by Anne Cherian
Priya looked at him and raised her eyebrows. Once again, he had to do something, fix the situation.
He finished his glass of whiskey and handed it to her. “Go stop the music,” he instructed.
He walked toward the buffet tables, a little hot from the bodies around him as well as the golden liquid that had just coursed down his throat. He waved his hands over his head to gain everyone’s attention. The music stopped, and slowly, the insistent chant also ended.
Everyone stood still, including those serving themselves food from the buffet.
“You are asking for my son to give you a speech, so I am going to ask him to come here. I hope everybody can hear him. Nikhil, beta, come say a few words.”
As he said that, Vic suddenly realized that this was exactly what he had been planning to do if Priya hadn’t created such a fuss about Nikhil not wanting to join the company. He wouldn’t have had Nikhil give a speech, but he would have ensured everyone’s attention as he presented the key to his son.
He could give Nikhil his present as soon as the speech was over.
“Nikhil?” Vic called again.
“He’s here,” a tall American boy shouted.
“Come out, come out,” the crowd now intoned.
Nikhil’s shoulders were bowed as he reluctantly made his way toward his father. “My son, the MIT graduate, Nikhil,” announced Vic, clapping his hands.
Nikhil looked down. Then, as if he had gained inspiration from the earth, he raised his head and started speaking.
“Gosh, well, first of all, thank you for coming here this evening. It means a lot to my family and me that you took the trouble to come. I’m afraid I didn’t take the trouble to write a speech. Truth to tell, I didn’t expect to say anything today.” Nikhil paused and then continued: “I’d also like to thank my parents, especially my dad. Most people finish college with huge debts. My dad and mom were very generous, and Dad insisted that I never take out a single loan. My degree from MIT in some ways is really his degree.”
Everyone started clapping boisterously. Vic felt as if someone had swaddled him in a warm blanket. It was so nice of Nikhil to show his appreciation. This was what fathers do for their children, he wanted to say. He didn’t want Nikhil to feel indebted to him. He fingered the box in his pocket. All evening long, it had knocked against his leg with every step he took. Now he curled his palm around it and moved closer to Nikhil.
But Nikhil wasn’t done yet. He waited till the crowd was quiet and said, “In fact, I not only took my father’s money to go to MIT, I even took his suggestion to study computer science. As you all know, my father studied computers at UCLA and started a company. My own trajectory is going to be different from that.”
Vic rushed up to Nikhil. He would have grabbed the microphone if Nikhil were holding one. What was Nikhil about to do? Tell everyone here that he was going to peel cucumbers in the kitchen?
“My son is too good,” Vic interrupted Nikhil. “I was more than happy to send him to MIT. I only went to MIT one time for his graduation, so I don’t know why he is saying that the degree is mine. I never took a single test or anything.” Vic paused to let the people laugh, as he knew they would. “But because he has done so well, I would like to give him a present that I had made some months ago. It is very small, but I hope my son will accept it.”
“No, Dad,” Nikhil said, moving away. “You’ve done enough.”
Priya joined them. “Vic, let it be. Nikhil is correct. You have done more than enough.”
He wasn’t in the bedroom, worried whether they would join him downstairs. They were here, with people all around them. If he didn’t do it now, then when?
Vic retrieved the box that had felt so heavy all evening long.
“For my son, Nikhil.” Vic held up the square golden box so everyone could see it. He had taken it from Priya’s jewelry case, pleased that it would give people the wrong idea.
Sibilants swirled around the crowd. A few spoke, their voices high with excitement. They expected Nikhil to open it and find something gold inside.
Only Priya and Nikhil knew what it contained.
“Oh, Dad, you’ve done enough.” Nikhil resisted taking the box.
“It’s for you,” Vic insisted.
The box remained suspended between his fingers. He felt foolish. Nikhil was supposed to accept it.
He was just about to force it into Nikhil’s hand when Priya reached out and grabbed it.
Lali bent closer to Frances. “Any idea what this is about?”
