Thrity Umrigar - First Darling of the Morning (mobi)

by Unknown

  I feel my body go rigid with embarrassment.

  The visa officer glares at him for a full second. Then he pushes against his desk, rises from his chair and disappears.

  The middle-aged transgressor looks around uncertainly, trying to catch someone’s eye. We all wait in a state of suspense. Finally, the officer returns, holding a mug of steaming coffee.

  His face is blank. There is no explanation or apology for his absence. ‘Next,’ he calls.

  The man’s application is rejected. That’s six in a row. ‘Please, sir, let me just explain,’ he pleads. ‘All my papers are here, sir, everything that you need.’

  ‘You can try again in a few weeks.’

  While they argue, I make up my mind. I’m not leaving here without a visa. But I’m doing it on my own terms. I’m going to teach this bastard a thing or two about manners.

  ‘Next.’

  I step up to the plate. ‘Hi,’ I say smartly. ‘How are you today?

  Sounds like you’re having a rough morning.’ My face is friendly but my eyes are boring into him like bullets.

  He looks up from his papers with a start. I notice with satisfaction the surprised confusion on his face. He instinctively picks up on the disconnect between my friendly demeanour and the fact that I hate him but he can’t put his finger on it.

  Also, he is probably not used to Indian women talking to him as a peer.

  ‘Um, I’m fine, thank you,’ he says finally. ‘How’re you?’

  ‘Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?’ I throw in a chuckle for good effect. I am talking in my best, upper-middle-class British accent.

  Again, that look of surprise. Then he smiles, a pencil-thin smile. ‘Right.’

  He looks over the various forms I hand him, grunting to himself at times. He is quiet as he flips through the papers, his silence a hole that I try to fill in. ‘Boy, it’s busy here today,’ I say conversationally. ‘Is it always this bad?’

  I have broken his concentration. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It’s a zoo in here.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty bad outside, too,’ I say. ‘Standing in that hot sun for hours. You fellows should really consider letting these folks wait indoors, where it’s a little cooler.’ My tone is casual, easy, as if I’m a disinterested but genial well-wisher giving him some friendly advice.

  He raises his eyebrows a bit. ‘Yeah, well. The logistics of that…Anyway, I’m just a lowly officer. Not really my call.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ I shrug. ‘Just a thought.’

  He turns back to my papers. ‘So your dad’s a businessman, huh? What kind of business?’

  I tell him. He asks a few more questions. I answer them in a casual, off-hand manner that he’s unsure of whether to be offended or charmed by.

  ‘So how’d you pick Ohio State?’ he asks.

  I gaze at him assessingly, wondering whether to tell him the truth or feed him some bullshit line about OSU’s great journalism programme. I decide to level with him. So I tell him about the evening in my living room when I was trying to decide which three American universities to apply to. I had ticked off my first two choices—Columbia University because I knew of its journalism programme and another college in California because—well, because it was California. I had no idea what my third choice ought to be. I scanned the list of journalism programmes in front of me. A Joan Baez record was playing on the stereo. One track ended, another began. Now, Joan was singing, ‘Banks of the Ohio.’ Just then, my eyes fell on Ohio State University. I looked up to the heavens. It was a sign. I checked off Ohio State as my third choice.

  The visa officer lets out an appreciative chuckle. But he is not done with me yet. Finally, he cuts to the chase. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘You’re young, obviously bright and well-educated. You speak fluent English. You want to be a journalist. What guarantee do I have that if you get a visa you’ll ever return to India?’

  This is my moment and I’m up to the challenge. I act slightly nonplussed. ‘Are you telling me that people are still settling permanently in America in this day and age?’ I say, incredulity dripping from my voice. ‘I mean, my God, in my profession there are so many opportunities in India now. There are new magazines getting started almost daily here.’

  His face flushes. ‘Young lady, you’d be surprised how many people still want to settle in the US,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Not me,’ I say merrily. ‘My whole family’s here.’

  He stares at me, his blue eyes searching my face like a beam of light. ‘Okay,’ he says finally. ‘You’re in. Congratulations.’

