by Anne Cherian
“Ha, ha, no, no, I am not sharing any blood relationship with Vic. I am only related by way of marriage. I am Priya’s cousin brother from her father’s side. Priya and I were raised in the same place. Now also we are living in the same place.”
“You live here?” Frances asked. She hoped this meant that Vic had only invited family and friends, rather than everyone and anyone in the Indian community, as she had expected, and feared.
“No, no, I am having my own place. I am selling life insurance. Do you have any?”
Just last week, Frances had discussed it with Jay, and they had decided, once again, to put off buying any until they were doing better.
Before Jay, who every now and then did not think things through, blurted out the truth, Frances said, “Thank you, but we’ve covered.”
“Ah, but is the cover you have the correct one? It is always good to have some more cover. I can give you the very best policy. You can trust me also. We are Indians, so there is nothing but good things between us, is it not?”
Frances looked at Jay. If she responded in the negative, this obnoxious man would simply disregard her words. He would, however, have to listen to another Indian male.
“Maybe later,” Jay said expansively. “We should go in and see Vic, congratulate Nikhil.” The children were fidgeting, and he knew that Sam was aching for a drink. He could see the tubs of soda, and a bartender farther up. It would be nice to begin the evening with a scotch—if Vic had plumped for whiskey.
“Later also is good for me. But in case we are not seeing each other, please to take my card,” Rajesh said, taking out his wallet. “Where do you live?”
“Sherman Oaks.” Jay hoped that meant they were out of this fellow’s jurisdiction, if that was what insurance people had.
“I will be coming to that side next week. If you give me your phone and address, I will come see you at your most convenient time and also give you the best plan.”
Jay was wondering how to get out of this without being blatantly rude when he heard a voice from behind Rajesh.
“Uncle Rajesh, are you trying to sell insurance again?” A tall young man now stood beside Rajesh.
“Nikhil?” Jay tested the name. He hadn’t seen Nikhil since he was a pimply teenager. The man smiling down at him with perfect teeth also had perfect skin. If he was another one of Vic’s relatives, he must have been raised here, because he spoke with an American accent.
“You guessed it. I’m Nick.” Nikhil extended his hand. “You’re Uncle Jay, right? Thanks for coming. I know it was quite a ride for you to get here.”
Frances looked at the kurta and the wide maroon shawl Nikhil had draped around himself. He could be airlifted to any Indian village and would fit in immediately. Vic’s son might have brains, but he wasn’t Armani-clad. She relaxed a little. So far, it didn’t look like a party where guests were going to parade their monetary success and other accomplishments. Even the lights weren’t strong enough to expose the bad dye job.
“We couldn’t come to your high school graduation party, you know, but we certainly weren’t about to miss this one. Congratulations,” Frances said, handing him the card.
“Thank you, Aunty Frances.” Nikhil slipped the card into his pocket. “My dad loves parties, and I know he’s been looking forward to seeing you. You must be Mandy, Lily, and Sam, right?” he pointed to each as if he were a conductor picking off sections of the orchestra.
“How did you know?” Lily asked.
“I met you when your face was about this high,” Nikhil indicated his knee. “Now you’re taller, but your face is the same.”
“You’re funny,” Lily said.
“He’s also got a good memory,” Frances said. “You need that to get into MIT.” She wanted to mention the MIT degree in the beginning, so it didn’t needle her all evening as something her daughter would never accomplish. It was like getting a parking ticket. Jay always told her that it would cause them less grief if they paid it off immediately.
“Don’t believe everything you hear about MIT,” Nikhil dismissed. “They let anyone in. Legend has it that a dog graduated a few years ago.”
“We never heard that one about UCLA,” Jay laughed, surprised by Nikhil’s modesty. The few American-born Indian children he had met were braggarts whose achievements were stoked by proud parents. He remembered one ten-year-old whose room was filled with the trophies he had won playing soccer. It was only after Mandy joined the local Parks and Recreation basketball team that Jay realized everyone received a trophy of some sort. It wasn’t like India, where the winners alone were feted. America created all sorts of commendations, ranging from a Sportsmanship Award to a medal for Best Attitude. It had made him leery—and disdainful—of boasters.
