Born Confused (27 page)

She programmed it in, even asking him for his address, while I chippered up a little at the news of my numerical promotion and simultaneously tried to memorize Karsh’s coordinates. When she handed me the phone and I called, my mother, though initially worried about why I wasn’t staying with Kavita, took the express to thrillsville when I told her it was because Karsh would be driving me home.

—Oh, children are moving quickly these days—but thanking Prabhu it is in the right direction and not to the disreputable avenues! she giggled.—Shall I make chai? And I have some frozen samosas, but he will never know—did you know the other day they were frozen?

—They were frozen? my father piped up, revealing that, as usual, he’d been on the line all along. The two often embarked on their own conversations during these conference calls, chatting amicably from one room to the next.

Karsh and Gwyn had moved a little out of hearing radius and were now talking to a sedulous assembly of clubbers who’d just exited.

—No, no, no! I pleaded. Then, in a very un-Harish-Chandra-like move, I turned to the art of the white lie in order to avoid having to turn purple with mortification later.—Look, we’re not even going home straight away. We’re—going to a diner. I’m going to be
really
late—in fact, you shouldn’t even wait up for me.

—Oh, take your time, beta, these things take time. No curfew if I know you’re in his hands!

A whole new rulebook had appeared, reprinted, and gone to paperback. I couldn’t imagine this license to thrill if Julian, for example, were the boy in question. Or even Bobby O’Malley, who lived pretty much as close to our house as you could get and not be related or Gwyn.

—But wake me up in time for the wedding, she added mischievously.

We said our love-yous and I clicked off the phone and folded it in my fist. The party was winding down and the sweat-slick clubbers were heading out en masse now, and Karsh and Gwyn had moved even farther down the sidewalk. I was still by the door watching them, thronged as they were by people chattering animatedly or just swooping by and high-fiving Karsh, and sometimes even Gwyn, too, who raised her hand in the air whenever he did.

—Hey, Dimple.

Jimmy (Trilok) Singh had appeared next to me, perspiring profusely but with his turban impressively intact.

—Hey, Jimmy.

—Trilok, he said.—I’m back to Trilok. I’m pretty surprised to see you here.

Why was everyone so surprised to see me here?

—How come? I said a little defensively.

—I don’t know. I didn’t know you ever, you know, partied. Let down your hair.

—Well, I never knew you let down yours!

—I don’t, he said grinning, and tapping the twisted fabric.—Maybe, I don’t know, it’s because you’re Gujju and this is a pretty hard-core Punjabi scene.

Hard-core Punjabi? What did that mean?

—I’m half Marathi, I said.

—That explains it, he said.

—Explains what?

—Oh, you know. Marathas are known for being warriors and drunks. Which is pretty much what the dance floor is all about. Plus, they have star appeal.

I waited for the laugh track but there wasn’t one. Had he been talking to my mother?

—You’re a great dancer, Jim…Trilok. I got an amazing shot of you getting down—you were so into it you didn’t even notice me right in your face.

—I never thought I’d see the day! You hardly talk to me in school and now you’ve turned into my own paparazzi machine?

—It’s nothing personal, in school, I said, feeling bad. I’d always thought he’d been too wrapped up in his extra-credit homework and pakoras to notice.—I’m just always—

—Glued to Gwyn Sex
ton
. I know.

He was the only person I knew who put the emphasis on the second syllable.

—Speaking of which, he continued, I can’t believe Gwyn Sexton is hanging with
him!
I thought she only dated…

—Cool guys?

—No! Dropouts, slackers. You know, total losers. Gulab Jammin’ is the number one king of cool in my book.

—Um, his name’s Karsh, I said. It seemed an odd nickname. Gulab jamun was an Indian dessert, fried milk balls in rosewater syrup. It was like jalebi but in a cake. For me, when it was served hot nothing beat it (except hot jalebi).

—But his DJ name’s Gulab Jammin’. You know, sweet and sick, loaded and light, bad for you but so so good.

—What do you mean his DJ name? The DJ is Tamasha. Karsh told me himself.

—Obviously, yaar. The trip-hop be-bop stuff is Tamasha. But all that crazy energy bhangra meltdown magic between her and the opener? That’s my man. He’s the main act. Sole Mate’s there to get the people warm and Tamasha’s here to wind them down. But DJ GJ is the reason they all came in the first place.

