Ch. 33 – Prem
P rem tried not to fidget in his seat as he stared across the table at his parents. His father perused the Indian restaurant’s menu as if his wife wouldn’t order for the entire table as usual.
Prem’s mind buzzed with worry. He’d spent the entire day rehearsing his ‘new and improved’ business pitch to his parents. Would they agree to his requested changes? Could they possibly understand the need?
Of course, they’ll understand, Layla had told him earlier in the day after his tenth go-through of the pitch. They love you. They want you to be happy.
He’d had to stifle a laugh. Happy? His parents wanted him to be a lot of things. Valedictorian. Captain of the la crosse team. First chair violin. An MD. None of those things remotely involved happiness.
Prem closed his eyes.
You’ll do great, Layla had assured him before leaving for her ‘secret goodbye party.’ When he’d asked what or to whom she was saying goodbye, she’d been uncharacteristically cagey.
A dream, she’d said.
Prem wished he could have gone to the goodbye party, whatever it was for. He would have said goodbye to a torn teddy bear, a friend moving out of town, or Layla’s unsuccessful bid to be the World Guinness Record holder for owning the most butterfly-themed headbands.
Anything would be better than the task before him tonight.
His mother primly unrolled a napkin and placed it on her lap. The usual fragrance of curry, cumin, onion, and turmeric soaked the air.
Prem cleared his throat. “Abba, did your paper ever get accepted for that conference?”
“Ah, as a matter of fact, it did.” His father leaned back in his chair and scratched at his beard.
“Of course his paper got accepted,” his mother added tartly. “His meta-analysis on the connection between increases in C-reactive proteins and early evidence of cardiovascular disease had a far more robust analysis than that other paper. It wasn’t even a contest.”
“I’m just looking forward to Miami,” his father added. “They’ve got the best Cuban sandwiches.” Prem’s father rubbed the rounded belly protruding from his sports jacket.
“Dilip!” his mother snapped. “You’re the one who’s going to be suffering cardiovascular disease if you eat that trash. And, you’re a vegetarian.”
“No beef in Cubans,” Prem’s father argued.
“No. Absolutely not,” his mother insisted. “You won’t be touching any of that food in Miami.”
“Of course, Jaana ,” Dilip replied solemnly to his wife. At the familiar term of endearment, her eyes softened the smallest bit.
When she took a sip of water, Prem’s father leaned over and whispered to him, “Your amma won’t be there, though, so what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” He straightened up and winked at Prem.
A slender man, his hair peppered with gray, arrived at the table. “Ah, Drs. Dhawan,” he said with a formal bow. “The usual, I suppose?”
“Exactly, Rajesh,” his mother answered with a curt nod. “But make sure you don’t leave the naan baking too long. It was too hard last month.”
“Yes, I remember your dissatisfaction,” Rajesh answered easily. “You have my sincerest apologies once again.”
Prem resisted the urge to bow in awe before Rajesh. The older man seemed genetically resistant to his amma’s tyrannical nature. Perhaps he’d built up his immunity with a draconian amma of his own at home.
“Will that be all?” Rajesh asked.
“Actually,” Prem spoke up. “How’s the matar paneer?”
“It’s excellent, Sir,” Rajesh answered. “One of my favorites.”
“Then I’ll have that,” Prem decided. “Brown rice, and how about an order of garlic naan? Let’s spice things up.”
His mother made an unhappy tsking noise.
“Very good,” Rajesh said. He gathered their menus off the table and disappeared.
His mother stared at him stonily as Rajesh quickly returned with their waters and plain lassies before retreating again.
“So, why the sudden urge to upend your eating habits?” his amma asked.
Prem shrugged. “It’s just nice to try something new every once in a while.”
“Not to me,” she answered. “When you find what you like, you stick with it.”
“But then you’ll never know if there’s something even better out there,” Prem countered.
His mother huffed. “You sound just like—” She cut herself off, but her eyes flicked to the empty chair at the table.
“Don’t be so hard on him, Shikha,” his abba said. “If Prem wants matar paneer, let him have matar paneer. I might try some if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Prem said to his father.
His mother pressed her lips together then sharpened her gaze on him.
“How’s your practice?” she asked.
And here we go. Prem half expected to hear the sharp, two-toned ring of a bell announcing the start of a boxing match. Instead, an old Indian pop ballad drifted over the speakers.
“Excellent.” Prem took a long sip of water before continuing. “Our patient volume is increasing each week, and my best guess is that we’ve been able to retain nearly 80% of the clinic’s existing clientele.”
“That’s great news,” his abba said before grabbing his glass of lassi.
“Just 80% retention?” his amma challenged. “Why have you lost so many customers?”
Her accusatory tone felt like a one-two gut punch. Prem tried not to flinch. “I think some clients are just hesitant to come back in. Dr. Goldman, the previous vet, was very well-loved in the community. Others may be struggling with the higher rates I’m charging.”
It was painful to admit that his higher prices could be keeping clients and animals in need away. Even standard wellness checks were often financially prohibitive for those living paycheck to paycheck. Testing and treatments for pets with more serious issues could get expensive very quickly.
“So, what are you doing to make up for this lost income?” his mother demanded.
Prem resisted the urge to raise his arms to guard against her verbal blows.
“I’ve raised my pricing to market norms for the area, so that’s covering almost all the lost revenue,” he answered evenly. “And I’ve cut back significantly on the use of discounts which the previous vet was, um, rather liberal with.”
