Book Review: Singing to the Dead by Caro Ramsay

Caro Ramsay is a new writer on the block who was described as a ‘female Ian Rankin’ after her critically acclaimed first novel ‘Absolution’ was published. I have read a fair number of detective stories and I believe that among contemporary detective fiction writers, Ian Rankin is numero uno. I haven’t read Ramsay’s first novel ‘Absolution’, but after reading ‘Singing to the Dead’, I can say that Ramsay does deserve to be called the ‘female Ian Rankin’. And I am not saying this because both writers are Scottish.

I think it is tougher to review detective fiction than any other form of writing since it is so very important to not give the plot away. What’s the point in reading a detective story if you already know the plot? Not only should the reviewer not even hint at the ending, it is also important to not to give readers (of the review) too much of an idea as to what to expect in the book. On the other hand, by saying too little, the reviewer may fail to convey his impressions and criticisms of the book. One needs to strike just the right balance, not an easy task, so wish me luck.

Unlike Rankin’s Inspector Rebus stories which are set mainly in Edinburgh, ‘Singing to the Dead’ is set in Glasgow. It’s just before Christmas and it’s snowing. The Partickhill police squad has a new boss, who isn’t very popular. Many officers at the squad are down with flu and the ones still on their feet are constantly fighting. At such a delicate time, emergencies erupt. Two boys go missing in quick succession and a series of cyanide poisonings take place. Local lad Rogan O’Neill has returned to Glasgow with his very beautiful Canadian (and pregnant) girlfriend so that the baby can be delivered in Scotland. The squabbling police officers set out (in their own divergent ways) to solve the crimes. And then a third child, the son of one of the policemen, goes missing.

Ramsay’s standout achievement in this novel is that though there are more than a dozen major characters, she manages to dab flesh and blood on each of them. There are good people, bad people and many shades of grey. Ramsay is very effective in showing us various hues of each character and at times, suddenly without much warning, a character’s colour changes from black to white or to grey. Just as in Rankin’s Inspector Rebus stories, the rivalries and petty politics between the detectives is fleshed out in great detail and form a brilliant backdrop to the crimes.

If you like Ian Rankin, especially his Inspector Rebus series, you will like Ramsay’s ‘Singing to the Dead’.

Noriko Calderon's Case - Is the Japanese Immigration Department Unduly Harsh?

Arlan Cruz Calderon and his wife Sarah Calderon illegally migrated to Japan in the early 1990s from their home in the Philippines. Their daughter Noriko was born in Japan. Arlan got himself a job with a construction company and Noriko went to school like any other Japanese girl, until the Calderons were detected in 2006 had deportation proceedings initiated against them.

The Calderons fought the immigration department’s deportation ruling till the last minute. Finally, the inevitable could no longer be avoided. The Calderon’s were asked to leave Japan and under Japanese law they cannot return for five years.

Daughter Noriko, however, was given a choice. She could leave Japan for the Philippines with her parents or she could stay back though she is not a Japanese national. Being born in Japan does not confer automatic citizenship, unless at least one parent is a Japanese national.

Thirteen year old Noriko opted to stay back in Japan and on 15 April 2009, the Calderons arrived at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport in Manila.

The Calderons’ lawyers collected around 2,000 signatures in support of the Calderons right to stay back. It was argued that Arlan has a stable job and that Noriko can speak only Japanese. The immigration department refused to budge.

The Japanese immigration department’s decision has been attacked by many as cruel and harsh on the Calderons. But is it? Consider this:

1. Noriko is not being forced to stay back. She has the option of going back to Philippines with her parents.

2. Should an illegal immigrant(s) get favourable treatment solely because s/he has a child?

3. Is going back to Philippines the end of the world? Philippines may not be a developed country, but surely people do get by over there.

There is no doubt that Japanese immigration law is very harsh compared to that of other developed countries. In the US, any child born in the US is entitled to US citizenship, irrespective of the status of the child’s parents. This used to be the case in the UK till 1983. Currently, any child born in the UK (even to illegal immigrants) can become a British citizen if the child lives in the UK until the age of 10.

