Jegadeesh Kumar - Issue 35

Jegadeesh Kumar writes, both in English and Tamil, short stories, poems, and Eastern Philosophy. His work has appeared in The Prometheus Dreaming, Indian Periodical, Spillwords Press, The Defunct Magazine, Piker Press, Impspired magazine, Consequence and elsewhere. A Fine Thread and Other Stories - a short story collection in his translation has been published by Ratna Books India in January 2024. Jegadeesh Kumar received the prestigious Translation Prize from the Canada Tamil Literary Garden in 2024 for his work A Journey Through Words - a book of literary non-fiction. He has also published a collection of his short stories in Tamil Porkugai Ragasiyam (The Golden Cave Secret). A member of NSLS (National Society for Leadership and Success), he has won the Robert Noyce Educator scholarship to complete his Master’s degree in STEM Education at the Citadel Military College of Charleston, SC. Jegadeesh lives in Walterboro, SC with his wife Anusha. I hope you like the story and consider it for publication.

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The Professor’s Parrot

The GPS stopped working beyond Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge. The assisting lady grew unusually quiet as soon as Shruti turned right onto Coleman Boulevard, and the map on her smartphone screen was frozen to the most recent image. Her professor’s house was not even listed on Google maps! On impulse she turned left onto Lansing Drive just ahead of Vicious Biscuit, as directed earlier by Leicchi, who was skeptical about advances in technology and maintained that human brain power is superior to modern gadgets. Even in his biotechnological research he employed similarly slow- moving, traditional methods. He had told her to find Dr. Ramachandran’s house along Lansing Drive, on the north end of Palm Street. But Shruti sought quick results in anything she pursued. If technology can help with that, why not depend on it?

When the lone, two story wooden house with a red roof loomed ahead, she realized annoyingly that, even with the GPS failing, she was going to be at the professor’s at least fifteen minutes earlier, and so dreaded the meeting with her former mentor in case none of his other students hadn’t arrived early. She considered parking the car on the side of the road and waiting for the others to arrive, but, not wanting to draw the attention of the suspicious locals, mustered up the courage to drive the car toward her professor’s home. From 400 feet away, she could even see the open window of the left side room on the second floor where Ramachandran and Shruti, a senior student in his college, sat compiling notes frantically for his biotechnology research fifteen years ago. She wouldn’t be surprised if she found him still in that same room.

As she parked her Lexus RX 350 on the front lawn, next to the Honda Accord that Ramachandran had owned since her undergraduate years at Charleston College (It seemed to her that her professor hadn’t changed his car in all these years, whereas his famous student had changed hers three times in the last four years. During her recent visit to the Tanger Outlet, the seller piqued her interest by displaying the Tesla on exhibit. She was almost done buying that car, which would have meant she had a new car in each of the previous four years), the first thing she saw on the front porch caught her off guard. Ramachandran’s legendary leather mid back swivel office chair, in which he had sat for years and poured incessant knowledge of Biological Sciences, lay abandoned on the porch, the seat pad battered, the headrest broken, and the lumbar support sagging.

Her very own professor answered the door and stood at the entrance, restraining the hurricane door with his right hand, for fear of the malfunctioning door closing in on her. Shruti stood at the door, in shock. The man looked overwhelmed and old. Overwhelmed after years of lecturing, collecting lab specimens indefinitely, producing paper after paper for hungry journals, and listening to young scientists babble in Dissertation Committees. How can fifteen years of time change a man’s appearance totally? It doesn’t even spare a scientist who has dedicated his life to anti-aging research! His hair had turned gray and thinned to the point of baldness. He’d shaved as usual, but Shruti couldn’t find the smoothness and softness she was used to seeing on his face. Brown spots (lentigines, the term came to her) surrounded his puffy eyes. He was dressed in a striped blue shirt that looked like it had just come out of the laundry, and a pair of worn-out suit pants. Not exactly dressed for the occasion. Shruti thought about her 900 dollar light-yellow wrap-around dress she was wearing, which she intended to wear again for the conference on gerontogenes in San Francisco this weekend, where she had been invited to give the keynote address. She wondered if the day’s event was for her or for her professor.

“Come in,” said Ramachadran, smiling awkwardly. Shruti came to and entered, perilously brushing past the professor, who had taken up half of the entrance. She could feel Ramachandran hastily withdrawing himself.