Frances shook her head. She lived within driving distance of Vic and Priya, but she didn’t know them any better than Lali did.
“I think Vic’s drunk,” Lali said.
“He isn’t slurring his words,” Frances answered without thinking. She didn’t know what exactly was going on, but it was evident that everything wasn’t as happy and joyful as she had imagined all these past weeks leading up to the party. If Vic continued acting this way, it might eclipse the Rich disaster.
“But he’s being so pushy, not listening to his son or to Priya.”
“Oh, he’s being a typical Indian male,” Frances said, the words accompanied by her knee-jerk thought that Jay was so different from Vic. Then she recalled Jay’s face, his stern voice. Jay, who prided himself on being more open than Indian men, had acted like a typical Indian male about Rich. What had happened to the man who said his daughter could date? The man who made dinner on the evenings he arrived home earlier than Frances, and who clearly didn’t object when his wife earned more money? The similarity she now saw between Jay and Vic hardened Frances. Jay had no business being so mean to her for something that had happened long before they met.
“Priya, let me give it to my son.” Vic held out his hand for the box.
Priya shook her head.
Now Nikhil took his place in the arena. “Hey, you two, loosen up. Let’s go get dinner. I’m sure our guests are starving. Come on, everyone, eat before the food gets cold. There’s nothing worse than cold dal.”
Jay marveled at Nikhil’s composure. He knew Vic was up to something, and so did Nikhil. But instead of cowering in his father’s presence, Nikhil was tackling it head-on. He himself had made sure there was an ocean between them when he anticipated his father’s anger.
“I am only wanting to give you my present,” Vic said as he tried to wrestle the box out of Priya’s hand.
Priya stepped away from Vic and, in front of everyone, slipped the box into her blouse. Lali had seen her servant do this every month when Amma paid her. The servant woman didn’t have a purse, and the saree blouse was the safest place to hide something valuable. She herself had tucked her apartment key into her bra when she went to her graduation. But she had done that in the privacy of her apartment, aware that it was not something upper-class women do. Now Priya was displaying her village origins to everyone.
Vic was furious. First Priya had threatened him with a no-show at the party, now she was making sure he did not give Nikhil the key to the office.
“Give it to me.” He walked toward her, clenching his hands tightly to stifle the urge to strangle her.
“Dad, let’s go eat,” Nikhil said.
“You step aside.” Vic pushed Nikhil. The boy was such a sissy. He had a good degree, yet he wanted to take on a woman’s job.
“Aree, aree,” Rajesh said soothingly as he approached the trio. “Listen to your beta, Vic. He is an MIT graduate and so he is knowing what to do.”
The simpering words infuriated Vic. Rajesh had given Nikhil a wok. He was encouraging his son to become a cook. Only a fool would do that. Or a man who wanted to make a fool of another man. He imagined Rajesh returning to India and telling people that Nikhil was dicing onions in the kitchen and crying like a woman.
“You shut up,” Vic hissed. “Don’t come near my family.”
“Aree, this is my family also.”
“Keep away!” Vic rushed at Rajesh, but before he got to him, Nikhil stepped be
tween them.
“This is getting way out of hand,” Nikhil said. “Dad, calm down. Uncle Rajesh, why don’t you check the situation with the caterers?”
“Come with me, Rajesh,” Priya called out.
“Always looking after your cousin,” Vic jeered. “Why didn’t you stop him from drinking too much? Look at him.”
“Aree, I am only drinking one-two beers,” Rajesh said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a large handkerchief.
“He’s not the drunk in the family,” Priya said archly.
“Hey, you two, cut it out. Mom, just give me Dad’s gift.” Nikhil held out his hand.
“Rajesh, let’s go.” Priya ignored Nikhil.
“Did you hear my son?” Vic asked. “Give him the box.”
“Why are you doing all this?” Rajesh asked Vic. “Let it be, no?”
