Continued from:
Vichu, 1991, Bengaluru
The room was silent but for the low hum of the air-conditioner. There were some business newspapers on the table, each bent on outdoing the others in shallow stories. There was an Asterix comic that was a welcome outlier in the pile. I picked it up, and browsed it in a distracted manner.
The receptionist came in and told me that the interview panel was ready to see me. I picked my binder up. I briefly wondered if my tie had gone astray as it tends to do, found no reflective surfaces, and decided it didn’t matter. I walked into the interview room.
There was a woman and two men seated across the table. They smiled without warmth, and asked me to take a seat. After introductions and a few pleasantries, the woman asked me for my life story. I gave them a response, glossing over some parts that were painful to talk about. That was followed by a few questions on what I would do in response to a few hypothetical situations. I found those tiresome, and answered them as well as my limited patience would allow.
There was an uncomfortable pause as the panel exchanged a few hand-written notes between themselves.
The morose looking man who introduced himself as Raju broke the silence: ‘We are in the final leg of the interview. A few more questions. Can you tell me a compelling reason why we should pick you over all these other candidates?’
I wanted to respond with, ‘Mr. Raju, have you had to tear down a successful family business and sell it a at scrap value? Have you had to work under the burden of knowledge that you will be betraying everyone who relied on it for a living? I have firsthand knowledge of what not to do, and have been burnt by experience. I bet I’ve experienced more at this age than you have in your comfortable middle age existence.’
Externally, I said, ‘I pride myself in being able to create and evaluate ideas. I have a decent academic record. Finally, I think I did fairly well in the entrance test. They didn’t tell me the scores, but if you check it, you will be reassured as to the aptitude part.’
His face broke into a smile. This time, it didn’t seem forced. He said, ‘Mr. Vishwanathan, it’s better than that. You came first among the 120 people we’d invited for the aptitude test. Congratulations!’.
That was indeed better than I expected. It was my turn to offer an authentic smile.
They asked me what my dream job would be. I gave them a stock response. Vani would have added that I would make a great worker, as long as the work met my snobbish standards. She likes pointing out that I lose interest when I don’t regard the work as interesting. Fortunately, these people wouldn’t be meeting her.
The offer came in the next few days. Amma was thrilled to see the generous salary, and got all tearful, imagining how my father would have reacted, had he been alive. The offer advised me to have my passport ready, as there would be a trip abroad for training. I applied for a passport. I felt no thrill, looking at the world through my skeptical eyes.
****
Vani phoned me the next day to let me know that Krishnan would be in Bangalore that weekend. I found a sense of elation at rediscovering the childhood friend. There really had been no one who understood me in a non-judgmental way since his abrupt departure.
I counted the days and then hours before I could meet him for lunch. I had picked an Anglo-Indian restaurant on St. Mark’s Road that served good tea. Krishnan arrived on time, beamed, and hugged me. Not being a hugger, I responded awkwardly.
I ordered a pot of tea for myself. Krishnan made a face as he heard the word tea, and ordered a cup of coffee. That facial expression took me right back to our boyhood days. We ordered sandwiches.
He told me about his work, his bachelor life and his recent pastimes. I lingered on the topic until he brought my father up. I told him about the abrupt end.
I was finishing the first year of my M.B.A in Coimbatore. The call came early on a Sunday. I was roused from sleep by my roommate, who looked very uncomfortable as he said I had an urgent phone call. When I emerged from the room, Sami, the caretaker, appeared to be waiting for me. He quietly walked with me to the phone room. I picked up the instrument. It was Vani. She said in a few words that appa had suffered a massive heart attack, and had been hospitalized. She wanted me home immediately.
I called a taxi and left immediately. When I arrived at the hospital, appa seemed conscious, but appeared too weak to speak. Amma was incoherent in her panic. Vani was calmer, but seemed uncharacteristically shaken. As I approached appa, he opened his eyes, smiled at me, and went back to sleep. He never woke up.
The cremation and the ceremonies kept us busy in the next few days. Everyone who arrived on hearing the news expressed shock: ‘He looked young for his age. Never even complained of a headache. Just shows you how fickle we are!’ Mom cried relentlessly upon encountering each visitor.
Nagu mama appeared in as much grief as we were. On the fifth day, he approached me haltingly. “Vichu Kanna, I know this is not a good time, but we have to talk about some important…”. He appeared to lose his nerve, paused for a few seconds. “... things.”, he finished.
I walked with him to the terrace of the house.
“Has your father been telling you about his finances?”
I noticed he was using the wrong tense, I simply shook my head.
“How about Vani? Does she know?”
Vani was not interested in monetary things. I was about to say so, when I realized I had not been very keen myself, although I was financially savvier. I shook my head again.
“Do you know that your father had borrowed money?”
I gave him a puzzled look. Why did appa need to borrow money?
“He had always run in business in a lean way. I mean, without much slack in money. He would have a two week payment arrangement with the suppliers, counting on the customers to pay on time. It was working well for him. However, ever since we opened the new store across town, things have been tighter, with no room for error. Since he.. ahem.. fell ill, supplies have been coming in, but the orders have slowed. People may have heard the news and switched suppliers.”
