Jackson Heights
AVOID AGONY: Let me investigate the morals of your child’s intended before the sacred blessings of Marriage are arranged in America. Make sure your future son- and daughter-in-law are of pure values. Based in New York. $US 200 per report.
The week after he placed the advertisement in the India Today matrimonial pages, he received fifty-six requests. Not all, of course, had paid the $200 he charged through PayPal. But twenty-one had. He did a criminal background check of the ten men and eleven women. He ran their credit histories and sent the reports:
Dear Sir:
It gives me great pleasure to report that the match for your daughter/son should proceed as planned. My investigation has revealed no character flaws in the intended.
If you need further assistance, please advise. I should note that I also offer astrology guidance in selecting the date/ place for marriages, children, and the like.
Jai Hind,
Raj Kumar
With the astrology business and now the Matrimony Investigating Agency up and running, things were looking good. Raj treated himself to a masala dosa at India Grill. “Add more mirshe,” he always reminded them, or else the dosa lacked the requisite zing. He relished the spiced potatoes and the sweet masala tea. All around, families, business people, and ladies sat and gossiped, some in English, some in Punjabi, and some in Gujarati. Almost everyone was Indian. Why, he sometimes thought, Queens is more Indian than India. He took out some quarters, left two as a tip, and went to the register to pay.
It was a Saturday; he would sit and wait for any walk-in business. He headed into the Sari Palace, past the mannequins in langas and saris, nodded his greeting to the ladies setting up the register, and up the stairs to his office. It was best not to speak to them, he had realized, or else they’d draw him into their gossip. Then he’d have to listen to the not-so-subtle suggestions about some cousin or niece who was ready to marry, who cooked so well and sang beautifully. Would you like to see her photo? Best to avoid the tedious talk.
The walls of his second-floor office were bare but for three posters of the most beautiful woman who had ever lived, the 1950s Indian film star, Meena Kumari. When he procured the lease to the office, he had allowed himself the extravagance of taking some publicity photos he’d had since his teens to the copy center and enlarging them. Her gaze never escaped his.
He flicked on the neon Open sign in his window, under a hand-lettered one that read, Vedic Astrology, and checked his e-mail.
He scanned the few requests for matrimonial character checks. One e-mail caught his eye:
Dear Sir,
I am in urgent need of your investigative skills. Tell me, are you based in New York? I need a full report on a person living there who has entangled my son. I must get a full dossier on the woman in question to save my son from this match. Please advise as to your services and fees.
M.S.
Raj read the e-mail over several times and mulled the “full dossier” request. What should be the quote for such a report? $400? This one doesn’t want a report that reassures him that his child will be fine coming to America and marrying his intended. He wants dirt. The salacious detail of depravity. That she drinks, smokes, and dances.
He responded:
Dear Sir,
Thank you kindly for your request. The services you require can be had for a fee of $340. Please supply details, names, date of birth, and the like for the girl in question. Please use PayPal to arrange these transactions.
Within ten minutes, he received confirmation of a payment and a name: Ritu Rani. Ritu Rani? He smiled and dug through the stack of Little India magazines on his desk, finding the one from four months ago. There she was on the cover: Miss Little India, Queens 2006—Ritu Rani. He remembered every curve of her delicate body. She was back in his life again.
He waited two days before responding:
Dear Sir,
I am saddened to inform you that Ritu Rani is of questionable moral character. She has been known to smoke, and further, participate in beauty contests. She was awarded the title of Miss Little India after performing a dance on the stage. Her sign is one of a woman with much ambition and greed. I would advise avoiding further alliance between your son and her.
Within minutes of sending his report, he received a most pleasant offer.
I am disappointed to hear of the adventures of the lady in question. However, these facts of smoking, beauty pageants, and dancing in public will not dissuade my son, as he has come under her spell. Please consider an extensive investigation with more meaty facts. MONEY IS NO OBJECT.
This time it was signed with the full name: Manny Sharma.
“Lakshmi, praise be to you,” Raj said out loud. Manny Sharma. The Manny Sharma needs his services. How fortunate is his cusp. He must do his horoscope to see what other good karma is coming his way. Manny Sharma needs him. A wayward only-son entangled with a woman. Well, one man’s bad luck is another’s good fortune.
Dear Mr. Sharma,
Thank you very much for your kind e-mail regarding the plight of your son. Of course, as a man who values the auspiciousness of marriage, I can understand your deep concern. This is an unfortunate set of circumstances. God willing, I will be of assistance to you. Kindly send me your son’s vitals, date of birth, time of birth, and of course his current address. I will never let him suspect that I am in any way involved with his affairs. I will simply ascertain, based upon my understanding of human nature, what set of facts will dissuade him from pursuing this unholy alliance.
My hourly rate for this in-depth work will be $95 US. Please advise how much time you wish for me to devote to this investigation.
Raj read his work over with care and wondered whether the $95 was high enough to show his worthiness but not too high to make him seem greedy. He changed it to $85 before sending the e-mail.