By contrast, Japan does not have any form of amnesty for illegal immigrants. Being born in Japan does not confer citizenship, unless at least one parent is a Japanese national. Therefore, one finds many Japanese residents of foreign descent and nationality, especially Koreans, who have lived in Japan for many generations. Of course, Japan is not the only developed country with such harsh laws.

Swiss immigration laws are almost as harsh. Being born in Switzerland does not entitled one to Swiss nationality at any point. There are many foreign nationals who have lived in Switzerland for their entire lifetimes, who are unable to get Swiss citizenship. Theoretically, anyone who has lived in Switzerland for a dozen years and can speak one of the four Swiss languages can apply for Swiss nationality. A decision is made by the local Canton on the basis of how well the applicant has integrated into Swiss life. Many applicants are rejected. As a result, there are third generation Swiss residents who do not have Swiss nationality. In 2004, a bill was introduced which sought to give automatic Swiss nationality to individuals who have lived in Switzerland for three generations and an easier naturalisation process for the second generation. The bill was rejected, mainly as a result of opposition from the German speaking parts of Switzerland.

Of course, there are very rich countries whose immigration laws are much harsher than Switzerland or Japan. I am referring to the Sheikdoms in the middle-east, like Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, but I wouldn't call them developed countries.

There is no doubt in my mind that Japan’s immigration laws are harsh. However, I don’t think the Japanese immigration department is being unduly harsh on the Calderons or on Noriko.

Short Story: Redemption

Alok switched off his laptop and prepared to leave for the day. It was half past seven, another two hours to go before the summer sun set. Actually he could have stayed on at his desk for another hour, but the bells of St. Clements, which was just across the road, had been ringing away to glory for the last fifteen minutes, giving him a massive headache. In any event the leftover work was not due in for another couple of days. There was no point in prolonging his stay in the office when the blasted church bells were making such a din.

Richard was the only other person left in the office. When Alok tucked his laptop into the high security cabinet in the corner, Richard looked up from his desk and asked, ‘leaving for the day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s a change. For once you’re leaving before I do.’

‘I still have some stuff to finish. But these bloody bells are giving me a headache.’

‘Ummm. You’re damn right. You’d think someone would ban this sort of racket in the city.’

Alok continued with his preparations for departure. He put on his jacket and patted the pockets to check that his wallet, keys and oyster card* were in place.

As he walked out, he stopped for a second and asked Richard, ‘I’m going to stop for a drink on the way. Do you want to come along?’

‘Hmmm. Tempting. But not today. I was out late last night and tomorrow’s going to another late night. I’m taking the Winchester gang out tomorrow. And it’s only Tuesday yet.’

‘Never mind. I’ll just have a quick one and push off.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Never mind.’

As Alok closed the door behind him, Richard said, ‘Listen,……’

Alok came back. ‘Hmmm?’

‘Never mind. I’m sorry. I was just wondering if I should just dump this report and come along. But no. I can’t. Sorry.’

‘Never mind.’

‘You could ask Jamie. He’s always up for a drink.’

‘No. Never mind.’

‘Have you asked him already?’

‘No I didn’t. But I heard him say he’s going somewhere.’

‘You should ask out that pretty one on the tenth floor. Isn’t she from your part of the world?’

‘Sort of. Not really. She’s Sri Lankan. I think so anyway.’

‘Is that a big difference? You could still ask her out. I think she fancies you.’

Alok grunted and walked out. He better restart going to the gym and burn off that excess energy which had a tendency to turn into fat on his five feet eight inches frame. It was a criminal waste to pay eighty pounds a month for membership in a gym in the heart of the city and not use it. He would have a quick drink and then go home. He wouldn’t be able to sleep without a glass of wine inside him. It was dangerous he knew, to be in a state where he needed a drink to fall asleep.

