by Ashok Banker
‘How is your job?’
‘Oh, it’s okay.’
‘Good, good. You were trying for a promotion, weren’t you? Did you get it?’
‘Actually, I wasn’t due for a promotion, strictly speaking. But my boss liked my work.’
‘So you got it. Congratulations.’
‘No, no.What happened was, they needed someone with more experience.
‘You didn’t get it?’
‘They hired another person. Someone with much more experience.’ Only three years actually, but fuck it. To his father, achievement is the thing; the rest is fooling around.
‘I see.’ But in fact it is Jay who can see the difference in his father’s attitude; a distinct cooling off, even disdain.
‘How much are you earning now, did you say?’
‘About four thousand gross. Of course, take-home is less, after deductions.’
‘Hmm.’ He knows what’s coming now, the usual detailing of his father’s current pay packet, including perks, savings...
‘—about 1.5 lakh gross, plus the car with driver, flat, and entertainment allowance. This year I managed to put about 40,000
into tax investments, 30,000 into NSS, and 10,000 into NSC. Do you do any tax investments?’
‘Not really. I’ve signed the form so they don’t cut any from the salary, but I can’t really afford to save any—’
‘Saving is a must, Jay. Of course, you’re young now so you don’t realize the importance, but ten or fifteen years from now—’
‘I realize the importance, it’s just that I don’t have any money left over—’
‘—you’ll appreciate having some capital.’
‘—after I give Mama her money for the month.’
At the mention of Mama, his father looks away immediately, expert at avoiding this particular subject. The soups arrive; over the steaming bowls, Jay watches his father take his pocket computer out of the breast pocket of his grey safari suit and tote up some list of figures undoubtedly vital to the future profitability of his company, a vacuum cleaner manufacturing firm which direct-markets its own products.
‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something about Mama—’
‘Excellent soup. Some garlic toast? Wait a minute. Waiter? This toast is overdone. Bring us some fresh ones, please. Quickly.’
‘Er, about Mama—’
‘Do you see that man over there? He’s a very good friend of our MD. You must have read about him, he’s the highest paid manager in the country, according to Business India.’
‘Yes, yes.What I wanted to say—’
‘Jay, your soup’s getting cold. Please.’
‘Daddy, I just want some advice.’
His father’s eyes, the same light brown from which his own were cloned, linger on his face for a moment, head poised over the soup bowl, peering over the top of those damned bifocals; Jay hates bifocals, hates them more than pipes, gold watches on chains and the word
‘ubiquitous’.
‘What seem s to be the problem, Jay? Are you upset about something? Because you didn’t get the promotion?’
‘No, no. It’s not that—well, actually, yes. It is about that to some extent. Not the promotion so much as the salary raise I was expecting.’
‘Work hard. You should read de Bono. Have you read the one I gave you?’
‘Started it. Daddy, my problem isn’t that exactly. It’s about money.’
‘Money is a consequence, not a cause, of problems.A good manager does his job; rewards follow. Take me for example . You didn’t understand why I made the move from Birlas to Hobbes. Now you can see the results for yourself.’Waving an arm around as if the restaurant, this gilt and chrome interior itself, is part of his corporate perks—which, come to think of it, it is—including the fresh basket of garlic toast the waiter sets down on their table. ‘Results, Jay. Results. Otherwise you can’t expect rewards.’
‘Daddy, I can’t afford to support Mama any more. She’s too destructive. The other day she lost a thousand rupees. I think the bai stole it. It’s too much for me to handle. I barely have enough for my own expenses.’
‘Some garlic toast? Ah, this is the way it should be done. Never settle for inferior quality. After all, you’re paying for what you get.’
‘I was carrying on, thinking I’d get this raise, but last week my boss said there’s no question of an increment until April. I can’t manage any more. You said you’d try to help me out a bit. Even a thousand a month—’
Smiling up at the waiter like he’s an old college chum: ‘Yes, you can take it now. Jay, have you finished your soup? You ’ve hardly touched it. Yes, you can take it away, and bring us lunch quick please. I have an important meeting at 2.30.’
