Mission Mumbai

by Mahtab Narsimhan

  The truth was, I didn’t want to go home any time soon. I’d do anything to postpone the misery of what awaited me. But staying meant my best bud was going to have a miserable summer with the threat of being left behind hanging over him like the proverbial sword-neck scenario. How was I going to keep them both happy and get what I wanted, too?

  “I love your flat, most of your family, and everything I’ve seen so far. You can choose to believe me or not,” I said finally, deciding to stick with the truth. “I’m not ready to go back yet.”

  “Why?” said Rohit. He sat up and looked me in the eye. “Something’s up and you’re not telling me.”

  He’d opened the door. I only had to walk through it. But I hesitated. I still wasn’t ready to talk about it. “If I go back early, Mom’s going to send me to a camp where they make you wake up at an unholy hour to take a swim. Or Dad will make me go to the office with him or join a soccer camp. Do you hate me so much that you’d condemn me to that torture?”

  “Yes!” he said, half smiling, half annoyed. “Better you than me. Seriously, Dylan, what’re you hiding? You know I know something’s up so you might as well spill it.”

  “Me hide something from you?” I said in mock horror. “Never! I think you’re pushing me just so you can win your bet. Not a chance, Ro. I’m staying the entire three weeks.”

  Rohit crossed his arms over his chest and continued to stare at me. His gaze was as impossible to escape as the all-seeing eye of Sauron. I knew I’d have to give him something, if not the whole truth.

  “There’s this photography competition I want to enter,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “It’s run by National Geographic Kids. Had a bet with Dad that I could win something.”

  Rohit was still giving me the evil eye. I continued.

  “The first prize is a fantastic family vacation; I’m trying to win it to show him I’m a good photographer.” And save my parents’ marriage. But I didn’t say that out loud.

  “And you can’t take a winning photograph in the States? Who do you think I am—Neville Longbottom?”

  I was annoyed and proud at the same time. I hadn’t picked an idiot for a friend but did he have to see through my story so easily? I’d have to try harder.

  “Look around you, Ro. This place has more exotic stuff in one square mile than half of New York. Why settle for the ordinary when I have access to all this?” I waved my arms energetically to encompass the flat, Mumbai, and India.

  “Tell me more about this bet with your dad,” said Rohit.

  “He thinks I’m wasting my time with photography and it’s not a hobby that helps a person get into shape. I’m going to prove him wrong on both counts. Now, are you going to help me or quiz me to death?”

  “And if you don’t win?” said Rohit, staring at me from the top of his glasses, which were now at the tip of his nose. Ro was as relentless as Voldemort and his constant attempts to kill Harry.

  “I’ll have to join a soccer league and try out for the team in the fall.”

  “Dude, you hate team sports,” said Rohit, twitching in sympathy. “That’s torture.”

  “I rest my case,” I said. “Now do you get why we have to stay, why I have to try and win, and get in shape so that Dad notices and gets off my case?”

  Rohit lay back down on the tile floor and adjusted the cloth over his face. “Hmmm,” he said. “Hmmmmmm.”

  “You gonna say something or just hum away uselessly?”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll help you if you’ll help me.”

  “Deal,” I said, glad he’d bought it. It was the partial truth so I didn’t feel too bad withholding the really important part.

  “You know what else you could do,” said Rohit.

  “Listening.”

  “You could put the really good ones up for sale on iStock—the photography website. Make a bit of extra cash on the side. Your dad will be impressed with your entrepreneurial flair and you’ll be able to afford more equipment on your own.”

  “Bro, did I ever tell you, you’re brilliant!”

  “Wouldn’t mind hearing it again,” said Rohit.

  “Forget it.”

  Delicious smells wafted out of the kitchen as we lay side by side on the floor. Over the clink of pots and pans, I heard Mrs. Lal hum a tune. The excited shrieks of kids playing in the street and sounds of traffic leaked into the flat. Being surrounded by activity and life kept the loneliness at bay but thoughts about home crept in anyway.