Shruti removed her shoes and stood in the corridor, unsure. Ramachandran shut the door, turned to face her and smiled at his former student, who had been searching for a hint of guilt in his eyes. He averted his eyes and called out, “Gayatri!” His wife emerged from the house, followed by the two daughters. His wife’s immaculate makeup couldn’t conceal her age, and in the company of this woman, Shruti felt a sense of pride in her own blooming youth. She wondered if her two daughters would compare her allure to that of their mother. But the standards of beauty for women nowadays are different. Perhaps a navel ring and candy-colored hair may impress them. Shruti knew Samantha, their first child, who was three years old at the time she studied with the professor. A scarlet macaw sat pecking at its feathers on the shoulder of the second daughter, who looked to be about twelve.

For a few moments, the five exchanged glances. Shruti smiled as she looked at each of them. “Idiot!” the macaw yelled.

The professor’s second girl cackled. “She’s calling out to dad,” she said.

“Stop it, Henna! Shruti, come in, please,” said the professor’s wife as she led her inside. The others quickly followed. They sat on the couches in the living room. Shruti felt as if she had gone back in time. Nothing had changed in that house: the worn-out chesterfield sofas, the pink painted walls, the cheap print of Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory on the wall, the slow whirring, dim light producing Casablanca ceiling fan overhead, the tiny shelf in the dining room corner that held the Hindu idols, the faint, familiar aroma of spices that permeated the house… And then, the books. Books. She didn’t seem to have left the house at all. Henna, his second girl, sat next to Shruti. The macaw in her hand had its head bowed, preening its feathers with its little tusk-like beak. Its body was crimson, save for the plumage which were two dark blue and yellow bands. It seemed to her that the bird suddenly stopped preening and regarded her with a stern eye. Something repugnant about the bird grew in her heart. It looked as though it might pounce on her anytime.

“How have you been, Shruti?” It’s been fifteen years. But you still look the same,” said Gayatri.

For a moment Shruti felt her shapely form gripped tight by the light yellow dress. The result of an hour and a half spent at the gym four days a week and strict dieting. “I’m alright,” she said.

Gayatri seemed to have run out of questions to ask. “You guys keep talking. Biriyani is cooking in the oven. I’ll go check,” she said, getting up. Her first daughter accompanied her to the kitchen.

Henna was still sitting next to her, the unsettling bird perched on her shoulder. Ramachandran sat across from her. They were both avoiding eye contact.

“Is this a scarlet macaw?” Shruti asked.

“Yes, it is. Appa’s student’s gift to him. The name’s Zeta. How quickly you figured it out! Dad doesn’t know what it’s called,” said Henna.

“In India, any bird of this form is called a parrot,” said Ramachandran.

“Can she speak?”

“She has been with us for four months. Speaks a bunch of words. But too few for thirteen hundred dollars.”

“Thomas Stroble brought it from Mexico. He said he’d get me the quaker variety. That one can speak well. But we are not allowed to have it in our state,” Ramachandran explained. It seemed he wanted to strike up a conversation with her. Shruti looked up at him, wondering if he had anything else he wanted to talk about with her. Why has he stopped recognizing her presence for so many years? Wasn’t it his fault that he’d grabbed and embraced her in his room while they were looking for research notes fifteen years ago? Didn’t he freak out, pull himself away, and apologize to the nineteen-year-old me? Why did he refuse to let me into his inner circle even after I’d forgiven him for his offense? The next day he said we wouldn’t continue work at home. But a week later he completely barred me from assisting him with his research. Why should I be the only one penalized when he was the one who was guilty?

“Would you like to hold her for a while? She’s a saint,” said Henna. Shruti responded with a smile and stroked the parrot, feeling the softness of a cotton ball against her palm. The bird’s body was mildly quivering. Then, her smile unchanged, she held out her right hand. The bird lifted one of its legs and laid it on her elbow, scratching her slightly with its talon. Shruti considered for a second whether or not to retrieve her hand. The parrot drew its leg back, as if sensing her intentions. It sprang from Henna’s elbow and landed on her shoulder. Shruti swayed uneasily in her seat and moved a little away from the girl.

The doorbell rang. Leichi and the other friends had arrived. Ramachandran rose to greet them, and Shruti heard them exchanging pleasantries and inquiring after each other. They came in one by one - Leichi, Takashi, Hiroyuki, Sanjay, and Shiv Desai - her college classmates who had studied under the professor, their mentor in their doctoral studies, though he had refused to accept Shruti as a mentee. Her friends were beaming at her, approached her one by one and hugged her. Nobody had expected her to show up. They placed the gifts they’d brought on the table next to the television. Shruti remembered the gift she’d brought. She stood up, walked over to the table, and placed a tiny gift box from her handbag on the table.

