The other day an old Malayali friend, Pratap, called to say he was passing by on his way to a beach resort at Kundapur, some way north of Mangalore. “Drop in on your way,” I said. I didn’t know him well, but he used to teach at a business school, and always had interesting stories to tell.
He turned up just before noon the next day, in a shiny new German SUV. “I thought you’d retired,” I said, “but your car says otherwise!”. He grinned as he sent off his driver for a cup of tea. “I retired from teaching,” he said. “Now I’m a consultant.” “Really!” I said. “Yes, really,” he replied, his smile widening. “The office pays for the car. I can’t afford it.” “Wow!” I said. “Some office!” “Yes,” he said. “I got lucky. An old student from twenty years ago set up his own business in Kochi, and has been doing extremely well ever since. So he now employs several hundred people and does business all over the world. He hired me as soon as I retired.”
“And what exactly do you do for him?” I asked. “Advise him,” he replied, “on where to invest his money, how to negotiate in tough situations, and trouble-shooting in general...” “Wonderful!” I said. “You must be really happy to apply what you’ve been teaching all these years.” “Yes,” he said. “This is much better than teaching. I’m actually doing something, and I get to travel all over the place. I’m going to Kundapur to help Abie with some negotiations.
There’s someone who has a business proposition for him.”
The name Abie rang a bell. “Abie?” I asked. “Is this one Abie Mathews from Kochi? His family are based in Kottayam, but his parents settled in Kochi where he did his schooling? He went on to Princeton on a scholarship, and came back to start a software house?” “Yes,” he said. “How do you know him?” “His uncle was a good friend,” I said. “When Abie needed help with his application for a scholarship at Princeton – something about what they call a letter of intent – he asked me to step in. Abie and I wrote that application together and he got admission, with aid. He kept in touch throughout his time in Princeton, and visited me a couple of times in the six months after he returned. We lost contact when I dropped off Facebook some years ago.” “Pity,” he said. “He’s a good man. I’ll tell him that we met, and that you and I are old friends.” “Do,” I said. “It would be nice to know what he’s up to.” “Sure,” he said. “Now let’s go out to lunch.” So my wife and I got ready and he took us out to an excellent restaurant, one that we can afford to visit only on occasions, where we had a memorable lunch garnished with stories.
“Don’t forget to give Abie my number,” I said as he was leaving after dropping us off at home. “Ask him to get in touch if he feels up to it. Give him my best anyway.” My cellphone rang at eleven that night. It was from a strange number, and I picked it up immediately, thinking that a call that late means trouble. “Hello,” I said cautiously. “Do you still work into the small hours?” asked a voice that seemed vaguely familiar, with a strong Malayali accent. “I was hoping you haven’t changed.” “Who is this?” I asked, still cautious. He laughed. “Abie,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Pratap told me you met.” His voice was the same, but not his accent. “Your accent’s changed,” I said. His years in the US had given him a bit of an American twang that was gone now. He had reverted to his old manner of speaking.
“I know,” he said. “When I went to Princeton I changed my accent to try to make myself clear to all those Americans. A couple of years after I came back, I went back to my Malayali roots. No one here has any trouble understanding me now.” I hadn’t spoken to him after those meetings after he returned: we’d managed with text chats. “Good,” I said. “Many others I know have kept their American accents.” He laughed. “That’s not much use if you live in India,” he said. “Unless you want to impress the wrong type of people.” “Of course,” I said. “Pratap told me you’re doing very well.”
“Yes, Uncle,” he said. “God has been kind to me.” “Of course,” I said. “But then, you’ve also worked very hard, and, from what Pratap says,
you’ve had good teachers.” “Yes,” he said non-committally. “A couple. Maybe.”
“What about Pratap himself?” I asked. It was his turn to be cautious. “I remembered him because he used to take pains, unlike the other profs. I thought he didn’t get enough credit...” “Don’t tell me you hired him because you felt sorry for him!” I said. “That’s not like you.” “No,” he said. “He earns every penny I pay him. I’m thinking of hiking his fees, in fact.” “I’m glad he gives good advice,” I said. “How close are you to him?” he asked, after a brief silence. “Not at all,” I replied. “He tells interesting stories, but that’s it.” “So this is just between you and me?” he asked. “Of course,” I replied. “Well,” he said. “I do the exact opposite of what he advises. I have make it look like that’s what he really advised, of course... But he gets it wrong without fail. That’s what makes him so valuable.”
( Source : Deccan Chronicle )
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