“How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad. I can show you when you feel well enough to go to the office.”
I nodded.
“And there is one more thing. He had borrowed money to open the new store from a guy called Chinnaraju. He’s a loan shark. Interest and principal installment are due the first of every month.”
I realized the urgency. It was only a week away.
We went the same evening. Nagu mama and Ashok, his son, sat with me all night. We went through accounts payable, receivable and the bank accounts. It was clear that we had a significant shortfall. We had enough money to keep the business running. But there was no way we could pay Chinnaraju.
“This is bad news. He’s not exactly humane in how he collects his dues.”, remarked Nagu mama, looking shaken.
We made a quick plan to suspend deliveries until we used up the supplies in stock, estimated the upcoming salaries, and worked out a cash flow statement.
In the process, I discovered how little Nagu mama was being paid. And Ashok was not even an employee. They had been staying up with me all night. How was I going to repay such loyalty? I had been taking these people for granted all these days.
The next few days, I visited the stores and the factory, and was calling all the debtors to gather the dues. Everyone seemed to empathize with my situation and agreed to pay in a few days. I suspected most of them were sincere, but not all.
We managed to pay the month’s wages, but had no clarity on how sustainable the business was. I made several spreadsheets with the best case and worst case scenarios, and even my most optimistic case didn’t sound good. The orders kept coming in, but the lack of confidence from the suppliers and anxiety among the employees were palpable.
That’s when Chinnaraju, the moneylender, chose to pay a visit to my house. I was in the shop. Amma and Vani were in the house. Chinnaraju barged in with two other men, and asked when my mom intended to repay the principal. She had no idea, of course. He demanded that the principal be paid back in a week, and made some veiled threats about women’s safety if the deadline wasn’t met.
Vani phoned me. I asked her to take mom to a relative’s house and conferred with Nagu mama. The only way for us to pay Chinnaraju’s dues was to do a fire sale of the business. I brooded for a while and came to a quick decision.
I headed to see my old acquaintance Seshan, the criminal lawyer. I didn't tell Nagu mama where I was heading - he might stop me. It was strange that I thought of him. The name hadn’t entered my mind for years, and I had no contact with him since the eventful day in my boyhood. But my instinct told me that he might be able to help.
I arrived at his office, told his assistants that I needed to meet him, and sat down. He seemed thoughtful as he received me. When I tried to introduce myself, he interjected, saying he knew who I was, and offered his condolences on Appa’s passing.
Without explaining why I thought he might be able to help, I explained the situation with Chinnaraju, and asked if he could help me buy some time. He seemed thoughtful for a minute, and asked me to wait outside. After about 10 nervous minutes, he called me inside.
He addressed using the affectionate title ‘thambi’, and used the respectful plural in addressing me. ‘Thambi, I owe your family a debt of gratitude. I usually don’t get involved in the business dealings of my clients, but I may be able to talk to Chinnaraju about this. If you end up not paying him, I will be in trouble, but I feel I have to do this. Go home and expect a phone call from me tonight.’
I thanked him and turned to leave. He called after me, ‘And one more thing. Do you know Kareembhai, of the bicycle shop?’
I nodded. That was a name from my childhood. I had occasionally seen him. I knew that he had ‘retired’, after handing his businesses to his son, but hadn’t kept in great touch.
‘I’ve asked him to come and stay with you for a couple of days, just for safety. He knows all of Chinnaraju’s men, and knows what to do if anyone comes visiting. That’s just to be cautious. I think I can buy you more time. I’ll ask for two months.’
That still seemed short, but I didn’t know what to ask for. So I nodded.
When I reached home, Kareembhai was already there. He was seated on the swing in the portico, drinking the buttermilk that Amma had brought. He had brought a small bag, presumably clothes for overnight stay, and a cassette player with some tapes. He asked me where he could sleep. I showed him to my father’s office room at the entrance to the house. He promptly found a socket and plugged his cassette player in, remarking that he couldn’t sleep without listening to a few songs.
Seshan called late in the evening, giving me a new deadline two months out. I wasn’t fully confident I could meet it, but was grateful for the reprieve and thanked him profusely.
Again, how was I going to repay all these folks?
When I explained all this to Vani, she seemed shocked that I would seek the help of a notorious lawyer, but admitted that it was a creative idea that wouldn’t have occurred to her. After all, she conceded, if he made his name by supporting loan-sharks, wasn’t he the right person to help?
The two months didn’t save the business, but it saved us from bankruptcy. We were able to keep the house, and enough money to last until Vani and I finished our studies. I’d missed the academic year so had to go back the next year to finish my MBA. Vani resumed her M.Phil in English.
I sold the business to our chief competitor. I didn’t get the market value, but that was the best we could do. The buyer kept half the employees. I paid generous compensation to the others, including Nagu mama.
Krishnan seemed shell-shocked. He sat frozen as I finished the story.
(To be continued)
