The Leaving of Things (11 page)

My French classes started up that week too. After lunch, I took the bus, bumping and bashing my way to the Alliance Française. On the first day, I paid the severe-looking French witch the seven hundred rupees I owed her. (Happily, I never saw her again for the six weeks I took that class.)

The class met in a small room—too small, that is, for the dozen of us enrolled—but it was equipped with an air conditioner. You walked up a narrow spiral staircase from the lobby of the Alliance and into a noisy whoosh of dreamy-cool air—sweaty, musty, but what a relief.

I kept to myself and my exercise book and wondered what it would be like to kiss our instructor, a round-faced, rosy-cheeked early-twentysomething from Kashmir who had spent two years living in Paris. Her French was efficient, not snotty the way I imagined all things French to be. The words came out of her like water down the stones of a happy brook. She spoke of writing postcards on sunny afternoons at café tables outside the Pompidou.

After two hours of French, I emerged dazed and dislocated. The gravel path of the Alliance, often drenched from the rains, gave way into late-afternoon Ahmedabad. Back to my own life. I staggered up the road and joined the commuters—the bankers, clerks, and housewives—who’d collected together, ready for the melee. When the bus arrived, this civic peace collapsed instantly and something just short of a riot broke out as everyone hurled themselves over each other to get aboard the bus.

It was no different on that day, my second day of French class. I managed to clamber on, shoved up by the velocity of onrushing passengers. The conductor squeezed
through—always insisting on his fare—and I pulled out my wallet, paid for my ticket.

Tink-tink!

I hung on to the overhead bar, wedged into a sliver of space. I thought of how it had been two weeks since I sent my letters. Still no word from home.
Had my letters gotten lost?
I decided I’d write Shannon again—as soon as I got home. What was keeping her so long? And Nate? Karl? The frightening thought occurred to me again that I had been forgotten. I could taste the bitterness rising up inside me and tried to shake it off. Stop panicking, I told myself, write them again. And use a post office in the city, not that miserable shack in Ghatlodiya. I resolved to do that. Just that.

The bus was packed shoulder-to-shoulder now. I held on to the bar and began to doze off, wedged between bodies, to the rocking motion of the bus. Once you got used to the smell, after a long day, it wasn’t too hard to do.

I snapped out of my stupor as we entered the city’s outer neighborhoods, Ghatlodiya the last stop, farthest out. As the bus came to a halt, I anticipated the stampede to disembark. Bucking up my backpack, I pushed ahead and, in the tangle of legs and hands, shouts, and sweat, I got one leg off the bus then the other.
Ah! Free!
I separated from the mob and took a few steps. That’s when I had the sensation of feeling lighter, of weightlessness, of something—a solid part of me—suddenly yanked from my body. I felt my back pocket—

My wallet!

It was gone. Lifted. Into thin air. Outer space.

I flung myself around, searched faces, for fleeing bodies. But everyone, men and women indifferent, dispersed
where they willed. I found myself grabbing at arms, spinning around on my heels, roaming the crowds, looking for the slightest sign. I got a few looks but no sign of the thief. The pickpocket. The asshole who took my wallet. I couldn’t care less about the money inside or the college I.D.—I wanted the photos.

My heart dropped several floors in my chest. Everyone cleared the bus stand, gone every which way, to the bazaars or to wherever they lived. The bus slumbered where it stood; this was the last stop on its route and the driver needed his break. I scrambled back on. I searched the seats, below the seats, the floor of the bus from front to back.

“Eh! Abay-oy!” the driver shouted. He stepped back on the bus, a bulge of paan in his mouth. He immediately pegged me as someone “not from around there,” so he stayed quiet and just stared at me, wild-eyed. Probably he thought I was some harmless lunatic.

“I’m looking for something!” I shouted in English.

But except for mud and scraps, nothing remained in the bus. It was gone. The wallet, the pictures, gone. I felt hate, a sudden impulse to rage, to weep. I staggered off the bus, my mind fuming. I couldn’t speak, not even a swear word (nothing powerful and condemning enough came to my mind!). It was minutes later when I came to my senses, became aware that I wasn’t even on the bus anymore but walking up the road, surrounded by strangers. Without my wallet. My photos. My last links to home.

