The Weight of Heaven

by Thrity Umrigar

  “I am already first in my class, Frank.” Ramesh’s voice was plaintive.

  “I know, kiddo. But it’s very, very difficult to get into good schools.” He pointed to where a group of obviously affluent, westernized college students were leaning against a Honda. “You see those people? That’s who you will be competing against even to go to college in Bombay.”

  Ramesh stared at the group of boys in their blue jeans and thin cotton shirts. His eyes grew big and his chin trembled, and seeing this, Frank cussed himself for his stupidity. “Luckily,” he continued brightly, “you don’t have to worry about this today.” He stopped and cocked his head as he looked at Ramesh. “Want to walk more? Or shall we go for a swim in the pool?”

  Ramesh tore his eyes away from the group of laughing boys. “Let’s go pool-swimming,” he said, and Frank remembered what the boy had told them on the way to Bombay: that he’d never swum in a pool before.

  “Okay,” he said. “And then let’s go wake Ellie up and go out somewhere. We have to celebrate your first trip to Bombay.”

  Ramesh held his hand as they crossed the street.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Fourth of July picnic was held on the grounds of a large stone house in Malabar Hill. Frank and Ellie exchanged looks as Satish pulled up to the wrought-iron gate. Frank whistled. “Man. I could get used to living in these digs.” He turned to Ramesh. “This neighborhood is where the governor has his house. Can you imagine what his house must look like?”

  Ramesh looked small and scared inside the car. He pulled on the collar of the light green shirt Ellie had bought him for the occasion. Like Frank, he was dressed in cream-colored chinos.

  Satish stopped and lowered his window as a young American carrying a clipboard hurried up to them. He was accompanied by an intimidating-looking man in a suit and wraparound sunglasses. The young man leaned into the car. “Hi,” he said. “Welcome. May I get your names?”

  Frank lowered his window and handed him the invitation card. The young man checked off their names on his list. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Benton,” he said smiling brightly. Then the smile left his face as he peered into the car and spotted Ramesh. “And who is this?”

  “He’s with us,” Frank said. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

  The young man frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said scanning his list. “He’s not on here. And your RSVP says two attendees.”

  Frank felt the heat rise to his face. “He’s my son,” he said. “He—we didn’t decide to bring him until the last minute. And the invitation said kids were welcome.” He felt Ellie put a warning hand on his thigh. “Would you like me to take this up with Tom Andrews?” Tom was the U.S. consul general to Bombay, and the host of this party.

  “There will be no need for that, sir,” the young man said smoothly. “Glad to accommodate your—son. Have a wonderful day.”

  Frank realized his teeth were clenched as Satish eased the Camry into the long, curved driveway. Beside him, he heard Ellie swear. “Friggin’ bureaucrats. These were exactly the kind of people we spent our whole lives avoiding. And now we have to spend the whole day with them.”

  Ellie’s words broke the tension, and he laughed out loud. Also, he was grateful for the fact that she was directing her anger at the man with the clipboard and not at him, that she wasn’t hurt by the fact that he had referred to Ramesh as their son. “You better behave yourself, babe.” He grinned

  “Arre baap,” Ramesh breathed as they pulled closer to the house and saw its opulence. He looked up at them. “Does the maharaja of Mumbai live here?”

  But there was no time to answer because someone was flagging them down. They got out of the car, and Satish handed over the car keys. “I will pick you up later, sir,” he said. “Enjoy.”

  They stood in the driveway, torn between wanting to join the crowd that had already gathered on the lawn but knowing that protocol demanded that they first seek Tom out and say their hellos. They walked up the five marble steps that led into an enormous room with a mosaic-tiled floor and a high ceiling. Tom Andrews was standing there, surrounded by a gaggle of the other guests. Frank shook hands with many of the other American businessmen as they slowly approached the consul general. He didn’t expect Tom to remember his name and so was astonished when he heard him say, “Hey, Frank. Good to see you again. How the hell you been? And this must be your lovely wife. Ellie, is it?”

  A politician’s game, memorizing names, but Frank was impressed, nevertheless. “Ellie, this is Thomas Andrews,” he said.

