He had asked Madhulika and Tara to go on ahead of him with some other friends. When he parked his car and got out, strident Bollywood music announced that a party was on. He could see hundreds of people on the lawns surrounding the mammoth Singhvi residence. A makeshift dance floor had been erected on one side, on which men, women and children in traditional Indian finery were dancing, frenzied, to a skull-busting bhangra number. ‘That’s the way! Mahi ve!’ bellowed the speakers. In the background, on a huge screen, Shahrukh Khan and Preity Zinta and others he couldn’t name were leaping up and down to the song, with people in the party trying hard to keep up. People twirled and clapped and sang along and gave each other high fives. He thought he caught a glimpse of a tubby figure in a mirror-work Indian skirt of some type, spinning like a manic top.
Good god, was that Madhulika?
He averted his face, and walked through the house, smiling at random people, till he got to the bar on the deck at the back.
‘Hi, Vinod!’ someone called out to him, ‘where’s Madhu?’
He smiled, waved, called out a greeting in reply, then got himself a beer, somehow getting through the shifting but constantly four-deep swarm around the bar. He took a long swig, and immediately felt better. The requisite number of beers (six?) should see him through. He wondered if Jay was here somewhere, then remembered the visiting parents. But then, everyone was welcome at an Indian party, the more the merrier. Madhulika had called ahead and got Tara invited. Jay must be around somewhere. He walked down the steps to look.
On the lawns at the back were small knots of people, women discussing children and food and clothes and the insides of houses (especially, now that they were here, this house) and men discussing American politics, subcontinental politics, the Indian cricket team’s latest exploits, the Jail Blazers, the money market, the job market (or lack thereof) and the outsides of houses, especially, now that they were here, this one, but also: who had sold what, bought what, invested in what, thought what was a good deal.
He stood on the edge of one of the groups that included some of his colleagues from MindNext. ‘Word is, we may be acquired by one of the California biggies,’ someone said in a mobile India-meets-America head-on accent. ‘I heard this in strictest confidence from a friend who works at the other company.’ The speaker paused to receive the gratifying flurry of reactions ranging from surprise to fear to anticipation. ‘I don’t think any job cuts were mentioned but you know how it is: the new guy comes, he wants to clean up the old guy’s mess. So there it is. Yeah, sure, I’ll give you a heads-up when I have something. It’s all just speculation at this point.’
‘If I get sacked, I’ll just go home,’ a guy Vinod didn’t know said. ‘Plenty of jobs there for people like us, and a better place for the kids to grow up, you know what I’m saying? I mean, do I really want my girl to be American? I don’t think so!’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ scoffed someone else, ‘I can see that happening!’ The conversation erupted into the favourite Indian-American ‘y +1’ debate, with ‘y’ the current year and ‘ +1’ the next year, when several people claimed they would leave America for India for good but never did.
There was no sign of Jay. Lucky bastard, must have managed to skip the do. Just as he was about to move on, one of his flamboyantly dressed colleagues spotted him. ‘Hey, Vinod, you hear anything on your floor, pal, about “changes”?’
He was startled to see several pairs of eyes trained on him. ‘No, nothing at all,’ he said. ‘First I’m hearing of it. Hey, how ’bout this. You guys hear about the software guy who’s quit his job and started bhangra dance parties twice a month here and in Seattle? Apparently, he’s doing phenomenally well – he DJs, sings, teaches bhangra and Bollywood dance steps, he’s a huge hit, smart guy, huh?’
Someone took up the thread from there, and he slipped away into a part of the garden which seemed darker and quieter, not invaded by the serial lights and the relentless Bollywood beats. Someone was sitting there on a bench. He saw it was Tara. But it was too late to retreat. She had already seen him. She raised a hand, almost as if to say ‘It’s fine if you don’t want to stop’ but some obscure guilt made him linger, and finally sit at the other end of the bench. ‘May I?’
‘Sure.’