  I feel a thrill so intense, I feel my heart will burst out of my skin like buttons popping off a shirt. But I force my face to reflect none of this. ‘That’s great. Thanks,’ I say casually.

  He looks almost crestfallen, as if he had expected a greater demonstration of thanks. But then he recovers.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Enjoy the US of A.’ I imagine a twinge of—what? homesickness? pride? sadness?—in his voice.

  ‘I will. Bye, now.’ I gather my papers and walk past the long line of applicants, all of them dwelling in their own burrows of dreams and hopes. A few of them reach out and touch me as I walk past, mumbling their congratulations. I do not make eye contact with any of them, fearful of the desperate hope, envy or despair I may see in their faces. I feel my walk get jauntier with each step I take away from the visa official. I clench my papers tightly in my hand. I am going to America, to get a degree in journalism at Ohio State University. Thank you, God, I whisper, thank you, thank you.

  I walk out of the dark, cavernous room and step into blinding mid-morning light. The sun falls on me in a warm embrace.

  Today, it shines only for me. I feel golden.

  Dad and Roshan are waiting for me in his car. As they see me approach, dad leaves the car and hurries over to me, with Roshan right at his heels. ‘Yes?’ he says.

  I look serious for a half-second but then my smile burns as bright as the sun. ‘I got it,’ I say. ‘I got the visa.’

  The world stops spinning for a moment. The two of them simply look at me, the three of us frozen in space on a busy Bombay street, as cars whiz past us. None of us say a word.

  They look at me as if they’re seeing me for the first time. As if they’re seeing me for the last time.

  Dad’s face has a look I’ve never seen before. Half of his face is pride, a heaving, chest-bursting pride. The other half reflects the deepest, starkest sorrow I have ever seen. His eyes fill with tears. ‘So it’s happening,’ he whispers almost to himself. ‘You’re really going to America.’

  He smiles and his smile is like the rest of his face—selfless joy battles mightily with a cold loneliness that is already settling in him like snow. His smile is kind, sad, compassionate and stoic.

  It dawns on me for the first time that despite his heroic efforts to get me to this point, dad was secretly expecting—hoping?—that this day would never really dawn. From the moment I had told him about my hopes to study in America, he has been my greatest ally—comforting and convincing Mehroo that this was in my best interest; swallowing his wounded pride and letting me apply to the Parsi Panchayat for scholarships; paying for the foreign exchange I need to apply to various American universities; helping me clear every last bureaucratic hurdle. Still, he had not seen this final moment of triumph coming. Or, he had not realized how dreadful this moment that he had wanted so badly for my sake, would actually feel—that it would land like a blow to the stomach, taking his breath away.

  In that split second I see the future as he sees it—no young spirit to lighten the gloom that so often descends at home; no daughter to crack a joke and get him out of a bad mood; no buddy with whom to spend an evening walking the sands of Chowpatty Beach; nobody with whom he can impulsively go to Hotel President at midnight to share a pizza.

  The future rolls out before my dad’s eyes like a long, dark carpet. He is standing on that carpet all alone.

  Then, he snaps out of it. ‘Cong
ratulations, sweetheart,’ he says, folding me into a tight embrace. ‘The second person in our family to go to the West. May God go with you on this journey.’

  I glance at Roshan. Her nose is red, a sure sign of unshed tears. Her face looks small, as if the cold shot of grief has shrunk it. But she, too, takes her cue from my father. ‘Best of luck, Thrity,’ she says, as if we’re already at the airport and I am leaving today.

  Dad lets out a deep sigh. ‘Let’s stop at a public phone and call Mehroo,’ he says. ‘They must all be going crazy with worry.

  Then we’ll stop at the Taj and take a small chocolate cake home.

  It’s not everyday that one of my daughters,’—glancing at Roshan and me—‘goes to America.’

  My moment in the sun, my cheap triumph over the immigration officer, already seems long past. There is a sharp pebble of grief lodged like a blood clot near my heart. I ride in the front seat of the old Ambassador, flanked by Roshan and dad and suddenly, I want to give it all up—those hot, feverish nights of burning ambition, those daydreams of starting afresh and anew, the desire to transform myself, to shed old skin.