He reached the Counting House and looked inside. It was full of people, city types like him, dressed in suits, pinstripes and ties, talking, smiling and laughing, all at once. It took him a full two minutes to make his way to the bar.

‘A glass of wine please. The house white.’

‘Large or small.’

‘Large. No. Make it small.’

He would have a small glass of wine and go home. Richard was right. It was only Tuesday yet. He still had to get through three more days. And then it would be the weekend. The weekend was a pain, but he could always go away somewhere. Take the Eurostar to Paris or catch a flight to Geneva and come back on Sunday. There was something about a different city which made him feel less lonely.

Alok picked up his glass of wine and walked to a corner. He wondered if he ought to pretend he was waiting for someone, but then, he didn’t really care. He sipped his wine and looked around. There was a bloke in his early twenties who looked as if he was genuinely waiting for someone. He would take out his mobile and hold it in front of him to check for messages. Or dial a number, hold the mobile to his ear and then hang up with a shake of his head. Around five minutes later, a young girl came in, looked around and rushed into his arms. Now he was only the only person in the room who was alone.

No, he didn’t mind. Not everyone who was with someone else was happy. There was that blond girl who kept looking at her watch every twenty seconds, waiting for an excuse to leave. The two men and woman she was with were all having a good time, laughing a lot and looking very relaxed. There was a Chinese guy with two tall white men, most probably a visitor from the Beijing or Shanghai branch office being taken out for a drink by his head office colleagues. All three men were smiling all the time, the white men with permanent plastic grins and the Chinese man with a painfully polite smile. I’m sure all three of them would rather be elsewhere, Alok chuckled to himself.

Alok downed the last drops from his glass and walked out. He could do it! Stopping after his first glass was not so difficult. No, he was in no danger of turning into a drunk. He was not one of those men who couldn’t sleep without a few large glasses of liquor in their stomachs. Not someone who binge-drank even without any company.

He reached Bank station and took the Northern Line to Kings Cross St. Pancras from where he switched to the Piccadilly Line. Barely ten minutes later, he got off at Holloway Road. As he left the station and started the ten-minute walk to his flat, a man walked past him and spoilt it all. He was a man in his late thirties, with his mobile phone to his ear.

‘Honey, I’ll home in five minutes,’ the man said. And then he added, ‘Has he slept yet?’ The pain hit Alok with the force of a gale. He had done that so many times before. Honey I’ll be home in an hour’s time. Darling, I’ve just got off the tube. I’ll be home in ten minutes. Has Sagan slept yet? He would ask. And Chaaya would say, No, he’s still waiting up for you. Come home soon.

Alok clutched his stomach and bent down in the middle of the footpath. If only that man hadn’t asked about his child! Just to think that he had almost made it home after a single small glass of wine! He straightened up and, despite the pain, started to walk forward once more. The pain eased in a few minutes and he took a few deep breaths. But he now desperately needed another drink.

He shifted his body slightly so that some additional weight was transferred to his right leg. As he walked forward, he stomped his right leg down with each alternate step he took. If only he had the courage to chop off his right leg! He hated his right leg intensely. If only it had been quicker on the brakes that night when they were all driving back, he would be going back home to Sagan and Chaaya. He definitely ought to chop off his leg. No, not by himself! No! He was a coward, incapable of something like that. But he could go to a doctor and get it amputated. He would then get himself one of those artificial contraptions and get by. It was a really good idea. He had absolutely no use for his right leg. He had sold the BMW after the accident, or what was left of it and not bought another car. God, he would never buy a car or even drive again. The pain returned to his guts and leg with full vigour.

Before long, he found a pub. It was one to which he had never been to. It looked a little rowdy even from outside and when he went inside, he found it to be fully packed. God! He ought to have stayed on at the Counting House with all those safe and boring bankers inside and had a few more drinks before he left. If only he had stayed on for a second drink, he wouldn’t have had to listen to that idiot’s conversation which had now ruined his evening.

He made his way to the bar, a task which took him almost five minutes, even though he only had to cover a few metres. ‘A bottle of white wine,’ he ordered.

