The Leaving of Things (38 page)

“India will do that to a guy,” I say as we make our way to the Rathskeller counter where we get burgers—I’ve hankered for one since the evening I met Priya at the Havmor, last November, and we talked about American food. That night feels like ages ago.

We sit out on the terrace and watch girls sunning themselves and sailboats on Lake Mendota. The terrace is
packed with students and university staffers on their break, but their voices hardly rise above the breeze off the lake stirring the trees and the commotion of birds.

After lunch, Nate’s got a shift at Four Star Books and Video. It’s walkable from here, up off State Street about twenty minutes away. He needs the job, he says, to save up for a house he’s going to be sharing with a few dorm buddies that fall. He confesses to me that the startup work involved in housepainting—making flyers, canvassing neighborhoods, doing up estimates—got to be too much of a hassle.

“I just needed a ready-to-go job, know what I mean? Where I could clock in and start making some dough,” he says. He asks if I’m going to start working too, and I mention the possible gig at the TV studio.

“So you’re going into photography?” Nate asks me, settling back in his chair. “Congrats on the scholarship, man. That’s great news.”

“Thanks,” I say. “And, yeah, looks like it. Or anything where they let me use a camera.”

“Speaking of which,” Nate says, “you think you’ll be up for shooting these scripts Karl and I wrote up?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

We eat our burgers in silence, and I can see Nate’s eyes narrowing as he stares past the far shore of Lake Mendota, in sight of a distant dream.

“You know what would be cool,” Nate says, wiping his mouth with a napkin and sitting up in his chair, “is if the three of us started up a production company.”

I laugh. “You mean the one in L.A.? I’ve heard that one before.” I remind him of that stoned and drunken night two years ago, wandering up Monroe Street after Emily
Price’s party. Nate responds only with scrunched eyes, a puckered mouth as he tries to remember. “That night we got busted by the police!” I say. “How could you—?”

“Oh, man!” Nate slaps his forehead. “Okay, so you
have
heard this before.” Then he tsks and shakes his head, his mind still zeroing in on this new vision for the future. He picks up a French fry and begins munching on it thoughtfully. “No, no, that was my
L.A.
studio idea, which we could still do down the road if we wanted to. I’m talking about a production company right here in Madison.” He taps the French fry on the table. “You know, write, direct, shoot, produce, edit, whatever. We know our way around a production, do we not? We’ve shot a ton of movies, haven’t we?” Nate grasps at French fries. “Not a huge leap from short films to commercials, PSAs, industrials, whatever … and down the road, I’m thinking features. Who knows?”

“Sure,” I say. “Who’re you going to get to run this company? It’s not exactly a part-time gig.”

“You and Karl will do it,” Nate says, smiling, balling up the emptied burger wrapper. “I’m the idea man.”

I am glad to be in Nate’s company again. Listening to him, I realize I’ve opened up a future for myself with possibilities that weren’t there a year ago, even three months ago, as shimmering and palpable as Lake Mendota in the sun, so vibrant right now with the play of sailboats and windsurfers.

Getting here, to this chair on the Union terrace in Madison, Wisconsin, U.S.A., had been an operation as wild as any of Nate’s ideas, but I had made it happen. It’s hard to believe. And for the first time I’m thankful to myself, thankful for making this moment, in this place, happen.

Nate says he’d better get going if he wants to make his shift on time. We make plans to get together later tonight, and he shuffles off in his sandals and ponytailed hair. I’ve got some time before my meeting with the director, so I pull out paper and pen from my backpack. My first letter is to my parents and Anand, to let them know I’ve arrived safely, and I write a second one to Pradeep, both a page or so. Then I start a third letter, the one I’ve been putting off, the one most difficult to get started on. There’s so much I want to tell Priya. I want to tell her how much I’ve thought of her these past six months, how much I want to see her and to hear her voice again—No, no, I don’t say that. I keep things cool, very composed, not too long, just as Priya’s letter to me had been. It takes me three tries and three sheets of clean paper before I get into the flow. But by then it’s getting late. I fold up the letter, put it away to finish afterward.

