Chronicles from Mehra World: Wooster and Jeeves visit Mehra World

The morning broke over Mayfair in a blaze of golden sunshine, and Bertram Wooster awoke feeling positively buoyant.

His arm had displayed top form at the Drones in the darts final. A sweet little filly, Rosalie—on whom he’d risked a small fortune based on a reliable tip—had come through like a champion, and no pressing summons from any aunt awaited. He pressed the bell for Jeeves, who miraculously materialised, bearing a tray laden with breakfast rendered to absolute perfection.

Bertie took a sip of tea and looked thoughtfully at his faithful valet.

“Jeeves.”

“Sir.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual this morning?”

“Nothing immediately presents itself, sir.”

“Apply the old grey cells, Jeeves! The tea is piping. The kidneys on toast have comported themselves with admirable dignity. Aunt Agatha is away for a month. Yet a rift has appeared in the lute. Something is undeniably missing.”

“Ah. Mr. Mehra, sir.”

“Precisely! I approached breakfast in the happiest of spirits, fully intending to spend the next half-hour wrapped in the latest adventures of that industrious bird Mehra, only to discover that Wednesday had arrived entirely unaccompanied.”

“Mr. Mehra has altered his publishing arrangements, sir.”

“Good Lord! One doesn’t simply alter Wednesdays.”

“The Chronicles shall henceforth appear on Saturdays, sir. At fortnightly intervals.”

“Incredulous!”

“Incredible, sir.”

“Don’t quibble, Jeeves! Saturdays? Curious. I had begun to think of Wednesday as belonging jointly to Providence and Mehra. How did this confidential intelligence reach your ears?”

“Through Madan, sir—Mr. Mehra’s chauffeur. He predicts his employer’s literary intentions with remarkable accuracy.”

“Extraordinary! A turf prophet in a chauffeur’s cap! Tell me, Jeeves, is there a book running on these predictions? Could a chap lay a tenner on Madan’s tips?”

“I believe the chauffeur operates purely as an informal oracle, sir, rather than a bookmaker.”

“Pity. I’d have backed his judgment against the form book any day. But tell me... where, pray, does this Mehra cove broadcast these dispatches? Is it some manner of digital pigeon post?”

“A Substack, sir. A modern electronic courier service which delivers Mr. Mehra’s reflections directly to one’s screen, bypassing the Postmaster General entirely.”

“Does one subscribe to the gentleman?”

“One generally begins by subscribing to the publication, sir.”

“And ends?”

“Rather attached to the gentleman.”

“Spot on, Jeeves! You’ve hit the nail right on the napper. Have we ourselves succumbed to this phenomenon?”

“It would not be an unreasonable conclusion, sir. Literature occasionally shortens introductions.”

“Dashed odd business. Retirement arrives, and instead of cultivating roses or dropping in upon friends at luncheon hours, he embarks on an entirely fresh career. I have always regarded retirement as one of civilisation’s happier inventions—a little golf, a restorative nap, and lending sympathy to Bingo Little instead of money. Yet Mehra approaches it like Napoleon approaching Europe.”

“If I may venture an opinion, sir, a gentleman who has spent three decades directing corporate affairs does not instantly acquire an aptitude for sustained idleness. The office may retire the gentleman; his mind is under no corresponding obligation to retire itself.”

“Rather like Aunt Agatha! Remove her from one household and she immediately begins organising another.”

“Precisely, sir. The customary stream of corporate meetings having ceased, Mr. Mehra’s brain simply redirected that same discipline toward fresh enterprises.”

“Good heavens. The fellow reorganized his own existence! Though I must say, Jeeves, a chap ought to exercise extreme caution before attempting to lend a helping hand to a pal. It’s a two-step recipe for disaster. Step one: step in with the noblest intentions. Step two: find oneself up to the neck in the soup!”

“A sequence of events not unfamiliar to observers of human nature, sir.”

