Ch. 2 – Prem
Y ou are a grown-ass man, Prem Dhawan told himself. He stared into his eyes in the rearview mirror. You are 30 years old. A doctor! (Of veterinary medicine, but that still counts).
You are NOT afraid of your parents!
…Except he’d been sitting in the restaurant’s parking lot for a good 10 minutes. Prem ran through his arguments one more time, trying to anticipate every question, every line of attack, every possible weak spot in his case. A gauntlet of brutal negotiation awaited him inside the brightly decorated Indian restaurant. After all, his mother battled rare and aggressive cancers for a living without breaking a sweat. She wouldn’t dream of letting her son off easy.
Prem blew out a breath, girded his loins for all he was worth, and prepared to eat dinner with his parents.
After stepping out of his Toyota 4 Runner and crossing the parking lot, he swung open the door of the small restaurant that served “the only edible Indian food in San Diego,” according to his mother. Immediately, a heavy perfume of simmering cumin, turmeric, coriander, garlic, and onions washed over him as Indian pop rock played through the speakers.
The heady mixture should have been comforting, but Prem always associated the smell of Indian cooking with his parents. His stomach tightened like it’d been shoved in a clamp. He didn’t even need to do a sweep of the room. His parents were seated, as always, at their preferred table next to the back window.
Trying to cover his slight limp, Prem approached their table. “Amma, Abba.”
“You’re late.” His mother rose from the table.
As a boy, Prem had considered his mother a giant. Now, wrapping his arms around her diminutive, 5-foot frame, his opinion hadn’t budged. Shikha Dhawan possessed fire in her soul. A few sharp words could—and often did—cow a room full of PhDs.
Prem leaned down, allowing his mother to place two light kisses on his cheeks.
“Sir.” He reached across the table to shake his father’s hand before taking his seat. Dilip Dhawan gave his son a nod and a warm smile before stroking the round paunch beneath his suit jacket.
“Can we order?” he asked his wife hopefully.
In response, Prem’s mother gave an imperious flick of her hand to call over the waiter, golden bangles dancing around her wrist.
Prem’s eyes slid to the empty fourth chair at the table, and a needle of regret stabbed at his gut. But he couldn’t dwell on Jai tonight. Not with his entire future on the line. He refocused on his parents, clasping his hands in front of him. This situation had to be handled delicately. He couldn’t dive right in. Pleasantries always came first.
“Abba, has your paper been accepted yet?” he asked.
His father shrugged. “The conference is still reviewing it. Apparently, another team submitted a case study on the same blood protein. There’s some concern about overlap. Oh well.” He scratched at his trim, snowy beard. “I mostly just wanted an excuse to go to Miami.”
“Dilip!” Prem’s mother swatted her husband’s arm. “Of course, your paper will be accepted. They are always accepted.” She leaned over the table. “Your father doesn’t like to brag, but he’s been asked to keynote The American West Conference of Serology, Antibodies, and Immunoreactivity in October.”
“That’s great, Abba,” Prem said. His father had always been a congenial, if somewhat distant presence in his life. Prem could still remember looking up at a school violin concert and locating the bald dome of his father’s head in the crowd peeking above a medical journal.
“Eh.” His father waved away the compliment. “I think I’m going to make your mother write my speech. She knows more about my research than I do.”
“Oh please,” his mother said but smiled.
A slim, young waiter approached the table. “Hello. Can I start you—”
“You aren’t Rajesh,” his mother interrupted. “Rajesh always waits on us. Go get him.” She made a shooing motion.
Prem’s cheeks heated with a familiar embarrassment. Though his amma had spent most of her adult life in the United States, she still hadn’t lost the sense of entitlement that came with growing up in a wealthy Maharashtra household surrounded by servants. In many ways, Shikha Dhawan still expected the world to serve her every whim.
“Rajesh wasn’t feeling well today,” the waiter replied, dipping his head in apology.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” Prem’s mother snapped. “Rajesh knows all our orders. He’s the only one who gets it right.”
“Ah, it’s fine,” his father said as he glanced at an incoming email on his cell.
“No. It is not fine,” his mother replied tartly. She turned to the waiter. “Very well. Get out your pad. You’ll need to write this down. My dish isn’t on the menu.”
Over the next several minutes, Prem’s mother painstakingly ordered for the table, requesting the same litany of dishes they always ate. Personally, Prem wouldn’t mind trying something other than chana masala with brown rice, plain naan, and a side of dal, but breaking ranks with his mother was never worth the trouble.
“And make sure my husband’s aloo gobi is a five spice,” his mother finished. “Not four. Not six. Five. It’s the only way he’ll eat it.”
“Make it a seven.” His father winked at the waiter. “Let’s roll the dice.”
“You’ll get indigestion with eight,” his mother responded curtly. She speared the waiter with a look “Five,” she commanded.