I leave the Union and head over to the Humanities Building a couple of blocks south on Park Street. It’s of the size, scale, and subtlety of an aircraft carrier—a monstrosity of cement bulwarks and parapets in which a crosswork of rectangular windows lie encased. Aesthetically, it’s the exact opposite of the Taj Mahal, and I imagine my mother’s disapproval of it if she were here with me.

The art department is up a few flights. I walk along a hallway lined with student photographs and paintings. I pause to take a look: they are landscape shots taken upstate, black-and-white, stark in their borderlines between earth and sky, man and matter, really impressive, and I wonder if I’ll ever meet the artist who made them.

The art director’s office is down the hall. I walk into a room cramped with office miscellany. There are high
shelves packed with files and correspondence, a bulletin board crowded with announcements of gallery showings, a few armchairs, and a rickety coffee table littered with art and photography magazines. A small secretary dressed in a powder-blue jacket and skirt, ruffled blouse, and pearls sits behind a tidy desk, peering at a computer screen. She has a puff of white hair and a lined but pleasant face. I tell her who I am, that I have an appointment that afternoon. She says the director is running late and to have a seat. It’ll be a while, but he’s looking forward to meeting me.

I sit for a few minutes but get fidgety, get up and walk down the hall again. Down the hall, I happen past a room, a studio, where chairs lie cluttered every which way, and a film projector stands in the back, a white screen—the kind you roll down over a chalkboard—in front. I walk inside, over to the projector, unzip my backpack, and take out the film cans.

I find a laminated diagram on the corrugated rubber pad on which the projector sits and use it to thread the first roll of film into the projector. I’m anxious. I wonder if anything even turned out. The film stock Pradeep had provided was old and so haphazardly stored, I might get nothing but fog and flare. My fingers tremble as I wind the film onto the take-up reel. I check the threading again against the instruction card and flip the switch to activate the projector. A bulb throws a square of white light onto the screen. Then a flurry of slashes and dashes as the leader races through the gate. I hold my breath, hope for something. Anything from the camera. Then there it is: my mother’s hands, in crisp focus, sifting through rice grains. Then her face as she looks up at the camera. And there’s our balcony—sure a little more shadowy than I hoped,
but there it is, clear as day. Anand appears, looking so serious before he moves to the railing. There he goes pestering pigeons again before he’s distorted momentarily in a flare of hard sunlight.

I switch rolls—I can’t help myself—thread it as carefully as I can, as nervous as I am, and flip the switch. Baroda. Hemant Uncle. Kamala Auntie. My father. The unpaved dirt lane outside Hemant Uncle’s home. It all comes back to me as if I’m standing on the porch, next to the swing, watching the clouds arriving with messages of monsoon. The messages arrive in a burst of pans and panoramas taken from the rooftop terrace: the gorgeous gray rain casting its curtain over Baroda, veiling the train station, washing clean the grime of the rooftops; the sway of the silhouetted trees along the university grounds, visible here above the line of bungalows; hurrying men with newspapers over their heads and one woman obscured by her umbrella, a hand lifting the hem of her sari, all of them running across the road from the bus stand to who knows where. In the next shot, I see Anand dashing in from the rain, beside me under the doorway, soaked in his Brewer’s T-shirt. What’s he doing now, I wonder? Sleeping, I guess. But here, awake and thrilled and soaked, he mouths something at the camera, shivering, and points at something off-screen. I pan the camera and find a young girl in the mid-ground, center: Anjali pirouetting and dancing in the rain as if she were a Bollywood heroine and all of Baroda were her audience. I see her calling to the camera, waving excitedly for us to come out from under shelter and join her in the rain. I want to. I wish I could.