  One dinner a couple of months before summer break. I was in my beautiful, quiet-as-a-morgue kitchen. Eating alone. Mom was at one of her many social commitments and Dad was still at work. Maria, our maid slash housekeeper, had made pork chops with mashed potatoes, grilled veggies, and mushroom gravy. There was a chocolate soufflé in the oven for dessert. She asked me if I wanted anything else and I was desperate to tell her I needed company. But she was so eager to Skype with her family back in the Philippines that she was already talking about it. As soon as I shook my head she took off, her footsteps echoing through the empty house, all the way to the servants’ quarters. I ate dinner in silence, with Death for company. (I was reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.) After I finished eating I put my plate in the dishwasher, turned off the lights, and went to my room, Death clutched in my hand.

  If I cut my vacation short, that was what I was going back to. I closed my eyes, fighting back the urge to cry. I couldn’t go back. Not yet.

  “Dylan?”

  “Yes, Mrs. L?”

  “Would you like to eat Bombay ducks tonight? I bought them from the fisherwoman this morning. They’re fresh and very tasty.”

  “Duck sounds swag, Mrs. L. Yes, please!”

  “Good. You boys watch TV, or play a game. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Rohit, take this lemonade for you and Dylan.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said, sitting up.

  Rohit flicked up a thumb, making no attempt to move.

  “Anything else I can help with, Mrs. L?” I asked as I entered the kitchen. It was the size of our guest bathroom back home and every surface was covered with pots, cutting boards, and an array of spice jars. There was no sign of the duck and I assumed it was in the oven. “I’m quite good in the kitchen.”

  Mrs. Lal laughed. “No, thank you, Dylan. But surely you must have a cook at home given that Rosemary is so busy with her work.”

  So busy that she has no time for me. “We do, Mrs. L, but I make a mean shrimp fried rice.”

  Rohit’s mother stared at me. “Mean?”

  “A very good one,” I explained.

  “You boys and your funny words,” she said, smiling. “One of these days I’m going to speak using my own slang. Then you’ll realize just how confusing it is. But seriously, you know how to cook?”

  I nodded. “I love to eat, so I like to experiment with different cuisines.”

  “Admirable,” said Mrs. Lal. “I think all boys should learn how to cook. A handy skill at any time, but especially in university. I’m sure your mother must be very impressed with you.”

  Impressed? Another miserable evening at home, now indelibly etched in my mind, came back to me.

  I’d just told Dad I wanted to take professional photography classes with Ari Valokuva and be like him someday.

  At first Dad had laughed but when I didn’t join in, he stopped. “Son, team sports, like soccer, teach life skills. Photography teaches you nothing. It’s a girl’s hobby.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said and watched his jaw clench, the all-too-familiar vein in his temple throb.

  “Do you know how I got where I am today?” he said as calmly as he could manage.

  “You’ve mentioned it,” I said. “A few hundred times already.” I knew talking back could set him off in a minute, but his comment about photography being for girls hurt.

  “There’s no need to be rude,” Dad snapped. “Rosemary, you should teach your son some manners.”

  “He’s your son, too,”
Mom said. “Why don’t you stick around some more and lead by example.”

  For a moment they glared at each other, ready to rip out each other’s throats. Mom recovered first and took a deep breath.

  “Dylan, are you serious about this?”

  “Yes. I’ve told you before, I hate team sports but especially soccer.”

  “How can you know, when you’ve never tried?” Dad asked.

  “I did, Dad. A while ago. It’s just not my thing.” There was no way I was opening that can of worms. The way the class laughed at my clumsy attempts to kick the ball into the net. The more they heckled, the wider I kicked.

  “I’ll get you the best soccer coach money can buy,” he said. “You’ll see, once you become good, it’s addictive. You’ll want to play soccer every spare minute you get. You’ll also be in great shape. Double ROI, I say.”

  “That’s how I feel about photography. That’s why all I’ve asked for, for my birthday, has been camera equipment.”

  “I don’t see you winning anything.”

  “That’s all life’s about for you,” said Mom. “Winning, no matter what the cost. And you want our son to be like that?”

  “What’s wrong with winning?” he asked. “I don’t see you complaining about the luxurious lifestyle you’re enjoying with my money.”