‘Daddy?’
‘Jay, would you mind talking softly? You must learn to control your emotions. Can’t afford to let yourself get carried away. I think I understand why your boss didn’t give you that promotion. If you are in the habit of getting so emotional in the course of your job, then—'
‘Please. Listen to me. She's becoming violent again. I can't afford to put her in a nursing home, And I don' t want to put her in a municipal hospital again. Those electric shocks... her hair's almost completely white, did you know? Come and see her. See the state she's in.'
Taking a sip of water, thin lips parting very slightly to allow the crystal a millimetre ofcontact, eyebrows rising: ‘You're still letting her drink? I thought the doctors told you not to let her touch a drop.
If you're so irresponsible, what do you expect—'
‘No. No. Drink is not her problem. Any way, I've tried everything I can to stop her. Breaking bottles, not giving her money, not buying them for her. She always finds a way to get the stuff. Once she went out to the shops and walked out with the first bottle she could get her hands on. When the owner tried to stop her, she screamed rape.
Another time, she sold off my suit—my only suit—to some hawker at Khar station and bought a whole crateful with the money. It's impossible to stop her drinking. But that's not the problem.'
‘It isn't?'
‘Those electric shocks have damaged her mind. Some days she hardly recognizes me. I... I... I don't know what's going to happen to her.'
‘Really, Jay. I'm shocked at you. You know the doctor classified her as an alcohol psychotic. That means under the influence of alcohol she exhibits symptoms of psychosis. It's highly irresponsible of you to allow her to—'
‘Don't you get it?' Jay realizes he's making more than a few heads turn, lowers his voice. ‘Don't you see? She's a gone case. There's nothing that can be done for her.'
‘Naturally, if you take a negative attitude—'
‘This is a positive attitude. If I were taking a negative attitude, I'd say that at this rate I don't think I'll get through another year, maybe not another month, or a week. Look.’
Holding out his hand, demonstrating the thin long scar over the artery. ‘She attacked me ten days ago. Yesterday she poured cold beer over my head at 5 a.m. I bought her beer because I thought milder liquor would be better, but—'
The waiter serves lunch. Jay stares down at half a crumb-fried globe of chicken breast oozing melted butter, a large portion of diced chicken in white sauce, mashed potatoes, peas, carrots on the side. Is he supposed to eat all this? A sudden vision of the art exhibition at the Taj, himself vomiting over a Rs 20,000 canvas, bringing a flood of bitter bile into his mouth, souring his tongue. His father wields a knife and fork with dexterity, slicing chicken, spearing potatoes, shovelling peas and carrots, gleaming white teeth parting to bite into a forkful, a thread of butter escaping, scurrying down his cleft chin, captured by the purple napkin, dabbed, absorbed, vanished.
‘Eat your lunch, Jay. I'm getting late.’
Numb. But not comfortably. What did he expect, after all? Too much. Sometimes he wonders what crime he committed in his previous life that this impossible burden should be visited upon him; not only the burden of his mother,
but the burden of silence, disconnection, alienation, which his father gifts him every time they meet.
Suddenly, dessert.
The waiter frowns at Jay's barely touched plate, the mashed potatoes hardened, butter congealed, as he takes it away. Jay stares down at a bowl of kulfi with swirling strands of rose falooda. He takes a bite, the cold kulfi feels good to his bile-scorched throat. Then, his father is staring accusingly at him, the waiter is waiting for the dessert dishes. He surrenders the kulfi: but it was served just a few seconds ago, wasn't it? His father signs the credit card slip with a gold Parker.
The sun hurts his eyes; the street explodes with traffic sounds around him—a bomb left by a terrorist in a portable radio, this city.
His father's car, a white Premier 118NE, backs out of its parking space, glides over to where they stand, avoiding each other's eyes, waiting to say goodbye.
But at the very last moment, as his father turns to shake hands—
an unshakeable habit—terror strikes Jay. He grips the large cold hand with both hands; a man on a precipice. ‘Daddy, please. I need some money. You said. . .'
