The Quadrant Puzzles

The Quadrant Puzzles

A Novel on Ethics in Business

Shankar Menon

Notion Press

5 Muthu Kalathy Street, Triplicane,

Chennai - 600 005

First Published by Notion Press 2014

Copyright © K. Sankaran 2014

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-93-83808-93-9

This book has been published in good faith that the work of the author is original. All efforts have been taken to make the material error-free. However, the author and the publisher disclaim the responsibility for any inadvertant errors.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

To my Late Parents for their lessons...

His on silent dignity

and

Hers on speaking out

An Occasion to Thank

Eighteen long years span the early outpouring of words for this book and its present avatar. During that journey many people helped me with novel ideas, manuscript overviews and morale boosters. I want to say A Big Thank You to all of them. When I think about their bountiful contribution what shines forth in my heart is their character and integrity in the midst of tiring struggles of their lives. Like stars they shine resolutely. I deeply thank them for their presence in this work.

Long spells of intermittent cold storage of the manuscript give me little courage to mention the names of all the kindly persons who helped. A great many names and faces come to mind. But I fear I am unable to recall all of their help. I only wish I had been better at systematically recording all the generous assistance I received.

To my dismay, what comes to my mind are also some others whose interpretive lens are at odds with those of Dilip. (You will know who Dilip is, and what his lenses are, when you read this book.) It would be a lie to say that those memories are pleasant. But it would be accurate to say that there is no bitterness while thinking of them. Therefore, in this moment of forgiveness – wherein I am unsure who is forgiving whom – indeed, I thank them too.

While memories, pleasant and unpleasant, merge at some higher plane, those of the former are too alive in an inspiring way. They are etched deeply in my mind’s terrain. Such memories include those of my old professor who lost his job because he would not toe the line drawn by his university. He is my hero, because he took a stand on what he thought was honest, intellectually speaking. And, of a friend who convinced me of how discipline and freedom are not just reconcilable but may be co-conspirators. My gratitude also goes to the members of my family and friends who were inflicted with half-baked ideas, often stupid, at inappropriate moments.

I must also thank all those at the publishing house who accepted me and my genre-evading script with open professionalism.

My gratitude also goes to the little sunbirds and flower peckers darting over the untended hibiscus plant over the courtyard in my parents’ place where I did a good part of the early writing. The birds gave vigorous company during those otherwise silent mornings when I had to choose between working on the book or curling up in the bed. And to those wild-looking, unkempt shrubs that produced those marvelous flowers!

In ways I have not even the faintest clue, many persons dead and alive influenced my thoughts and words. That includes some unknown, obscure grandfather of mine, of more than a few generations’ vintage, or perhaps his guru, or my grandmother who attended on the grandsire. Or, farther away in time, even the last enemy my nth generation grandfather confronted with his crude spear only to die an utterly futile death, but with a lesson on strife and harmony bequeathed to his descendants. My lovable ancient grandfather… for him the grandest human idea -- that the pen is mightier than the sword -- might have been the world’s stupidest idea. I need to thank everyone, of the present, past, and future.

How strange? How little we know what makes our thoughts, our words, our worlds, and us! I bow in wondrous gratitude to everyone.

Prologue

After almost two months the reply finally came. The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakable. It was from Professor Mukhopadhyay.

Pranoy Nursing Home, Kolkata

24th March 1998

My dear Dilip,

Received your letter. Thank you, I could not send a reply any sooner. I was too sick to sit up in bed and write. I thought I should write myself because I am poor at dictating. My thoughts do not hold well when someone else writes for me.

I am happy that you have finally solved QP. Your solutions seem to hold well and you’ve got a handle on it now. If this had been a term paper, I probably would have given you an A+.

I had been through a lot of physical pain. The trouble at the hospital is that they want to scan you and see all your insides. All that tires me out. They say that their patient is better now. May be I am – at least my hands and legs can move the way I command. But, I think, or know, that this is only a flash before the light finally leaves the body.

The last few days I’ve been called on and blessed by two strange visitors. Here I share with you my good fortune.

