by Varsha Bajaj
The picture of that man stares at me. He’s leaning against the same car he was driving that day. He isn’t smiling or anything—his lips are zipped shut, like they should have been that day instead of spewing garbage.
On TV dramas, this kind of stuff looks exciting; maybe it’s the soundtrack. But in real life, it’s super scary.
It takes me the blink of an eye to identify the man.
When it’s Karina’s turn, she agrees.
“You all identified the same man,” the detective tells us.
“Yes,” Mr. Chopra says. “We could never forget that face.”
Karina holds his hand.
“You’ll find him, right?” I say. “And put him in jail?”
“We’ll do our best, Chris,” the detective says. He puts the pictures back in the envelope. Like putting the ogre in a manila cage.
“We tracked the license plates of his car. The lady who had her husband call nine-one-one, Anne Maxwell, got a picture of his plate as he was driving away,” the sergeant says.
“I remember her doing that,” Karina says. “Thankfully!”
“Do you know anything about him?” Mr. C asks.
“Other than that he’s a monster,” I say.
The sergeant looks at me. “Yes. He’s had minor offenses in the past, and lately has shown up on our radar. He’s been involved with some nationalist groups that are anti-immigrant and anti-minority. We keep an eye on them.”
“I have lived in this country for fifty years,” Mr. C says, “and I have never been treated like this.”
“We’re so sorry this happened,” Detective Willis says.
“Thank you for all you are doing!” Mr. C says. He shakes hands with the police officers again.
After they are gone, he looks exhausted.
The world’s making me feel sad and helpless. I worry about Mr. C and hope his pride wasn’t crushed too badly that horrible day, in front of us. I want to make sure he is treated right, with the respect he deserves.
* * *
At home, Mom and I find Dad reading the Spring Hill News.
When we tell him that the police found the guy who attacked Mr. C, he holds out the newspaper to us. There’s a small article on the attack.
Mr. Shiv Chopra, a new resident of Spring Hill, was attacked by an unidentified assailant who fled the scene, on Thursday near Spring Hill Middle School. Mr. Chopra, who was accompanied by his granddaughter and her friend, was pushed to the ground and kicked. The attack is being investigated as a suspected hate crime. Mr. Chopra was admitted to Methodist Hospital in Houston. If anyone has any information, please contact the police.
I can confirm it was a hate crime—they don’t need to investigate that.
“This article tells some basic facts, but it still misses so much,” I say to Mom and Dad. “Like what about all the hateful things he said to Mr. C and Karina and me? And what about all the pain he’s putting such a good man through?”
Mom and Dad exchange a look. “Chris,” Mom says, “we couldn’t agree more.”
“He called Mr. Chopra a Muslim,” I say, “but Karina’s family isn’t even Muslim.”
“And this is America, where you’re supposed to be free to practice any religion or be an atheist,” says Mom. “It shouldn’t matter.”
“That man knew nothing about Mr. C—or the Chopras,” says Dad. “But I have to admit, I didn’t either, till Mr. Chopra started to tutor you.”
“True,” I say. “I’m so glad we did get to know him. Otherwise, we would have never found out what a cool guy he is.”
As we talk, my mind spins. A few days ago I’d have never imagined discussing hate crimes with my parents. But here we are, in our kitchen, talking about heavy stuff instead of what we’ll grill for dinner. I wish the circumstances that brought us to this were different, but I’m glad we’re having the conversation.
Like Mr. C says, you have to be able to imagine a better world to make it a reality.
CHAPTER 15
KARINA
A FEW HOURS after Chris leaves, Papa goes to sleep and my parents and I drive home. It feels good to be home after the long day in the hospital. Mom and Dad are watching what sounds like a Hindi movie down in the living room. Then there is a pause in the Bollywood tune.
When I hear them talking, I head to my spot at the top of the stairs where I can listen in.
“Jay,” Mom is saying, “I have received thirty-two phone calls since this morning.”
“It’s the weekend,” Dad says. “Everyone is wanting to know what happened, and they finally have the time to call.”
I lean against the wall.
I hear Mom mention that a lot of the family has seen the pictures I posted and that they are worried and want to know what’s happening. She hasn’t had time to check social media, never mind answer her constantly ringing phone, with all that is going on.
“Don’t worry about the family,” Dad says. “I will get in touch with them. They will be happy to hear the surgery went well and that Papa is recovering.”
“Okay. But do it soon, please,” Mom says. “Rumors are spreading. Your cousin Sarla from Chicago heard from another relative that Papa was dying.”
“Wow!” Dad says. “That’s a leap.”
“Well, you know how rumors spread,” Mom says. “It took me a while to calm her down.”
Hearing this reminds me of a game we used to play when I was little called Telephone. It was funny the way the words changed as they were relayed from one person to another. The more distorted the message got from the original, the more we would laugh. This is probably what is happening now, based on my postings. Except now, it’s not funny.
