Profit and loss

Finally, at the very bottom of the leather bag were two envelopes.

The first envelope read, "For Aditya's eyes only."

He opened it and first tipped out a business card printed with: "Rafiq-Trading Company, 3 Akbar Road, Ballard District, Mumbai."

A crooked line of handwriting ran across the back:

"Find him first when you reach Mumbai. He owes me a favor and can help you get around the foreign exchange controls."

Aditya set the business card aside and unfolded the letter. It was in English.

"Aditya, by the time you read this letter, I will already be bedridden. These fifty thousand US dollars are for you, to use abroad. Take this money to Mumbai and find Rafiq. The man is greedy, but trustworthy. Just tell him I sent you, and he won't quote you an outrageous price.

Mary may not return your calls, and even if you go to Israel, she may not open her door to you. Take that bracelet and pendant with you. Sara said Mary always wore them before she was seven. She will recognize them.

I am begging you just this once: bring her back. Let me see her once. I am dying, and I just want to see Mary one more time. She can hate me. After I die, she won't have to stay. Bring her back, and I will give you the company in Mumbai. Don't refuse. It isn't a thank-you gift, but the last thing I will leave behind. You will have use for it."

The letter broke off there, without a signature. There was only a long pen stroke, as though his strength had failed him on the final stroke.

Aditya folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. He suddenly wanted to laugh, yet couldn't quite manage it.

That old man Solomon was practically dying, yet he still calculated everything down to the last detail. He had probably already planned for this day when he lent the money.

From beginning to end, Aditya had been a piece on Solomon's chessboard. And yet, for this particular move, he was a rather willing piece.

Aditya picked up the other envelope. It said "For Mary," and its flap was sealed.

He put the letter back into the leather bag.

He rewrapped the fifty thousand US dollars, taking out only a few bills to put in an inner pocket. The photograph, bracelet, pendant, business card, and letter for Mary all went back into the leather bag.

It was already past noon when Aditya drove back to Kanpur.

The jeep had just turned into the entrance of the lane leading to the Diya Factory when he saw more than a dozen people blocking the gate.

Raju stood inside the iron gate with two men from the Mishra Family. The people outside weren't making trouble. They simply squatted there, some holding children.

When Raju saw the jeep, he pulled open the iron gate and hurried forward to greet him.

"Young master, you're back."

"Mm." Aditya drove into the factory and switched off the engine.

He tipped his chin toward the gate and asked, "What's going on?"

Raju wiped away his sweat and said, "They all heard Diya pays well and came from elsewhere. I told them we weren't hiring, but they won't leave. They aren't making trouble either, just waiting outside."

"Leave them be. Watch the gate. Keep an eye out for anyone causing trouble," Aditya said.

"Yes, young master."

Aditya walked into the office. Dipti had already sorted out all of Diya's September accounts.

As soon as Aditya sat down, Dipti spread open a ledger and began explaining. Rows of figures filled its pages.

"We started production on September ninth, so it's been ten days as of today. Output was low for the first four days, while the workers and machines were settling in. Starting on the sixth day, daily output stabilized between twenty-eight hundred and thirty-one hundred meters. From the tenth to the fourteenth, the day and night shifts together averaged around thirty-two hundred meters a day.

"At an ex-factory price of eight and a half rupees per meter of greige fabric, the Diya Textile Factory's daily output is worth a little over twenty-seven thousand rupees."

Aditya leaned back in his chair and listened to her report. He felt that Dipti, his senior from school, truly was a blessing. Even her work reports were so conscientious. If he could get a few more heaven-chosen wage slaves like her, wouldn't he have it made?

"On the cost side, cotton yarn accounts for the largest share. The current purchase price of twenty-count carded yarn is thirty rupees a kilogram. One meter of fabric uses around two hundred and thirty grams of yarn. At thirty-two hundred meters a day, that's seven hundred and thirty-six kilograms of yarn, costing twenty-two thousand and eighty rupees."

"Electricity is eleven hundred a day. Labor is twenty-two hundred. I've allocated part of the depreciation on the machinery and workshop by day, but we'll leave that out for now. Food, fuel, repairs, and miscellaneous expenses come to around a thousand a day. Altogether, daily costs are around twenty-six thousand rupees."

Aditya said nothing, calculating in his head.

Dipti continued, "Daily output value is twenty-seven thousand, and costs are twenty-six thousand."

She looked up and said with a frown, "We're making a thousand rupees a day right now. That doesn't include transport and other miscellaneous expenses. If we calculate it more precisely, we're breaking even, or losing a few dozen rupees."

"Are the other factories like this too?" Aditya asked, rubbing his forehead.

"The factories still surviving in Kanpur either owe the banks, owe their workers wages, or work for middlemen. At least Diya has no debts," Dipti said. "But judging by these accounts, keeping the Diya Textile Factory open is practically charity."