‘Any wine?’

‘What’s your house white?’

‘Chardonnay.’

‘Yes, I’ll go for a bottle of Chardonnay.’

‘One glass? Two glasses?’

‘Just one glass please.’ The bartendress gave him a strange look. She had half a dozen piercings in each ear and her eyes had red highlighting.

Alok looked around him. The men were all focussed on a football game shown on two large TV screens kept in the room. No wonder the pub was packed. Arsenal was playing one of those Spanish clubs, it seemed. Alok was not a football fan, despite having lived in the UK for almost ten years. At one point he had tried to work up some enthusiasm for soccer, even deciding on ManU as his favourite team, but he hadn’t had much success. And after the accident, he had given up his budding passion for soccer all together. And it was not just football, he was not even interested in cricket these days.

Alok took his wine bottle and glass to an empty table which did not have a view of the TV screens. It was clear that he was the only one in the pub who was not an Arsenal fan. He poured himself a drink and took a big gulp. God! He needed the drink. He would have to get drunk tonight before he went home. There was no way on earth he could go home in a sober state. He ought to give up that flat and move elsewhere. It was more than a year now, but he could still smell the smells and hear the sounds as he walked in.

When Alok was half-way through his bottle, he realised that the men were not staring at the screens anymore. Instead, they were talking loudly among themselves. The game must be at half-time, he realised.

‘You, over there, you ain’t one of us, right?’

Alok knew the drill. ‘No,’ he said with a small shake of his head, giving the hooligan the most polite smile possible. He then looked down and sat very still. It was so, so very stupid of him to have walked into a pub of this sort on the day of a big football match.

‘That fancy stuff. It ain’t do you much good,’ a man standing three feet away from said. Someone threw an empty beer can at him, missing him by a few feet. There was some derisory laughter. Alok was not too frightened. There was a security camera pointing vaguely in his direction and in any event, the chances of anyone assaulting him within the pub was not very high. The football fans just wanted to have some fun. However, he ought to leave now, if he had any sense. He could take the bottle of wine with him and go home and drink it there. The men were unlikely to follow him out of the pub till the game got over. No, he would wait till the interval got over and then leave once the men started looking at the TV screens again.

A man walked past him and trod lightly on his right foot, as he walked past. ‘I’m sorry mate,’ he apologised with mock solemnity.

‘Fuck you,’ Alok shouted back as his right leg throbbed with intense pain.

‘We got a brave un ere,’ the man shouted to his friends. ‘Why don’t you come outside and we could settle matters to our satisfaction?’ he asked Alok.

A small crowd gathered around Alok. He quickly finished off his glass and said, ‘I never fight until I finish my second bottle.’

Someone spat on his face from a distance of three feet. There were giggles. ‘Why don’t you bastards go watch your miserable game? When it’s over, we’ll all go outside.’ Alok told the crowd in general.

‘Deal. It’s a deal. Oh! You be one big, brawny brave un, I swear.’ Someone came over and patted him on his back with genuine affection.

Alok was scared, but the pain in his right leg gave him courage. But he might as well get properly drunk before he went out. He poured the last bit of wine into his glass and started drinking.

‘Ten quid says he will not stay on his feet for more than a minute.’ The men started placing bets on him. By now Alok was really scared, but it was too late to do anything much. He could try and call the police, but if the crowd saw him take out his mobile, they’d tear him to pieces. He wondered if any of the bartenders would do anything. Very unlikely! He ought to have stayed at the Counting House!

Thankfully the match started and the men stopped paying him much attention. Alok finished his glass and went up to the bar for another bottle of Chardonnay.

‘The bastard’ll get too drunk,’ some one yelled, but no one did anything to him. In fact, they actually made way for him to get to the bar and go back to his seat. What was that story he had read many years ago when he was in college from Steinbeck’s Long Valley collection? The Raid? Two labour organisers were about to be lynched by a mob. It won’t hurt. Not one bit, the senior one amongst the two men had told the other. It must be true. He desperately hoped that it wouldn’t hurt.