“That’s because even the dogs know that you can leave anytime,” Nikhil quipped back.
Mandy laughed. Nikhil joined her.
“Did I miss something?” Jay inquired.
“UCLA—U Can Leave Anytime,” Mandy explained.
“That’s good,” Jay said, raising his eyebrows in appreciation for something he hadn’t thought up. “How did you know that?” he asked her.
Mandy shrugged, “I dunno.”
“I can’t claim to have come up with it,” Nikhil said, “but it got Dad pretty upset when I was applying to colleges.” Then he turned to Mandy and said, “I like teasing Dad because he went there, but it’s a great school, in case you’re thinking of going there.”
“I won’t get in,” Mandy said flatly.
Frances wished she had the power to reel in her daughter’s words. Nikhil was simply making conversation. Mandy did not have to take it seriously. But no, she had to put all her mistakes into her mouth, let him know she would never get in.
Jay heard Mandy’s claim with a mixture of discomfort and helplessness, topped with sadness. So Mandy knew she had screwed things up.
“Nah, you’ll get in,” Nikhil waved his hand. “You’re an Indian American, which means you’ve taken every AP class your school offers and have a 4.5 GPA. And when you take your SATs, you’ll ace them.”
“We’re not supposed to talk about Mandy’s grades,” Lily offered up into the silence.
All along, Frances had worried that Mandy might, deliberately or not, say something she shouldn’t, just to annoy her. But she had never been concerned about Lily. As Mandy often said, Lily was the good daughter, the one Frances was used to counting on. Lily listened, she sat without crushing her dress, she brushed her hair a hundred times every day because Frances had told her it would make it sparkle with health.
Now, suddenly, Lily was speaking out of turn, and out of character.
“Well,” Frances said gamely, smiling in spite of the fact that she wanted to gather up her family and run away.
“You’re right,” Nikhil told Lily, “it’s not polite to show off, is it?”
Frances breathed again.
Jay opened his mouth, but before he could produce something that wasn’t as empty as Frances’s “well,” Sam explained, his voice very serious, “Mandy can’t show off. She did very badly in school.”
Frances felt that the firm ground she was trying to get to was turning into quicksand. Now Sam had joined in, and the irony was that he probably didn’t think he was disobeying her. He had nodded with understanding when she explained that they should not tell Mandy’s grades to anyone. But he was very literal, and had been that way from a young age.
Jay had first discovered it when playing baseball with two-year-old Sam, who was getting frustrated because he wasn’t hitting the ball. Jay assured him that he would do better if he kept an eye on it. Sam had immediately picked up the ball and put it against his face.
It made for cute stories, except for moments such as now. She knew that Sam would think he was following her instructions. After all, he hadn’t told Nikhil that Mandy got C’s in all her subjects; he had just explained why she couldn’t brag, which, in his mind, was not the same thing at all.
> Frances tried frantically to come up with a topic, anything, to change the direction of the conversation. She knew that Jay must be trying to do the same thing.
She was still searching for the right words when Nikhil shrugged and told Mandy, “I guess you’re going against the stereotype of the superachieving, nerdy Indian American. I tried that in ninth grade and realized it was better to beat those chaps at their own games. They called me names, but in the end I was a name, I mean, of sorts.” Nikhil’s voice trailed off.
Frances was immediately grateful to Nikhil. He might dress like a typical Indian, but he wasn’t acting like one. Frances had expected him to feign concern about Mandy’s grades, then use the pretending-to-be-nice phrase “I’m so sorry to hear about this” to ask probing questions, hoping that each answer would confirm that Mandy had, indeed, done poorly. She had witnessed such tactics all her life in India. Mama was an ace at it. If Mama found out that something bad had happened—a failed test, a broken engagement—she would rush over and offer her condolences. But the entire time she was actually trying to elicit information so she could run and tell it to other people. It was only when Frances grew older that she figured out that Mama also used the information to feel better about things in her own life. When Rich never came to get her, Mama insisted that her situation was much better than Denise’s, because Denise’s fiancé had dumped her to marry her best friend.