  The consul general grinned. “Call me Tom. And happy Fourth of July.” He gave Ellie a quick peck on the cheek and then looked around. “My wife is somewhere around. You’ll enjoy meeting her.”

  Someone else jostled for his attention, and Tom began shaking another set of hands. But he turned around one more time and said over his shoulder, “Go on outside. That’s where the real party is.” He winked. “Real, honest-to-goodness burgers and hot dogs. Flown in especially from home.”

  Frank had wanted an opportunity to introduce Ramesh to Tom, knowing that they might need the latter’s help if Ramesh was ever to visit the States with him. But this was not the right time. He took Ramesh’s hand and said, “Come on, let’s go outside. You hungry?”

  The boy shook his head.

  Frank bent down. “Are you scared?”

  Ramesh nodded. “A little. I’m not knowing anyone here.”

  “You know us.” Frank and Ellie spoke together. Ellie grabbed Ramesh’s other hand. “Come on, honey,” she said. “Nothing to be scared of.”

  They stood on the marble steps, scanning the scene on the front lawn. To the distant right were five barbecue grills where the chefs were grilling an array of meats, their faces hidden behind the rising clouds of smoke. Next to them was the bar, and even from this distance, they could see the sun reflecting off the bottles of hard liquor lined up in a row. Right in front of them were two white tents set up to accommodate the diners, and off to the left was the children’s area, with an old-fashioned lemonade stand and a smaller tent with rows of tables and a woman who appeared to be doing face paintings. Frank noticed that several of the children were walking around with their faces painted red, white, and blue. He also noticed the few Indian guests, much more formally dressed than the Americans, the women in their saris looking like royalty walking among the peasants. Below the hill the house stood on was the breathtaking view of the Arabian Sea curving from the sandy beaches of Chowpatty to the tall office buildings of Nariman Point.

  “You want to go play with the other children?” he asked Ramesh.

  The grip on his hand got tighter. “No.”

  “What if I were to go with you?”

  The grip slackened. “Okay.”

  The three of them walked over toward the children’s tent, where a dozen blond and sandy heads were bent over coloring books. Outside the tent, a group of kids were playing a vigorous game of water balloons, smacking each other hard and erupting in laughter each time a balloon burst. Ramesh seemed drawn to the game, but Frank tugged him toward the line where children were waiting to get their faces painted. While they waited, a waiter came around with a tray, and both Frank and Ellie picked up a glass of white wine. Ellie ordered a Coke for Ramesh, and the boy gulped it down eagerly when it arrived.

  Finally, it was Ramesh’s turn. The gray-haired woman smiled at him. “Well, hello, love,” she said in a strong British accent. “What would you like a picture of? I can do the flag or the American Eagle.”

  Ramesh looked up at Frank and smiled bashfully. Frank could read his face—the boy hadn’t understood a word that the woman had said. “I think he’d like the flag,” he told her.

  Ramesh stood still as the woman deftly mixed her palette and began to apply blue paint. But as the brush touched his face, he let out a yelp. “Ae, why you painting me blue? Flag is green, na? Saffron, white, and green.”

  There was a short silence, and then there was a loud guffaw to
their right. It was Tom Andrews, his arm around his wife, Elisa, a thin, good-looking woman much younger than him. “Now there’s a spirited boy” He grinned. “So you want the colors of the Indian flag, huh? Well, Mabel, can we accommodate his request? No?” He made a rueful face. “Sorry about that, my man. Think you could endure the red, white, and blue? It is Fourth of July, after all.”

  Frank put his hand on Ramesh’s shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said. “Just give him the usual. He’ll be fine.”

  “But Frank—” Ramesh started, only to be silenced by the look Frank flashed him. “Okay,” he mumbled.

  While Ramesh was having his face painted, Frank turned toward Tom. “Needed to ask your opinion about something, Tom,” he said quietly. “If you’d let me know whenever you have a moment, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No time like the present,” Tom said graciously. “Excuse us, ladies.” He put his arm around Frank and escorted him away from the line. Something about his body language, the way he leaned in to hear what Frank was saying, communicated to the other guests that they were not to be interrupted, a fact that Frank was grateful for.

