Bird's Eye

Ashok slumped into the back seat of the limousine. The 80s Hindi song was lingering in his mind.

Seene mein jalan, chehre pe yeh thakan si kyon hai?

Ayena humein dekh ke youn, hairan sa kyon hai?

(Why this burning in the chest, this exhaustion on the face? Why does the mirror look so surprised on seeing us?)

He shook his head, clearing this reverie. Why was this verse coming back to him now? He hadn't heard it since moving to New York twenty-five years ago. His father had it on a tape and played over and over in the car till someone told him to stop.

He glanced across the back seat to his wife. Sanika had on her earphones and looked deep into her book. It was a self help book for teenagers a hopeful publisher had sent her with the mistaken idea she might recommend it to her students. Most books people gave them went into the trash. Last week Ashok had seen a title, "Hyperfocus", written by a researcher friend of one of Sanika's friends. In school, Ashok had a chapter from the Mahabharata. The young archer Arjun told Acharya Drona that all he could see was the target bird's eye. That, Ashok thought, was all there was to be said. If you had to write a three hundred page book on the focus, you were probably lacking focus yourself.

Somehow he was thinking more about his younger years now. Did this indicate a mid-life crisis? He was forty five, for twenty five of those years he had been with Grant and Stearn. Investment Banking took its toll and Ashok had fantasized about retiring to a peaceful life. Somewhere where there wasn't always an ongoing crisis. But what would he do? This was what he was good at and it supported his family.

Also, there was the cautionary tale of his colleague Charles Xavier. Charles had quit to start a restaurant. He'd come back with his tail between his legs after two years when the place folded. This had forever earned him the moniker Chowhouse Charlie behind his back.

As a kid he loved painting. A few months ago, he had tried again. A rendition of the city skyline. He had been pretty proud of the outcome. Maybe he could donate this for a charity auction? Someone would pay $50,000 for it, if only to get into his good books. But how much would he pay for it? He relooked at the picture critically and a hundred flaws leapt out. He would pay $5 to get the eyesore out of sight. He hadn't picked up the brush since.

That wasn't his role. Michelangelo had needed the Medicis. Even Da Vinci and Galelio had patrons. Whatever people said, money was the lifeblood of the world and that meant he was at its heart. It was the heart's job to pump blood where needed. Hence tonight, he and Sanika were headed to a Saturday night concert by the New York Philharmonic, sponsored by Grant and Stearn. As an executive director, Ashok had complementary and unfortunately obligatory tickets. He was relying on Sanika to nudge him awake if he started to snore. His own musical taste was also instrumental but he preferred film scores. He slipped in his own earphones and played the theme from Top Gun. A smile appeared, one thing still felt cool since he was a kid. Then he caught his reflection in the window. One look was enough to remind him that he wasn't, never had been and never would be Tom Cruise. It was more likely he would end up as a coughing and wheezing Val Kilmer. The music lost its charm.

He opened the New York Times app. The lead story was about the emerging Indonesian Currency Crisis. The army was out to prevent riots in Jakarta. Though it was anyone's guess how long it would be before they switched sides after realising their own pay was now worthless. Ashok had triggered a short position on that last week. Others had followed. But this wasn't his fault. Everyone had to keep their own house in order. If he hadn't pulled the trigger someone else would have. Noone said market efficiency looked pretty. Still, a part of him mocked himself and said that if he ever wrote a book, it would be titled, "Hyperfuckery".

The phone rang. "Hello Weimin" the cheerfulness in his voice sounded fake even to him. There could only be one reason for this call at 7pm on Saturday.

"Hi Ashok, look I'm sorry but we keep finding new bugs in the system. I don't think we can deploy the AI on Monday. Can we show a demo instead?"

Ashok inserted ice into his voice, "The customer has seen a demo. Now they are expecting a trial deployment". The demo had been one of Ashok's finest moments. A roomful of investment managers had been eating out of his hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen" he had begun. "I am sure you have seen a hundred AIs trying to predict which way an index is going to move. So I am not going to waste your time with that. No, what Deific does is to construct the right index you need to see". What followed was a dazzling set of graphs and projections. Everyone was impressed though nobody understood more than half of what was said and nobody had the courage to ask the stupid-sounding questions. "Ogilvy. Eat your heart out" Ashok had thought at the end.

Now Weimin was saying they couldn't deliver. Worse, he was trying to explain it. "Ashok, there is nothing wrong with the core. But the outsourced interfaces are junk. The system crashes almost every hour".

"Weimin, you told me we could meet the timeline. That is why I committed it to the customer". Actually Ashok had thought the targets too aggressive and had expected pushback. But Weimin was new and hadn't offered any.

"I am sorry Ashok". Weimin's voice had gone soft. "I take full responsibility for this. I will tell-"

"No!" Ashok cut in. He took a moment to calm himself. "Look, just get the basic core up. It'll be weeks before anyone runs anything serious on it".