Embarrassed, disgusted, irritated. ‘Jay, try to understand my position. I've given that woman more than her due. She put a permanent blot on my career which has taken me twenty years to wipe out through my own hard work and efforts. I can't afford to get involved with her again. Put yourself in my shoes. If I give you money once. . .Well, let's just say, I think you're old enough to stand on your two feet now. You're a man now, eh?Twenty today? Or twenty-one?
Whatever. Old enough to handle your own matters. Learn to accept your responsibilities. Learn from me.'
‘Just this once. I've never troubled you before but this time. Even about the alimony payments, you know I never—'
‘I have a 2.30 meeting, Jay. And oh, I'll be going out of town tomorrow. Travelling a lot these days. I'll call you when I get back.
Maybe after a month or so. Bit busy these days. Maybe going abroad for a couple of weeks. I'll call you. No need to contact me. I'll be in touch. Okay?'
Still Jay won't let go, can't, hands frozen, glued tight to this limb, this appendage containing the same DNA structure that formed his own body, brain, flesh, blood, hair. The car waits, engine running, door held open by the uniformed chauffeur who doesn't even recognize Jay, has no idea that this young man is his employer's son by his first wife.
‘Daddy, I need help, please. I'm going crazy.’
‘Handle it, Jay. And, oh, about that de Bono. You can keep it if you like. Consider it a birthday present. Happy birthday then. Best wishes.’
And forcibly, with a sudden savage jerk, he frees himself, raising the other hand so abruptly, Jay almost falls back, believing he’s being attacked, being struck a fatherly blow, but no, the hand swoops down to his shirt pocket, slips something inside. His father turns away, is in the car, is sitting back, scrolling up the tinted window; the driver seats himself, changes gears.
Time is fractured: Jay can't remember entering the restaurant, tasting the water which was almost the only thing he consumed. Did he just have lunch? What did they have? Not mutton curry, that was another lunch with his father. Across the road, a woman crossing with a small child causes a car to swerve violently, almost crash into another; the woman walks on slowly, totally unaware of the near accident she was almost responsible for.
His father's face, beaming up at him; a well-fed, prosperous face, balding large forehead, thin black hair combed in a side-parting. Then the car is gone; lost in traffic. To the distant left, the sea shimmers beyond Marine Drive.A double-decker bus grinds to a halt at a nearby bus stop, people claw and fight their way in, shoving back a pair of schoolgirls struggling to disembark. A crow swoops down and jabs at a smashed rat on the sidewalk, hops sideways with a thin red noodle of intestine in its beak. Jay reaches into his pocket, finds the currency note his father slipped inside on parting.
Ten rupees.
On the credit card slip his father signed inside the restaurant, he remembers seeing him add the figure 26, the waiter's tip. 26 and 10.
10 and 26.What does it mean? Mathemagic. Jay's throat hurts, he can taste kulfi on his tongue. But he hasn't eaten kulfi in years. Or has he?
He sees his father's car on the far side of the road, stopping at the signal. It must have turned around at the end of the road, doubling back in the direction of the Hobbes office at D.N. Road. In a fit of fury, he crumples the ten-rupee note, throws it down on the pavement.
The crow rises. The signal changes, the white car speeds away, its tinted glasses staring blindly back at him; out of sight. A leaf flutters to the ground.
Five minutes later, his head throbbing, throat aching, he goes over to the fallen note, hesitates for a long time, and then picks it up. He smooths it out and puts it in his wallet.
Then he walks back to office.
chapter eight
Tuli is upset. Tuli wanted Jay to get that promotion—and that raise.