“Precisely! One sees it everywhere. The world is positively littered with fellows who simply don’t know when to leave well enough alone. Take that business with Sanjeev Khurana. Mehra catches sight of a chap in distress and simply can’t resist charging in. Before you can say ‘pip-pip’, the aunts and uncles erupt like Vesuvius, and the poor blighter is floundering in an unmitigated domestic imbroglio!”

“Indeed, sir. Terrifyingly vocal relatives appear to be a universal hazard when good intentions misfire.”

“Exactly! Aunts and Uncles are the same the world over, Jeeves. There is no parallel to a Wooster on the subject of Aunts and Uncles. They lie perfectly dormant until some well-meaning ass attempts to improve matters. Then out they come in full force! It requires judgment, Jeeves. Timing. A certain instinct for recognizing the precise moment to quietly withdraw before the gravy starts flying.”

“A discipline in which comparatively few gentlemen have attained complete mastery, sir.”

“Quite! Having handled my own relations with what I think we may fairly describe as conspicuous success, I can immediately detect where Mehra goes wrong. The fellow simply lacks a seasoned campaigner at his elbow to murmur, ‘Steady on, old chap. This has all the hallmarks of soup.’”

“The reflection had occasionally occurred to me as well, sir.”

“Quite so! Mind you, I could have taught the chap a trick or two about navigating delicate domestic waters—though I suppose in Mehra’s case, even the finest advice might struggle to keep pace. The fellow’s mind seems positively hyperactive! I gather that early in his retirement, he briefly believed he was the unofficial Secretary of State for Transatlantic Relations?”

“He developed a keen interest in international geopolitical policy, sir. I understand he attempted to solve the complexities of Washington governance from his armchair, before being recalled to domestic realities by an overdue utility bill.”

“Ha! Brilliant. And then I hear he founded a consulting firm with three friends where they heroically labour for a gruelling two hours a day?”

“A pace of industry which would undoubtedly test the stamina of the most devoted corporate executive, sir.”

“Splendid effort! Though I gather there are other gentlemen involved in this consulting enterprise? An alignment of former corporate heavyweights?”

“Indeed, sir. Mr. Ashish, Mr. Atul, and Mr. Venkat.”

“Ah! A sort of Drones Club for seasoned executives!”

“The comparison is perhaps slightly flawed, sir. Unlike the members of the Drones Club, who devote their considerable energies to pitching bread rolls, placing speculative wagers on fat pigs, competing in dart tournaments, and incurring overdrafts, these gentlemen possess decades of formidable commercial acumen.”

“Yes, but do they actually work, Jeeves?”

“Intermittently, sir. They engage in strategic advisory services, sir. However, having spent a lifetime in fierce corporate competition, their current collaboration is marked by a rather endearing camaraderie. They have masterfully reduced the gruelling demands of the boardroom into a highly civilized intellectual exercise.”

“Extraordinary! In my circle, if Bingo Little and Tuppy Glossop form a partnership, it usually ends with someone falling into the swimming pool fully clothed or hiding from a bailiff in a chimney. These chaps appear to actually achieve results!”

“A distinct operational difference, sir.”

“Positively heroic! Though I watched what he did after all this intellectual exertion, Jeeves, and I rather wish I hadn’t. The fellow voluntarily engages in physical exercise!”

“Indeed, sir. He engages a personal trainer—a Mr. Karan—to inflict the suffering upon him.”

“The fellow actually pays a man to ruin his morning?”

“Mr. Mehra now runs himself instead of a company, sir. He examines the reverse of food packets with the same diligence formerly reserved for balance sheets. Protein and Omega Three have assumed positions of paramount importance.”

“Dashed odd names for friends. But you know, Jeeves, through all these wild schemes, it strikes me that the chap lives by a very definite code.”

“A code, sir?”