* *

A letter from Shannon arrived—finally!

July 2, 1988

Dear Vik,

Got your letter this afternoon and wanted to write you back right away. Emily wanted to go on one of her Saturday shopping sprees on State, and I had auditions at the Union, so we came down to campus together. I’m sitting on the terrace right now, and the sun’s going down, and I wish you were here enjoying it with me. Maybe you could calm me down. I just finished trying out for the drama festival. They’re doing two Tennessee Williams plays at the university theater in August. I think it went well, but you never know. You know I’m not the most confident about my auditions.

Vik, I really, really miss you. And as freaked out as you feel right now, I know that this is going to be the most amazing experience. Do you have any idea yet how long you’ll be there? Is it really for good? Somehow, I think you’ll be back, before you know it. And, to that end (drum roll, please!), I’m sending you an application for next fall. I know, I know. There’s a lot to this—it won’t be easy—you’ll need your own visa, and I’ve heard about how hard it is to transfer to the UW from overseas, blah, blah, blah. But who knows? Maybe we’ll be watching a sunset together this time next year … ?

I’ll officially be moved into Sellery Hall in a few weeks. I cannot wait. Free at last! OK, sweetie, I’m thinking of you, so you can put your worries to rest. And, no, there are no hot new
men in my life. Just you. Here comes Emily, and she’s got three humongous bags in her hand, so I’m going to wrap this up and write you a proper letter as soon as I get a chance.

Miss you!

Love,

Shannon

p.s. Nate says hi. I’ve seen him and Karl a few times. They’re writing a script or something together.

p.p.s. Don’t you
dare
throw away the application.

* *

I wrote back to Shannon immediately, telling her about the stolen wallet. I had a couple of pictures of us already, tucked between the pages of my yearbook, but asked for another of her senior photos anyway. Mostly though, I was relieved that she was still thinking of me.

I thought about running the letter over to the Ghatlodiya post office but nixed the idea. I figured I’d better wait to mail anything till after we moved into the city, to that bungalow my father spoke about in a neighborhood called Navarangpura, and use one of the city post offices.

That Sunday, I packed up my suitcase and backpack. My mother wasn’t feeling well—stomach pains, she said—so I told her to lie down. I took the clothes from the line, folded them, and packed them in my mother’s
suitcase. Anand had gone with my father in a rickshaw to the Institute to fetch the company Ambassador that would drive us over to Navarangpura.

The car pulled up. Behind the wheel, his neck craning so he could see over it, was the same driver who took my father to and from work every day. Our personal chauffeur, I thought, making extra on a Saturday.

“They’re here,” I said, poking my head into my parents’ bedroom. My mother was lying on her back, her palms crossed low over her abdomen. “How’re you feeling?”

She took a deep breath. “Better,” she answered.

Moments later, we were on the move again. The Ambassador banged and splashed its way through Ghatlodiya and into the busier neighborhoods of the city. The monsoon rains, like weeks of artillery fire, had left the roads potholed.

My father, sitting up front, spoke of hiring a cook and a maid right away to help my mother around the house. She would not have to deal with washing clothes, cleaning, or going to the market. Things would quickly fall into place, he said. He had already alerted the shipping company in Bombay, where the things we’d decided to bring with us—the TV, VCR, stereo, my father’s home computer, kitchen things, and linens—had already arrived and were waiting. In a few days, it would all be in Ahmedabad, and our lives would settle into a happy order.

If the need arose, like today, we would always have the car and driver at our disposal—and he patted the driver on the shoulder. The driver smiled back meekly. And, for me, he would buy a Kinetic Honda scooter, or whatever vehicle I wanted, so I could zoom around the city to my heart’s content. He was way more enthusiastic than I could handle. I’m glad all of this is working out so well for you, I wanted to tell him.

“No cook,” my mother said, her sunglasses on. She sat in the far corner of the backseat. I could tell she wasn’t feeling well. I wondered if her eyes were closed behind her sunglasses. “I don’t want someone else cooking for us. The Ahmedabadis always use too much oil, and that’s the last thing you need.”

“We can tell our cook to cook light.”

“I can manage,” my mother replied sternly.