Weimin remained subdued, "Let me see what we can do".

"Thanks, we are all counting on you". Ashok cut the call. In Friday's meeting, Weimin had been roasted for for his mistakes. Ashok had noticed a spot on Weimin's shirt. This was where Weimin had spilled a drop of ketchup during Thursday lunch. He wondered how many others in the room had understood its significance. But in a company where eighty hour weeks were common, you had to pay your dues to get anywhere.

A week ago, Ashok had come home early as a surprise for the family. It was still daylight when he reached his apartment. This unnatural situation made him feel vaguely guilty. But his door was locked. Sanika had gone shopping and their daughter Anita was out with friends. Ashok's father had come home by 6pm all his life. He had time to play chess with Ashok and watch the news on Doordarshan before dinner. Sanika left Ashok's dinner in the fridge. He would heat it in the microwave and took care to press stop early so the bell wouldn't wake anyone.

The evening turned out as dull as he had expected. A lot of forced bonhomie with colleagues in the interval. Weekends were supposed to be to get away from these people.

On the way back, Sanika dozed off in the limo. Ashok started checking his email. Anita's private school had sent a new message.

Dear Mr Bhattacharya,

As a parent, we appreciate your love and concern for your child Anita. We want you to know that her warfare is always uppermost on our minds. We are writing today to inform you of an unfortunate incident which has forced us to take drastic steps for the continued safety of your daughter and others.

Ashok read on. Four girls from Anita's class had been caught with drugs and would be leaving the school. Clearly the news must have leaked out and the school was trying damage control. The personalization of the letter meant they were also using AI. But the content was disturbing. Sanika must have also got this mail. But she was sleeping peacefully beside him. Better to check this first.

When they got home, Anita was watching Netflix. Sanika went straight to bed. Ashok sat on the couch next to Anita.

"I got a mail from your school". Anita rolled her eyes. If he had ever done that his father would have slapped him. But Anita had grown up in America. "It was about something very stupid that some girls in your school did".

"Oh Jesus Dad!" Anita burst out. "They told the parents about that! Now we'll never hear the end of it. Look, you don't need to worry. I'm not like Carol."

"Carol? You knew these girls?" Ashok couldn't hide the worry in his voice.

"Dad, I've known Carol since we were, like, ten. She used to come here on my birthdays".

Ashok didn't like the sound of this. "Anita, I'm just concerned about-".

"Dad, don't you trust me?" Anita interrupted him.

There was nowhere for the conversation to go after that. Ashok went to bed.

The next evening, Anita was again going out with friends. Ashok reflected that Sunday night used to be their family movie night before Covid. Afterwards, it had just felt odd going to a hall when better stuff was available online.

He went to her room. He was careful. He didn't want to leave any traces. Opening her bedside drawer, he found an unmarked bottle of pills. Shaking, he took it to Sanika. But she hadn't shown any reaction.

Ashok said "Did you see the mail from Anita's school? I found this in her room".

Slowly, Sanika understood. "Don't worry, these aren't those kind of drugs.They are antidepressants".

"Why is Anita taking antidepressants?"

"Because I took her to a doctor who would give them to her. It seemed safer to do that before she tried something really dangerous".

Ashok's eyes widened. Without his noticing, he was screaming "You knew about this? What kind of doctor gives antidepressants to a fourteen year old? What the fuck is going on here?"

Sanika's voice was level and cold. "She is fifteen. As for what the fuck is going on, you would know if you were ever the fuck here".

Ashok had taken many tongue lashings but Sanika hadn't raised her voice and that hurt more. He spent the rest of the evening staring out from the balcony. Unlike some Indians, he never had illusions about Anita growing up. He had expected boyfriends and the unspeakable sins of his own childhood seemed tame in this culture. But this situation was not something he was prepared for. Should he have noticed something earlier? There must have been something he should have done. But there was never enough time to do anything or see anything. God! What was going on? For the first time in decades, his brain failed him completely and he sat in a fog.

Monday morning, he was in a sombre mood. Looking up at the glass edifice of the Grant & Stearn offices where he had spent so much of his life for the first time, he felt lost. A decade ago, he had seen the Occupy Wall Street protesters march down here. They thought all bankers were driven by greed. But Ashok knew that after point it was more about pride and envy just like it was everywhere else.

He walked to Weimin's desk. The ketchup stain was still on his shirt. Ashok didn't want to think about its meaning. They had something basic ready. The customer need never know how close it had been. Did Weimin have kids? If they were on antidepressants, would he know? Of the hundreds streaming to their desks, how many would? How many had he put there himself?

Ashok went to his own office. The plush carpet and oversized mahogany desk greeted him. This was all background. It had been for years. If this was his hell, it was one of his own making. What did that make him?

"Only the bird's eye" thought Ashok. "But what if it was the wrong bird?"