Jay heard Nick’s throwaway words and felt as if each one was a bulb in one of those linked sequences that, when fully lit, become something unexpected. So this was why Mandy was doing badly! Nick had gone through a similar experience and understood Mandy in a way that he never would.
Jay had grown up in a very different environment. Because he came from a wealthy, upper-class family, he was automatically considered the best. Mandy and Nikhil lived in a land where white was still better. America had undergone many changes for the better since he had come to study at UCLA, but, in spite of the improvements, Mandy was the only Indian in her grade. It hadn’t mattered when she was seven, eight, nine years old. She never complained, so he assumed nothing was amiss. Had things changed in high school? Had her classmates started teasing her, calling her a nerd? And had she responded by becoming a bad student? How else to understand the dramatic change in her grades? A’s one semester, C’s the next. It wasn’t that Mandy had suddenly stopped trying, as he had feared. If what Nikhil said was correct, she was doing it deliberately to stop the bullying.
He’d have a long talk with her tomorrow, ask if this was true, and, if so, figure out what they should do about it.
Perhaps Mandy did not need to go back to India. If he could help her have the same epiphany as Nick, she could bring up her grades. As he imagined her staying back, he felt his heart lighten, replacing the heavy, hard substance that had taken up residence in his chest ever since he had agreed to Frances’s plan.
“What name were you called?” Lily asked Nikhil.
“Valedictorian.” Nikhil’s answer was lost in a blast of Hindi words as a Bollywood song poured out of the loudspeakers, and then, as if the person who had raised the volume realized it was too loud, the music was turned down to background noise.
“Valedictorian,” Nikhil repeated. “It’s a long name for someone who has to give a very short speech. My speech was so short it was over before I began it.”
“Is that what you are now? A vadelictorian?” Lily asked.
Jay laughed and patted his daughter’s hair.
Lily ducked away, waiting for Nikhil’s response.
Frances knew that Lily was at the stage where she loved to try out new words. She had no idea, however, that this particular one was wrong. Frances waited for Nikhil to laugh, but he was looking at Lily seriously, either trying to come up with an answer or attempting to figure out the word.
“Then you must like animals,” Sam said, not to be left out.
“I do like animals,” Nikhil said, “but I prefer the kitchen. I’m going to be a chef.”
“I love watching the Iron Chef,” Lily enthused. “Are you going to be on TV?”
“I don’t think so,” Nikhil laughed. “This is Newport Beach, not Hollywood. Did you know that all cooks are mean?” he asked her.
“Really? But Mom isn’t mean at all!” Lily wrinkled her forehead.
“I don’t know about your mom,” Nikhil said, “but I beat the eggs and whip the cream.”
“Another good one,” Jay laughed.
“Another old one,” Nikhil corrected.
“Are you teasing us or are you really going to be a chef?” Jay asked. He had wondered what Nikhil would do with his MIT degree. A high-paying job in New York that allowed him to live in a fancy high-rise? Or was he going to settle into a nice office in Vic’s company?
“I’m going to work hard to become a cook,” Nikhil clarified. “I hope that means I can call myself chef one day.”
Frances didn’t realize how tense she had felt about meeting the Mighty Indian Triumph. She had dressed her family and herself in their best, just to be able to withstand hearing about his accomplishments. MIT graduates had their pick of jobs, even in a lousy economy. She was fully prepared to learn that Nikhil was going to be starting off at half a million dollars a year, something Jay and she together would never be able to earn. Instead, this tall boy was going to become a chef? Like the multisyllabled real estate agent, which elevated her kowtowing job, the moniker chef was just a fancy way of saying cook. Both jobs served other people.
