Reading · Rajeev Beotra · RSS Amplifier

An affectionate contemporary homage to P. G. Wodehouse and his immortal creations, Bertie Wooster and Jeeves.

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

His arm had been in irresistible form at the Drones’ Annual Darts Tournament. The filly, Rosalie—on whom he’d risked a small fortune based on a reliable tip—had come through against all odds, no pressing summons from any aunt awaited, and all those connected with the previous evening’s festivities had somehow contrived to evade spending the night in the cooler.

Just as he reached out to ring for Jeeves, the man miraculously appeared, bearing a tray laden with a breakfast cooked 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 matter, 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 towards fresh enterprises.”

“Good heavens. The fellow reorganised 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—what was that flaming thing that went off, Jeeves?”

“The volcano Vesuvius, sir?”

“Yes, Vesuvius! Be forgetting my own mother’s name next! Yes, the aunts and uncles erupt like Vesuvius, and the poor blighter is left 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 you get the full Vesuvian display—lava, smoke, and general devastation. It requires judgment, Jeeves—timing—a certain instinct for recognising 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 has occurred to me on more than one occasion, 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.”

“And then I hear he and three other birds have formed an alliance of some kind?”

“Indeed, sir. He and his three close friends from his corporate days have launched a boutique consulting practice.”

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

“The comparison is perhaps slightly flawed, sir.”

“How, Jeeves? I don’t have any friends at the Drones who work either.”

“Sir, their consulting practice requires them to work with CEOs and Promoters of business enterprises to improve their performance.”

“Ah. 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?”

“That would be one way of expressing the distinction, sir.”

“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!”

“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?”
“He regards it as an investment in himself, sir.”

“Extraordinary. I’ve always considered myself a perfectly adequate investment without additional capital.”

“Your portfolio has certainly remained remarkably stable, sir.”

“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. Never let down a pal, never refuse a lady in distress, and never wear a pre-tied bow tie.”

“The last injunction is not, I believe, formally part of the code, sir.”

“It ought to be. But this Mehra clan seems to have a code of its own.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Family first, for one thing. And once they get their teeth into something, they don’t seem to let go.”

“A certain thoroughness of purpose, sir.”

“Exactly. And absolutely no intention of being put out to pasture.”

“An admirable moral framework, sir.”

“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.”

“They have been expressed with some frequency, sir.”

“And with good reason. A chap spends his life dodging the altar, fierce aunts with eligible nieces, and young women who want him to read Nietzsche.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Marriage, to my mind, has always seemed like walking into a cheerful parlour and hearing the key turn in the lock!”

“A perspective you have consistently maintained, sir.”

“But Mrs. Mehra has caused me to reconsider the evidence.”

“In what respect, sir?”

“Well, look at the woman. Mehra is off reorganising Washington one day and paying a personal trainer to assault him the next. Does she panic?”

“Apparently not, sir.”

“Exactly! She simply carries on, keeping the whole show on the road.”

“A stabilising influence, sir.”

“More than that, Jeeves. She’s the anchor, the compass, and the lighthouse all rolled into one!”

“A comprehensive arrangement, 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 chap Naveen—the Jijaji. The very salutation inspires absolute confidence! I gather the fellow cheerfully undertakes airport runs at four in the morning, organises full-scale weddings, is a pugilist of repute, and, in short, could have taught Hercules a trick or two!”

“He appears to be endowed with a most remarkable versatility of resource, sir.”

“Versatility? 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.”

“Next Saturday then? Fortnightly?”

“Next 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 next Saturday.

New To Mehra World ?

Chronicle 1: What Retirement Did to My Brain

Chronicle 2: What My Personal Trainer Didn’t Tell Me