“Five,” the waiter stammered, then turned and beat a hasty retreat.
“He’s not going to get it right,” his mother concluded with a sigh.
That, and they would all likely be enjoying an extra tang of teenage salvia in their meals, Prem assumed. Even he’d been tempted to spit in his mom’s food a time or two… not that he’d ever dare such a thing. He’d already put his parents through enough. And then there was Jai…
“So, Amma, how’s the hospital?” Prem asked, forcing his mind away from the painful past. He folded his arms on the table. His mother gave him a pointed look, and he quickly retracted his arms and sat a few inches straighter in his chair.
“I had a very interesting case this week,” she answered when satisfied with his posture. “Non-Hodgkin lymphoma in a 66-year-old, Black male, non-smoker. We found some very curious tumors in his mesenteric lymph nodes. We’re consulting with a team at Memorial Sloan Kettering on a treatment plan. But, other than that, normal.”
Prem nodded, trying to match his mother’s detachment, though he never could overlook the fact that what his mother considered an “interesting case” always meant a life-changing cancer diagnosis for someone else.
His amma pursed her lips. “Now, enough with the chit-chat. You asked to meet us. I assume this means you’ve found a location for your clinic?”
“Yes.” Prem cleared his throat. Was it possible for one to double gird their loins? He gave it a shot with uncertain success. “But not just a location. I’d actually like to purchase an existing practice.”
His mother frowned. “I thought you planned to start your own… veterinary practice.”
Prem didn’t miss her hesitation on the word veterinary or how her mouth pinched as if she’d eaten a spoonful of sour curry.
It almost threw him, but he recovered. “True. That was my original plan, but I came across an incredible opportunity.”
When Prem had read the news of Dr. Goldman’s passing on a local veterinary listserv two weeks ago, something had tugged at his gut. The write-up had included a small image of the All Paws and Claws vet clinic. He’d stared at the picture for several minutes. The quaint brick building with its cheerful, paw-print-speckled sign out front had called to him.
Over the next few days, he’d manically researched the clinic, reading through hundreds of positive reviews from clients, taking Google Map tours through the town of Yucca Hills, and practically memorizing the clinic’s simple website. Every bit of information had reinforced his gut feeling.
This was his clinic calling out to him.
After combing through his LinkedIn connections, he’d found someone who could put him in touch with the veterinarian’s widow. Prem could perform emergency surgery for gastric dilation-volvulus without breaking a sweat, but it’d taken all his courage to force his shaking hands to dial Mrs. Goldman’s number.
When she’d been willing to discuss the possibility of selling the practice, it’d felt like fate. Of course, Prem was no sentimental fool. He’d scoured through the clinic’s messy financials, performed numerous drive-bys, researched the town, crunched numbers until his eyes crossed, and created reams of projections. He’d also grilled Mrs. Goldman (as politely as possible) over three long meetings before diving into several intense hours of negotiation.
It’d all led to one overwhelming conclusion. He could make this work. He would make this work.
All he needed was the financial backing…
“It’s a small clinic and a little outdated,” Prem told his parents, keeping his voice steady even as his heart thudded in his chest. “I’ll need to update the internal processes, and I want to bring in some new equipment, but it’s almost turnkey. The clinic has been in operation for over 40 years. It has a stellar reputation in the community, low local competition, and a very robust existing clientele.”
Prem didn’t dare mention the true reason he’d set his heart on All Paws and Claws. If his mother so much as suspected his interest in the place lay outside pure business opportunity and profit, she’d pounce like a tiny, vicious orca in a pink kurta. Shikha had no patience for irrationality.
“And where exactly is this clinic?” his father asked.
“Yucca Hills,” Prem answered.
“Where?” his mother demanded.
Prem swallowed, almost put his elbows back on the table, but caught himself and tucked his hands in his lap. “It’s a small town about 45 minutes northeast of San Diego.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” she replied immediately.
No surprise there. His parents both spent at least 60 hours a week at their respective hospitals. With their scant free time, his father often fell asleep under a pile of medical journals while a cricket match played on the television. His mother preferred to spend gobs of money at La Jolla spas then complain how the masseuse never dug in hard enough.
“It’s a town of roughly 20,000,” Prem told them.
His mother’s penciled eyebrows shot up.
“I know that’s small, but the town is growing rapidly. A lot of commuters are moving in for the lower cost of living.” Prem didn’t even have to pull up his notes on his phone. He’d nearly memorized his entire proposal. “Yucca Hills has averaged a 5% growth rate year-over-year for the past six years, and the mayor is very growth-oriented.”
“And you want to live there? In Yucca Hills?” his mother asked. “Sounds like it’s in the middle of nowhere.”
That would be the point. Out loud, Prem answered. “I think it’s a sound business decision.”