Not that such things matter to Tuli herself, not at all. But they do to her parents. To her parents, Direct Marketing is meaningless; orthodox Gujarati Jains, they understand occupations like doctor, engineer, businessman; businessman being the most desirable occupation for a prospective son-in-law. But what in the world is a client-servicing executive? Which is why Tuli hoped Jay would get the promotion to group head, a term remotely but surely linked to the wonderful new world of management. Also, the jump of one grand in salary would have helped too. How could a prospective son-in-law expect to support their daughter—and his own invalid mother—on a meagre three thousand five hundred a month? Even four and a half would have seemed a bit low in view of rising prices, and the lack of a car would dampen their enthusiasm further, but these shortfalls she had intended to explain away by pointing out that he was only twenty now and surely he would acquire all the requisite status symbols by thirty if not before. As it was, they were going to have to swallow the bitter pill of his mixed parentage.Which was why the promotion and raise were so important.
‘I did my best,Tuli. If Chris hadn't hired that new group head...
anyway, I'm already looking around for better prospects. I told you about the interview I attended yesterday. Two more next week. It's only a matter of time before I find a place where they appreciate my work better. Chris is so knocked out by that female, he thinks she’s doing everything.’
‘Is she good-looking?’
‘Well, you know, the tough, independent type. Always wants things to be done in a particular way, nothing more nothing less. The other day—’
‘Is she good-looking?’
‘I don’t know, I guess it depends...’
‘What do you mean? Is she pretty or not? Or sexy? Is she sexy?’
‘It’s difficult to say. I suppose some guys would—’
‘Come on, Jay. Can’t you tell?’
‘Frankly, I haven’t looked at her too closely. Ever since she started—’
‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? And sexy.Very sexy. Did you go out with her?’
‘Are you crazy? I can’t stand the sight of her.’
‘You did, didn’t you?Where did you take her? Did you bring her here? To Sea Lounge? Is she the “friend” who you came with last time?
Did you order the same things then?’
‘Tuli, you’re beginning to sound like my mother.’
‘Fine. Pretend if you want. I can see you’re crazy about that bitch.
Are you in love with her?’
‘Tuli!This is too much. You’re making a scene. Hey, sit down. Sit down. Tuli, come back.’
‘Sit down, Mr Mehta. Shall I call you Jayesh?’
‘Jay’s fine, sir.’
‘I see by your biodata that you already have some experience as an account executive. Is this a new agency, DM?’
‘Actually it’s not an ad agency, sir. It’s a direct marketing firm.
That’s what DM stands for.’
‘Oh I see. Direct marketing
. Very interesting. Direct marketing is the wave of the future, you know. We’re thinking of starting a direct marketing division soon. In the next couple ofyears.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Of course, it hasn’t been finalized yet, but it’s on the cards.’
‘That’s nice to know, sir. There’s a lot of scope in it now. The firm I work in, DM, we’ve grown nearly 500 per cent in the last four years.’
‘Naturally. Naturally. Tell me, why do you want to switch to advertising? After all, if DM is doing so well, why do you want to leave?’
‘Well, actually, sir, I was always keen to join advertising. In fact, I’d applied here about three years ago...’
‘Here? At R.K. Swamy?’
‘Yes, sir. But you wanted someone with experience. Then I got this opening in DM and I decided that after all it would be very similar to client servicing in an ad agency, so I took it up—thought it would be good experience.’
‘I see, I see.Very interesting. Now, Jayesh, there’s one thing I must check with you before we go any further.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It says here on your biodata that you’re expecting a salary of Rs 4, 500 minimum. Isn’t that a bit on the high side? I mean, after all, it’s a juniorAE’s job.’
‘The thing is, sir, I’m already drawing a salary of three and a half, and in April—which is only few months away—I’ll be sure to get an increment of another thousand gross, so...’
‘I see, I see. That’s why I wanted to check this point with you. It’s better to clarify these matters now rather than later, don’t you think?’
‘Of course, sir. Is there a problem about the money, sir?’
‘I’m afraid so, Jayesh. You see, we normally pay junior AEs around two-five on probation, the first six months. If they’re confirmed, then they get three thousand. Ofcourse, since you have quite a bit of experience we might be willing to offer as much as three to begin with, and three-five on confirmation. That's gross, of course. And I'd have to check that with our accounts department first, naturally.'