Fine champagne with a three course dinner in a tony suburban restaurant had the ability to bring Pedro, Cynthia and Rodney together with Bablu, Abul and Minu\u2019s aunt. And of course the wealth managers were there. But I may be getting ahead of the story\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The technological revolution in this early twenty first century is bringing massive social and economic changes. And it has brought financial opportunities to some young people all around the world. When our small information technology company was bought out by a well-known private equity firm, some of the early employees became millionaires. It was the culmination of all the efforts and upheavals of a start-up company. People said that we finally made it. Friends congratulated us. Relatives back in India boasted about us to their neighbors. We became mini celebrities of sort. And in Silicon Valley, flocks of wealth managers wanted to help us – any way they could! Mails came in with pictures of beautiful lake front properties on the hills. And sales people telephoned to see if we would like to rent private plane trips. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt can actually be more economical than commercial flights,\u201d one salesman casually mentioned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No, we didn\u2019t choose the private flights. But we ended up agreeing to a private meeting. It was a meeting cum dinner. A wealth management company arranged the information sharing meeting with our coworkers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe limousine will pick you up at 5pm,\u201d a charming female voice informed us to stay ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLimousine?\u201d I gawked when I shared the information with Shoma, my wife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI need a nice evening dress,\u201d she beamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smiled at her promptness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d my skepticism did not deter her. \u201cYou don\u2019t go to that kind of restaurant in just any dress; and particularly in a limousine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d I felt a warm oomph inside. We had never been in a limousine before. It had been well above our means.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This time though the limousine did arrive; and on time. A charming young Caucasian driver came out of the spacious car. \u201cGood afternoon Mrs. Roy,\u201d he pulled his white gloves taut and opened the back door for my wife. \u201cMy name is Angelo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you Angelo, I am Shoma\u201d she acknowledged the driver and glided inside the limousine with an aristocratic air. She deeply inhaled the aroma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I entered from the other side and touched the plushness of the blue velvet seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid you bring some cash?\u201d Soma softly asked me when we got comfortable inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou should give him a tip,\u201d she smiled. She was enjoying the goodness of life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou have to do that with such drivers,\u201d she feigned annoyance. \u201cWhen has someone ever opened a car door for you?\u201d she said tersely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh,\u201d I quieted down at that point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a fair question that she asked, I thought to myself, as the driver started the limousine. The elegance inside the car made me to think about my past. There was indeed an occasion when someone did open a car door \u2013 a back door – for me. It was a paramilitary officer with a rifle hung across his shoulder. The bayonet was attached above the barrel. He helped me up into the back of a van that one night. He had to. Because I had my arms hand-cuffed behind my back and my waist tied with a thick rope. It was a black police van with solid steel net all around. A military police officer had picked me up early dawn that day and drove me to a drab police lock-up. I had been shoved with rifle butt on the dirty floor behind a wall. Beaten and kicked mercilessly I have been hungry all day. Only in the evening they brought me two chapattis. And now I would be moved. To somewhere I was not informed of.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs the temperature comfortable Sir?\u201d the young Limousine driver looked back from his driver\u2019s seat. He was extra careful to provide the best comfort for his valued customer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s perfect,\u201d I assured him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd you Mam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI am alright,\u201d Shoma replied. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou are most welcome,\u201d the young man seemed to be too happy to chat with us. He might have been the regular driver for the wealth management company for giving rides to their preferred customers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMay I offer you a bottle of water?\u201d he asked Shoma. \u201cI have mineral and sparkling.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd for you Sir?\u201d he looked at us through his rear view mirror for approval.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m all right,\u201d I smiled back. \u201cThank you very much. It\u2019s only half an hour to the restaurant. We are ok till then.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you sure Sir?