“I think the original advertising’s still somewhere around here,” Shiba said. “You should see the illustration on the poster—a skinny man in a dhoti and turban with a snake made out of letters of the Hindi alphabet coming out of his basket. Papa, that was so cringe.”
“It worked though, didn’t it? The Learners said we were magicians, even saints. I think they wanted to stay forever, to become our ‘followers’ or some such thing.”
“Foreigners are always coming here desperate for men that they can turn into gurus,” Shiba said, rolling her eyes.
“But we had no interest in playing that kind of role,” Arjun continued. “We just wanted to know whether the process worked. And once we knew that it did, we opened a Thai center, here in Delhi, and when that, too, was successful, we thought we’d try multiple languages under the same roof. That became the institution Shiba runs now. It had to be in England, you see, to attract the kind of clientele that wouldn’t have a problem with our rates.”
“Makes sense.” I nodded before asking, as soon as it felt appropriate, “So … how exactly does it work?”
Arjun flashed Shiba a look, “You have probably understood it somewhat by now, yes?”
I felt a little stupid.
“Somewhat, yes,” I said. “But how exactly?”
“It is, essentially, an energetic exchange. The methodology is complex, meticulously developed. I think best to explain when you’ve caught up further on your own, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I stammered. “Whatever you think is best.”
We entered the third room of the cottage, a small kitchen with a two-burner gas stove and a small fridge.
“We needed a place free of prying eyes, and often worked late into the night, so we set up our own little station here to make coffee and reheat food. In fact, Shiba, sweetheart, will you make us some tea now?”
“Of course.”
While Shiba set the water to boil, Arjun and I made our way back to the office. I looked at the photo of him with his colleagues again. I could see where Shiba got her sharp eyebrows and prominent nose, her glinting eyes and thick hair. Arjun stood behind me and looked at the photo over my shoulder.
“We met at the chess club, you see. Eric was a physicist and George was there studying biochemistry. David was studying anthropology, and I was reading PPE—”
“PPE?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said and let out a little chuckle, as if I was so very sweet and stupid for not knowing. “Politics, philosophy, and economics, dear. But I also considered myself something of a linguist in those days. Like you, I hear.”
“Kind of—”
“Soon,” he interrupted, “the four of us became bosom buddies. Then, one day, we were talking in one of our rooms. Well, don’t tell Shiba this part, but, in those days, you know, various substances were in vogue as well. I mean, mind-altering stuff. It was an experimental age. So yes, we had taken a little something.”
“Ahh, okay.”
“Yes. I’m not as fuddy-duddy as you thought, am I?”
“No. I mean, I didn’t think you were … fuddy duddy.”
“Okay. Good. Well, as I was saying, the four of us were sitting there, sharing our research and ideas and experiences, and to this day, none of us is sure where the idea came from. It just formed itself, right there. We were sitting in a kind of square, and there, in the middle, the idea arose, like vapor. And as we kept talking, it started to take shape. I remember George sharing about ancient wartime practices, and then David talked about some mind-hacking techniques he’d learned in the IDF. We kept sharing, adding, refining, until, to our own surprise, we had created a whole new thing. Oh, it feels like yesterday, when I think of it.”
“It sounds like … an exciting time.”
“There is nothing so stimulating as the creation of a new idea. In that moment, it feels like anything is possible. Like you’ve plucked a cloud out of the sky, and it’s turned into a swan.”
“Or maybe like childbirth?” I offered.
He nodded to himself. “Yes, more like the swan I would say.”
Shiba returned with a wooden tray that held three teacups, a small jug of milk, and a matching sugar bowl. Her father reached for his cup without looking at her, as if the tray were levitating of its own accord. He poured himself some milk and a spoonful of sugar before lifting the cup up to his lips.
“It truly was a wonderful time,” he said, still caught up in his own nostalgia.
Watching them, I found myself wondering what role Shiba’s mother had played in all this. Shiba told me that she’d been only twelve years old when her mother passed, and from then on, her father had taken on the role of both parents. She’d also had a loyal maid who’d raised her as if she were her own.
“Did Auntie … um, Shiba’s mum … know about all this?”
“Oh no, of course not. The four of us agreed early on to maintain total secrecy. She left us to it.”
“I see.”
“You see this computer here?” he said, gesturing toward the bulky desktop. “This is from the nineties, believe it or not. But even this we didn’t have when we first started. To conceptualize something so novel with technology now considered so antiquated, well, I don’t think you girls could even imagine the challenge of that.”
Arjun continued sharing story after story from those times while we sipped our tea around the large wooden table. He told us these tales as if recounting great myths from the Mahabharat, resurrecting the ghosts of the young men who had conjured this magical thing. It felt as if he were taking the room itself back in time, and I was honored to be in a space of such significance. The green leather armchair, the table full of dusty papers, everything around us took on an air of practically sacred importance. It almost made me want to bow in reverence, and everything that I didn’t like about myself, all my inadequacies and insecurities, melted away at the thought that, surely, I must be quite special, too, if I’d earned an invitation here.
Shiba also listened in starry-eyed rapture, glancing at me every now and then, happy to see me basking in the glow that she had enjoyed since she was a small child. Eventually, though, the two of us succumbed to our jet lag. We all returned to the main house, and Shiba and I ascended the marble staircase to our rooms while Arjun poured himself a whiskey in his study.
The next day, we met again at the breakfast table, where the men were already tucking into masala omelets. They asked me slightly patronizing questions then about where I’d gone to uni and what my parents did. Sometimes, I enjoyed this treatment, like when Arjun had made the “bright young thing” comment or when they said how pleased they were that Shiba had found a like-minded friend. But it also felt somewhat dismissive. After we were done eating and Kumar had cleared the plates, the men nodded at one another as if to say, “Okay, time to get back to the real work now,” and retreated into the study. Arjun told Kumar on his way out that they would be taking their lunch in there, working through the afternoon. Before he shut the study door firmly behind himself, he turned to us with a wink and said he would see us at dinner.