Raj was so pleased with himself that he left right away for some paan. It was important to sweeten one’s mouth at good news so that it would linger longer. He walked to the corner of 74th Street and Roosevelt Avenue. Vinod had set up a paan stand inside the sweet store. Raj came here a few times a week, as nothing was as satisfying as the taste of a freshly made paan. As Vinod wrapped the betel leaf and added areca nut and mineral lime, then sprinkled some spices, sweet mixture, and whatnot, they chatted. But Vinod was always looking for some free advice. What’s an auspicious date for buying stock? Good dates for traveling? Today Vinod wanted to know about his sister’s marriage. What good dates are coming? Nothing annoyed Raj more. Astrology was an ancient and sacred art. It required precise calculations. It was not gossip material. But he loved paan, and Vinod was the only game in town, so he held his tongue and gave general information. “Well, till the eclipse on the thirteenth, not good to set the date.” He finally got the paan, plopped it in his mouth, and chewed.
As he walked back to his office, he stopped at the DVD store at the corner of 37th Road to see what latest Hindi movies they had. All the usual trash. He rented two and headed to his office, feeling satisfied that now his moment had come and Manny Sharma himself would be the vessel.
Manny was around fifty, ten years older than Raj. Manny had made a fortune in the Indian steel business. When Raj had taken his correspondence course in astrology a few years before, Manny’s horoscope had been his final project. Raj remembered that even with all of Manny’s money, the chart showed difficulty in the fifth house—some fracture with a child. And since Manny had but one son . . . Well, well, well, Manny and Raj’s fortunes intertwined.
Now Raj did a more extensive moon chart of Manny, which showed him to be a ruthless man who destroyed his competition and cared little for others. So it is only fair, Raj reasoned, that though he have a fortune (he was, after all, born in the Shukra ascension), his lack of humility must bring him pain in some other area of his life. And nothing would concern the great Manny Sharma more than the thought of his prince marrying a loose woman.
Neal Sharma was an
MBA student at the Stern School at NYU. Raj had no trouble locating him the next day. Raj presented himself in the lounge of the Stern building and waited. Soon classes were over and he spotted Manny’s son with a group of other young men. Neal was handsome, slim, and decidedly casual for being the son of one of the wealthiest families in India. Raj watched and studied him. Was he a good kid? He seemed to be enjoying the company of his friends. No pretentiousness. Not the strongest personality in the group. Not the most handsome. But a good enough fellow.
Raj continued his investigation by doing Neal’s chart. His instincts were correct: Neal was a boy of unquestionably good moral character. Would have a happy family life. Three children. And, of course, lots of wealth. How to play this out? Raj wondered. He felt he was still missing something and so he’d sleep on it. He dreamed all night of Miss Little India, Queens.
Raj woke up with a plan that made him feel young. He knew where his destiny lay. He did not doubt the stars. He went to the electronics store and haggled a digital camera. He knew where Ritu lived and went to her apartment building five blocks away. Soon enough, he saw her. She wore a skirt that covered her knees and a simple pink top. No makeup. Flat sandals. Just the sight of her made his heart beat faster. He moved to the other side of the street.
And took her picture.
Dear Mr. Sharma,
I have started the surveillance you requested. The girl in question is difficult to track and will require many days of observation. I attach a photo of her I took just this morning.
RK
For the first time in years, he was hungry for something. His brain—which, as a young man, had been routinely praised for its discipline and quickness—was perhaps going to be used again. Maybe it had just been resting till now. Wearing a hat and dark glasses to obscure his appearance, he went in search of the couple. It wasn’t hard. He waited outside her building, and soon he saw Neal buzzed in. They came out together not ten minutes later, and he took photos of them walking. They went to lunch at Chat Hut. He slid into the table behind her, and she never noticed him. How could she, when all she did was look at Neal and smile? They were chatting about this and that, in the meandering way young couples do when smitten. He had a paper due, she had a job interview; he wanted to go to a movie that night, she said earlier was better. Neal was eating channa with puri and she had a dahl chat plate. She fed him a spoon full of her chat.
“Ritu, I can’t wait to take you to the chat place in Delhi, baby, you will love it,” Neal said as they got up to leave.
Raj waited a few days and sent the photos to Manny. With an email:
Dear Sir,
I am distressed to inform you that your son is in fact seriously entangled with the girl in question. Their contacts are substantial and plans of going to India together were discussed. If you advise, I will speak to this girl, who is known to be greedy, to see what I can work out—for the sake of your son and your family honor.
RK
Manny replied instantly:
Understood. Range of $25,000-$50,000 approved. Send details for money transfer.
Raj e-mailed again two days later—at night so it would be received early in the morning in Delhi:
Dear Sir,
I met with the girl and had to go the maximum range of the offer as she was determined to get more after marriage or possible divorce. So you see how she thinks. If approved, she wants funds quickly and will move away from this city.
RK
Almost immediately, Raj received a response:
My son’s happiness is my duty to ensure. Thus, $50,000 is my obligation to pay. Send details and wire transfer will take place. Thank you for your diligent service.
The money was in Raj’s account within twenty-four hours.
