Half of What I Say Page 5

  Change must come from changeless; to wit, from narratological irony, because irony is difference—what the fuck, Mitrajit? I have to ask: were you on ganja?’

  ‘No! It’s Advaita! It addresses how the Many can rise from the One. The supposed Achilles heel of Advaita. Where does difference come from? Flip the question on its belly.’ Mitrajit’s hand demonstrated. ‘Why does the question make a difference? At first I was like you: where is proof, where is proof ? Wrong approach, no offence. I asked myself: Bandho, suppose we probe evolution narratologically?’

  ‘Dude—’

  ‘Yes, it’s a radical view. Long story short, the difference problem is solved in series. From the centre derive the margin and from the margin derive the hybrid—Goldschmidt’s hopeful monsters, et cetera—and from the hybrid derive the transitional. Voila. Tree of life. Okay, math is to be done, but at least I made an innovative use of Hegel’s dialectic!’

  ‘Who’s Hegel?’ Kannagi recalled Helga DeWitt, the hot Dutch theorist who never wore bras.

  ‘The philosopher! You don’t know Hegel!’

  ‘Nope.’ Kannagi wondered if Hegel wore bras. ‘What does all this have to do with convergence rates?’

  ‘Okay, forget Advaita. Too advanced. Let’s do modern poetry. Ammons? You’ve heard of Ammons. Very famous American poet of place. Ammons says the same thing, let’s not preconceive the boundaries of the possible and then complain: how do I squeeze life into it, how do I squeeze life into it? See, even your countrymen agree. Now—’

  ‘Again, what does all this have to do with convergence rates?’

  ‘I am trying to explain, no? I said to myself: Bandho, what does a simulation of evolution simulate? It simulates space. It simulates time. It simulates reproduction. It simulates chance. Now a tongue cannot taste itself. A mirror cannot reflect itself. A novel cannot contain itself. What can a simulation of evolution not evolve?—’

  Kannagi held up her hand. Time out. It wouldn’t be easy to help Mitrajit, but it was worth a try.

  ‘Look, I’ll be honest. I respect that you were nuts enough to answer your own questions in my exam paper. Now, it’s not that—’

  ‘Professor, if you let me—’

  She again held up a hand. ‘Hold on. Let me finish. It’s not that your questions aren’t cool. They are. But if you want to get a handle on them, word-fucking me isn’t going to cut it. You’ll probably need something like Category theory or model theory. Trouble is, that stuff is seriously hardcore and we both know you can’t hack math. You gotta be honest with yourself. Find something else to do, Mitrajit. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief.’

  Her cell began to ring. Kannagi didn’t recognize the number; it had to be one of her fab-jab students. Well, she’d promised them 24/7 access. She glanced at Mitrajit to mouth an ‘excuse me’, but the student was cradling his head. Christ.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Professor Kannagi? Please can I speak with Professor Kannagi?’ The woman’s English lacked confidence but the voice sounded familiar. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Didi, I’m Shabari.’ She had shifted to Hindi. ‘Do you remember me? I am Durga-ji’s PA? I taught you how to draw rangoli?’

  ‘Shabari! Yes, of course. What a silly question. Of course I remember. How are you? It’s been a long time. How’s Sudhir?’

  ‘Somehow managing, Didi. Didi, I need your help. I’m in trouble and I don’t know who else to turn to.’

  Shabari wanted a job. A well-paying one. Durga had paid her very well—well enough to take care of Sudhir, her diabetic son. Now Durga was dead and given the circumstances she was finding it hard to get a job. She was also voluptuous, which didn’t help. Shabari sounded exhausted.

  ‘Sounds really tough, Shabari. Wish I could hire you. But I can’t.

  I can’t afford it and I don’t need a PA—’

  ‘Didi, I was hoping maybe your sister needed someone. I heard she has a big house. If you could ask her, I will be eternally grateful. I’m working two jobs now and it’s still not enough to manage all the medical bills. And to leave Sudhir all alone, its risky—please, if you can help in any way.’

  Shabari recounted how Sudhir had had an episode the day before. She’d been working, his blood glucose had risen to 170 and he’d tried to apply a manual correction. The glucose meter must have been faulty because hypoglycemia had set in, Sudhir had fainted in the school yard, etc. Bottom line: Sudhir could have slipped into a coma.