A collective aaaagghh went up. The other side must have scored against Arsenal, Alok thought. He realised that he wanted to, or rather ought to, take a leak. Maybe he could call the police emergency number from the loo. As he got up someone noticed and said, ‘the wog’s a-leavin.’

‘Just to the gents,’ Alok pointed to the sign saying Toilets and gave the mob a big smile. A tall and clean shaven man walked up to him and roughly shoved him back to his seat. Alok stood up once more, but now he was feeling very light-headed. He was pushed back into his seat once more.

‘Fuck you bastard,’ he screamed at the man.

‘Just wait you monkey, I’m gonna tear you up inna tiny lil pieces.’

There was nothing much to do other than to sit back and drink. After a few minutes, Alok felt warm piss dribbling out of him to the seat. Soon it became a torrent. It didn’t matter, did it? Soon, nothing would matter.

There was one more collective exclamation and a few seconds of stunned silence. ‘Two down and just ten more minutes to go,’ he heard a commentator say on TV. Alok considered dashing to the door and making good his escape. He stood up and realised that he was reasonably drunk, but the place was still jam packed and unless they made way for him, he was going nowhere.

‘Why don’t we go out now?’ a man turned around and suggested to him.

‘That’ll be more fun than watching this shit,’ his neighbour agreed.

Alok quickly drank the last of his wine and picked up his bag. He was quite drunk, but he was very scared too. Should he put up the pretence of a fight? No, it would be best to go down quickly. No, he would stay on his feet, for if he went down, they might kick him to death.

‘Ready mate?’ a man asked him with the sort of kindness and affection one would show to a prize bull being sent into a bull fighting ring .

‘Giv’im an ‘ed start,’ someone suggested and they quickly made way for him to leave. There was not much to do, but to start running. Alok wanted to laugh. Sagan and Chaaya must have suffered a lot more when they crashed. If only Sagan hadn’t made a big fuss and insisted on sitting in front, he might have been saved. No, if Sagan had not insisted on sitting in front, Chaaya would have sat where Sagan sat. If only his right leg had pressed the brakes two seconds earlier, if only…

As the cold air hit him, Alok realised that he was now out of the pub. He started to run along the pavement, back to the tube station rather than towards his home, his heart thudding with fear and his head throbbing. If only he could get to the station, there would be people and security cameras around! The summer sun had disappeared and the footpath was deserted and dark. If only he had waited till the game was over, there would have been a lot of people on the streets and somebody might have saved him from the mob. He was such a fool. He should have had two or three more drinks at the Counting House, got slightly drunk and then gone home. He might not even have paid much attention to the man with the mobile phone.

There was no other sound for a few moments after which he heard a howl as ten or eleven men rushed after him.

The glancing blow to his head was not meant to drop him to the ground, but Alok did go down. He lay on the ground and waited for them to kick him, hoping they would kick his right leg. Instead, they solicitously helped him to his feet and then someone punched on his nose. He went down again, only to be propped up once more. This time it was a fist in his stomach. The dull pain he felt was more because he was scared and breathless, rather than from the blows.

‘You dirty Paki,’ someone said and laughed aloud. He was cuffed on the head by someone. Alok staggered around like a headless chicken. They were having fun with him. Why didn’t they get over with it?

‘Kick his sweet brown arse!’ And someone obligingly kicked him from behind.

‘You bloody bastards,’ Alok shouted through his bleeding mouth and rushed at the man closest to him, swinging his bag which he still held in his hand. The man he rushed at, a short squat man with a crew cut, neatly sidestepped him and punched him on his jaw. This time Alok went down with a heavy thud.

Someone kicked him in his stomach. There was some laughter. An African man came up to him and asked, ‘where next?’ There were more hoots of laughter. He felt a kick to his ribs, there were more kicks on his back and shoulders and then he lost consciousness.

When he came to, he was in the hospital. A nurse was standing next to him. He lips were swollen and he could barely speak.