“Absolutely! Mind you, Jeeves, the Code of the Woosters remains the gold standard for gentlemen—it never lets down a pal, never refuses a lady in distress, and would rather go to the scaffold than wear a pre-tied bow tie. But one must give credit where credit is due. This Mehra clan appears to possess a code of their own, though strictly minor-league compared to the sacred Wooster canon. Family first, an almost alarming thoroughness in all undertakings, and an absolute, copper-bottomed refusal to be put out to pasture.”

“An admirable moral framework, sir. The Code of the Mehras appears to require that whether one is managing a corporation or planning a breakfast menu, it must be executed with uncompromising devotion.”

“Exactly! Though I must say, Jeeves... I am positively trembling with awe at the lady in his life.”

“Mrs. Mehra, sir? Mrs. Anjali Mehra?”

“The very same! You know my views on matrimony, Jeeves. A chap spends his entire life dodging the altar, dodging fierce aunts with eligible nieces, and dodging young women who want him to read Nietzsche. Marriage, to my mind, has always seemed like walking into a cheerful parlor and hearing the key turn in the lock!”

“A perspective you have consistently maintained, sir.”

“Yet this Anjali person appears to be an absolute rock of Gibraltar! While Mehra is off reorganising Washington, wrestling with personal trainers, or steering the domestic ship through choppy waters, she stands there with complete composure, keeping the entire enterprise anchored. A woman of supreme sanity!”

“She exercises a most stabilising influence, sir. It has often been observed that behind every gentleman undertaking a series of ambitious post-retirement ventures, there is a lady providing the necessary ballast.”

“Ballast, Jeeves? She’s the anchor, the compass, and the lighthouse all rolled into one! If a chap could be guaranteed a companion like that, even a confirmed bachelor like Bertram Wooster might pause for a moment... though only for a moment, mind you.”

“A prudent qualification, sir.”

“Quite. But speaking of family, what about this extraordinary expansion of relatives? In my day, one managed with Aunt Agatha supplying discipline, Aunt Dahlia encouragement, Uncle Tom confusion, and the Almighty attending to the remainder. This Mehra chap appears to possess an entire ecosystem.”

“Professional life compresses one’s social horizons, sir. Retirement has an amusing tendency to restore them—with compound interest. One finds oneself rejoining a very large committee with a distinctly unpredictable agenda.”

“Take that legendary brother-in-law, Naveen—the Jijaji. I gather he cheerfully undertakes airport runs at four in the morning, organizes weddings, and marshals catering, diplomacy, and several hundred guests before breakfast?”

“He appears to possess a formidable aptitude for practical affairs, sir.”

“Formidable? The man is a titan! Mind you, Jeeves, I have handled a few tough nuts in my time—Aunt Agatha on a rampage, Sir Roderick Glossop in a fury—but against a powerhouse like Naveen, Mehra never stood a chance! Imagine trying to slide an unapproved scheme past a chap who marshals four hundred relatives before marmalade!”

“A formidable prospect indeed, sir.”

“You know, Jeeves, these weekly chronicles remind me a bit of Aunt Dahlia’s weekly rag, Milady’s Boudoir—except considerably better written, and without the articles on ‘What the Well-Dressed Foal is Wearing.’ One begins reading for amusement, and before one notices, one finds oneself genuinely hoping the fellow and his family are getting along splendidly.”

“Literature has occasionally been known to produce that effect, sir.”

“Saturday then? Fortnightly?”

“Saturday, sir.”

“Make the tea unusually strong, Jeeves. Until Saturday, we shall simply have to retire without him.”

“I should not expect the deprivation to prove permanent, sir.”

Bertie picked up his newspaper, looked at it without seeing a word, and smiled.

“Saturday cannot come soon enough, Jeeves.”

“No, sir.”

The next Mehra World Chronicle arrives this Saturday.

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Chronicle 1: What retirement Did To My Brain
Chronicle 2: What My Personal trainer Didn’t Tell Me
Chronicle 3: The Retirement Ecosystem
Chronicle 4: When Rivalry Threatened To Enter My Home