  “It’s about the incident involving the union leader, isn’t it?” Tom said, and it took Frank a second to realize that Tom had misread the situation.

  “No, not really. I mean, that situation seems to have quieted down, thank goodness. No, this is more of a personal matter.” He stopped and then started again. “This involves Ramesh, the boy you just met. He’s…he’s someone we know from Girbaug. A very bright kid. But his parents are very poor. But this kid is incredible, Tom. A math whiz. I think with the right education, the sky would be the limit for him.” He noticed that Tom was looking at him strangely, fixing those deep blue eyes on him. Slow down, he told himself. Don’t botch this up. And for God’s sake, don’t get emotional.

  “Anyway,” he continued, trying to strike the tone of a mildly interested well-wisher, “I want to take the kid with us the next time we visit the States. Just show him around, see how he fits in, that kind of thing. And I was hoping that getting a visa wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “Is that why you brought him here?” Tom said. “To see how he’d fit in?” There was something in his voice, a tremor that Frank couldn’t place. Surely it wasn’t anger?

  “Well, no,” he stammered. “I mean, we were bringing him to Bombay anyway, and—”

  “His parents know you’re thinking of taking him to the States?” Now there was no mistaking the sharpness in Tom’s voice.

  Frank let the fact that he was offended register on his face. “Well, of course, Tom. I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you if I didn’t—”

  Tom raised his hand in a truce. “Okay. Okay. Sorry. Just checking. You don’t know how many awkward situations we’ve been placed in here.” He lowered his voice. “Two years ago, there was this couple. Came to India to visit some guru at an ashram for like, two weeks. One of those dial-a-guru types that America seems to churn out so regularly.” He rolled his eyes. “In any case, they fall in love with this beggar child who lived on the street across from the ashram. So they just make off with the child one day and come to us asking for a visa. Can you fucking imagine? This kid had parents and siblings, but they felt entitled to him.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “It was a fucking nightmare, getting that kid back to his home.”

  “Well. I can assure you that Ellie and I are not going to kidnap Ramesh,” Frank said dryly.

  Tom patted him on the back. “Okay. We’ll do everything that we can do to help. Just do me a favor. If you’re thinking of going home around Christmas, give me enough lead time. It’s a zoo around here, then.”

  Frank wanted to head back to Ellie and Ramesh, but Tom was apparently not done. “Listen. I gotta tell you. What happened with that union leader was not good. This goddamn war in Iraq is killing us around the world. I’ve been in this business for twenty-four years, and it’s never been this bad in terms of our image. We have to tread very lightly wherever we are. So whatever concessions you gotta make—”

  “We made them, Tom. We gave in to their demands. Everything is normal, now.”

  Still, Tom lingered. Frank noticed with a start that the blue eyes were suddenly red around the edges. He wondered if Tom had been drinking since earlier this afternoon. “I’m a Republican appointee,” Tom said. “He’s my president. But there’s no question—this Iraqi situation is a mess. A wholesale PR disaster.”

  “Well, it’s more than just a PR disaster. It’s a moral disaster, too.” It was Ellie, escorted by Tom’s wife. The two women had come up behind him, penetrated the invisible circle that Tom had drawn.

  Frank felt his stomach muscles clench. Did Ellie never know when to keep her friggin’ mouth shut? He tried to think of something that would lighten the mood and take the sting out of his wife’s words but before he could, Tom bowed. “Touché,” he said.

  But Ellie was not done. “Do folks like you ever get to talk to the president? Tell him what you see in the real world?”

  Tom smiled but didn’t answer the question. The old master diplomat at work, Frank thought. “Where’s Ramesh?” Frank asked Ellie, hoping to change the subject. She nodded toward the cluster of kids engaged in the water balloon fight. “Let’s go get him,” he said, taking his wife firmly by the hand. He smiled at Tom and Elisa. “Thanks for taking the time, Tom,” he said.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Tom said. “Come see us next time you’re in Mumbai.”

  They strolled away, Frank still holding onto Ellie. “You can let go of my hand now,” she said dryly. “I’m not going to give poor Tom any more lectures.”