‘How do you feel, m’dear?’ she asked him.

Alok regarded the nurse for a moment. There was something very important that he wanted to know. What was it? He wracked his brains for the answer.

‘Are you in pain?’ the nurse asked him.

‘What are the damages?’ Alok replied.

The nurse was a young woman with a very kind face. She took a deep breath and said, ‘two broken ribs, a broken nose, two front teeth broken, your collar bone is cracked and …. and … your knee cap is busted. It’ll be a while before you can walk again.’

‘Which knee cap?’ Alok earnestly asked.

The nurse did not understand him.

‘Which knee cap?’ he asked again. ‘Right or left?’ There was no sensation in either of his legs.

‘Why do you ask? Oh! It’s the right one,’ the nurse informed Alok.

It took Alok a few second to digest the information after which, to the nurse’s shock and astonishment, a slow smile spread across his bruised, swollen lips.
________________________________________

*A prepaid electronic card used to travel on the London underground.

Book Review: Starfishing by Nicola Monaghan

Starfishing is the story of Frankie Cavanagh, an ambitious, smart and pretty girl from Ilford (a working class district in the north east of Greater London) who manages to get away from her father and go to the City, as the square mile in east-central London where banks, insurance companies and stock brokers are crammed in, is called. Frankie’s dad wants her to marry a man who drives a white van and have kids. When an Ilford girl or an Essex girl (Frankie tells us that there is a difference between the two) goes to the City, it is usually to work as a secretary and find a husband. Instead Frankie gets a derivatives trader’s job.

Starfishing is also the story of a girl who craves for excitement and lives life to the fullest. Frankie drinks like a fish, does drugs of all kinds and has an affair with her married boss Tom Philips. Frankie doesn’t do ‘love’ however. Or does she?

Starfishing is a thriller since Frankie and Tom take all sorts of risks, ranging from doing a ‘runner’ after a meal in a restaurant to stealing liquor from a store. You keep wondering if Frankie and Tom will get ever caught since the risks they take keep getting more and more dangerous.

The year is 1997 and the London International Financial Futures and Options Exchange (“LIFFE”) still follows the open outcry system whereby trading is done in pits by traders wearing colourful jackets (which identify their employer). All the traders are men, very chauvinistic men and Frankie is sexually harassed almost every minute. Once in a while Frankie goes to the toilet and breaks down, but most of the time she holds her own and even gives back in equal measure. Granted that an open pit for derivatives trading in the City is likely to be one of the most chauvinistic places in London, it’s still difficult to believe how different and difficult things were for women until less than ten years ago. Monaghan, the author of this novel, used to be a trader in the City and I assume her description of such a harsh working environment is generally accurate.

Starfishing is the story of a bunch of hedonistic traders who live in an amoral world, where gambling is a way of life. Gambling goes on not only in the open pits during trading hours, but also after work in pubs and restaurants and elsewhere. The open pit traders at LIFFE ought to have known that with the advent of electronic exchanges, in particular the German exchange, the Deutsche Termin Boerse, their way of life is about to come to an end, but they don’t, so wrapped up they are in themselves and so staunch is their faith in the efficiency and superiority of the open outcry system.

The best part of Starfishing is the ending, which is rather unexpected but you’ll have to read this book to find out.

Short Story: The Henpecked CEO

I heard a senior manager, I think it was Tushar, refer to Sandeep as a “poor henpecked chappie” a day after I joined Meevar Financial Consultants. I dismissed Tushar’s comment as a joke and thought no more about it till that evening when Sandeep took us out to Geoffrey’s at the Marine Plaza for a drink. There were twelve of us management trainees and Sandeep, the big boss, the CEO. I think Sandeep was around fifty-five at that time, more than twice as old as most of us. He was a small-built man with a large paunch and a jovial air, which made him eerily similar to one of my uncles.