Apparently, my first post—of the smashed glasses—left relatives unsure of how badly Papa was hurt. Some thought he was mugged. And people wondered, since I was with him, if I was okay.
My second post, from the hospital, was of the swinging doors with the PERSONNEL ONLY sign, and the hashtag #Surgery. That got lots more relatives calling to find out the details.
Dad says to Mom, “Why didn’t you tell Karina not to share this? We would have told people once Papa was better.”
“You think I monitor every picture that Karina posts?” Mom snaps. “That child takes a million pictures of everything. You were in the hospital too when she was photographing things. Why didn’t you stop her?”
I cannot believe it. Now they are fighting about me.
“That last one was right as my father was being taken into surgery,” Dad says. “I wasn’t worrying about Karina posting pictures at that moment.”
“Neither was I,” says Mom. “Jay, what if it gets beyond friends and family? What if this becomes truly public? Could this attract more haters?”
“I can’t think about that right now, Trisha,” Dad says.
Finally, they are both quiet.
I get up and go join my parents. I can’t have them blaming each other for my actions.
Mom strokes my hair when I sit by her. “Karina, I didn’t know you had been sharing pictures. We have gotten a lot of calls.”
“I should have told you when I showed you the picture of Papa’s glasses that I had posted it. I’m sorry I didn’t,” I say. “But I have gotten a lot of support from people who have seen the pictures. It reminds me that most people don’t hate. That has helped me get through the last few days.”
My parents seem to understand.
“Okay,” Mom tells me. “Don’t worry—we will deal with the relatives.”
“But let’s not mention this to Papa right now,” Dad says. “When I was growing up, he always told us to keep our head down and work, and not share our business.”
“My dad used to say that too,” Mom says. “Our parents accepted the little slights as the price that they had to pay for being new in the country. But maybe things
are different now. Karina’s generation wants and demands more.”
Yes, things are different, I want to say.
Also, I am not new. I was born here.
It is my country.
CHAPTER 16
CHRIS
ON SUNDAY AFTER church, I sit at my desk and stare at my math homework till the words and numbers start to swim and my eyes cross. I get frustrated and throw my eraser across the room—which is pretty dumb because I need it a few minutes later to erase what I’ve done and start again.
But I make no progress, so I head outside to shoot some hoops.
I dribble the ball from the end of the driveway toward the basket on the garage door. I have my arm raised, ready to shoot, when I am interrupted by “Chris!”
It’s Karina.
I stop what I’m doing to talk to her. “How’s your grandfather?” I ask.
“Much better than when you saw him yesterday,” Karina says. “The doctors want to make him stand tomorrow. They say it is super important to do that.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Will he have a cast and crutches?”
“No cast. He might need crutches or a walker, or even a wheelchair for a bit. I don’t know,” she says. “I want to be there for him, but my parents say I have to go back to school tomorrow.”
I can see she’s anxious. Her forehead is all scrunched up.
“It’ll be okay,” I say.
“Will it?” Karina asks. “School is going to be weird with everyone knowing what happened. So many kids have commented and shared my pictures—kids I’ve barely ever even talked to.”
“I don’t think it’s weird,” I tell her. “People are upset. And a lot of them want to support you.”
I don’t share the rude stuff Quinn said to me in the gym on Friday. She doesn’t need to know.
We both kind of stand there.
“Karina, it’ll be okay,” I say again, but of course I don’t really know. What I really want to say is, Karina, you shouldn’t care who knows, because you’re in the right. Plus, We’re in this together. But I don’t say any of this aloud, since I worry it’ll sound as cheesy as a plate of nachos.
Karina asks, “Did you do your math worksheet?”
“I started it,” I say. “But how do you even know about that worksheet? You weren’t in school Friday.”
“Ashley came by and brought me my homework.”
“So you know how to do those problems?” I ask.
“Yeah, I do. Papa and I are ahead of the class.”
“Ah!” I say. “Of course you are.”
Then it occurs to me—that “ah” has triggered an aha moment—if Mr. Chopra has already taught Karina the stuff we’re now learning in class, then she could teach me. It would be like passing the knowledge from Mr. C to me, only through Karina.
But first, I need to find the words to ask her.
“Good luck,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod, and she walks away.
She’s at the end of the driveway when I scream, “Karina!”
“Yes?” she says, looking startled by my desperate-sounding yell.
You’re pathetic, Daniels, I tell myself. Mr. C is in the hospital fighting to walk with a metal rod in his leg, and you just need to find the courage to ask Karina Chopra for help.
“Karina, do you think you could teach me math?” I make myself say. “Like be my tutor, till your grandfather recovers? Those darn worksheets are killing me!”
She smiles. “You look pretty healthy to me. But sure. I have some time now before we go back to the hospital. Is now good?”
“Yes!” I tell her. “My place?”
“Sure,” she says. “But, Chris, let’s make a deal. If I help you with math, could you teach me how to shoot a basket?”