He put on his best suit with the red tie and first went to the Lakshmi Temple when he knew there’d be no long, drawn-out prayer ceremonies under way. He wrote a check for $201 and left it in the donation box. Bowed to Lakshmi, took a bit of parshad to sweeten his mouth, and left. He knew the right thing to do. And God blessing him for doing the right thing would bring good karma.
Time to visit Miss Ritu. He had with him her astrology chart. Ritu lived in a small studio apartment. It was simple and tastefully decorated. She had taken his call and his request for a visit in a relaxed way. “So nice to hear from you again,” she’d said. She’s all class, he thought..
“Mr. Raj, would you like some tea?” she asked when he arrived. He accepted her gracious offer. When they were seated at the dining table, he opened up the astrology chart.
“Dear Ritu, I have some news I must share with you,” he said. “With the moon on the eclipse and the house of Rahu on the cusp, I urge you to marry quickly. If you need help finding a suitable mate, I will help. You should be with a doctor or businessman . . .”
She was listening intently. “No, no, I appreciate your offer of help—but I’m—”
“Oh, so you are involved?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good news. Good. Then arrange hastily, if you must. Arrange quickly to marry. It is so written and must be done before the full moon or you risk . . . Let’s not discuss that. Marry immediately, you must.” He noticed how her delicate fingers twirled the silky strands of her hair as he spoke. He departed then, leaving the chart behind.
Four months before, he had been the judge for Miss Little India, Queens. He had been one of the sponsors of the contest—having given $550 to place his name prominently in the advertisement for the event. For his money he had expected flirting from the contestants, hints of romance, some ego stroking—and these of course had come—but nothing prepared him for the pressures of the final round. It ended up that for the last stretch of the two-day contest, he was the sole judge. So he decided that the five girls in the finals would each dance to a song from the Hindi classic film, Pakeezah. It was enchanting, haunting music that Meena Kumari, the loveliest actress to ever grace the big screen, danced along to with stunning grace. Raj had picked his favorite movie and favorite actress as the challenge. There could be no greater challenge, as the audience, too, knew every gesture and movement that Meena Kumari danced in the film. It was the highlight of Indian cinema—the beauty of the camera movement, the music, the story, Meena Kumari.
During the day of the event he was visited by two contestants, and the fathers of two others. He drew a bit more than just attention from one of the two girls. Her breasts were round and firm and he enjoyed lingering there for a moment. The other, a young woman named Geeta, had kissed him and he’d put his hand on her thin waist when she leaned into him. The fathers left envelopes with cash. One $350, and one $500. Only the fifth contestant failed to visit him or send her father.
And, of course, she won.
It wasn’t just that Ritu didn’t visit: It was the dance. Ritu seemed to possess the characteristics of the Ideal Indian Woman. Her curves were generous, her movements minimal. She didn’t strive too hard, instead the music just swayed her. She smiled at him from the stage, which had excited him even more than the touching or the money. It was the warm smile of innocence untouched by the crass world. He avoided her after that, lest she disappoint him. Or perhaps he would disappoint her. But he thought of her often, alone in his bed.
She deserved abundance—and to be married to the rich only-son of one of India’s wealthiest families. That bastard Manny couldn’t appreciate a classy girl like Ritu. He represented all that was wrong with these situations: the brutish man keeping his son from happiness.
Of course, Raj knew that he, like all the other players, had a predestined role. He was to teach Manny Sharma some humility—and if that humility came with humiliation, so be it. He was to help Ritu in her life. First the contest, then the husband. And he was being rewarded for his good deeds. But it wasn’t just the money; it was knowing that he, not Manny, was in charge of the way this would end. When he was in charge, the good won out. Don’t rest on your laurels, he reminded himself. Destiny was cal
ling.
He turned on his computer and started by changing his e-mail and PayPal accounts. Then he opened a file entitled Wealthiest Indian Bachelors and considered Davinder Shah, son of the pig-headed Minister of Defense, Terjinder Shah. Years of graft had left the family very well off. Davinder, the eldest son, was also enrolled in the Stern School at NYU. Raj had noted his presence among the young men hanging out with Neal Sharma. Raj plugged Davinder’s vital dates into his computer program and printed out his astrology chart. While anyone could run numbers to get a chart, an analysis of the planet positions, the lunar asterism, the ascendants—understanding their relationships with one another was a gift that few possessed. And clearly, Raj knew, he was one of the blessed.
His chart showed Davinder as a weak man, tending to be swayed easily. No great intellect. A bit lazy. Not a great person, petty really. Of course, Raj would find his match. There is, after all, a match for every person. Raj consulted his folder marked Eligible Indian Girls, studying the photo of Geeta. He studied her curves and her look, which was a tad cheap—though he had no regrets about enjoying her wet kiss. He had only chosen her as a runner-up, but he would make it up to her now.
He e-mailed her immediately.
My Dear Geeta,
Good news is coming your way. I have a perfect match for you. Please do visit my office tomorrow at noon. I will discuss specifics and plans with you then.
RK
Then he e-mailed another:
Your Excellency, Minister Shah,
I write to offer my humble services to you. I believe your son may be in some entanglement that does not suit the son of the honorable Minister of Defense. Please advise if you seek my assistance to avoid the agony of such an embarrassment.
New York City Noir Page 102