But unlike my uncle, Sandeep Nayyar was a legend in Mumbai. Everyone who had anything to do with stock and shares or the stock exchange had heard of him. Meevar’s shareholders worshipped him for the obscenely high dividends it routinely declared and journalists praised him almost everyday in the financial press. Sandeep was reputed to be the man with the Midas touch. Every business venture he launched so far had been successful. Naturally, all of us were in awe of him.

Barely had we started sipping our drinks when Sandeep’s mobile rang.

‘I’m at Geoffrey’s,’ Sandeep told the person at the other end. ‘With the current batch of trainees. You know, the ones who started this week.’

‘No, I won’t be staying for long.’

‘Okay, I’ll call you when I am ready to leave.’

‘I mean, I won’t take too long.’

Sandeep put his mobile phone, a Motorola L2000 Tri-band, one of the hippest phones in those days, back in his pocket and continued chatting with us. He had a large fund of stories which were very entertaining, stories of the great deals he had cut and the stuff he had done to drum up business in his initial days. Everyone listened to him with rapt attention. We laughed uproariously at each of his jokes. Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that we were out to insincerely flatter Sandeep. Our laughter was entirely genuine, since all of us hoped to emulate Sandeep at some point in our careers and in such a case, it was very easy to enjoy his stories and laugh at his jokes. I do remember that one of my fellow trainees, a girl with a monkey cut, kept gushing every time she spoke to Sandeep.

‘Ooooohhh, no sir, no sir, I don’t drink sir,’ she would say.

‘But you’re already drinking,’ Sandeep pointed to the orange juice in her glass.

The girl giggled in reply. ‘Yessir, I am.’

‘Are you sure you won’t try a little bit of vodka and lime cordial?’

‘Yes sir, I mean, no sir, I’m sure sir. Can I have a lemonade sir?’

‘Young lady, you shouldn’t mix your drinks,’ Sandeep told her to the accompaniment of guffaws and loud laughter from all around.

Just like Sandeep, all the men had vodka with lime cordial. There was only one other woman in the group and I think she too ordered a vodka, took a sip or two and drank nothing else for the rest of the evening. Sandeep was very chivalrous to the two women. He made sure the circulating canapés and peanut bowls reached them occasionally and would smile and nod at them a lot more than he did at anyone else. I think I was a little jealous of the two women.

And then Sandeep’s mobile rang again.

‘Yes, I’m still here.’

‘When are you coming home?’ Sandeep’s wife’s stern voice was so loud all of us could hear her very well.

‘Another twenty minutes?’

Sandeep gave all of us a weak smile. ‘My wife gets very nervous when she is alone in the house after it’s dark,’ he told us. None of us questioned that statement. No one asked him, ‘don’t you have servants in your house?’ Has anyone heard of a Sensex* company’s CEO whose household doesn’t have at least two full-time servants? But no, we did not challenge Sandeep.

Exactly twenty minutes later Sandeep’s phone rang once more. ‘Haven’t you left yet?’ his wife demanded even before he could say hello!’

‘I’m leaving. We’re all leaving,’ Sandeep told her and looked at the only guy who was yet to finish his drink, forcing him to down it in a gulp.

I was very soon immersed in the world of stock-broking and making investments on behalf of clients. I practically forgot all about the hard time Sandeep’s wife gave him that evening, till around a month later I was reminded of it. I was having lunch with a colleague, our lunches having been delivered by one of Mumbai’s ubiquitous dabbawallahs.

‘Do you get along with Lalita?’ he asked me.

‘Yeah, sort of,’ I laughed. Lalita was Sandeep’s secretary and all minions at Meevar did their best to make friends with her. No, I wouldn’t say it was de rigueur for survival, but it was one of those things which made our lives a little bit easier.

‘Funny, isn’t it? Sandeep has got Lalita and everyone else has got …. well you know.’

I did know. Lalita was old. She was almost as old as Sandeep, the oldest secretary in the office, whilst every other senior manager had a reasonably young and attractive secretary.

‘It’s a disgrace,’ my friend. ‘And on top of all that, she is so slow.’

‘Is she that bad?’ I asked.