He pronounced GJ
JiJi,
almost reverently. I followed his gaze and now watched in amazement as a trench-coated photographer—with a tripod and everything—cleared the circle of admirers and began to train his lens on Karsh. And on Gwyn, of course, who was going nowhere fast if any kind of film was around; she hovered behind Karsh, her hands on his shoulders and face nearly upon one as well. Karsh had his hands in his pockets and his lip twist looked not so much arrogant now as a mismatched mix between shy and just being used to it all.

So that had been him. The one who’d been playing only for me. That was Karsh.

—See what I mean? That photographer dude—he was shooting people at Sphinx the other night, and even at The Gloaming. Models and shit.

Trilok (Jimmy) Singh shook his head in disbelief.

—Man, Gwyn Sexton and my man. It’s a little hard to take.

—They’re not going out, I said too emphatically, dizzily watching as Karsh shook the hand of the photographer guy, smiling kindly and taking his card. Gwyn promptly reached out and nabbed a couple of cards as well, turning one over and scribbling on the back before handing it back and flashing a winsome grin.

—Yet, he said ominously.—Anyways, I’ve got to split. My girlfriend’s already at Sphinx.

Girlfriend?

—Just don’t tell my parents where you saw me. They think I’m spending all my time on business courses this summer.

He looked past me.

—Hey, Zara! Sphinx, heh? Can I catch a ride with you?

A taxi had pulled up right by Karsh and Gwyn and the flasher guy, who was snapping shut his tripod, one of those gypsy cabs where no one speaks English and that my parents told me never to get into under any circumstances (little did they know no one in the yellow cabs speaks English either, but I suppose there at least they had a shot with Hindi or pseudo-Urdu). Zara was hailing this gypsy, her boy lovingly in tow like a boat on a car heading waterside.

—Come on then, Tree! she replied huskily.—But get a move on, yaar, or I’ll be late for Digweed, and if I’m late for Digweed, I’ll be even later for my BNBB shift.

Did she live in a bed-and-breakfast? Was she just a visitor? From another planet? Turning to Karsh she blew him an almost visible kiss.

—Smashing as usual, darling. I’ll see you at the talks!

—I’ll be there, smiled Karsh.

—And ciao for now, Photo Girl! Zara said—to me!—Anytime you need a model, you know who to call.

She slipped leggily into the taxi, promoting it instantaneously to
limo level, her long calf and the glittering mosaic slipper disappearing last into it. I felt shy for some reason and kept my eyes fixed on the taillights of Zara’s gitano path, skidding tangerine streaks down the steam-gushing street, leaving a flock of low tinted clouds in their wake.

Gwyn and I were soon sidewalked on the passenger side, waiting for Karsh to unlock us into his indigo Golf. She was giddily going on about the photographer they’d met—he was working for this arts magazine called
Flash!,
which was launching at the end of the summer. There was the slightest nip to the air, and I had goose bumps for some reason—I guess just proof that the club had been blistering if we could be standing around in a heat wave feeling frosty. Gwyn worked with it, stood mamboing like an impatient pony.

Then Karsh did something I’ve only seen my dad do: He came around to our side and opened the door. I stepped over to get out of his way and Gwyn smiled eye-battingly at him and stepped on in, in a perfect reproduction of Zara’s gypsy limo entry—she didn’t miss a thing, this one, picking up tips from ‘zines and superhumans alike. Karsh shut the door for her and opened the one in back for me.

—You all right back there, Dimple? said Karsh, getting in and seeking me out in the rearview.—You’re very quiet.

The strip of glass was all kindled eyes set in burnished skin, and I was enjoying having them framed solely on me when—smack!—Gwyn peeled the bindi off her forehead and stuck it on the mirror, making it appear as if it were on Karsh’s face.

—Oh, I’m fine, I said. I’d decided to keep my mouth shut; Gwyn did a good enough job putting my foot in it without any help from me.—I’m just. You know.

—Snoozing, said Gwyn.

—Thinking? said Karsh.

I began to answer, but Gwyn flicked on the radio, scanning through the stations. Then she landed on this song—it was a big hit a whole loll of summers ago, with the Aussie girl’s honey-husk vocals and the strum-strum ache and all the joy that can funnily enough be put into a sad song.