\u201d he insisted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As the police van started moving out of the police lock up I tried to look out to see which direction it was driven to. Outside the gate a frail widow in a white sari had been squatting on a pile of dusty bricks. She wore a pair of round glasses with brass rims and had a side bag hanging from her shoulder. She looked like an elementary school teacher in her outfit. The dim yellow light from the street lamp barely made her visible. Swarm of flies buzzed in the dusty haze around the lamp. The lady stood up as the van got near the gate, raised her frail hand and tried to say something to a passenger inside the van as it drove near her. A young man in the van stood up. He was hand-cuffed and roped around his waist like me. One of the police guards sitting near the door swiftly placed the barrel of his rifle on the young man\u2019s shoulder. The message was clear. The young man sat down immediately. It was past ten at night and the darkness engulfed the van as it drove fast away from the police station.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a beautiful car,\u201d I tried to be chatty with the limousine driver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you Sir,\u201d the driver felt complimented. \u201cI try to take good care of it. I have another limousine but I drive this one personally for the wealth management company.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo I guess this is your own company?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, Sir.\u201d He was proud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere are you from, if I may ask you?\u201d I asked him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFrom Colombia, Sir,\u201d he replied. \u201cIt\u2019s in South America.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow long have you been in America?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell,\u201d he cleared his throat. \u201cMy family escaped the country when I was a baby.\u201d He took a breather. \u201cThere was political unrest there. Death squads were terrorizing the countryside. And my parents fled.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stayed quiet. A cold feeling moved down my spine. And my past flashed before my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t think of fleeing from that police van that night. No one else did either. We were afraid of being killed. News of young men being shot and left dead by the roadside was regular news then. Police reported the deaths due to \u2018encounter\u2019 with the insurgents. We shivered inside the moving van as late winter wind blew through the car. Any false move would have been certain death. I imagined that there would be a report in the morning news-paper that to free their comrades the Naxalites had attacked the police convoy on the way to the prison, and in the ensuing fire-fight the police killed all the detainees! Reports abounded of dead bodies, mouths gagged and handcuffed, strewn along rural roads; or beheaded corps lying along marshy lands. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Around midnight the police van stopped in front of a large building \u2013 the central jail. The sentries opened the gate and we were led inside a large parking area. The doors were opened and we were led out of the van and inside a large office with a high ceiling. Behind the wide table of the jailor\u2019s office on the wall there was an old grandfather clock, ticking away time. The rope around my waist was removed and then the hand-cuffs. It was quiet in the dead of night. Only a few armed sentries were working. And some people in prison uniforms were helping them out. I later learned them to be the convicts. And this office work was their part of punishment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had to fill out long forms \u2013 name, address, date of birth. And my left thumb was imprinted. My height was measured and I was weighed on a tall balance. And then I was given an enamel bowl and a grey blanket, coarse and thick. When the paper work was approved by the jailor a convict helper and a prison sentry took charge of me. As we were moving ahead I noticed that the large office room was partitioned by a wide gate, made of wooden beams riveted on black metal frames. The wood beams had been painted in green and was painted many times over, leaving thick uneven layers of dried paint. It had a wheel on one end, indicating that the heavy gate needed the wheel to be opened. There was a square cutout in the middle of the gate so that people can squeeze through without opening the whole gate. The convict showed me the way as I galloped through the cutout. And the sentry followed behind me. Through long, quiet and half lit corridors I was led to another wide section, where rows of people were sleeping on the floor along the walls. I was given a spot on the inside row along a middle wall. I unfurled the blanket on the floor, put the bowl under the blanket near the wall, to be used as a pillow, and went to sleep. It would be my space in the prison – not as a convict but as a political detainee. To be charged as an extremist plotting to overthrow the government!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe traffic is good today,\u201d the limo driver mentioned casually. \u201cWe shall be there shortly.\u201d It took barely half an hour to reach the posh shopping mall in the high end of the city. The service manager of the wealth management company was waiting outside the restaurant for us. She was impeccably dressed for the occasion. And she was all smiles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHope you had a comfortable ride Mr. Roy,\u201d Linda, the manager, said as she led us from the limousine to the restaurant. A waiter opened the door at the entrance and we walked past rows of dining tables full of evening customers and then to a room, reserved only for the high-value clients. City lights gleamed below through the wide windows. A group of gentlemen were waiting there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is Ma-nik,\u201d Linda tried to pronounce my name correctly as he introduced me to the gentleman in the middle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow do you do, Sir,\u201d he stood up to shake my hand from the other side of the table and handed over his official card to me. \u201cI am James Robbins.