Aditya closed the ledger. These figures were within his expectations.

Getting twenty-eight old British machines up to thirty-two hundred meters a day in just ten days already showed that Ram and Abid knew how to manage things. Had it been Prakash, they would still have been hovering around two thousand.

But no matter how they managed it, with fabric at eight and a half rupees, yarn at thirty, and wages still needing to be paid in full, there was simply no money to be made.

He leaned back in his chair and thought for a few seconds.

"Then what's the point of keeping it open?" Madan came in through the door, having clearly overheard. His face was dark, as though the accounts had slapped him.

"If we close, we lose even more each day," Aditya said. "As long as the factory runs, there's cash flow. With cash flow, banks will lend us money. I'm not after this thousand rupees a day. Next month, I want to take this ledger to Mumbai and show the banks that Diya produces thirty-two hundred meters every day, employs over a hundred workers, and pays wages on time."

"As long as we aren't losing money, I can get a loan. With money, we can upgrade the equipment and improve production efficiency. Only then can the Diya Textile Factory really make money."

"Could we raise the fabric price?" Dipti suddenly asked.

"No," Madan said. "The buyers in Lucknow only want cheap goods. We've just started production, so low prices are our only option. Raise it by even one rupee, and they won't buy."

"Then what should we do?"

Dipti frowned. She looked at Aditya. This Brahmin junior of hers seemed not to care at all. She actually wanted to suggest cutting the workers' wages a little. As long as they lowered them to match the other textile factories, Diya's profits would immediately rise.

Dipti knew she ought to be the one to say it. She was the Diya Textile Factory's accountant, responsible to the factory, and she ought to offer advice. But she couldn't bear to.

She was a Vaishya. She knew what even one rupee meant to those workers.

Dipti supported Aditya's willingness to raise the workers' wages. It was also what attracted her most to this Brahmin junior, a junior with a unique charm.

She didn't want to sully him either, even though filth was the norm in India. She was willing to protect this kind heart.

Aditya didn't see the stars sparkling in Dipti's eyes. He had no idea he had already won over his senior.

Madan pulled over a chair and sat down, utterly dejected.

"Don't worry," Aditya reassured him. "Right now, we need to preserve the factory and keep our people. Don't let the workers think the factory is failing."

Aditya looked at Dipti again. "Keep doing the accounts this way. The figures need to be clean. The bank people may be even pickier than you, so we can't let them find anything wrong. Also, starting today, get two figures clear every day: how much fabric we produced, and how much money came in. Everything else can wait until I'm back."

Dipti nodded. "Wages still go out on the tenth?"

"As usual. Pay even a paisa less, and people's hearts will scatter, and Diya will collapse. Use the account I left you. Also, don't pile up inventory. We can unload fabric in stock at eight point two. What we need is cash flow," Aditya said.

He stood and walked to the workshop entrance. All twenty-eight machines were running, and not one of the day-shift weavers looked his way.

A few night-shift workers had arrived early and were waiting in a corner.

Aditya thought, Their hearts are with us. This factory may be scrawny now, but its framework is in place. Once he returned from Israel, it would be time to put flesh on its bones. He planned to get that flesh from China. That had been his plan from the start.

Madan drove him to the station. Before Aditya went inside, he tossed Madan the jeep keys.

"I'm leaving the car with you, Uncle. Make a few more trips to Lucknow. Find more buyers and negotiate prices. And no selling on credit. We're not following Prakash's example."

Madan nodded and caught the keys.

The railway platform was packed. Carrying his suitcase, Aditya said goodbye to Madan.

When the train arrived, he squeezed aboard and found his berth.

At night, a breeze flowed through the carriage, making it a little cooler.

Aditya lay down, but that ledger was still on his mind.

A thousand rupees a day. So little.

But having worked in finance in his previous life, he knew cash mattered more than profit. As long as cash kept flowing, the factory was still alive. And as long as it lived, it had the right to turn the tables.

Aditya closed his eyes, and the train slowly began to move.

The Diya Textile Factory was alive in Kanpur, and Mumbai waited ahead for Aditya.

The next leg was no longer about business in Kanpur, but sympathy in a foreign land, and a father's wish.

Aditya didn't find it troublesome. On the contrary, he felt very relaxed and was enjoying himself.

Aditya knew perfectly well that in a place like India, those who died were always those whose money ran out first. As long as he had money in hand-it didn't need to be much, as long as it didn't run out.

As long as the money didn't run out, he knew how to walk the road ahead.

The next stop was Mumbai. Once he reached Israel from Mumbai, he could take care of Solomon's affairs.

In the darkness, the train headed south, and Aditya fell asleep.

His hand still rested on the leather bag. Even asleep, he didn't loosen his grip.