Editor’s Note: Here’s an excerpt from Ravi Subramanian’s latest book, Don’t Tell The Governor. Subramanian, who mainly writes stories about the financial world, has already written nine books. In this book, he tells the fictional story of a character named Aditya Kesavan, who becomes the newest head of RBI and faces dangerous challenges during his new job and the Ministry of Finance of India. Subramanian has won the Economist Crossword Book Award and the Golden Quill Readers’ Choice Award three years in a row.
Here’s the excerpt from Don’t tell the governor:
By Ravi Subramanian
January–March 2015
NEW YORK CITY
Aditya Kesavan had barely slept for three hours when the sound of his cell phone alarm woke him up. He rubbed his eyes, pushed the blanket off him, got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He had slept in the previous night after stocking up on food and groceries all evening. NYC was on high alert after a blizzard warning.
He came out of the bathroom and turned on the coffee maker. It was a small but adequate two bedroom apartment, close to the university campus. Aditya also owned a huge five-bedroom mansion a few miles to the north, where his wife and daughter resided. Not long ago, all three of them lived there together, but one day his wife caught him messing with his PhD student in the kitchen and kicked him out. Fortunately, she hadn’t made the case public or his reputation as a tenured professor at NYU would have been shattered. There were three deadly sins in academia in the US; sleeping with a student was one of them, and arguably the 8 most frowned upon.
The other two were plagiarism and stealing federal grants. His wife eventually released him, but only after she got her pound of meat. She had also made two more demands: that he would walk out of the house then and there and that their daughter would stay with her. Aditya was unable to negotiate and had agreed to both.
That morning he was worried about his students. Many of them would have trouble getting to class with this weather. In India, people used bad weather as an excuse to take a day off. But here it was different. He glanced at the stack of papers on the table next to his bed. It was the final version of the manuscript that his publisher had sent him. He had to go through the entire pile and send his confirmation by the weekend. Sixty days until the release of his book, and mentally he still wasn’t ready. The publishers wanted to capitalize on the success of his earlier book — a controversial book explaining how China’s economy was actually a bubble, one that would burst within a year.
That book was a big hit and had broken all records. Not only had Aditya become the darling of the publishing house that published the book, his success had also earned him several consulting assignments with the Federal Reserve System – the US central banking system. And to top it off, television channels and online media began to portray him as an expert on China’s economic policy.
His first book had changed his life. He didn’t earn enough as an academic, but his book more than made up for it. Translated worldwide into seventeen languages, it had sold hundreds of thousands of copies. In hindsight, Aditya only wished he had negotiated a higher advance. But then, at the time, China was booming and no one was willing to publish a book that talked about the impending failure of that country’s economy. So when a publisher finally accepted the manuscript, Aditya was relieved that he had at least found a good brand to publish his book.
Anyway, more than money, what the book had given him was recognition, and you couldn’t put a price on that. Aditya took off his clothes to get into the shower and stopped in front of the mirror. Despite his advanced age, he still looked great. A sculpted body, with not an inch of fat, abs that would give any Hollywood star a run for their money, plus a face like a Greek god—well, he sure was gifted, wasn’t he, he thought to himself.
Within the next fifteen minutes he had showered and dressed. When he was done, he grabbed his iPad, poured himself a large mug of coffee, and drank it down. Breakfast could wait until he reached the Starbucks on campus.
On his way out, he opened the bedroom door and looked inside. The girl curled up on the bed was still asleep. He had met her for the first time last night. Someone he knew had introduced him to her at the bar. He hastily closed the door and walked out of his apartment. When she woke up, the girl was able to walk herself. He wasn’t worried about leaving her alone in his house. He had nothing worth stealing.
As he walked down the snowy path to the subway station a few blocks away, he thought of his daughter. Would he ever see her again? Possibly not. His wife would never allow it. He remembered her anger; thought of that fateful night when she’d caught him and his apprentice. Well, it had to be done, he rationalized, shaking his head.
Intellect and indiscretion were the two opposing sides of his personality. And both had to co-exist without affecting each other.
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Aditya Kesavan returned home that evening with four messages on his answering machine. The first was from his publisher: more than half a million copies sold, sixteen languages in seventy-three countries in the world.
And yet you don’t feel like ironing when the iron is hot. Return the manuscript. We need to get to the press quickly.
We announced the book in the media. Everyone is waiting. Hello. You there?
The second was from his father: Adi, Amma is not well, da. Took her to the hospital today. Call if you get this message. Having just spoken to his father on the way home, he did not panic when he heard the second message. His mother was struck by the onset of dementia. She had reached a stage where she no longer knew who her husband was. “Amma might not even remember you,” his father had told him over the phone.
‘Do you want me to come?’ Aditya had asked him. “Not now, Adi. Come when she’s home. But don’t put it off or you may lose her forever.’ Aditya heard the tears and pain in his father’s voice.
The third message on the machine was what sounded like a silly call: This is the special-duty officer from the Prime Minister’s Office in New Delhi. Please call back when you receive this message. My number is… Aditya didn’t even wait for the message to finish. He pressed the button and went to the fourth message. These spam calls had become very common. Wondering where they got his number?
(The following excerpt is published with permission from HarperCollins India. Written by Ravi Subramanian, the paperback of Don’t Tell The Governor costs Rs 299)