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe is our vice president,\u201d the manager said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Seated next to James on my right was Ron Gold, the private banker and Marty Shen, the portfolio manager. And on my left and next to James was Ms. Long, the service manager, Bob Levin, the legal expert and Allen Wu, the insurance expert. All Ivy League educated finance experts working for this famous wealth management organization.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCongratulation over the sale of your company,\u201d Mr. Robbins was sincere. \u201cWe are all very happy, By the way, please call me Jim.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bablu\u2019s bed on the floor in the prison was on my left. Thin and malnourished, he was a petty thief and pick pocket. And on my right was Abul, a subsistence farmer and day laborer. Abul killed his neighbor with an axe. Across our row and near the window grills were the lifers from the upper social class of the outside society. They managed to get their space near the light that trickled from above the high walls behind the tall steel grills. Most were convicted for killing their wives, lovers or opponents in love triangle. \u2018Lifers\u2019 were the ones who were sentenced for life without parole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAll stand up,\u201d we were woken up early in the morning by the loud commands of the sentries asking everyone to stand in line for the morning head count. \u201cHajour,\u201d the prisoners\u2019 responded loudly as their names were called. This routine repeated three more times during the day – to check if anyone escaped. I got habituated to the routine soon. Bablu was quiet and cunning. But out of frustration over his long prison stay he mentioned one day that he had forgotten how long he had been in the prison. Abul, on the other hand, knew that he would never leave the prison alive. After the morning head count we rolled up our blankets next to the wall, went to the bathroom and took our bowl to be filled with Khichuri<\/em>, made from unpolished grains. It felt coarse, smelled stale and tasted peculiar. I was introduced to Somu, our \u2018mate\u2019, the cell commander. His place was a few beds away from mine, on the opposite row and near the corner next to the \u201cwindow\u2019. It\u2019s a floor to ceiling opening with tall and thick iron rods, next to a narrow passage before another tall wall of the next cell began. Our mate had a few more belongings than others and he arranged those in a neat small pile, tied to one of the rods. The mate was in charge of keeping \u2018order\u2019 among the prisoners in our block. Somu was convicted for stabbing one of his close friends to death. That friend had an illicit affair with his sister-in-law. It was committed in a rage, in the spur of a moment during an intense argument. \u201cHad it been pre mediated,\u201d we were told by some inmates, \u201che would have been hanged.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Besides Somu, there were other lifers as well. Many of them looked polished and appeared to have come from well-off families. All seemed to have committed similar murders, tied to love triangles of some sort. They seemed to be embarrassed to us, the \u2018political\u2019 detainees. And the political prisoners were high on the social ladder. Then there were the common criminals like Bablu, the pick pocket. In the prison heirarchy, he was no man. To gain my \u2018political\u2019 favor, he fanned me during hot nights.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWelcome, Ladies and Gentlemen,\u201d with a bow the ma\u00eetre de of the restaurant touched his heart with his right hand and held his left hand behind his back. \u201cI am Rodney, your host tonight,\u201d he introduced himself with a professional smile. \u201cAnd helping me are Pedro and Cynthia,\u201d he pointed towards the middle aged man and the lady standing next to him. Pedro served the menu as Cynthia moved quickly to position the cutlery and napkins on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMay we help you with your drinks,\u201d Rodney opened his notepad. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat do you have?\u201d Marty Shen, the portfolio manager, asked as he lightly browsed through the beverage section of the menu.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell Sir, we have Champaign,\u201d Rodney bent over and pointed to the menu book in Marty\u2019s hand. \u201cAnd, of course, we have spirits and continental liquors.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou have Dom,\u201d Marty slowly read from the menu. \u201cWhich vintage is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMarty is our champagne expert,\u201d Jim lightly joked at Marty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s two thousand eleven\u2019s crop Sir,\u201c Rodney mentioned. \u201cif I remember correctly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEleven?\u201d Marty seemed satisfied.\u201d I shall go with a glass.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t they have a crop every year?\u201d Jim asked Marty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot quite,\u201d Marty was indeed an expert. \u201cThey would not just release a batch if the grape quality is not up to the standard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cReally?\u201d we all were surprised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s all about the flavor and the notes it comes with.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cynthia brought back baskets of lightly warm, soft breads wrapped in crimson napkins. She spread the baskets around the table. Sweet buttery aroma filled the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf you don\u2019t mind ladies and gentlemen,\u2019 Linda, our service manager, drew our attention. \u201cRon, would you like to discuss the accounts Mr. and Mrs. Roy have? And Marty may give a description of the products we offer to our clients.