Hinduism divides life into four ashramas or stages, each asking something different of the individual as they move through the world: Brahmacharya (student), Grihastha (householder), Vanaprastha (forest dweller), and Sanyasa (renunciate). Different times have interpreted the different stages differently. Still, the core remains the same: the student stage focuses on gaining knowledge, the householder establishes a family and pursues a career, the forest dweller slowly withdraws from worldly pursuits, and the renunciate detaches from the materialism around them. First, we learn. Then, we build. After that, we step back. And finally, we let go.
Enter modern capitalism. Surging inflation, higher taxes, stagnant wages, and unstable jobs mean that “retirement” gradually becomes a mythical idea. The days when employees retired from the workforce at 60 are fading away, replaced by the elderly stuck in a never-ending loop of corporate slavery. What was once a natural culmination of a working life has become a privilege for the few. Today, it’s not uncommon to see ageing delivery agents hurrying through the lanes of industrial greed in the quest to conquer their daily quotas. The hustle must go on.
Contemporary angsts
At the crossroads of such contemporary crises lies M R Dattathri’s Ondondu Talegu Ondondu Bele, translated by the author into English as What’s Your Price, Mr Shivaswamy? Incidentally, Dattathri is a seasoned IT professional himself, having worked for many multinational companies in India and the US. A bilingual writer who writes in Kannada and English, all five of his previously published novels have garnered him acclaim and awards.
The titular character of this story, Shivaswamy, has long awaited the arrival of his retirement, having worked for over three decades in the same government office. But thanks to a real estate purchase gone wrong, his financial planning is undone in an instant. No more can he spend his time peacefully with his partner, tending to his kids, away from the machinations of full-time employment. Sanyasa must make room for Grihastha, again. Instead of shedding worldly duties, Shivaswamy must don them all over again.
He somehow manages to find a role as an HR manager, only to find himself right in the middle of an office feud. The office is divided into two factions: Dhaval, the director, determined to preserve the business as it stands, and his son, Raviraj, young, restless, and eager to split, scale, and digitise. Between loyalty and ambition, tradition and transformation, the office becomes a chessboard of rival motives, and in this corporate khichdi does Shivaswamy find himself acting as the middleman and appeasing each side while trying to keep his job intact.
Sprinkled through the novel are the vachanas of Allama Prabhu, the 12th-century Lingayat saint and Vachana poet, forming its spiritual and moral anchor. Our protagonist regularly returns (and quotes) Allama’s utterances on themes like detachment of worldly possessions (or maya) or personal identity, which in turn influence his choices and the actions of those around him.
“There was an inverse relationship between one’s existence and the size of one’s home. The larger the home, the more one’s essence seemed to diminish. Roaming within such a vast mansion might make one feel as insignificant as an ant.”
Pace and grace
The story has the pace and grace of a well-crafted thriller, ebbing and flowing like a river while picking up the many sediments of Shivaswamy’s life. Whether writing about the claustrophobia-inducing Bengaluru metro, the duplicity of office politics, or the shrewd bureaucracy of real-estate dealings, Dattathri brings a contemporary flair and familiarity that extends beyond the local. It’s easy to imagine yourself in his shoes, putting on pretences in front of coworkers, worrying about work-life balance, unable to sleep because of a construction site nearby, or dealing with the internal politics of his housing society.
In What’s Your Price, Mr Shivaswamy?, the personal is political, and the spiritual is never separate from the systemic. With his characteristic flair, Dattathri contends with themes like income inequality, generational gaps, and the never-ending hustle of modern life. “...this “family” is a strange thing. It starts with “we” but eventually ends with “I”. (...) As the external family grows, the internal one shrinks. In the end, only “I” will remain.” Between the director and his son lies an entire spectrum of tension, a generational parable masquerading as corporate drama.
By the final page, a resolution feels beside the point. Dilemmas are all that remain. Right answers there are none, but paths there are many. What you choose is what you become.