  Instead, I want to stay right where I am, protected by the presence of those who I love more than life itself, sandwiched between these two, beloved bodies, warm from the frequent affectionate glances they throw my away. Yes, I want to stay in this car and watch my father’s beautiful hands as he grips the steering wheel—the rich blue veins, the dark hair against yellow skin, the clean fingernails; I want to sit here forever, holding Roshan’s delicate white hands in my callused ones, while the crowds in front of our car part as we approach and the grey-brown Arabian sea sprays its foam on our faces and the Bombay sun bites our skin, leaving rivers of sweat in its wake.

  The news gets around the neighbourhood. I tell Jesse myself and watch while the familiar theatre of emotions plays out on her face—her eyes get teary, she bites her lower lip, she swallows hard and finally she grins. ‘Well, hooray,’ she says, thumping me hard on the back. ‘This is what you wanted.’

  Neighbours stop by to offer their congratulations. The older ones bring me gifts, write down names of their relatives living in the US whom I should call if I needanything , and give me unsolicited advice. (‘Now, America is a sick society. I once saw a movie where even grandmothers were carrying big-long rifles. My cousin says that people in New York will shoot you over ten-paise, only. You’re not going to New York? Okay, but Ohio is probably no better. Just be careful, hah?’ and ‘Stay away from those Negroes. All those darkies are liars and cheaters,’ and ‘Women in America smoke and drink and look and talk just like the men. But you are a nice Parsi girl from a good family. Never forget that. Just say one Ashem Vahu and you will find the strength to face all temptations.’) The younger ones whisper to me how envious they are about my good fortune, confide in me their own dreams of studying in America and ask me for advice. They have the same sad look of longing that Ronnie gets in his eyes when he’s begging us to share our tandoori chicken with him. I feel embarrassed and depressed around them.

  Everyone at home is treating me carefully, as if I am precious cargo, as if I am as delicate as the bone china teaset that my father had brought home from Japan in 1970. Mummy is nice to me the way she usually is only when I’m sick. A few times, her eyes brim with tears. ‘Who will look after me with you gone?’ she cries and I feel my heart thaw before her obvious grief.

  But if everyone else is tiptoeing around me, Mehroo is more fierce than I’ve ever seen her. Each chance she gets, she pulls me towards her and hugs me. Everyday she extracts a new promise from me—that I will write to her at least once a week, that I will return home as soon as I receive my degree and that if, God forbid, there should be a war or something while I am away, I will return home immediately. I agree to all her requests because I am in an expansive, generous mood these days and I feel softer and more solicitous towards everybody.

  Also, I am honestly not sure what my intentions are, whether I myself believe what I’m telling everyone—that I’m going to America to earn a degree that will improve my prospects of getting a good journalism job in India. I think this is what I want but sometimes I ask myself whether an absence of two years will be long enough to accomplish all my other goals, the ones I do not speak out loud to anyone else. Occasionally a thought flits through my mind that says, ‘Look at all this clearly, take it all in because you will never return home again,’

  and then I feel a sadness that is so sharp, that I immediately turn my mind to other, more pleasant things.

  Two weeks before I am to set off for America, Jesse puts a copy of Salman Rushdie’sMidnight’s Children into my hands. There is so much to do, so many people to visit and say goodbye to, so much last-minute shopping to do, that I’m not sure I’ll have time to read the book before I leave. But I open it to the first page later that evening and read the first intoxicatingly manic opening paragraph and that is my mistake. The children of midnight sing their crazy, seductive hymns, they tug at me with their thousand and one sets of hands, they pull me into their subterranean world. I fall upon the book like a hungry wild beast, unable to tear my eyes away from it.

  And while I’m reading, the city that I’m about to leave comes to life before my eyes. But this isn’t the filthy, paan-and-piss-covered, inefficient, corrupt city that I have always been taught to be ashamed of. Rushdie’s Bombay is grand, operatic, melo-dramatic, multi-coloured and tethering between magic and madness. It is a mythic city, no less mythic than the places in the Mahabharata but somehow it convinces me that it is through this mythic lens that one sees the real Bombay. How else to explain a city where an old woman earns a living selling four sorry-looking heads of cauliflower a day, than through the lens of surrealism? How else to describe a place where a man makes his living squatting on the sidewalk and removing wax from the ears of his customers? Could even Chagal have painted a street scene where a brown cow leans against a milk booth selling pasteurized milk from the Aaray Milk Colony?