My father looked at me, gesturing to a neighborhood of low-slung concrete apartments out beyond a shopping complex. Eucalyptus loomed up over it. “You were born just over there,” he said, his voice muffled by the wind in the open window. “Behind this is Jainagar Complex. Back then, there was nothing here. Just fields.” He shifted his look to my mother. “Remember that? Jainagar?” Then to me he said, “Your Hemant Uncle, Kamala Auntie, you, your mother, myself, and your grandparents, all under one roof. For only few years, then we left for America.”

My mother said nothing.

My father faced the road ahead now and chuckled to himself. “Simpler days,” he said, half in a dream.

The bungalow was in a row of them, just off a busy roundabout where four roads intersected. We crossed a wooden gate and a dirt driveway, fringed by what was once a garden, reduced now to briars, scrub, and weeds. The bungalow lay to one side of the drive, a two-story cement structure with a balcony overlooking these unruly grounds.

It seemed a repeat performance of our arrival a few weeks ago. Every suitcase, backpack, and handbag, everything lugged from the car. The driver, mild and solicitous, helped us, taking the suitcase from my mother’s hands. Up
the dirt path and around the corner of the bungalow, we came to the front doors.

My father unlocked it, pulled aside the bolt, and opened the doors. Daylight leaked into a dark stairwell. The flip of a switch threw on a melancholy light from a single bulb, somewhere above. Our steps echoed; the luggage knocked against the stairs. It was kind of spooky. Up two flights and another door before us. This was it. Our home.

The place had the musty lingering nostalgia of British officers billeted here during the last days of colonialism. There was an airiness too, an Old World spaciousness here. Whitewashed walls, high wooden ceilings, stone tiling on the floors.

In the kitchen, veined granite countertops and wooden cupboards. We were relieved to find there was a tiny Kelvinator fridge installed and copper pots already on the two-ring gas stove. The living room, dining room, and the two bedrooms were all fully furnished. My parents had a small balcony off of their bedroom. I felt a small victory in discovering that the other bedroom—the one Anand and I would be sharing—had the big balcony. We stepped out onto it and took a look: straight ahead was a view of the weed-choked garden and University Road, and beyond that, the athletic field fronting the H.L. College of Commerce. Another vantage gave on a muddy shopping plaza.

At least we were in the city now. Not in the boonies. The world seemed slightly more within reach.

“At least we can rent videos now,” Anand observed, pointing toward the plaza. “Looks like there’s a paan shop with videos there.”

My father stepped out onto the balcony. “And your college is just there on the other side of that.” He indicated
the roundabout straight ahead. “Maybe another mile. Just a straight shot.”

A sprawling peepul tree grew in a ringed plot of earth in the center of the roundabout, blocking the view beyond. I didn’t care for a look, though, and the last thing I wanted to hear was a pitch about how easy things would be, especially one coming from my father.

“And Anand,” he added, “your school is just a bit farther from there. Everything nice and close, right?”

“Yeah,” Anand said, “isn’t it right down the same road? Right past the college.”

“Exactly.”

Anand was really getting into the swing of things, I thought.
Traitor. Cooperator.

“Where is the post office?” I asked. “That’s all I need to know.”

My father looked off in one direction, then the other. “I am not sure. But it’s here. Not far. This is Navarangpura, after all. Central Ahmedabad.”

In the kitchen, my mother began steeping chai. With a pair of tongs, she lifted the steel pot from the flames, waiting for the roiling brew to settle a bit, swirling it, concentrating the masala, sugar, and tea grounds before setting it back on the burner.

“How did you get the tea already?” I asked her.

“Your father’s surprise,” she said, lifting the pot and pouring the chai through a small strainer into a ceramic teapot. As she poured, she nodded toward the pantry, “Look there.” I checked it out: the shelves were already full of oil, sugar, flour, tea, spices, corn flakes, even Parle-G tea biscuits and Indian snacks, all in canisters, set up side by side, as if some magical delivery boy had shown up here in
advance and set everything up. Shopping bags bulged with all kinds of produce. The fridge as well was stocked with sliced bread, eggs, butter, sealed plastic bags of pasteurized milk.

“When did you do all this?”

My father, seated at the dining table off the kitchen, arched his brows and shrugged enigmatically.