My primordial Mother from yonder

Suddenly opened the gates beyond

And flung on to ride the moonlight wave

And journeyed onto earth.

It was the most exquisite spectacle.

Her face shone with pale brilliance

As the moon merged with her countenance

A blemish on her face appeared

As if to show her burden of the earth.

She came into my abode

My heart raced as she sat beside me

Her soft reassuring ancient hands

Picked me up, cradled me in her lap,

Pressed me to her breast

And kissed me on the forehead.

She then bent down to my ear

And spoke the kindly motherly words.

My child, my beloved child, she cried.

She cried the bittersweet tears of consolation.

This Mother of the universe

Was everything; life, regeneration, rejuvenation,

All-embracing participation and inclusion.

She said,

"I am nature, I am energy

I am beauty, I am mother

I am behind the unyielding zest for life."

That night she spoke to me for a long time.

She told me ancient stories of sacrifice,

Sufferings and forbearance.

"Live in remembrance, live in dreams

I shall be there with you.

Live life in harmony

With those who made this earth their home,

Which belongs to everybody

And yet to nobody."

The pain from man’s crassness

Tormented Mother’s heart.

Hearing Her words,

My heart opened up

Into a sprout of new understanding,

A new freedom, a new beginning.

I bowed in supplication before Her

I hugged and kissed Her in love I have known not before

I bowed and said a prayer to the lotus that rested Her feet.

Through my veins coursed her blessings

So that my heart would remain

One with Her forever.

The night would soon come to an end

I could now hear the sun rising on the distant horizon.

It was now the turn for my Father for his visitation.

He rode on the straight shaft of gleam from the sun.

The light shone on him to reveal his perfection

All exact, geometrical and efficient

He was majestic

He was the very essence of authority and control.

His eyes bore through eternity

He bade me sit beside Him

He sat erect and I looked up the great master.

He commanded me to listen to him carefully.

He bespoke,

"I am the father of time and space

I am reality

The Master of the regular and the sublime,

The atomic and subatomic.

I am what was, what is, and what will be.

I am truth.

All words are my creation

All sights my order

All sounds, and senses my command,

I am intelligence.

I conferred you the human ability

To explain and interpret reality.

I am the primordial cause for

The human means to know that he knows.

My Father was stern, but just,

Exact, but understanding.

He too was pained by impatience

By crassness, by human abuse.

And with the abuse of Truth.

He forewarned,

"Be cautious of knowledge,

Use them with discretion

They are double-edged swords.

Use it, embellish it.

Just as all good things

It deserves caution.

Turn it to wisdom and grow."

I sat beside his imposing presence

Hope blossomed in my heart.

His message, direct and unmistakable

Gave a new vision.

That night I had the most beautiful conversation ever

With my limitless Parents.

My heart and head spoke in tandem

I was joyous, I was sad

I was ecstatic, I was crestfallen.

My humble words were heard,

My lowly thoughts

Not worth mentioning

Received with respect.

In the end I had traversed a long, long way.

And had finally met

In all majesty, in all comprehensiveness

Beauty and Truth.

And then,

At that twilight zone of night and day

Where moon and sun exchanged smiles

Mother and Father finally met.

They spoke to each other endearingly

They held each other’s hands

And kissed in love.

They sang the eternal song

And danced the cosmic dance

They locked Their hands and

In sublime ecstasy They united.

They reached out and embraced me.

The last worldly extravaganza began to unfold

Time stood still, fears dissolved, doubts vanished,

And freedom exploded in heavenly cloudburst.

In that supreme moment of awakening

I was transfused with the all-encompassing vision of the universe.

Through every sinew of my body rushed awareness

Love and forgiveness.

And… Death became my friend!

The trumpets boomed,

The cymbals clanked,

The journey had begun.

I bid adieu as I bow my head in gratitude to all.

With love

Satyojit Mukhopadhyay

As Dilip read the letter his eyes welled up. He went through it several times. Finally he sat there on his chair for a long time, too stunned to do anything else.