  “I should hope not. Putting him on the spot like that. Sometimes I really wonder about your judgment, El.”

  She shook her hand free. “Maybe you should worry less about my judgment and more about your president’s judgment. Or your judgment for that matter, for wanting to hobnob with these pricks. And for putting me in situations where I can’t speak my mind.”

  He was careful to keep his voice lowered. “You’re being ridiculous. Tom has been very good to HerbalSolutions, helping us negotiate with the Indian government and a million other things. And he’s got nothing to do with Iraq.” He felt his temper spike. “You really need to stop lecturing people about their morals, Ellie. It’s becoming an irritating habit.”

  She looked hurt for a moment and then made a wry face. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll behave.” But he wasn’t appeased. “Come on, let’s not fight. I—I just feel uncomfortable around so many healthy, beefy-looking white people.”

  “There you go again,” he started, but realized that she was laughing and, against his will, found that he was laughing too. “Damn you, Ellie,” he said but he took her hand again, and this time his grip was light and friendly. “I swear, you’re gonna have to go through a debriefing when we get back to the States.”

  She turned around to look him squarely in the face. “Right now, I can’t even fathom going home. I feel like this is where we belong, here in India. Don’t you?”

  Did he? The truth was, he belonged nowhere. If he belonged at all, it was to people, not countries. He felt the ties of family and history when he called to speak to his mom once a week. The night after the dinner at Nandita’s, he had felt that old connection with Ellie, felt with absolute conviction that his place was in her arms, that he could build a home for himself in those deep dark eyes. And last week on the beach with Ramesh, the two of them playing in the water, he had felt that he belonged under the wide open sky and in those churning waters of the Arabian sea, as long as he had this little boy by his side.

  He leaned over and kissed Ellie on the cheek. “Right now, I belong in front of a hamburger stand,” he said. “C’mon. Let’s go collect Ramesh and then go eat.”

  They found Ramesh engaged in an aggressive water balloon fight. His clothes were soaked and hair was plastered on his forehead, with the paint running down his face. He had taken off his shoes and
was racing around barefoot, screaming like a hellion, dancing like a demon, dodging the balloons and throwing them back with gusto. Some of the American families stood watching the skinny brown boy who was twirling around, with bemusement. “Hey,” Frank called. “Ramesh. Stop for a minute.”

  Ramesh released the balloon he was holding at the backside of a tall, brown-haired boy. “Ow,” the boy yelled as the balloon burst and Ramesh pointed to him and laughed uproariously. But he stopped in mid-laugh as a young girl rushed up to him and threw a balloon at him at close range. “Stop hitting my brother,” she screamed, her face red. The poorly aimed water balloon fell off Ramesh’s chest without breaking, but Ramesh froze, taken aback by the fierce expression on the girl’s face. Seizing the moment, Frank stepped in, pulling Ramesh out of the circle of laughing, screaming children.

  “Look at you,” he mock-admonished the boy. “You’re soaking wet.”

  Ramesh was still looking back at the girl, who had resumed her playing. “She’s angry at me,” he said.

  “Forget about her,” he said. “She’s just a spoiled brat.” He caught Ellie flashing a warning look at him and heeded her silent message not to aggravate the situation further. “Anyway. Are you hungry, you walking-talking puddle of water? How are we ever going to dry you off?”

  “Let’s throw him in the dryer,” Ellie teased. “He’ll be dry in no time.”

  “Nooooooooooo,” Ramesh yelled. “If I’m in the dryer, I’ll be like the clothes, I’ll go like this-like this,” and shaking off Frank’s hand, he did a couple of somersaults on the lawn. Droplets of water fell from him onto the grass.

  Frank turned to Ellie. “You started this,” he said as she lunged for Ramesh and grabbed his hand. “Okay, now,” she said. “Behave yourself.” She turned toward the food area. “Let’s go eat, achcha?” she said. “I’m starving.”

  “I want some tandoori chicken,” Ramesh said. They had introduced him to the grilled chicken dish at the restaurant at the Shalimar, and now this was his favorite meal.