  Holy shit. No wonder Shabari was freaked out. Kannagi massaged her forehead, considered possibilities. Akka was always hiring and firing. That was the problem though. Shabari needed something stable.

  ‘Okay, I’ll check with Akka. But Shabari, I must warn you, she’s high maintenance. Not mellow like Durga—’

  ‘I’ll do whatever she asks.’

  ‘Don’t tell her that.’

  ‘I’m desperate, Didi.’

  Was Shabari asking for a loan? That wasn’t a problem, but again, it would be hard to find a long-term solution offering Shabari an income anywhere close to what Durga had provided.

  Akka was the best option. Her sister had infinite minions. One plus infinity wouldn’t break the bank. She could see Shabari working in the Dixit household. Shabari was attractive and radically competent. Yeah, it would work out.

  ‘Well, don’t do anything desperate Shabari. I’m pretty sure I can get Akka to hire you. That’ll give us some time.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you Didi. If I can help in any way with your office work, maybe filing or typing or something like that—’

  ‘Nah, I’m good.’ Kannagi gazed around her office. Hardly any papers or files, no books. She wasn’t sure she even needed an office. ‘I handle my own email. And don’t thank me yet. Let’s get you the job first. Do you need a loan to tide you over? You can pay me later. I don’t know anything about children, but you can park Sudhir with me in a pinch. Okay?’

  Silence.

  ‘Shabari?’ said Kannagi.

  ‘I suddenly remembered Durga-ji, that’s all.’ Her voice was all wobbly. ‘God bless you, Didi. If you will ask Padma-ji for this favour, I will be grateful for life.’

  ‘Hey, mention not. We girls need to stick together. I’ll call you in the evening. Don’t worry.’

  Kannagi made a note, put away the smartphone. She tilted her chair back, put her feet on the desk, flexed her toes. Ahhh. Teaching was brutal on the feet. She refocused on Mitrajit.

  ‘Okay, Mitrajit. Looks like we’re done grab-assing here, so—’

  The grad student raised his tear-stricken face.

  ‘Mitrajit… C’mon, yaar. Nothing’s that bad. Get a grip.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ moaned Mitrajit. ‘Can’t you do something? I’ll retake the test. You helped that woman friend. Please also help me.’

  ‘I’m trying. I wish we’d had this chat a year earlier.’

  ‘Please. I can do the math.’

  ‘It’s not just about the math. She paused, thinking. ‘It’s like Feynman said: ‘To do Physics you gotta have style.’ Your style is suited for philosophy or literature, not computer science.’ ‘Please.’

  ‘This is happening, Mitrajit. Accept it.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You’re in denial!’ Kannagi flexed her neck. ‘Tell you what. Got any family?’

  ‘All Hindus are my brothers and sisters. On that basis Professor, can’t you, please? For a fellow brother?’

  ‘I am trying to help. But I can’t help you in the specific way you want me to, Mitrajit. You’re out of the program. You’ve failed thrice. That’s the max.’

  ‘Please pass me on the Quant section.’

  ‘But you failed.’

  ‘Please. Just adjust.’

  ‘Now you’re crossing the line.’ She paused, counted to four.

  Dude was just desperate, that’s all. ‘I think we’re done here. Good luck, Mitrajit.’

  For a second she thought Mitrajit was about to hurl something at her. Crazy
eyes. Furrowed brows. Then without any warning whatsoever, Mitrajit dived under the desk, latched on to her ankles, buried his head at her feet and began to moan unintelligible words.

  ‘Mitrajit!’ His eyelashes tickled her feet and it generated a memory. The first night in India, after their forced return from San Francisco by the 90s American economy, she’d awoken to a cockroach crawling over her lips. She’d caught the roach and shown the struggling critter to Akka. Her sister had first freaked, then taken it as an oracle: they would survive. Akka had needed new oracles. She’d lost all faith in poor old dad.

  Kannagi tried to extract her feet, but Mitrajit hung on, ramping up his moans, apologizing, soaking her toes, fluttering his creepy eyelashes.

  ‘Dude! Leggo my feet. Get up!’

  Mitrajit finally settled back in his chair. She gave him time to regain his composure. And hers. Effing A! What the hell had that all been about?