Dilip felt a strange fascination towards death. Here

Dr. Mukhopadhyay is dying, perhaps, dead already. But his ideas will live forever. In fact, he will live forever.

He got up from his chair and looked out of the window. It will soon be night. The burning summer air of the day had died. It was less oppressive now. The dust mixed with the light rays from the sodium vapor lamps that cast long misty shadows over the uneven ground across the building.

Dilip turned back from the window and stepped out of his apartment. Down at the street he involuntarily chose the road that was unspoiled by the glare.

He walked for a long time. Over four hours may have passed. By now he had walked a long way and reached some unknown place. He had not seen these streets and buildings before. All he knew was that he was in some far-off Mumbai suburb. Then suddenly a strange sensation seized him, and he looked up. There was this building, too familiar and yet he knew it was the first time that he was stepping into this Mumbai hinterland. Strange. A lone bus that sped past across the building seemed eerily familiar in a new, or old, sort of way. It slid smoothly over the otherwise bumpy road surface – it seemed to slide over rails! This building too was special. He stared at it in wonderment. There, there he could see a silent, dark, yet luminous, sentinel rising above the arched portico, and in an instant, he could recognize him. It was the old man. The scene was complete. He knew what he saw was Kolkata’s old familiar Pranoy Nursing Home on Ballygung Avenue, with those slow, ancient tramcars. God, where am I? In Mumbai or Kolkata, Dilip whispered to himself. Time never changed and space never mattered.

He stood by the side of road with palms together in prayer. It was thanksgiving. It was despair for losing a man he truly loved. It was a prayer for his soul, a celebration of triumph of permanence over impermanence.

As he was about to turn and walk back, the ancient hymn whispered within... Mrithyormaa Amritam Gamayah...

Mukhopadhyay’s ancient Mother and Father! Was what he felt now a son’s kinship towards those very same Parents?

And what about that strange connection between Them and QP?

Is he saying that those quadrants in QP were simply human constructs? Are the distinctions between those cells just the limits of human imagination and human logic?

Strange old man. He has a way to beat death – by making those whom he left behind to think through his last thoughts. Does he mean that the Quadrant Puzzles hold a higher understanding? I shall not let him down. I shall continue to ask. My old friend, my teacher, my guiding light will remain forever.

Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

An Occasion to Thank

Prologue

PART - I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

PART II

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

PART III

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Chapter 1

For a few exceptional ones, I-score-over-you games have no place in their scheme of things. The irony is that such individuals appear most threatening to the majority.

It was Dilip Narayan’s first trip to Kolkata – the city about which he had heard much from his uncle, a career accountant with a public-sector bank. Dilip’s uncle was in Kolkata for three years after his bank banished him there on a punishment transfer. The now retired man had a stock of stories to win over anyone. He never tired himself telling how smoky, dilapidated, and cheerless a dark spot the city was on the map; a spent force, a sentimental urban mess written about by dreamy Bengali poets or deluded phirangies.

For Dilip, his uncle’s rulings made no difference. For him the city meant freedom and an opportunity to study at a fine institution. The city also evoked memories of the great Indian heroes of the nineteenth century and Bengal’s spiritual renaissance. Are there any seeds of transmutation still left straining to sprout out in this beleaguered city? wondered the young boy.

Leaving for Kolkata was a big event for Dilip. Nearly two thousand miles separated Kolkata on the Northeast from Kottayam on the southwest. The long trans-peninsular journey over watery coasts and dusty plains, populous industrial towns and brooding agrarian hamlets would take two days and two nights – a long voyage, but one that befitted the occasion.

Until now Kottayam town and its hinterlands with relaxed coffee and pepper plantations and unhurried trading hamlets formed Dilip’s cocooned world. For the first time he was leaving home for a long sojourn outside that safe haven. He had to mentally prepare himself for staying in Kolkata for five long years, the time it would take to complete an integrated M.S. program. At the time of his journey Dilip never thought that his stay there would eventually turn out to be even longer.