Everyone sat at the dinner table. The first girl, Samantha, went around the table asking everyone what wine they preferred. She poured red wine into Shruti’s glass. Henna and the professor’s wife were carrying food from the kitchen and laying them on the table. Henna’s parrot was perched on the stairwell’s handrail and screeched, “Henna! Henna!” Everyone turned to look at it.

“The Sita of our house,” said Ramachandran, with a smirk.

“It’s Zeta, not Sita, daddy,” said Henna, with a mild annoyance.

“That’s right. But who knows if it’s a boy or a girl? We’ll have to do a DNA test to find out,” said Shiv Desai, sarcastically.

“It only repeats what she says to it,” said her mother, accusingly.

“Do you think a parrot can speak on its own?” Henna asked her mother, letting out her trademark cackle. Within a few minutes, everyone had forgotten about the bird and had become engrossed in their talk. They discussed the difficulties they were facing in their current field, the accomplishments they had made, and how the professor’s mentoring had aided them in their advancement. Shruti nodded and smiled, appearing to take part in the conversation. She looked up at the parrot resting on the staircase. Suddenly her mind flashed back to that day. A picture of her and the professor sitting next to each other, with her frantically scribbling down his notes. She is falling across the pages and crawling and slithering through diagrams and tables. Now the professor’s hot breath lands on her nape. She reluctantly stops writing and notices her lecturer looking in her direction. Her organs freeze in an instant. There appears to be a large space between two beats of her heart, which seems to anticipate the thing he will do to her next.

“Ding, ding, ding, please, I request your attention!” said Lechi. “Why are we gathered here today? Professor Dilip Ramachandran has retired. All of us, his former students, are here to bid him farewell. We never expected you to retire so soon, Professor. Thank you for inspiring us in this field of Biology and playing such a vital role in shaping our future. Thank you, professor, thank you, for everything,” His voice cracked slightly as he expressed his feelings. “To the professor!” he said, raising his wine glass. Everyone raised their glasses. “To the professor,” they repeated. Then they took a sip from their glasses. Around the dinner table the conversation resumed. Sanjay and Shiv Desai spoke in Hindi, while the other three friends spoke in Japanese before quickly switching to English when the situation demanded. The mother and the two daughters were circling around the table, getting food and carrying empty dishes. Ramachandran maintained a vacant gaze and gave short replies to everyone. Gayatri, whenever she came near Shruti, enquired if she found the food alright. The clacking of forks and knives against ceramic plates. ‘Have you had tandoori chicken? Isn’t this paneer butter masala delicious?’- queries, nods, smiles.

‘Why did you avoid me, professor? Didn’t I forgive you? Didn’t I choose to ignore your apprehension and angst after that incident? Would I have let this happen to you if I had been with you? This decision to retire, is this purely your personal choice? Who would keep one who goes to work drunk on the job? What was it about me that compelled you to avenge me in this way? Why so much hatred towards me?’ “I consider it an honor to have had the opportunity to study with Dr. Shruti Iswaran. Today she is a world-renowned biotechnologist. Everyone in the scientific world is talking about her papers in the journal Nature Biotechnology. Last year she received the Gairdner Award. Shruti exemplifies how Professor Ram’s students will fare in their fields,” said Takashi.

‘Perhaps you detest my growing popularity. How I longed for the smallest acknowledgement, the tiniest nod of yours to reach me amidst the accolades I amassed at each of my milestones? Even when you couldn’t avoid a question about me in your one radio interview, you made it seem like what I’ve accomplished is no big deal? Would you have overlooked such a feat if any of your other students had accomplished it? Has the incident upstairs in your room not only left you feeling terrible, but has it also evolved into a profound loathing for me?’

“Professor Ram deserves a similar reputation”, Shiv Desai added. “He has kept himself confined to his classrooms. He was content to watch his students grow and achieve heights that he could have reached if he had chosen to.” Shruti noticed the slight sarcasm in his tone. The professor had slowly given himself to drinking, as a result of which his reputation continued to dwindle in academic and scientific circles. No one came forward to publish the findings of his research in Senolytics. For her research in the same field, a company in Germany seeking to find a cure for gout had hired Shruti with a hefty remuneration. Is he implying that the professor had failed to accomplish much? Suddenly, without comprehending the reason, Shruti felt an inordinate compassion for her professor. She wanted to hold his hands, brush his hair, and comfort him.

“Idiot!” said Henna’s parrot.