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Get real! You’re looking at this all wrong. This is only a setback, not the end of the world. Here’s what I’d do if I were you. I’d go home. I’d chill with the family unit. I’d try to visualize a different life. Don’t think too much. The Brain’s always got hazaar excuses for not doing anything. Think with actions. Just do something. Anything. Shake the tree a bit, see what happens. You’ll be surprised. Idea! That narratology stuff sounds like your real groove’s in the Humanities. Why not hook up with that Hegel prof in philosophy? Sounds like the lady’s on your wavelength. Then—’

  ‘CHHUP! Who do you think you are?’ He sprang to his feet, face contorted with rage. Or perhaps it was humiliation. The veins on his forehead throbbed. She’d never seen veins throb with such comic-book realism. ‘I don’t need life advice from you, you HEARTLESS BITCH!’

  ‘Mitrajit—’

  He was already at the door. On his way out, Mitrajit savagely yanked Darwin’s bust off the bookcase. It fell with a heavy thud onto the concrete floor, shattered. The door slammed behind him. Kannagi remained seated, stunned by the ferocity of his reaction. Okay, then. So much for trying to help. Consider the matter closed.

  Not an option, Kannagi.

  Ah, fuck. She’d have to go after him. In this state of mind, Mitrajit was liable to do something totally stupid. She pushed back her chair, grabbed her cell, navigated around the mess on the floor, ran out. She heard voices down the corridor and ran, barefoot, to the main office. Yashpal was retrieving his snail-mail. John Liu was struggling with the ancient Xerox machine. The Department Head, or Dharmaraj as she called him, was flirting with Hansa, the office assistant. They all looked up.

  ‘Hey guys, seen Mitrajit?’

  ‘Last seen fleeing a heartless bitch,’ said Dharmaraj, grinning.

  ‘Who knew we only needed a heartless bitch to get rid of that loser?’ said Yashpal, grinning.

  ‘Do heartless bitches dream of Biryani lunches?’ said Liu, grinning.

  Clowns. She was surrounded by clowns. But she was relieved. If they didn’t think it was a big deal, maybe it wasn’t. Mitrajit would be fine; he’d get drunk, slap dick with his wolf pack, cuss her out, blah blah. Maybe she should have been—shoulda, coulda, woulda. Let it go, Kannagi.

  Lunch it was. John Liu couldn’t get enough of Hyderabadi biryani, so there was no uncertainty as to the destination. She didn’t feel like talking but then Liu raised a cool theory problem. He said he was trying to show that spatial allocation problems were indistinguishable from contagion processes. Oh, that reminds me of Fisher’s work on heterogeneity, she said, and began to excitedly outline the basic theory of mixing distributions. It was only when they’d reached the Viva Hyderabadi and the street dogs sniffed and whined and wagged their greetings—they knew their sister wouldn’t forget them—that it struck her Liu very likely knew all about Fisher’s bloody theorem. He must have been trying to lift her mood. Well, Johnny meri jaan, consider it lifted. The waiter didn’t even bother to take their orders.

  ‘Didn’t go well, I take it?’ said John Liu.

  ‘Blew chunks.’

  Literally, she thought. Wait a minute. The Darwin bust had fractured pretty badly. Why not complete the job? Grind it to rice-powder consistency, prepare a sticky surface, and then have one of her programs use the powder to draw a kolam on the surface. Her programs could already handle drafting printers. Wouldn’t be too hard to get them to control CNC machines. Maybe she could get one of the fab-jab kids to write the interface code. Kind of thing they would love, the freaks. They were nuts about 3D-printing. In short, if everything went well, she’d have yet another objet d’art from the Boorzua Art movement, current population one. Or ten, if her programs were counted as the real artists. All right! If life hands you a cockroach, make cockroach juice. ‘Aha, there’s that smile.’ Liu clinked his fork and spoon. ‘Don’t let losers like Mishra get you down.’

  ‘Mitrajit. I bet you don’t have these problems at UT Austin.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ he said, dryly. ‘Incidentally Kay, I’ve some news. Simon Loeb and Puneet Krishnan are going to be in town. Chuck Barsamian too.’

  ‘No way!’ And when he smiled, she added excitedly, ‘We gotta organize something.’