Three months earlier, at the time of the entrance interview for admissions to the Indian Institute of Genetics and Medicine, or IIGM, he had chosen genetics, preferring it to the more fashionable stream of medicine. Dilip’s rank on the all-India merit list permitted him the luxury of a choice. But he opted for genetics because the subject fascinated him. His friends and relatives were surprised. Most of them thought that he was foolish to let go an opportunity to get a medical degree. His neighbor at Kottayam declared to Dilip’s father that his son would regret his decision later in life. Another acquaintance who lived on the next street was even more unforgiving. He said Dilip was being stubborn and wasting his talents. A third someone whose nephew had graduated from the IIGM said that the campus recruitment spoke for itself. He had said that those with the medical degrees, like his nephew, got placements in the private hospitals with monthly offers running into six figure salaries. Add to that the attractive perks and the prestige, he had pointed out. And finally he had finished off the topic with the prediction that these genetics fellows would either be unemployed or be resigned to research jobs with clerical salaries.

Those who interviewed him too had shown surprise at Dilip’s choice. One of them pointed a finger to the place on his application form where he had marked his choice and said, Do you still opt for genetics? Have you discussed this with your father? He warned Dilip that the interview was the last opportunity to reconsider his decision and that once he joined the institute there was no way he could switch streams.

Dilip had felt suffocated.

His suffocation did not end with the interview. As he came out of the interview room many boys and girls and their parents nervously accosted him seeking scraps of information from the interview room. Overeager parents were more impetuous. He answered their questions briefly with contrived courtesy. When he told them that he opted for genetics they were naturally aghast. Everyone knew that this was the day when only those from the top twenty percent of the merit list were called in. And all of them could automatically enter medicine.

But overall Dilip felt happy for he knew that his parents would say not a word against his choice.

Within a month after the interview Dilip was on his way to Kolkata. The morning he boarded the Kolkata train the sky was gray and the air thick with mist following a heavy shower. The gloomy weather did not mar his excitement. His parents, sister and a cousin had come to the station. His mother, everyone knew, was fighting tears. She said, Son, do phone up as soon as you reach Howrah station. Be careful, Kolkata is a big city. For Dilip the excitement of the occasion more than made up any parting sorrow. After the train started he waved perfunctorily to his family until they disappeared into the receding crowd. This was unlike future occasions when, after vacations, the moments of parting became painful events.

Inside the train he spent some time reading the Sherlock Holmes collection. He also turned to the Railway Timetable he had with him. Anything to do with travel fascinated Dilip and the Timetable was no exception. He could spend hours working out distances, average speeds, train halts and hypothetical ticket costs. Soon he also knew at what time the train would reach the major railway stations on the way.

Dilip immersed himself in his pastime and travel reveries except for a conversation with two girls in the next compartment. Dilip liked the one in the pink slack. She was bravely putting up with all the amenities, or the lack of them, the sleeper class offered. Her companion in the tight T-shirt was different. Throughout the journey the tight T-shirt girl carried a wronged expression on her face. For short spells she kept reading the glossy magazines she carried. Between those spells she complained about everything. Dilip thought that she managed to spread her discomfort to everybody except her pink-slacked companion.

Almost throughout the journey, the train ran late. The delay progressively added up. Yet only after two thirds of the journey did the passengers give up hopes of reaching Howrah, the main railway hub of Kolkata on time!

Two thirds of the distance roughly meant Vizag, the port town en route Kolkata. The train reached Vizag at four in the afternoon on the second day of the journey, a good four hours behind schedule. When Dilip inquired about the delay with the Traveling Train Examiner – or TTE – he said that a four-hour lag should not be considered a delay for this train. The TTE was certain that it would lose even more time during the rest of the journey. That meant reaching Kolkata only at noon!

As the train pulled out of Vizag, the sun cast long shadows over the platform. The smells and the dirt inside the compartment, accumulated over the last twenty-four hours and more, became unbearable. Dilip had finished reading the Sherlock Holmes and some magazines he had picked up along the way. There was really nothing to do.