  They were circling again, snarling and ready to pounce. It was exhausting to watch them. And depressing.

  “I’d complain if you were around long enough to listen to me,” Mom almost yelled.

  Dad was red-faced by now, clenching and unclenching his fists. He strode off, muttering to himself about how he wanted only the best for his family but they were too selfish and blind to see it. Thankless! Ungrateful!

  Mom sipped her wine, staring into space.

  “Mom, is everything okay between you and Dad? You’re both fighting a lot.”

  Mom chugged the wine in one go, put down the glass, and looked at me. “No matter what happens between me and your father, remember that we love you.”

  I’d watched enough movies to know exactly what this meant. Divorce.

  “Do you agree with Dad, about the photography?” I asked, watching her.

  “You know I’ll support you no matter what, Dylan. But your dad needs a win.”

  “I’ll win,” I said. “I’ll show him.”

  “My Rohit couldn’t boil an egg,” said Mrs. Lal, stirring the pot of lentils on the stove, unaware that I wasn’t paying attention. She added a handful of chopped cilantro to it. The earthy fragrance of the herb mingled with the lentils, filling the kitchen with an aroma that made my taste buds tingle. “Dylan, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  “Yep!” I said, recovering quickly. “And I’m sure Rohit could boil an egg if he had to but with a mom like you … he doesn’t need to. Lucky guy!”

  Mrs. Lal stopped what she was doing and looked at me. Not distractedly, the way Mom did while typing away on her iPad, or Dad, who nodded while still glancing at the Wall Street Journal. Mrs. Lal looked at me with complete focus. It made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. She touched my shoulder gently. “You’re lucky, too, Dylan, and I’m sure your parents feel the same way even if they don’t say it out loud.”

  I gave her a spontaneous hug. She smiled and returned it. Neither of my parents had said that they were proud of me in a long time, if ever. Mom, in her usual anti-PDA style, rarely hugged. Even though I knew she loved me, a peck on the cheek was the most I could expect from her. If I was a new kind of building material, Dad would have showered me with love and affection. But I was his nonathletic son who took up girly hobbies instead of manly ones like soccer.

  “Thanks, Mrs. L.”

  “Here, take the lemonade. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  I walked out of the kitchen, sipping the tangy, sweet drink and feeling better.

  While Rohit aimlessly flicked through TV channels, I decided to catch up on my email. The Lals had bought a temporary plan for Internet and cell coverage for our short stay, though I seemed to be getting the most use out of it. There was an email from Mom telling me she missed me and asking how I’d survived the first week in Mumbai. Nothing from Dad. I typed a short response saying I was fine, that I missed her, too, and clicked send.

  There was one from National Geographic. I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts and clicked on it. “Sweet!” This was just the opportunity I wanted—needed—to prove to my parents I wasn’t wasting my time.

  Rohit sat up immediately. “What?”

  “National Geographic Kids just announced this year’s photo contest theme and it’s open for submissions. First prize is that cool family vacation I mentioned.”

  “What’s the theme?”

  I smiled. “Friendship.”

  Rohit smiled back. “Think you really have a shot at winning?”

  “I’m in a crazy-exciting city with my best friend. How could I not?”

  We bumped fists as my mind catalogued all the photographs I’d taken so far. I knew I’d have to take more now that I had direction, but the sweetest picture of them all would be the look on my parents’ faces when I told them I’d won the contest. I knew I could, if I tried.

  “I’ll help you win!” said Rohit.

  “And I’ll help get Boa off your back,” I said. “Any ideas so far?”

  Rohit’s smile sagged. “Uh-uh. You go first.”

  “Okay, here’s a thought,” I said, taking a long swig of my lemonade. “Your aunt’s main argument is that American schools have ruined your attitude and behavior and she’s wasting her money. She thinks keeping you here to finish school will solve that problem. What if you’re so well behaved that the basis of her argument is shattered? Then if she insists, she’s just going to sound petty and your dad will see it, too.”