“Why isn’t someone stopping this?” Jonathan whispered in Lali’s ear. She hadn’t heard him come up beside her, so riveted was she by what was going on. This was more dramatic than a Bollywood film.
“And take on Vic?” she whispered back. She didn’t want to tell Jonathan that most of the Indian guests were probably enjoying this open-heart surgery of a family that was rich and successful. Other people’s problems invariably made one feel better about oneself.
“His cousin’s sweating an awful lot,” Jonathan noted.
“He drank an awful lot,” Lali said.
Rajesh leaned over, held his stomach, and opened his mouth. A gush of liquid fell to the ground.
“Yeeuch,” someone said, while others groaned.
Lali watched the watery mess pool around Rajesh’s feet. Rajesh tried to move away, but was too unbalanced and fell down. “See, I told you he drank too—,” Lali started to tell Jonathan, but he had rushed past her.
“Someone call 911,” Jonathan called out as he bent over Rajesh and checked to see whether he was still breathing.
“They don’t come because a drunk puked,” a voice pointed out.
“I guess Americans have no idea how much we Indians enjoy our drink,” another sniggered. “We would be calling 911 at all our parties.”
“He’s having a heart attack,” Jonathan stated, as he started doing CPR.
“This chap doesn’t know the difference between a heart attack and a drunk?” another voice asked plaintively.
Lali wondered whether Jonathan had misjudged the situation. He had been pointing out Rajesh all evening. Had that initial worry prompted him to make the wrong call? It would be so embarrassing, especially in this group. Indian parties invariably had lots of doctors. She also knew they would like nothing better than to best an American doctor.
“Call 911, dammit,” Jonathan said as began to give him artificial respiration.
“Is he okay?” Priya’s voice was barely audible.
“What’s wrong with my uncle?” Nikhil asked, squatting beside Jonathan.
Jonathan didn’t respond, and suddenly everyone realized, at the same time, that Rajesh wasn’t drunk.
“I’m a doctor,” an Indian man said.
“I’m also a doctor,” said another.
“Step aside,” an Indian with a goatee ordered Jonathan, “I’m a cardiologist. Let me handle this.”
“Don’t push him away,” Jay shouted. “He’s a cardiologist from Harvard.”
The Indian cardiologist knelt down, and Jonathan stood up. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and slowly walked back to Lali.
“He’s okay, right?” Lali asked him, sure of the answer. This was a party. They were supposed to be having a good time. People got drunk at parties. Nothing worse happened.
Jonathan didn’t answer.
“Is Rajesh okay?” Jay asked, with Lily and Sam beside him.
“He’s not,” Jonathan said. “You should get the kids away,” he recommended.
“You mean he’s—” Frances could not say the word.
She looked at Jay. They had both thought that Rajesh was a village idiot. They had wanted to get as far away from him as possible. It was people like Rajesh whom they routinely laughed at. Priya’s insurance-selling scam of a cousin would become the next story they told everyone.
Jay felt the business card in his pocket. He had slipped it in there just to shut up Rajesh. He had meant to throw it away but had been sidetracked with other things.
Mandy’s face was small, frightened. “Mom, what did Uncle Jonathan mean?”
“Come here,” Frances said, pulling Mandy against her. “The doctors are taking care of him,” she murmured. She looked down at Lily and Sam. For once she was pleased by their distraction. They weren’t paying attention to the events around them. Sam had found a red stone and was telling his sister that it was a ruby.
Priya was crying, tears falling at her feet.
Nikhil was asking all the guests to please go inside. The ambulance was on its way, he explained, and they would need to get to Rajesh easily.
Jonathan joined Nikhil in herding people away from Rajesh. “Let’s move, everyone, let’s keep going,” he kept saying.
“We’ll lead the way,” Jay said, ushering the children ahead of him. He didn’t want the younger ones to see Rajesh. They hadn’t realized what had happened. Only Mandy knew, but he figured she was old enough to handle this. His own cousin had been fifteen years old when he lit his father’s funeral pyre.
