Taking Stock

Starbucks is at the corner of 2nd and Main, a block away, and the pleasant smell of coffee is all around him. Today, Arun K will not work, either. On the last day of every year in the last 10, he has walked down to the same Starbucks, opened the same notebook, and written out a page — no more, no less — describing his whole year. His wife calls it “Rose Bud Thorn” — a game she picked up from a book called Ten Ways To Make Your Family Dinner More Enjoyable. He calls it, simply, taking stock.

He does everything on his phone these days, and he can barely type now that voice recognition apps understand his Indian accent. On this one day, however, he takes stock with pen and paper. The notebook is always the same, the drink always a cappuccino and, until last year, the table was the same, too — the one at the far end, facing the door, so he could see people as they entered. Lately, the Starbucks at 2nd and Main has become crowded, perhaps because of the new IPOs, which mean that many more can afford Los Altos. Last year, for the very first time, he found his table taken on December 31. After waiting for 15 minutes, he chose a stool and finished the job, but it did not feel quite right. As a techie, he is aware that one cannot take equivalent measurements year after year unless the observer remains the same. If you hop on to a new observation deck while admiring the Grand Canyon, won’t the scenery change? That, in fact, is what worries him now — that his table will be taken. He finds himself walking faster. A tinge of anxiety washes over him, and then a flood of anxiety at the thought of the tinge. He is about to take stock! How can he afford to be anxious? He cannot be in the moment while also observing it!

Then he is reminded of the year and anxiety fades away. For one, he has turned 50. A half-century is a nice time to look back, pause and contemplate. But that was not the big event of the year, which was bigger than an artificial marker in one man’s life. Oh no, the big event was far bigger. Arun K cannot suppress a smile. The very term “taking stock” has acquired a new meaning this year since eJump, his company, has gone public. After the IPO in June he has thought about it, on average, 23 times every day. The stock price sits on his phone, alerts pop up every time a threshold is breached, and “Hello Arun, your net worth is…” flashes whenever a five-digit move occurs.

This year, he thinks smugly, he has literally taken stock. He will begin to sell as soon as the lockup period expires, and will hedge the rest against a downturn. He does not want to be foolish, like those who held on to dotcom stocks twenty years ago and saw their wealth evaporate. He has been fortunate — when those great fortunes were lost, he had none to lose.
He is now outside the Starbucks. Two teenagers emerge, laughing. Rich, perhaps — this is Los Altos. The girl is young, still has braces. The boy is in jeans cut-offs. His T-shirt is faded. Their hair is long and loose — it flies as they run. Youth, thinks Arun K, reminded of his 50 years, his hairline, and the softness around his middle. The boy and the girl brush past him, apologise and cross Main with abandon. A Tesla turning left from 2nd Street brakes soundlessly. Through giggles, they mouth a soundless sorry to the driver, meaning clearly that they aren’t. They did not even notice the street, thinks Arun K, just as they did not notice him. When they get home, or wherever they are going, will they remember jostling past a 50-year-old Indian man or causing a Tesla to stop mid-turn? That is how they are. Not for them IPOs, or work, or proper clothes. And they do not take stock. They have not the time. Hair, braces, giggles, faded jeans — they are too busy living, perhaps.
Suddenly, Arun K does not feel so smug. While he was taking stock, something passed him by, and he is not sure what it was. Ah, how had he crossed 50 without warning? Should not a bell have sounded a warning at 40 or 30, perhaps even at 20 when he still had 30 years? Who stole those years when he wasn’t looking, and why had he not looked? He senses, for the first time, how heavy the notebook in his hand is.

He does not want to enter the café. He no longer sees or hears the people inside. The coffee cups have stopped tinkling. Even the aroma of roasted beans has vanished. What is the point? He looks again at the heavy notebook. Ten years old, worn, soiled with sweat and coffee stains. Nine pages filled with silly reminiscences no one will read or value, not even his daughter. How absurd, this business of taking stock! Every moment spent scribbling in this book was a moment taken from life. He could have laughed, had loose flowing hair, perhaps run out into Main Street.
There is a trash can just inside the door. Should he dump the book and return home? Idly, out of habit, he scans the tables. At the far end, his chair is empty. He cannot believe his eyes, and cannot stop himself from walking in. The same table, the same chair, not taken! Now he is in the chair, in a cozy nook far from the door and not too close to the bathroom, set aside for him to take stock.

A sort of euphoria washes over Arun K. He places his phone on the table to mark the station as his, goes and orders a cappuccino, then sits and waits. They call his name. The cappuccino is steaming hot. He opens his notebook and skips nine pages. On the 10th, he writes neatly, “This was a landmark year.” There is much to write.

Sujit Saraf is the author, most recently, of Harilal & Sons: A Novel (Speaking Tiger)