  “Nice try, but no,” said Rohit. “Here’s my plan. Ma’s got a really short fuse. She can’t tolerate bad behavior for very long and hates being embarrassed in front of relatives and friends. If I make her really mad at me she might pack up and take the first flight back to New York. She’ll give me hell for it but at least we’ll be back home.”

  “Trust me!” I said. “My way, your mom gets to attend the wedding, and she realizes your respectful roots still stretch all the way from New York to Mumbai. And I get to stay here and find my winning picture. Everyone’s cool!”

  Rohit stared at me for a few minutes while I prayed he’d agree. If we did it his way, we’d all have a horrible time and I’d have to go home sooner. I couldn’t face that.

  “Okay,” he said, finally. “We do it your way. But it better work.”

  “It will,” I said with more confidence that I actually felt. “I promise.”

  “Dinner’s ready,” Rohit’s mother called out. “Can you boys help me carry all the food to the dining table?”

  I shut my laptop and hurried to the kitchen. Bombay ducks, here I come. Within minutes we were all sitting down. I scanned the table for a humongous duck or even a couple of scrawny ones. There were brown lentils, fluffy white rice with melted butter, and cauliflower with peas. On a white plate lay a dozen small eel-like fish, as long as my palm, with a golden coating. Interesting little side dish. But no duck.

  “Er, Mrs. Lal, where’s the duck?” I asked.

  “Right there,” she said, pointing to the eel-like thingies.

  “Ma, he’s thinking of a regular duck,” said Rohit, grinning. “Right?”

  “I—um—this is a duck?” I said, trying to hide my confusion. “No offense but it looks more like a snake on a diet.”

  Rohit patted me on the back. “Nothing in life is what it seems, my friend.”

  I stared at the duck, feeling a bit cheated.

  “Never judge a duck by its size,” said Mrs. Lal, smiling. “Try it. You’ll love it.”

  I almost rolled my eyes but caught myself at the last minute. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I took a couple of close-ups first (Mom would love to know what a duck
in India looked like), then slid one onto my plate and dug my fork into the crisp brown skin. It fell off easily to reveal tender white flesh and a translucent spine. I scooped up a bit with my fork and sniffed it. It smelled all right. I popped it into my mouth and my taste buds did the tango. This weird skinny “duck” had a delicate, sweet flavor with a hint of spice and lemon. It was soft and crunchy all at once.

  “Like it?” asked Rohit, helping himself to one.

  “Love it! Where have you been hiding these little beauties, Mrs. L?” I wolfed them down. One, two, four, six. I couldn’t stop. They were that good.

  “Slow down, Dylan,” said Mrs. Lal, frowning. “It’s a new food and you don’t know how your stomach is going to react to it. Have some lentils and rice, too.”

  “My stomach,” I said, taking another bite, “will be just fine.” And I devoured three more in quick succession. Huge mistake.

  That night my stomach had a lot to say about having an alien food shoved into it. So it shoved the food right back … out. I spent most of the night in the bathroom fighting an explosive duck situation. Ron belching slugs in The Chamber of Secrets looked like a picnic compared to what happened to me. Let’s just say I’ll be having nightmares about Bombay ducks for a long time.

  Note to Self: Always listen to Mrs. L!

  PLANS FOR NISHA’S WEDDING WERE IN FULL SWING over the next few days. Rohit didn’t seem overly excited about his cousin getting married but his family more than compensated for his lack of enthusiasm. There were get-togethers every single day as family poured in from all over India, the UK, Europe, and Australia to celebrate. It was exhausting yet fascinating to watch his relatives try to impress one another with detailed accounts of the wealth and success they’d achieved abroad. Many spoke with the accents of their adopted homes; some sounded real, some as fake as a thirty-dollar bill. The clothes they wore were eye-popping and headache-inducing, colorful with a good amount of gold and silver embroidery. I couldn’t stop clicking pictures and faithfully downloaded them onto my laptop every night, showing a few of the best ones to Mrs. Lal and Rohit. One of them had to be a gem that would win me the competition and my dad’s respect. The rest were going on iStock for some extra cash thanks to Rohit’s brilliant suggestion.