Except perhaps daydream. Dilip threw the air pillow he was carrying on the backrest and settled comfortably to get a proper view outside. The train was now past the familiar sights near any railway junction in India – used railway sleepers, heavy pieces of rusted steel, abandoned concrete buildings, waste dumps shining with crushed throwaway tea cups, and brightly-colored plastic shopping bags being scurried away by shadowy dogs.

As the train rushed and roared through the green paddy fields, Dilip thought about technology; trains and tracks, tunnels and bridges, machine design, communication and signaling. He thought of the human endeavor over several decades. Of the sweat and brains behind every inch the train moved, of the scientists who invented the steam engine and the internal combustion engine.

What might have been those brains like? he thought.

Furiously inventive, iconoclastic, bearded, with long shaggy hair, indifferent to what others thought of them and, some of them, fiercely competitive seeking power and recognition and money. And, behind those external trappings, desperately hungry for knowledge too.

Knowledge?

How much accumulated knowledge... The reveries had such magic hold on Dilip. He thought how today’s knowledge rested on the knowledge created by those crazy geniuses. This travel today is safe and predictable because of their thirst for knowledge; knowledge of electromotive forces, of work and energy, of crankshafts and wheels and the tens of thousands of mechanical and electrical and electronic things that made up this train. The unsung and sung heroes of yore, the best among them now packaged into Who’s Who of Competition Success Review... Electricity and logistics pitted against time and space, against mountains and rivers, against immobility and darkness. Fascinating, the human ingenuity to place layer after layer of discoveries and inventions, one over the other... like the layers of the exposed earth that zealously kept the geological time no matter how humans cut and led their trains into these pre-ancient records. Like geological time, is there something called a technological time too?"

Thank heavens that the layers of knowledge too are getting overlaid ever so continuously…

Dilip was suddenly shaken out of his thoughts by a train that came from nowhere and noisily galloped away backwards. Soon it will be night which began here earlier than in Kottayam. The slanting golden sun made patterns in the luxuriantly green paddy fields. There were strips of shimmering water between paddy shoots arranged in neat long lines. As the train speedily rolled along, old lines disappeared and new ones appeared endlessly.

How should I make my stay at Kolkata fruitful and interesting?

I’ll work hard and attend all my lectures. I’ll write home every week and at the end of the semester I’ll call to tell them how I’m top of the class. I’ll work out everyday... And girls? I hope there will be some nice girls in the class... like the one in the pink slack. When I graduate I’ll do things that are useful to everyone. My father and mother will be proud of me. I’ll study regular hours and read portions ahead of the class. Must get up early in the morning and go jogging. Did I pack my alarm clock? This time I’ll use the library much more. And when I get a job, I’ll first buy a 350 cc Kawasaki and will send mom big pocket money... every month. Poor thing… I will miss her terribly and my sister and my father.

He thought how it’s going to be different.

Gosh! It is going to be tough. They say Bengalis talk to you only if you know Bengali! Bengali sounds so rounded. If it had a body, it would have been like that of a young woman with bright eyes and lovely curves. That movie by Satyajit Ray... I can’t recall it’s name. It was such a beautiful film and the way that cute girl spoke, it sounded so sexy. But the masculine form…, no, when men speak that language, for heaven’s sake, it sounds so horrible. And food there? I like fish all right. But with mustard oil? Yuck. Won’t be able to stomach that. They will find my coconut oil yucky too.

He again thought of science and technology.

I am going to become part of the research fraternity at a prestigious institution. Science and technology is such power. It’s reason. It’s control. It conquers distances. Like this train, powerful and unstoppable. It conquers rivers and mountains. It conquers time.

Suddenly his train had slowed down and was chugging along. Of the many red, amber and green lights only some might be meant for this train. He recalled the recent Sunday supplement of the Indian Express and the picture of a sleek Japanese bullet train.

I must be a dreamer... The damn Indian Railways... Never mind speed. At least reach us in time. This uncouth steel thing would be late by, may be, eight hours. Leaking toilets and smelly platforms. The unmistakable railway stench – a mix of coal, diesel, steel and human excreta... Is this technology? Or some ugly blend of technology, progress... or regress...?