‘The other day I wanted her to tell me if Sandeep will be free to meet a client for lunch next Tuesday, and she took ages to open up outlook and give me the info.’

I was silent at this bit of information. So far, other than trying to chat up Lalita, I had never tested her professionally.

Then my friend dropped his bombshell. ‘Apparently, Sandeep’s wife will not let him hire a younger secretary.’

‘You don’t say! I can’t believe it. What’s her problem in life?’

‘I don’t know. But this is what I’ve heard.’

I laughed. It was such a joke. Sandeep Nayyar, one of the most prominent men in the Mumbai financial market, was in mortal fear of his wife.

‘He is henpecked, isn’t he?’ I asked my colleague.

‘There’s no other word for it.’

I could imagine Sandeep’s wife sitting at home, full of pimples and grey hair, throwing tantrums, occasionally sobbing her heart out, insisting that he should not have a pretty secretary. Poor Sandeep, full of pity for his life-long companion, unable to be firm with her, giving in to all her stupid demands, just to keep her quiet and to get some peace of mind.

Soon over a period of time, further stories of how Sandeep suffered at the hands of his wife reached my ears. Apparently she never allowed him to travel outside Mumbai on work. And if he did, she would go with him. There was another story of how Sandeep’s wife went to a restaurant where Sandeep was having dinner with a senior lady journalist and insisted that he go home with her without even finishing his dinner.

All this didn’t make sense to me. Why on earth did Sandeep put up with it? Why didn’t he tell his wife to take a hike? I knew by now that Sandeep had a ruthless streak in him. Non-performers at Meevar were summarily sacked without mercy. The jovial and friendly exterior was reserved for clients and new beginners at Meevar.

Soon, I reached the end of my management training. Two weeks before it officially ended, I received an envelope from the HR department informing me that I would be starting as an assistant manager in the non-discretionary portfolio management services division. Of the twelve management trainees taken on that year, two guys failed to make the cut. The rest of us went out to the Opium Den at the Oberoi to celebrate.

‘We ought to have invited Sandeep to join us,’ someone said.

‘And we should have paid for his drink,’ another suggested. ‘He took us out when he started our training.’

‘If we invited him here and offered to pay for his drink, he might have ended up paying for ours.’

‘A bit too late for all that now,’ I said.

‘I’m glad Sandeep isn’t here,’ one of my fellow trainees whispered to me. This was the girl who had refused to drink vodka at Geoffrey’s, despite Sandeep doing his best to persuade her. I noticed that she now had a single malt whiskey in her hand.

‘Why do you say that,’ I asked shocked beyond words.

‘Well, he is quite nice, but you know, he does ..’

‘He does what?’ I asked. I was mildly annoyed.

‘He has his weaknesses.’

‘What weaknesses?’

‘He is up to his tricks all the time.’

‘What tricks?’

‘Well, you know, he does not miss an opportunity to place his arm on my shoulder or to pat me on the back or to .. well, nothing really bad, but you know, these are things one can do without.’

It was funny how I had missed this stuff. Or maybe I had and I had glossed over it. ‘Oh! I hadn’t noticed,’ I said with a shrug of my shoulders. ‘Maybe he is driven to do all this because of his wife,’ I added.

‘But, it’s the other way around,’ my colleague interjected. ‘Sandeep used to have affairs all the time till one day his wife found out. At that time, he was going on with his secretary, a pretty young thing. She forced him to fire her and hire Lalita, and from then on she keeps tabs on him. She makes a fuss if he is late, never lets him travel or even go out with female colleagues, unless he can convince her that it is absolutely necessary.’

‘This just shows that he is a nice guy. Any other person in his place would have divorced his wife and gone his own sweet way.’

‘Ah! But Sandeep Nayyar can’t do that. You see, in order to avoid paying tax, he kept most of his shares and other properties in his wife’s name. Now if he were to ditch her, he’ll lose half his wealth. Do you get the picture?’

‘I see. So he is stuck, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He will be henpecked all his life.’