What are your thoughts on Shruti Iswaran, the winner of the Gairdner Award, professor Ramachandran? She was one of your students during her undergraduate studies. Her research on inhibiting the growth of senescent cells that cause arthritis has won her the award. You had announced that you intended to write a book on the subject.

I was determined not to be presumptive as a result of the findings of my own research. Although the drug discovered through this research can block the growth of senescent cells, I became aware of the many limits in easing the patient’s persistent pain caused by this. Hence the reluctance to publish the book.

‘Wishes? Where were your wishes, professor? Even in your response to the inquiry concerning my prize, only the findings of your own research were highlighted. Do you know the amount that the German company has granted us for this research? Four million euros!’

The parrot had jumped onto Henna’s shoulder as she approached the guests with another bottle of red wine to refill their glasses. She went around the table, filling the guests’ glasses with wine. As Shruti held out her glass, the parrot jumped from Henna’s shoulder onto Shruti’s hand. Shruti was startled and dropped her wine glass, which toppled over and spilled wine in her lap.

“Ow!” exclaimed many, in unison. The wine was spreading like pale blood on Shruti’s delicate yellow dress. She sat in stunned silence. Henna picked up the parrot and left the scene when her mother gave her a stern look and said, “That’s why I told you to take the bird upstairs.” The first girl, Samantha, approached Shruti. “It’s alright, Shruti. If you wash it with vinegar it will disappear totally. Come with me,” she said. Shruti gave a painful smile to everyone and left with Samantha.

She entered the bathroom with the clothes Samantha had given her. The top was too small for her, but the track pants fit perfectly. She opened the door and informed Samantha of this. Samantha brought her a blue dress shirt. Shruti only noticed it when she put on the shirt and glanced in the mirror. It was her professor’s shirt. The same one he’d worn when he held her in his room. She sat on the commode, fighting back her sobs. She smothered the gasps, taking care not to let the sound escape. She could hear everyone conversing in the living room. Again, for reasons not apparent to her at the moment, she became enraged with her professor. She sat there for a while, letting her nerves settle.

She got up, looked in the mirror, took things out of her purse, and fixed her makeup. She took a deep breath to calm her down and came out. All her friends were ready to depart. Samantha informed her that she had just thrown her clothes in the dryer and they’d be ready in a few minutes. The friends bid their goodbyes and left.

Shruti sat on the living room sofa. Looking up, she saw Ramachandran climbing the stairs. Her pent-up rage flared up again. She got up and followed him upstairs.

“Do you intend to ignore me for the rest of your life?” she asked, standing at the door of his room.

The professor sat in a chair by his desk. “Come in, Shruti. Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair next to him. “I just saw your gift. Bulova is my all-time favorite. Thank you.”

She slumped on the chair with a deep sigh. “Now I know. It wasn’t guilt that drove you to abandon me. It may have been so at first. But the true reason is because you can’t stand watching me grow up. You’re comforting yourself by punishing me for your wrongdoing,” she explained. Her chest was heaving rapidly as a result of her intense breathing.

Ramachandran looked her in the eyes with remarkable clarity. “Shruti, you are my most intelligent and creative student. Even your current height does not match your talent,” he said.

“What's the point of praising me now? How come you ignored me exactly when I was succeeding?”

Ramachandran bowed his head quietly. He then straightened up and looked at her. “You want to know why I avoided you?” he said. He retrieved a hefty notepad from his desk drawer and placed it on the table. The book was entirely crumpled and his name was smeared with ink on the cover. “Do you remember what this book is?”

It was the book in which Shruti took notes as the professor dictated. She picked up the book and glanced over its brown pages, the bulk of which were her own handwriting. Ramachandran’s research articles on genomic instability and epigenetic modifications were among them. She recalled his comments then, in the articles themselves, describing the limitations of the research. Many pages were etched in her memory. Shruti realized right away why she had such vivid images of them in her head, and what the professor was trying to convey.

She changed her clothes and prepared to leave once they were dry. Ramachandran walked alongside her to the gate. Henna stood back, the parrot perched on her arm.

“There’s no atonement for what I did to you the other day, Shruti. Will you forgive me? But I think my student Shruti Iswaran is an original; a creative thinker. The height she has reached never matters to me. She could reach still greater heights with her original thinking. My apprehension is that you went after quick success, leaving creativity and originality aside. Perhaps that is why I avoided you all these days,” said Ramachandran.

Shruti turned around and walked down the steps without responding. She walked over to her car, opened its door, and gazed up at the man. Ramachandran stood at the door, frail and infirm, as though abandoned by life, a rueful smile on his lips. “Idiot! Idiot!” screamed the parrot in Henna’s hand.