Yucca Hills was perfect precisely because it was small, remote, and semi-rural. While dogs and cats were the huge moneymakers of any vet clinic, Prem had always been drawn to working with “exotics.” On his multiple drives through the older, western part of Yucca Hills, he’d spotted goats, chickens, pigs, and horses behind worn wooden fences and corrals. He could’ve sworn he’d even once seen a camel.
He’d learned that Dr. Goldman had been both a traditional and an exotic vet, capable of treating nearly any animal that walked, slithered, or flew through his doors. He’d also made frequent house calls to treat larger livestock animals. That was exactly the clientele Prem wanted.
And then there was April. Yucca Hills was a perfect fit for her. His parents didn’t know about April. And they didn’t need to.
“What are the clinic’s current financials?”
His mother’s question snapped Prem back into the present. He only missed a single beat before answering.
“Well, to be honest, I’m going to have to work on that,” he admitted as a Bollywood romance song blasted over the speakers. “The previous vet’s books were, um, a bit chaotic.”
Understatement of the century. Dr. Goldman’s pricing system seemed pegged to his daily whims. He’d added abbreviations and notes into his financing software that made no sense to Prem. Mrs. Goldman hadn’t been able to clear things up. Stuart always handled all the money, she’d said.
“From what I’ve gathered, his rates were well below industry averages,” Prem added tactfully.
“Sounds like a good opportunity to quickly juice the profits,” his father said.
His amma scoffed. “What kind of business was that man running?”
Prem knew the answer would appall his mother. He’d spent hours with Mrs. Goldman over the past week and a half digging into every aspect of the clinic’s business operation and financials. Yet, she’d incessantly get sidetracked, switching the conversation to long explanations about the clinic’s clients, both humans and animals. Prem knew all about Ozzie, the diabetic pug. Sapphire, the parakeet with glaucoma, and Mrs. Moffat who brought in her ancient chihuahua, Princess, when the dog so much as sneezed.
During their last meeting, when Prem had tried to return to their negotiations, the bubbly, kind woman had become stern.
“Look, I know you care about all the business stuff,” she’d told him, “but the most important thing you need to know about Stuart’s practice is that our clients are family. We love them, and they love us.”
Prem had nodded and allowed her to continue her litany of client stories. He did understand, after all. In the two years he’d spent in residency at a large vet hospital in San Diego, he’d built strong bonds with many of his patients, though not so much with their human caretakers.
But just because he understood that Dr. Goldman prioritized the love of his clients over profits didn’t mean Prem would follow the same path. In fact, he couldn’t. From what he could tell, All Paws and Claws had been barely limping along under the weight of its ghastly underpriced services and a shocking laissez-faire management style.
Things were going to have to change.
“I’ve put together a detailed business plan for you both to review,” Prem said now. “I emailed it over before I drove to the restaurant, so you should both have it in your inbox.” He forced himself to make eye contact with each of his parents. “It took a lot of bargaining, but I got the widow down to the price we previously discussed.”
Thankfully, Mrs. Goldman had finally, reluctantly agreed to his number. It was all his parents were willing to loan him combined with nearly all of his limited savings.
“At the end of my business plan, you’ll see the full agreement I drew up,” he said. “The widow is ready to sign tomorrow if I get your approval.”
Sweat gathered under Prem’s collar. He felt like he’d just swallowed an entire mouthful of cayenne pepper. His words sped up.
“I’ll need a little time after signing to fully update the practice, but Mrs. Goldman, I mean the widow, believes the current staff will stay on. I’m confident I can re-open quickly. I plan to immediately begin repaying your loan at the rates we previously discussed.”
His parents (i.e. his mother) had driven a hard bargain. The interest rate and repayment schedule were aggressive, but Prem knew a bank would never loan him such a substantial sum with only two years of post-residency experience under his belt and no assets to his name save a five-year-old SUV.
He’d also ruled out the possibility of partnering with an experienced vet or taking private equity dollars like so many of his peers. Prem didn’t want a cut-throat business or another vet with their own ideas to have any sway over his practice. This veterinary clinic would be all his, run the way he wanted.
“Ah! The food,” his father said happily as the waiter cautiously approached the table.
After the young man placed their plates on the table, his mother took one bite of her husband’s aloo gobi, rolled her eyes, and waved back the waiter.
“This isn’t a five,” she snapped at him. “Try again.”
She turned back to Prem. Her dark eyes speared him like a sturgeon. “Let’s open up your business plan. We’ll go through it together page by page.”
“Of course.” Prem pulled out his phone and brought up the document he’d poured his soul into. Sure, he’d only gotten a combined seven hours of sleep over the past three days, but he knew the plan and financials were solid. He’d crossed every T. Dotted every I. He was going to convince his parents to loan him the money. He had to.
Then, he’d get to work.
Goodwill and lazy business practices weren’t going to cut it anymore. The All Claws and Paws veterinary clinic needed a serious shakeup. Prem knew he was just the man for the job.