His wife’s friend made no attempt to break the silence.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asked somewhat awkwardly. He barely knew Tara but quite liked her, he supposed. She was maybe the exact opposite of Madhulika: contained, and with a thinking kind of face. Funny they were friends.
‘Wine,’ she said. ‘It’s not very good, though.’
He laughed. ‘You want me to get you something else?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not much of a drinker, anyway. Just thought it would take the edge off the evening. These parties aren’t really my thing. I was quite happy to be left at home but Madhu insisted. “You can’t be home on the last evening you’re here” type of thing.’
‘Hmmmm. So how’s your vacation been so far?’ he said, feeling more relaxed.
‘Fine. It started off with me holding the fort while my sister took her son for some medical treatment. I was basically keeping my niece company. Now that Kamala’s back, I thought I’d travel a bit before I go back.’
‘Where else are you going?’
‘I go early tomorrow to Boston, then back to Louisville in a few days, and home.’
‘So you still have connections in Boston? I don’t think Madhu keeps in touch with anybody.’
‘Well, there are friends from our student days, an old neighbour from home I want to look up, and some odds and ends that need tying up,’ she said.
They were silent for a while. ‘Madhu tells me you just got promoted. Congratulations are in order, I guess.’
‘Yes, well, thanks. You know, you stick around long enough, they shove you upstairs.’
She looked at him for a few moments. ‘I’m sure it’s not like that. And what is it exactly that you do, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Sure. I’m a guy who predicts business trends. Analytics, they call it.’ His mobile phone began to ring. ‘Sorry, excuse me,’ he said, pulling it out of his pocket. Steph calling, it said. He ran his hand over his hair. ‘Sorry,’ he said again to Tara, ‘I have to take this. Catch you later.’
He got up and strode quickly away from the bench, and deeper into the darkness, talking softly into his phone, walking as he spoke. ‘Stephie … sweetie? What’s up?’ Muted strains of music reached him. It was an unfamiliar Bollywood song, slow, classically melodious, almost from another era, it seemed, and filled with what could only be called the most extraordinary yearning: ‘Janam, dekh lo, mit gayi dooriyaan, main yahaan hoon, yahaan hoon, yahaan hoon, yahaan…’
His whole being was bent and focused on his phone as he listened to her. Then he said, ‘I’m stuck now, babe. At one of these Indian parties. Can’t you just tell me what it is? Please?’ He listened some more. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll meet you for coffee at the usual place. Bye, now. I love you, baby. Whatever it is, don’t worry. Sleep tight.’
He had been so oblivious to his surroundings that he found himself back near where Tara was sitting. She was still there. She looked up to see who it was.
‘Oh, it’s you. Everything okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, wondering if she had heard anything. He looked at her face. It was calm, friendly. ‘Just something from work.’ His inner voice mocked him: ‘Really, at this hour?’ He flushed, looked at her. Her face revealed nothing. ‘Thanks. Have you eaten dinner?’
‘I ate something before we got here,’ she said. ‘How ’bout you?’
‘I’m good. We should probably head back, right, since you’ll have to be up early? Shall we look for Madhulika?’
‘Sure,’ she said, getting up.
DANISHA
CHIEF SEATTLE’S SPEECH, ‘WE KNOW THAT THE WHITE MAN DOES NOT UNDERSTAND OUR WAYS’
Chief Seattle made this speech in 1854. Forced to sell the tribe’s land to the US government. His people had to move into a reservation. Home of the braves??
Speech sad. But beautiful. ‘My words are like the stars that never change.’ Closeness to nature.
You can tell his wisdom, love for the land, for the tribe’s past, ancestors. Wonders how white men left land of their ancestors without regret. Says they can never know the true value of this land, unlike the ‘red people’. ‘Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people.’
Thinks his people are partly to blame for letting the white man take over.
What about the African slaves who were stolen away from the land of their ancestors? What about their regrets? How they came was the opposite of white folk.
Were black soldiers used to subdue Native Americans? So Bob Marley says.