“You got it!” I say. “You can call me Coach Chris, but we’ll have to tackle math first.”
“Cool. I’ll be back with my notes.”
Karina has never been inside my house. I race around, clear the dining room table of junk mail, and set out my books and papers. Then I make popcorn, because what if she’s hungry and wants a snack?
She eyes the bowl when she comes over. “How did you know I love popcorn?” she says. “My fave, though, is caramel popcorn. Papa loves cheddar popcorn.”
“Filing that kernel away,” I say.
“So you can pop it out when you need it?” she asks without missing a beat.
Yaas! Karina likes puns as much as me. It’s weird how she lives next door and there’s still so much we don’t know about each other.
We get down to work, and Karina is just like her grandfather; she wastes no time.
“The equation,” she says, “is a question in numbers.”
“It is?” I scratch my head.
“If you wanted to read a book that had a hundred pages in five days, how many pages would you read per day?” she asks, all teacher-like.
“Twenty,” I say.
“You solved it,” she says, writing it out in equation format.
Then she goes on to break it down, explaining order of operations and what an x variable is.
Before I know it, it’s been more than an hour. The worksheet is done, and we are eating popcorn.
“Chris,” she says. “That man . . . You know, the man who attacked us . . .”
“Yeah,” I say. “I call him ‘the monster.’”
“I do too,” she tells me. “The monster in the plaid shirt. It makes me scared that he is still out there on the streets.”
“Me too,” I say. “It’s horrible that he could just do what he did and get away.”
“Chris, do you think there are others who think and hate like that?”
“You know there are.”
“I feel so helpless and scared,” Karina confesses. “And then I feel really, really angry. I want to punch something other than my pillow.”
“My pillow’s been getting a workout too,” I tell her. Karina is the only person I know, other than Papa, who knows how this feels.
My parents, her parents, our friends, the police officers—they all care for us, but only we know the pit-in-the-stomach fear.
After I visited Mr. C in the hospital yesterday and we identified the hater, I went for a bike ride because I couldn’t stand Mom fussing over me. But even on the bike trail, I couldn’t lose the image of that man. I was constantly looking over my shoulder.
Karina reaches for the last of the popcorn. “Papa says the haters will not win.”
“He’s right!” I say. Under my breath, I sing, “Let it go . . . let it go . . .”
Karina grins. “Really, Chris? Frozen?”
“I’m allowed.”
Karina joins in—and even though we both know we can’t just let it go, it feels good to sing together.
CHAPTER 17
KARINA
PAPA’S HOSPITAL ROOM feels like a party on Sunday evening. So many of our friends from the Indian community have gathered to visit and help. They make plans to take shifts at the hospital during the week so Mom and Dad can still manage their store.
When I refer to my dad’s friends as Dev Uncle and Sri Uncle and Ravi Uncle, the nurses are confused. “How many siblings does your dad have?” one of them asks.
I explain to them that even though I call people “uncle” or “aunty,” they are not Dad’s actual siblings. “We Indians call our family friends ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’ as if they are blood relatives,” I say.
Papa is amused by all this. And I know he is really feeling better when he complains about the hospital food. He even teases a nurse, asking her to bring him a paratha stuffed with gobi, with dahi on the side.
“What?” asks the nurse.
“It’s a flatbread,” I say. “Stuffed with spiced cauliflower, with a yogurt dip
ping sauce on the side. That’s what he wants.”
“Sounds yummy,” she says, giving him his pill. “Save some for me when you do get it.”
Mrs. Kumar, one of our family friends, promises that she will bring some for everyone, and we cheer.
We are all feeling giddy because we are so relieved that Papa seems like his old self. He looks like his old self too, having shaved in honor of his visitors.
But while smiles dominate in his room, in the hallways and waiting areas, it’s different.
* * *
I hear snippets of conversation:
“How could something like this happen?”
“The man called him a terrorist for no reason—just because of how he looked!”
“No one should be treated like that! What’s going on in this country?”
“Is it safe anywhere anymore?”
“Thank God the children weren’t hurt.”
“There is no escaping our new reality.”
Finally, the visitors leave. Dad and I remain while Papa rests, exhausted from all the company.
The room is silent except for a hum and occasional beeps. I no longer jump every time a machine hiccups. I turn the pages of my book quietly.
When the police officers we met yesterday show up, Papa opens his eyes and sits up.
“Mr. Chopra,” Sergeant Muniz says. “Good to see you looking better.”
“We have an update on the perpetrator,” Detective Willis says. “Thanks to Anne Maxwell, who helped y’all on the day of the attack.”
I don’t think the word perpetrator sounds evil enough. I prefer our word: monster.
Detective Willis fills us in. “Police spotted the car about two hundred miles from here, between Austin and Dallas. The driver tried to make a run for it and led the police on a chase.”
“What happened?” I blurt out. “Did they catch him?”