“That’s wonderful,” Frances said, her enthusiasm encased with relief that not all MIT graduates ended up in fancy jobs. “If you tell us which restaurant you will be working in, we’ll be sure to go there.”
“I’m going to be taking classes first,” Nikhil said. “I’ve signed up for the Cordon Bleu in Paris, and then I’m planning to go to Perugia in Italy.”
“Like Julia Child,” Mandy inserted, adding, “I saw the movie Julie and Julia.”
“That was a fun movie,” Nikhil agreed, smiling, “but Julia Child just wanted to master French cuisine in order to teach Americans. I want to learn French and Italian cuisines so I can do fusion cooking—you know, add touches of Western ingredients to Indian recipes and vice versa.”
“Sounds weird,” Mandy said.
“Mandy,” Frances automatically corrected her daughter, but Nikhil wasn’t offended.
“Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but fusion is the latest trend in the kitchen. Chefs do a lot with Japanese cuisine and I want to do the same with Indian. Start with French and Italian ingredients, maybe move on to Spanish cuisine. Don’t worry, I’m not thinking of making tandoori pizza. It will be more subtle. Anyway, that’s the plan.”
Suddenly, Frances understood exactly why Mama loved rushing over to hear the latest sob story, and why she stayed until there was no more information to extract. She, too, wanted to know everything, wanted to know whether this was really going to happen, and how Vic felt about it. It would allow her to look Vic in the eye with that much less shame about her own life.
“So you will be going to France this summer?”
“Next week.”
“Your father must be so happy that you know what you want to do.” Frances heard herself sounding just like Mama and quickly added, “I remember meeting him when he was about your age. He also knew exactly what he wanted to do.”
“Dad’s old-fashioned,” Nikhil shrugged. “He thinks cooking is silly. He’s still Indian enough to believe that it’s not for men.”
“How funny that you would say that, you know,” Frances laughed. “We were just talking the other day about the Iron Chef being too sexist. All those men, and not one woman among them.”
“I’m glad that Dad’s in the minority,” Nikhil said, “but I’m hopeful he will come around.”
“We can talk to him if you like,” Jay offered. “He and I go way back to our graduate days.”
“Thanks, but I think I can manage. I just saw a friend of mine, so
if you’ll excuse me,” Nikhil said, his eyes occupied, his hand raised in greeting. “You’ll find Dad and Mom somewhere near the front door.”
VIC SAW JAY and his family arrive but could not extricate himself from his biker buddies. He had heard the rumble of their accelerators fifteen minutes earlier and watched to see if this time he was correct. Sure enough, a nugget of white faces gleamed amid the mostly Indian guests.
He had only invited them because they had bugged him, and this evening, as the small hand on his watch moved farther and farther from six, he assumed their little show of excitement had been just that, a show, and that they were not going to come. Every other Westerner had already arrived, and by 6:45 he had begun to relax, because he really did not like mixing his guilty pleasure with his family life.
Now they were here, all six of them.
“Pierre,” he called out, surprised that they weren’t in their usual leather jackets but had worn suits and ties. “Thank you for coming.”
“This is some place you’ve got,” Pierre said, eyebrows arched.
“Did you rent it for the occasion?” Antoine laughed.
“Only the chairs and tables and heaters,” Vic confessed, then added, “and that canopy. Even though I told my wife it would not rain.”
“Wow! You did all this for your son?” Pierre inquired.
“Yes, yes. He is somewhere here, though I cannot see him. But ah, there is my youngest son, who is fourteen years of age. Nandan,” Vic called out. “Come meet my friends. They are from France,” he told him. Though he wished they hadn’t come, he did not want them to feel unwelcome. He thought a quick introduction to his sons would do the job. The men were adults; they could manage the rest of the evening on their own without feeling they were being slighted.
“Bonsoir et bienvenue,” Nandan said.
“Vous parlez français?” Pierre asked.
“Un peu,” Nandan said, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch part. “J’ai étudié le français quand j’étais à l’école. Mais pas très longtemps.”