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell,\u201d Bob told Linda. \u201cMay I ask you, Mr. and Mrs. Roy, if you have had a trust set up for the family?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTrust?\u201d I didn\u2019t know what to say. \u201cIs it a kind of account we should have opened?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell Bob,\u201d Linda said with genuine sincerity. \u201cThat is something we may want to start with \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you folks ready to order your food?\u201d Rodney came back with a smile. \u201cOr do you need some more time to decide?\u201d he paused a bit. \u201cBut allow me to mention that the soup of the day today is Lobster Bisque. It\u2019s a rich and creamy soup with crostini, butter, cilantro and leak. It\u2019s a favorite here. And our Chef\u2019s special is Steak au poivre<\/em><\/a> prepared with filet mignon<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf you would allow,\u201d Rodney was as civil as a professional host could be, \u201cPedro will take your order for the appetizers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOnce you have your trust complete,\u201d Linda looked at Shoma and then at me, \u201cMarty can discuss an initial portfolio for the family.\u201d She seemed to be ready to sign us up as her valued clients. \u201cWe work as a team looking at our clients\u2019 overall financial and legal requirements,\u201d the client manager informed. \u201cWe act as a fiduciary. And our clients\u2019 well-being is our goal. He continued. \u201cWe recognize our clients are different and their requirements are different. And so we create financial plan differently to suit their individual needs. When you do good we do good. We do not follow any cookie cutter plan for everyone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Pedro brought out the appetizers: large dishes of Erizos con salsa verde, fried squids and crab cakes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe shall start with US securities,\u201d Marty smiled at us, \u201cif you folks are comfortable with the volatility of the market.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I realized that Marty, the portfolio manager, was talking about the stock and share market when he talked about the securities. But I did not know why a stock is called a security. The only security I knew was the security that none of us in the prison ever had. I came to know Saroj, who had his individual cell in the second floor. He was imprisoned in a controversial anti-insurgency law by which the police could pick up and imprison anyone without any cause and without trial for up to one year. But if the security forces wanted to, they would free you from the prison on the 365th<\/sup> day and as you had walked out of the prison gate, the police would arrest you again and imprison you for another twelve months. Without any cause and without any trial! No security for you. For Saroj it was his second such term. He was, however, an active Marxist. His cell had been, by then, his new home, well stocked with his books and belongings. He used to receive a daily newspaper from outside, paid for by his family. And it was the attraction of the outside news that drew me into his cell every day. And he was happy to have someone to talk to as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThank you,\u201d Shoma graciously smiled at Cynthia as she came back with strawberry daiquiri for her. It had a thick frothy consistency with a creamy crimson color.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere do you think she is from?\u201d I whispered in her ear about Cynthia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot sure,\u201d she whispered back. \u201cI have not heard her accent yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs your drink sweet?\u201d I asked her softly again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d she said \u201cbut it does not look good for you to drink from my glass. How is the Champagne?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s making me bloat inside.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy did you choose it then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, I heard that it is very pricy so I wanted to check it out. Don\u2019t worry I\u2018m going to finish it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Bob ordered Fillet Mignon. Marty chose the T-bone steak and I stuck with a salmon sandwich with salsa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut most of your portfolio should consist of high quality bonds,\u201d Marty, the portfolio manager continued. \u201cTriple A rated. Does not matter if we choose corporate or municipal or government bonds. Have you ever had bonds?\u201d Marty asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo.\u201d I replied. \u201cNever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n I never had the bonds that the wealth manager was talking about. But I learned about the bond that the court had ordered Bablu, my pick-pocket fellow prisoner, to deposit for a bail. But his destitute family could not collect that money. It had been many years since. Everyone seemed to have forgotten Bablu.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSir,\u201d Bablu once asked me meekly. \u201cDo you know the judge? If you would kindly tell him my case.