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308 pages, Paperback
First published September 10, 2019
Now, staring at my dwindling savings, I began to wonder whether this was the fate that awaited me.
Searching for answers, I immersed myself in the statistics and probabilities that were constantly thrust upon me by anonymous robo-messages: how long would I live? How many years would my savings last if I had to be committed to a nursing home?
What if I lived to ninety-five; did I have enough insurance?
I keyed in the question and stared in alarm at the numbers that appeared before me: the odds were good enough that I felt compelled to reach for my credit card. But no sooner had I paid for the extra insurance than another window popped up, displaying the odds of my living to a hundred and three - and I saw, to my dismay, that they were no smaller than those of a passer-by being hit by an icicle falling off my windowsill. And since that was a possibility against which I was already insured, I could think of no good reason not to reach for my credit card again.
But even that brought me no peace of mind: it was as if I were tumbling down a rabbit hole of mathematical uncertainty. I fell into a kind of paralysis, a state of drawn-out, perpetual panic.
But even as this was going through my mind a tremor of doubt crept through me. How could one know? Was there some kind of abacus somewhere that allowed one to determine whether an experience fell into the realm of chance? No, of course not, because any number of inexplicable things could happen without disproving the possibility of their being connected by chance. In this, chance was like God - nothing that happened, no event or eventuality, could either prove or disprove its immanence. And, at the same time, like God, chance provided reassurance, safety, cleanliness, purity. Wasn’t that why chance was so often said to be ‘pure’? - because it flowed over the world like a fresh mountain stream cleansing everything it touched. To cease to believe in it was to cross over into the territory of fate and destiny, devils and demons, spells and miracles - or, more prosaically, into the conspiratorial universe of the paranoiac, where hidden forces decide everything.
I had just entered the venue — a stuffy colonial-era club — when I was accosted by a distant relative, Kanai Dutt.
I had not seen Kanai in many years, which was not entirely a matter of regret for me: he had always been a glib, vain, precocious know-it-all who relied on his quick tongue and good looks to charm women and get ahead in the world. He lived mainly in New Delhi and had thrived in the hothouse atmosphere of that city, establishing himself as a darling of the media: it was by no means uncommon to turn on the television and find him yelling his head off on a talkshow. He knew everyone, as they say, and was often written about in magazines, newspapers and even books.
The thing that most irritated me about Kanai was that he always found a way of tripping me up. This occasion was no exception; he began by throwing me a curveball in the shape of my childhood nickname, Dinu (which I had long since abandoned in favour of the more American-sounding 'Deen'). (p.5)