reality is the cosmic duality of prakrti and purusha. The latter is changeless but becomes unreliable in a narratological sense, that is, acquires a point of view, upon interacting with the former.