Glossary

Achcha—an expression of agreement or understanding (“I see”)

Aavjo—“Goodbye”

Babu—an old-school government bureaucrat, often perceived as lazy and corruptible

Beh-bhaan—unconscious

Beta—“Child” or “Son”

Bhabhi—sister-in-law

Bhai/Bhaiya—literally “brother,” but it can mean a male friend or companion; depending on the situation, it can be used either affectionately or ironically

Bhajan—devotional Hindu song

Bhelpuri—popular Indian snack consisting of a mix of seasoned puffed rice, crispy thin noodles, crunchy pieces of fried bread, potatoes, onions, and sweet-and-sour chutney

Bidi—low-cost, hand-rolled unfiltered cigarettes

Bindi—the cosmetic dot or mark between the eyebrows that South Asian women wear for fashion religious reasons, or to signify their marital status

Bolo—literally “speak up”; an informal way of asking someone, “What do you want?”

Burfi—a bite sized Indian dessert made with milk, sugar, and sometimes nuts, cardomom, and fruit

Butchu—infant or small child

Chakri—a savory, crunchy, spriral-shaped Indian snack made with lentils and rice flour

Chai—Indian tea; a concoction of tea grounds, sugar, water, milk, chai masala, other spices

Chalo—“Let’s go”

Chavanu—a sweet-and-savory Gujarati snack mix with a potpourri of ingredients including fried chickpeas, lentils, whole black pepper, peanuts, raisins, and various seasonings

Cho-kus—“Surely”

Dada—an affectionate term for grandfather

Dada-giri—hassle; bullying behavior

Dal—a lentil soup, a staple of the traditional Gujarati meal

Dahi vada—deep-fried lentil dumplings smothered in a savory yogurt sauce

Dhana jeeru—a blend of coriander and cumin powder used in a variety of Indian foods

Dhoti—loincloth

Dosa—a savory crepe made of lentils and rice, a staple of South India

Dost—friend (though the term can be applied sarcastically too)

Goondah—a crook

Hutt—“Move aside”

Hut-terikki—a good-natured exclamation of frustration or surprise

Jaangiyo—underwear

Jao—“Go” or “Get lost”

Kachurputti—trashy or low-rate

Khadhi—a seasoned buttermilk-based Gujarati soup

Khari puri—small, spicy, unleavened bread

Kem cho?—“How are you?”

Kurta pyjama—traditional South Asian male formal dress consisting of a long-sleeve tunic and leggings—either baggy or slim—tied at the waist with laces

Laathi—a truncheon

Ladoo—a ball-shaped Indian confection often made with chickpea flour, sugar, and nuts

Masala—mixed spice

Meethai—sweetmeats

Mirch masala—chili powder

Mushkari—mischief

Paan—traditional Indian chew comprised of the paan leaf, stuffed with various aromatic ingredients and sometimes tobacco, known for its mild narcotic effects

Pandit—a supremely gifted teacher, artist, or scholar

Paratha—potato and whole-wheat flatbread

Phadda-phut—An onomatopoeic expression of the sound of slapping someone, or a slang term for “rapidly”

Puri—a deep-fried puffed bread, small and round

Rickshaw wallah—a rickshaw driver

Roti—traditional Indian flatbread

Salwaar kameez—the female version of the kurta pyjama (see above); usually worn with a long sash around the neck as a scarf or over the head as a veil

Sambhar—a spicy lentil-based South Indian soup or dal, a staple of the South Indian diet

Tamasha—a ruckus, a scene

Thodu—“A little bit”

Wah-re-wah—an expression of wonderment, amazement, or delight

Yaar—equivalent to the American slangs “dude” or “man,” used as informal address

Zupadpatti—slum

Acknowledgments

I
’d like to express my deepest thanks to all who helped in the making of this book. Among them are my teachers Shelly Lowenkopf, Gina Nahai, and Rita Williams at the University of Southern California; editor Annlee Ellingson; my wife and no-nonsense critic Susan Antani; novelist Kashmira Sheth for her generousness and insight; readers who provided unflinching feedback like Kent Hayward, Elizabeth Hurchalla, Lois Schmidt, Melinda Warren; and, most importantly, Pappa and Bhabhi without whom there is no story. I’m also grateful for the invaluable input found in the workshops of the Southern California Writers Conference, the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, and Marilyn Friedman’s Writing Pad, all excellent resources for writerly Angelenos.

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