No need to mention that he’d been softening more and more on the Friends and Family discount, giving it out to many of the older clients struggling on a fixed income.
“And, I’m bringing in a steady flow of new patients,” he continued. “My receptionist has a really strong relationship with the local animal shelter, and she suggested offering a free wellness exam for each newly adopted pet. It’s been working out extremely well.”
Prem clasped his hands in front of him. “All in all, we’re operating at a 14% profit margin. That’s well within my original projections.”
“Good, good,” his father said.
His mother nodded curtly. “I seem to remember that the top-end profit margin projection was around 18%.”
Rajesh approached the table, a large tray in hand. “Here we go,” he said smoothly, setting down plates of rice, naan, and each person’s entree.
Prem’s mother tipped her spoon into her bowl of green curry, sipped delicately, and set down her spoon. “Not enough galangal,” she reported. “Rajesh, I’ve mentioned this before.”
Rajesh merely nodded. “I see. I’ll go speak to the cook right away. I apologize for the delay.”
The man was truly unflappable. He had no flaps. Not a single one.
Rajesh removed the offending plate and swiftly left. Prem’s father huffed in disappointment. Prem set down his fork. No one would be allowed to eat until his mother was happy with her dish.
His mother’s eyes burrowed into him. “Do you think you’ll be able to increase your profit margin over the coming months?”
The question felt like a jab, like she was testing his defenses, trying to find an opening. And Prem had no choice but to give her one.
He grabbed his glass of water and took a long sip to steel himself. “Actually, I’ve been considering moving in an, um, different direction that may temporarily lower my profit margin.”
“Lower it?” His mother hissed the words in a scandalized tone.
“I’m going to promote one of my vet techs to the position of office manager,” Prem continued quickly. “I also want to bring on a new veterinary technician and give my receptionist more paid hours.”
“Are your current employees slacking off?” his father asked. “You don’t have to keep them on just because they came with the practice.”
Prem shook his head. “My employees are great, actually. But I’m running them really hard. We’re struggling to cover the patients we have, and I think our volume is only going to increase. I originally thought my vet techs could handle the front desk during slower periods, but that’s not working. I need them to focus on patient intake and prep. My current receptionist is working about 10 unpaid hours a week as it is.”
“Well, if she doesn’t mind working for free—” his mother began.
“She’s working for free because she’s a ridiculously kind and wonderful person,” Prem interrupted sharply. “Not paying her for that time is unfair, especially because I do actually need her at the reception desk.”
“I don’t know.” His father stroked his beard and looked longingly at his quickly cooling aloo gobi. “Overhead is a business’s greatest expense. Bringing on another employee and promoting another so soon might be rash.”
“It is going to cut into my profit margin,” Prem conceded. “But I think it’s the right thing to do for the practice. It will allow us to grow at a steady and sustainable pace. I won’t be running my staff ragged.”
“How much will this impact your profit margin?” his amma asked.
Prem sucked in a breath before answering. “I’m predicting I might dip below 10% for the rest of the year while I train up the practice manager and the new technician.”
“Less than 10%!” His mother looked aghast. “That’s below even your worst projection.”
“I know.” Prem swallowed. “That’s why I’d like to request a renegotiation of our loan terms. If you’d be willing to extend the loan out another 10 years, it would lower my monthly payments sufficiently so I could cover the new overhead. You’d receive less per month, I know, but you’ll also earn more interest over the lifetime of the loan.”
His mother stiffened. “I don’t like this at all. You provided us with a very comprehensive business plan, and now you’re throwing it out the window. That’s hardly professional.”
Prem bit the inside of his cheek. “No business plan can predict everything. The situation on the ground was different than what I expected.”
“How so?” his mother snapped.
Prem struggled to find the right words. How to explain that he couldn’t bear not to pay Layla for all her hours at the clinic? That he felt guilty the clinic’s extra hours were making life more difficult for Deja and Kate? That he wanted to eventually bring on Deja as a secondary vet so that maybe, just maybe, he could focus on his passion for exotic animals? And that he desperately wanted to cut his own work hours so he could spend more time with Layla?
In the end, he said simply, “I want to run my practice a different way.”
“I don’t understand this,” his amma responded, exasperated. “It’s like you don’t even care about making a profit.”
Of course, they’ll understand. They love you. They want you to be happy.
Prem held back a bitter smile as he remembered Layla’s words earlier in the day. She couldn’t conceive of parents like his. Her mother was warm and wonderful and loved Layla unconditionally.
Prem closed his eyes as he ached for the acceptance Dede gave to him so freely. Yesterday, over breakfast, he’d tentatively shared his new plans for the practice with Layla and her mother. Both women had showered him with excited support and affirmation.
Prem smiled slightly to himself. He hadn’t yet told Layla the final part of his plan. He was going to do everything in his power to help restart her dream of becoming a vet tech, even if it meant paying for her schooling and certification himself.
“Prem!” his mother said sharply, snapping him back to the present. “We have a lot to discuss.”
Prem met his amma’s dark, critical gaze.
It’s okay, he told himself, a strange sense of peace easing through him. Layla believes in me. That’s enough.
Breaking his mother’s gaze, he poured his matar paneer over the bowl of rice and scooped up a forkful.
“Mmmmm.” Closing his eyes, Prem enjoyed how the soft cubes of paneer practically melted in his mouth while the tanginess from the tomatoes added a refreshing zing, and the chili peppers heated his taste buds as he swallowed.
Prem opened his eyes, stared into his mother’s shocked face, and smiled. “I guess I should also mention that I’m seeing someone.”