  Can even Dylan’s madcap lyrics capture the bewildering dance of skyscraper and slum, of BMWs and bullock carts, of discos and VD clinics?

  Midnight’s Childrenintroduces me to a Bombay that I grew up in but never lived in. By the simple act of naming the names of familiar streets—Warden Road, Marine Drive—Rushdie rescues me from a lifetime of reading about streets in cities I have never visited and presents to me, like a bouquet of fresh flowers, the city of my birth. And the inexpressible joy of reading a novel full of characters with Indian names liberates me from the dilemma I have unconsciously struggled with ever since that cataclysmic day in fourth grade. And what lovely names they are. Mary Pereria. Saleem Sinai. Homi Catarak. In one glorious moment all my questions about what constitutes an Indian name, and how to create characters without blond hair, are answered.

  But the greatest part is the way Rushdie’s people talk. Why, they could be any one of us on the school playground or at the market. For the first time in my life, I see myself and the people I love reflected in a book. There is nothing stiff and formal about this English. Rather, this language is as supple and flexible as the cobras the local snakecharmers keep coiled in their wicker baskets. And that wonderful thing that we all do—starting a sentence in English, continuing it in Gujarati and sprinkling a few Hindi words into it—well, I never saw Ernest Hemingway pullthat off.

  Midnight’s Childrenmakes me want to never leave Bombay.

  I lament the irony that fate has waited until it is time for me to leave my hometown, for me to see it with loving eyes for the first time. Like meeting your soulmate after you’ve been told you’re only going to live for another three days. I see now that the valour that lies beneath everyday survival in this tough city is no less than the valour that took Robert Jordon to Spain.

  I realize that caught up as I was in the story of the Oakies’ migration to the American West, I never noticed the daily migration from the surrounding villages into the city of Bombay and the millions of sto
ries of individual hope and desperation that accompany each migrant. Caught up as I was in Gatsby’s dream of America, I never stopped to ask myself if there was any such thing as an Indian Dream and if so, what it was made up of? Even my notions of India itself were framed by writers such as Foster and Kipling, I realized, and their racist, colonial attitudes infected my blood with the disease of self-hatred.

  How ironic that I had read Ralph Ellison and Richard Wright without understanding that their journey from out of the shadow of cultural colonialism and into an informed identity, was also my own.

  I reluctantly returned Jesse’s copy ofMidnight’s Children , feeling as though I was giving away a part of my body. But I should have known better. The day before I leave for America, Jesse presents me with my own copy. Inside, she has written:

  ‘Soar as high as you feel you can and want to.’

  And so I soar. I am flying away from a city that I have recently come to love from the pages of a book. It strikes me that the country that I am about to fly to, I also love only because of what I have read in the pages of a book. Perhaps the reality will be completely different.

  But at this moment, I do not care.Midnight’s Children has heralded in a new dawn. It has given me sight, a new way of seeing an old world. A door had been pushed ajar, never to be shut again. Even as I am packing to leave for the New World, the Old World had reclaimed its place in my heart.

  The days pass quickly. There is so much to do—visiting people to say goodbye, shopping for suitcases, buying new clothes, converting money for foreign exchange. A kindly family friend stops by to drop off a heavy, furry, brown winter coat that I immediately know I will never wear. She asks me to try it on for size and I do and she looks so happy when it fits me that I refrain from pointing out that I look like an oversized bear. Visitors have taken to giving me strange things that they think I may somehow put to use—key-chains, hair-bands, antique postcards, frayed woollen scarves. Some of the gifts are practical, others sentimental: Mummy gives me an old, worn British pound that she has saved for God knows how many years, Freny gives me Babu’s harmonica, Mehroo hands me a faded picture of my grandfather, dressed in his customary outfit of beige pants, dark brown jacket and a bowler hat.