—Ooh, I love this song! said Gwyn, beginning to hummercroon along.—This was, like, the anthem of junior high. Come on, Dimple, sing it with me!

—I don’t know the words, I muttered.

—No one knows the words! cried Gwyn, joyfully bopping around and rolling down her window.—That’s not the point! Just do that line, you know, the
lying naked on the floor
part.

She belted it out now, with all the emotion of a young tenor auditioning.

—Oh…I’m
drunk!
And
hot
! I wish I really
was
lying naked on the floor.

—Hang in there, said Karsh.—We’ll get there.

What was
that
supposed to mean?

—You know, Karsh, you should totally use this song when you DJ. It’s so good—you’ll have everyone singing along.

—Hmm. I’m not sure it works completely with the set I’ve been working on.

—Of course it does! You’d have a cross-continental hit if you did that. This song is the best ever. And you’re the best DJ ever.

—Well, you’re inspiration for a DJ, he said.—It takes two to bhangra.

Barf bag, please? This did not even seem to be true, first of all; it had looked to me like bhangra was something you could do all by yourself or with a million people, or all by yourself with a million people. Or maybe I was just being petty because I knew it was true, about her being an inspiration.

—So, bhangra, what is that anyways, if you don’t mind my asking? Gwyn continued, her palm out the window now, pushing air.

—Well, it began as Punjabi folk music to celebrate the harvest—you know, bhang, it means hemp, explained Karsh.—Then it went West with immigrating South Asians, and in the UK people started fusing it with hip-hop and house and reggae and garage and disco—you name it. And it just kept right on moving till it got here.

—So what station is it on? said Gwyn, twiddling the knobs.

—I’m afraid there isn’t really a major mainstream station for all that HotPot music. Yet. I mean, it comes up occasionally on fusion theme shows and that kind of thing, but that’s about it.

—Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve got to make it mainstream, Gwyn concluded.

—I’d love to pull in a more mixed crowd, if that’s what you mean, Karsh said.—That would be killer.

—So when’s the next bash then?

—Well, there’s the Indian Independence Day meltdown in August—it’ll be the same kind of scene as tonight. And then I’ve got nothing on my platter till school’s on, unfortunately.

He glanced back at me again.

—Dimple, hey, you alive back there?

—Alive and kicking, I said. Kicking myself, that was, for being back here.

Their conversation hummed a summer lawn in my ear as they ran through an array of stations and played hit or miss with the music. We were crossing the George Washington Bridge and the cables fell supple and strong like white rain and the Golf tripped through it on the battered pavement. It was sadly, electrifyingly beautiful. It reminded me of a hanging oil lamp I’d seen at Hush-Hush Aunty’s house, of a nude woman bronze bathing in an insinuated garden; the wires around her strung from lamp top to bottom and power on
dripped a gold slow rain around her, one in which she remained mysteriously dry.

I turned back and watched New York City recede behind us, as if the whole island were floating away in the summer wind, this island like a birthday cake for an ancient giant with a mammoth appetite, a cake on fire with its blazing windows and broken promises, and kept ones, too, everyone’s fifteen minutes and everyone’s could-have-been, everyone’s one-that-got-away and no one, lost children and grown-ups trying to get lost in its neck-cricking height, its rushing streets, its tunnel-deep icy-officed smoke of a thousand cigarettes clouding your eyes. All the light floating away from us as we headed into the night-cloak coast of the other side. Just the other end of the water, but another world and so far away. Like Karsh’s house. Just across the pond, but just out of reach. And receding farther.

At Gwyn’s, all three of us got out of the car, Karsh to stretch his legs.

—Thanks for the ride, Gwyn said, swaying coquettishly in the driveway.—You think maybe you could give me a DJ lesson sometime?

—Anytime, said Karsh.

—How about now? she said immediately.—That qualifies as anytime, doesn’t it?

—Well…Karsh hesitated, dropping out of his stretch and glancing at his watch, then the car, then, for some reason, the double chimneys.

—No one’s home. Just for five minutes—I’ll make you coffee, a drink, whatever. You’re only a skip and a jump from your house anyways, right?

—All right, all right, you convinced me, he grinned.—I’m pretty awake now—I was getting worried at HotPot about driving dozy; I’m usually wiped after a set. No better time, I suppose, than two turntables and no one at home.