  ‘No, no. Officially, they’re in Kanpur to discuss a possible partnership between NYU and one of those new IITs. Their schedule’s tight. Puneet might not make it. They’re all headed for the ACM conference in Paris so they can’t be here for more than a day, max. The point is to meet with you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Excuse me, I’m dreaming, John, please butt out.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s real. NYU is very interested. You’re on their shortlist. Simon and Chuck have been pushing hard for you.’ Then he gave her a shrewd glance. ‘You’re still on the fence, aren’t you?’

  ‘That would be crazy. Do you know how hard it is for American universities to hire international faculty?’

  ‘I do. But you are, aren’t you? Still undecided.’

  ‘Yeah, kinda.’ Kannagi poked at the rubbery meat. It was either a breakthrough in Artificial Life or a rat.

  ‘Why? It’s not like anything’s keeping you here. Durga’s gone.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And you’ve cut loose your only PhD student.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And you’ve broken up with your politician fellow.’

  ‘Yup.’ She was over Sawai Gawai and his growly bajri-roti voice.

  Yes sir.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, this is home. I’m beginning to be useful here. Plus, you know, the whole family thing.’

  Kannagi could tell Liu hadn’t liked the answer. Couldn’t be helped. She didn’t like the answer either, but she simply wasn’t ready to make up her mind yet.

  ‘Yeah, family,’ said Liu. ‘Family is important. When did you return from San Francisco, Kay? Ten years ago? Twelve? You were fifteen, right? So where’s your real home? Got to be rational about these decisions.’ Liu peered at his biryani, as if it held the secret to life. Looked up, raised a fork. It said: the foodie has passion, but no loyalties. ‘Forget all this patriotism crap. Seriously. You want to be useful, help the entire world. Science is global, Kay. You need to be with the best minds in the world.’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Kannagi. ‘How’s your rat meat?’

  4

  ‘ACTION.’

  Third take. Saya stirred the gummy non-food, then poured the coloured potion into the pot. A smile. The potion would compel the stern police inspector who’d rescued her from the disreputable ladies hostel to fall in love with her.

  ‘Cut!’

  Saya lowered the spatula, relieved that Sid had also realized the smile hadn’t worked. She had known it hadn’t worked. The smile had been a gloat. Sid’s production assistant came over and pulled down her T-shirt’s sleeves.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Saya shrugged the girl’s hand away and bunched the sleeves back up. The assistant didn’t reply. Her hangdog demeanor begged
for a slap. ‘Go away, shoo!’

  ‘Scar is showing, madam.’

  ‘It has to be shown, that’s why it’s showing. Go away.’ Saya shoved the assistant away, but the bitch continued to hover. ‘Sid!’

  The director was busy showing off his FTII training with the cameraman, Gopal. Yes, yes, you have to point the lens at the object.

  ‘Siddharth!’

  The director broke off his conversation with the cameraman and strolled over. Saya readied for a fight. Two shouts, what the hell?

  ‘Saya-ji, I spoke with Gopal-ji. He agrees the scar doesn’t work. You know he’s always right.’

  ‘You wanted me to look natural. A natural woman has scars.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The director looked away. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but your fans don’t come to the theatre to see your vaccination marks. They can see that on their fat wives for free. See—’ Sid’s English-accented Hindi was like the man: inadequate yet condescending. His struggles with Hindi got amplified into larger and larger hand gestures, until he began to resemble a puppet twisting on invisible strings. The director may have sensed it because he abruptly calmed, took a deep breath, exhaled. ‘Trust me, Saya-ji. I’m the director. I know what I’m doing. Please?’

  ‘Director-sahib, I trust you completely. By the by, was the smile okay?’

  ‘Smile? Yes, yes, it was fantastic. But the scars diverted the attention. Now there’ll be no problem.’

  She hid her disappointment. ‘Okay, but first let’s take a break.’

  ‘I was about to say the same thing.’ Siddharth gestured to the crew. ‘Take five, everybody.’

  Bindu, her secretary, hurried over. Her plain face was locked in its characteristic mix of bossiness and concern. Bindu had the assistants set up the privacy screen.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ asked Bindu.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘You just had a hefty lunch a short while ago. Aloo-parathas with butter. You want more?’ ‘Charbi saali!’ Saya struck without warning but Bindu sprang out of her grasp.