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Simple Bablu! He was on his last straw. He thought that I was \u2018politically\u2019 important enough to influence the judge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut securities and bonds are not the only ones we select for our clients,\u201d Marty said with a hint of smile on his lips. \u201cWe can invest in land and cattle,\u201d he looked at me \u201cif you so choose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n I was not aware of any investment idea in land and cattle. But I sure knew of land and cattle. Because it was for the land and cattle, that Abul, my co-prisoner, killed his neighbor. He told me that story one afternoon after we returned from lunch. It was a late winter day and the rice in his small plot of land was ripe and ready to be harvested. He cautioned his neighbor about controlling the cow so it could not enter in his land. But then one day the neighbor\u2019s cow had broken into his land and ate and trampled the entire crop. Abul called his neighbor. An intense argument ensued. He was so angry that he grabbed his axe. And he inflicted a fatal blow to his neighbor. The hospital was many miles away from that remote village. Abul was arrested and convicted for life. His parents used to visit him when they were alive. But after his parents\u2019 death Abul\u2019s wife and children could not afford to visit him anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRipe paddy, ready to be harvested,\u201d Abul lamented many years later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShalar po shala <\/em>(that son of a bitch),\u201d he cursed the dead. \u201cAnd that shala\u2019s<\/em> cow destroyed it all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n The desserts were cheese cake and chocolate lava mousse. And the dessert drinks were Porto and Sherry. As we were finishing our sweet dessert Cynthia brought two cases of Cuban cigars in a humidor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet me show you,\u201d Marty carefully peeled the cellophane wrappings off a cigar and smoothly cut the end of it with a sharp blade from the humidor. He lit the end with a lighter as he rotated the cigar on the flame. Finally satisfied with the length of the ember he puffed the other end and blew a smoke ring above his head. He smiled with satisfaction. A sweet smell blew around. Not the harsh smell that I remembered from the prison smoking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n On Saturdays, a Hindu day of rest, the lifers inside the prison got together and cooked up a puja ceremony. They lit a mini candle in front of a pile of books. But the main part was smoking ganja after the puja. The chillum would move from one participant to the next – all sitting in a circle. They would start with small inhales at first. And then with following rounds the puffs would get lengthier. Their faces would turn pink. And the most addicted would puff it so long that a flame would rise up the chillum\u2019s top. And they would then go to bed. The sentries appeared to take the smoking as a religious freedom and looked the other way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMay I?\u201d Cynthia, the waitress, softly invited my attention with the decanter in her hand. She poured the remaining champagne in the glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThank you,\u201d I smiled at her. At the end of the day she looked tired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou welcome, Sir,\u201d she smiled back with a bow. Her English had heavy accent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The only woman that worked in a restaurant in my younger days was Minu\u2019s aunt. The widowed aunt left East Bengal with her three young kids and took shelter with her mother and brother. Her brother\u2019s family was poor and she and her children became a burden on them. So after much hesitation and finding no other alternative she took up a job as a cook in a restaurant in the city and left with her children. We used to call a restaurant a hotel then. We all forgot about them. Till one day she came back several years later. It was such a shame to the community! She actually came to abort an illegitimate baby that she had conceived. People we knew laughed behind her back. Ignorant of life, I did not know then of sexual harassment of vulnerable women. Nor did I know that there was something called rape. We only thought of how indecent it was of her to have sexual relation. We only shamed her. Never thinking what the single mother might have gone through to bring food for her children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Who knew if this Cynthia had a similar life like Minu\u2019s aunt. \u2018Could she be a single mother trying to make a living as a waitress?\u2019 My imagination went wild. She must have left her kids at home. This may be a second job that she caters to in the evening hours. She may be from one of the South American countries, where Che Guevara once espoused communist revolution against the imperial powers. And Cynthia is now making a living in a capitalistic economy. And Pedro as well. And me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMillionaire, Eh?\u201d I mocked myself. \u201cBourgeois!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd the wealth managers the proletariats,\u201d I tried to diffuse the conflict within. \u201cSquabbling for money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Capitalism and Communism! Adam Smith and Carl Marx! Imperialism and Che Guevara! Society and Economy! French Revolution and Marie Antoinette! Naxal Revolution and Minu\u2019s aunt!<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you have some cash?\u201d I whispered to Shoma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCash?\u201d she wanted to be sure. \u201cWhat for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI want to leave a tip.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFor whom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCynthia,\u201d I mumbled as I tried to clarify it to her as briefly as I could. \u201cThat waitress \u2013 she is like Minu\u2019s aunt\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMinu\u2019s aunt?\u201d Shoma peered deeply at me with squinted eyes. And then she slowly took the wine glass away from me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t be a joke,\u201d she whispered in my ear, \u201cYou have too much of the Champagne.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Fine champagne with a three course dinner in a tony suburban restaurant had the ability to bring Pedro, Cynthia and Rodney together with Bablu, Abul and Minu\u2019s aunt. And of course the wealth managers were there. But I may be … Continue reading