The cynical thought was like an intruder with a foreboding message. He was suddenly jolted out of the reverie by a thud. A stranger had just dusted the seat next to Dilip in an exaggerated fashion. The gesture did what it was meant to do.

Dilip looked up.

The stranger asked So, you’re a fresher… ugh?

Dilip felt uncomfortable. There was a threatening tone to his question. Before Dilip could think up what the question meant, the next one came IIGM?

Now Dilip knew there was trouble. The bully continued, You’re a total dhund. If you don’t know, that means a stupid fellow.

Hey, talk properly. Who do you think you are? Dilip reacted involuntarily.

Damn it, I can look at your face and say that you’re a new sample at the IIGM. Aren’t you, you fuckin’ dhund?

Dilip turned red. He said loudly, Mister, watch your words.

The bully smiled indulgently stroking the sparse hair below his nose.

Some mustache, thought Dilip.

He said, "Beta, you will soon know how to talk. You think you’re a damn smart cookie. Our job is to fix fellows like you."

By now another boy had joined the bully. Fair skinned, dark-haired, thin and cute, he looked incapable of malice. He sat next to the bully. As the bully made room for the fair boy, he rudely pushed Dilip towards the window.

The fair boy said, Are you joining the IIGM?

Yes.

Which stream?

Genetics.

So you’re a dud. What was your rank?

Twenty.

All India? the fair body asked incredulously.

Yes

And you took Genetics?

Yes

One of those freak idealists. The fellow needs special treatment, the fair boy spoke. His menacing tone matched his benign looks in an eerie sort of way.

We’ll shove a thicker pole up the idealist’s fucker hole, the bully said.

He kept a serious face and the fair boy laughed with pleasure.

Dilip did not speak. He knew this was the beginning of ragging, the initial treatment meted out by the current students to new entrants for quick acclimatisation or acculturation. It came one night too soon, Dilip thought. He had been forewarned what to expect. Most aspirants wishing admission in IIGM knew about the practice.

The prestigious institute, located at Dumdum, a suburb of Kolkata had earned a reputation for academic excellence. It was also known for cruelty to undergraduate newcomers. With wit and light heartedness Dilip went through the hell spell as ragging was called. At the institute, the bully in the train had turned out to be not that bad a guy. His name was Ajit Madhavan. Ajit belonged to Kerala, from where Dilip also came. Ajit had even seemed protective when things got too hot for Dilip at the hostel during the hell spell. The fair boy was Amit Keshav who, Dilip later came to know, was the topper among the second- year students of medicine. Everybody thought that Keshav’s achievement did not sit lightly on his shoulders.

Later, when he had retired to the berth, a narrow stretch of rexine with cheap cushion below, he consciously kept away any thoughts of ragging. Instead, he thought how lucky he has been to get admission to IIGM. His memories wandered off to the modest primary school he attended in his childhood. His close companion was a boy named Kumaran. He belonged to the lower caste of Paraya, whose occupation was weaving bamboo mats and baskets. Caste never came in the way of their friendship. Memories of several incidents passed through his mind. Dilip would wear leather shoes to the school. Kumaran was barefooted. The cotton uniforms of bright blue shorts and white shirt were the only things in common. Even here the well-laundered, starched and ironed uniform Dilip wore were a give-away to Dilip’s status. But those things did not matter for the two boys.

When Dilip was in the sixth standard his father had brought him an electronic game from Singapore. The sharks on the screen jumped up at the touch of a button. Another button released the eagles from the edges. One day Dilip had carried the game to the school.

Dilip had hidden it in his palm with the corner of its casing still sticking out. He showed the shining green plastic corner and challenged Kumaran, Can you guess what this is?

Pencil Sharpener?

No

Eraser?

No

He tried a few more times. Kumaran could never have got it right because he had never seen an electronic game before. Dilip knew that. When Kumaran had exhausted all possible guesses he jabbed his finger into Dilip’s palms and forced them open. Dilip explained to him how to play the game and the meaning of the numbers on the screen. The two friends played with the