Lali noticed that the doctors who had shoved Jonathan aside were whispering to each other. Their bodies hid the one lying on the ground. Rajesh had not been moved. The siren sounded, the noise confirming that something bad had happened.
Lali had heard the blaring, undulating sound of a siren many times, was used to pulling over to the side of the street to allow the ambulance to keep going.
This time, they were the destination.
“LET’S GO INSIDE,” Jonathan started toward the house.
“Don’t you want to be there when the ambulance arrives? Tell them what happened?” Lali asked.
“The others will do that,” he said.
She quickened her footsteps, reached him, and took hold of his hand.
“I couldn’t save him,” Jonathan shook his head. “I couldn’t save him. I knew he was sick, I saw the signs, and I couldn’t save him.”
“You were the only one who tried,” Lali comforted him. “I should have called 911 when you first said it,” she said, guilt shaming her. Like the others, she, too, had thought that Rajesh was drunk.
“I’m a doctor,” Jonathan said. “I should have been able to save him. But it was too late by the time I realized what had happened.”
“Honey, you tried your best.” It was what she always told him when he lost a patient.
“I wonder if things would have turned out differently had I checked him out earlier.”
“He wouldn’t have let you. Vic told us he was working too hard, remember?”
“I saw his color, the sweat on his face. I should have insisted.”
“He wouldn’t have let you, honey. Just accept that.”
“I suppose you’re right. Boy, Indians sure close in on their own. Those doctors shoved me aside pretty damn quick.”
“I saw that. I hated that they did that to you.”
“It was already too late. That’s why I let them take over.”
She pressed his palm tighter and wished she could give him a hug. Until now, she had always been the outsider in their marriage. She had the brown skin, the accent, the different religion. He had always included her, always made her feel that she was the right partner for him.
This was the first time that he had been treated as the odd one. When they visited India, her parents and relatives had done their best to make him feel like family, but this evening the other doctors had refused to let him be part of their fraternity. She felt his hurt, both from their shunting him aside as well as his inability to save Rajesh.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“Same here.” Jonathan unclasped his hand and put his
arm around her shoulder. Their steps grew unified, their bodies so close she could feel the hard edges of his belt.
A walkie-talkie crackled behind them as two men carried a stretcher. The body was covered with a sheet.
Priya watched the men take Rajesh away. Her cousin, her only relative in America, was gone. And it was all Vic’s fault.
“You did this,” she told Vic.
“How did I do that? I never asked him to come early to help us.”
“You didn’t give him a nice job. That’s why he took that stupid insurance job.”
Vic started to speak, then closed his mouth.
Priya stood in front of him, her face right under his nose. “He would still be alive if you had let him work at your company. But he was forced to take that job and then his wife left to go back, and so he ate badly. This is all your fault.”
The shock of Rajesh’s death at his feet was still reverberating through Vic’s body. Pitaji had died by the time he returned. No one had ever given up their life right in front of his eyes.
Now Priya was telling him that he was responsible. Her words were dripping with sadness—and truth.
Vic hung his head. He remembered his American reaction to Rajesh. “I can’t give you this office just because you’re my relative,” he’d said. “You have to earn it.” He had known the fellow would never be good enough to have a nice, big office. He had been so relieved when Rajesh had left the company. Then Rajesh had found a job on his own. He had been so proud. He hadn’t cared about the long hours. He only complained about the difficulty of finding vegetarian fast food. The man had worked and eaten himself to death.
“And now you are going to do the same thing to Nikhil,” Priya said, wiping her nose with the edge of her saree pallao. “You will force Nikhil to work in your company and he will hate it so much it will kill him. But we won’t burn his body. We can just bury it in that swimming pool you made for him. Do you ever see him swimming? Do you?” she shouted. “He hated it, but he did it to make you happy. He went to MIT and studied hard to make you happy. But you are not happy. You just want him to work in your stupid company. Here,” she said, removing the small box from her blouse, “give it to him.”
