In the meantime, he decides to stop trying to convince people of the truth of his identity. It’s a losing battle, anyway. Now that he’s seen the real object of their affections on the big screen, he tries a series of smolders, scowls, and smiles for people’s cameras. After each pose, Bontu and Kat rate his imitations: “mildly Amit,” “moderately Amit,” or “extremely Amit.”
Gracie doesn’t comment. In fact, she doesn’t seem one bit impressed. Maybe she thinks I’m being dishonest, Ravi thinks. “Once I get my phone back I’ll search for hashtag-amit-biswas and add hashtag-not-amit-biswas to every photo that shows up,” he tells her, but all she does is shake her head.
KAT
INT. BENGALI EMANCIPATION SOCIETY HEADQUARTERS—DAY
To perfect the mount escape, Gracie has to trap her opponent’s arm and foot, bridge her hips, roll, and get to her knees.
“Keep your elbow tucked into your side,” Kat instructs. “Your heels have to stay close to your butt. Okay, don’t let go of my arm. Now thrust your hips up, Fogo. Great! All that’s left is to roll over on top of me, jump up, and run away. You’re so close. One more time.”
After more than a month of practice, Gracie’s finally making progress. Her body’s starting to control her mind and the moves are turning into instincts. The triangle choke—which requires being on her back and trapping her attacker’s neck in a triangle shaped by her legs—is hardest for her, so they’ve put that on hold until now.
“I think I’ve almost got this one, Kat. But that triangle choke—it makes me feel more … violent than the other two moves.”
“Just picture the faces of those girls fawning over ‘Amit Biswas,’” Kat tells her. “Let’s try it again.”
Gracie’s next mount escape is perfect. She’s on her feet and Kat’s on her back in no time. “Ah, love,” Kat says, smiling. “It’s so motivational. But when are you going to tell Ravi what we’re up to?”
“He’s keeping his secret; I’m keeping mine,” Gracie says. “Which means it’s time for my quick bathroom change. Makes me feel like Superman heading back to his phone booth.”
She reaches for the small towel and deodorant she brings along to hide any traces of the hard hour they’ve put in. Ravi usually shows up right at ten when Mrs. Gupta arrives, and by then, Gracie’s changed back into her shalwar kameez and sitting demurely in her chair.
“We’ll have to tell him soon,” Kat calls after her. “Once we schedule the demo, we’ll need Bontu’s help.”
While she’s waiting, Kat brainstorms their next training session on a piece of paper, breaking down the triangle choke into easy steps. Planning these lessons has been so helpful to take Kat’s mind off her worries about her own future back in Oakland, where she’ll have to see the Wolf again, get back on the mat with male sparring partners, apply to colleges, find another job. All that’s on hold now. Teaching Gracie is her focus.
It’s thanks to her student, really. She’s so grateful that Gracie’s been sticking with it, day in and day out, even though it’s been so challenging. When Bontu commented on Gracie’s changed stature, Kat felt so proud. She knows how confident BJJ can make someone appear on the outside. It’s been helping her for years.
The door opens, and Gracie comes back in, smiling at Kat, walking with that new bounce in her step. Forget “Paloma,” Kat thinks with a smile. Plan C still has a chance, thanks to Firebird.
RAVI
INT. KOLKATA POLICE TRAINING CENTER—DAY
About halfway through their time in Kolkata, Shen’s training sessions are starting to pay off. The humidity has intensified and the gym feels like a sauna, but Ravi doesn’t let that stop him. His stomach is gradually tightening into a defined group of muscles, though not quite a six-pack. Calves, arms, shoulders, thighs—slowly but surely, they’re rippling into shape.
Is Gracie noticing? He sure hopes so. But she’s not the reason he’s working so hard. He needs every muscle he’s developing and more in case he sees Sarker again.
Shen’s still keeping his word to Arjun and training “the American,” but he, too, is intensifying the workouts, almost as if he’s seeing if Ravi will quit. Once or twice Ravi thinks he glimpses a fleeting expression of admiration on the older man’s face. But after a blink, the stony expression is back.
They never discuss their argument at the police station.
Bontu’s still coming to their workout sessions, but not exerting any more effort than he did the first day. Instead, he tells jokes to try and lighten the tense atmosphere inside the gym. Even though he’s clearly given up on his own training, his uncle never says anything to him.
Every afternoon, it’s another round of Shen asking more and more of Ravi, Bontu cheering from the sidelines, and Ravi not giving up.
* * *
The days start flying by now, like they always do after a halfway point. Sundays bring PG, church, lunch—where he and Gracie can at least talk, even though the twins are never far away—and an afternoon nap once she’s gone. Monday through Thursday, he has Bangla lessons and a few more hours with Gracie—along with Kat, and Mrs. Gupta, and Gopal, and other staff members of the Bengali Emancipation Society who pop in and out. After Kat and Gracie leave, he does data entry, pushes through another brutal training session with Shen, eats dinner with the Boses, and plays with the twins.
Fridays bring his solo outings to the chai shop opposite the Royal Diadem Society Guesthouse. He sits alone, sipping Mr. Lakshmi’s tea, pretending to study his Bangla textbook and keeping an eye on the hotel across the street. But there’s still no sign of Sarker. No sign of anyone, really. The hotel seems vacant. Even so, Ravi shows up, Friday after Friday.
On Saturdays, Bontu is turning out to be even better than his brag when it comes to taking them on outings. The four of them visit a host of other tourist spots: Belur Mat, Howrah Bridge, the Indian Museum, Shaheed Minar. They enjoy tea and scones at a fancy hotel after a trip to the zoo, where Kat wants to stay for so long Bontu drags Ravi away to get a snack.
He takes them to coffee shops where young Bengalis step up to the mic to share their original poems. He introduces them to cricket—“every Bengali must know about arm balls, backlifts, and bowling averages”—and they cheer as they watch intensely competitive games on the Maidan.
And every Saturday night, they finish with a “fillum,” with Gracie sitting next to Ravi in the darkened theater. Cool it, he tells his skin when her forearm brushes against his and sets it aflame. With every passing day, his desire to hold her close—even kiss her—is growing more intense. If only they could have some privacy so he can gather his courage, tell her how he’s feeling, and ask if she feels the same way. But they’re never alone. All he can do is enjoy the sight of her graceful movements, settle for occasional accidental touches of her skin against his, and when they’re in Bontu’s car, put his arm around the back of the seat and take deep, weird whiffs of her hair.
KAT
INT. ASHA HOUSE COMMON ROOM—DAY
One midsummer afternoon during teatime, Amrita and Kavita come out of the kitchen carrying a cake. They put it on the table in front of Gracie.
Surprised, Kat manages to join in the chorus. “Happy birthday, dear Gracie, happy birthday to you.”
“Feels like yesterday when I turned seventeen, Gracie,” Miss Shireen says. “Your pastor called to remind us of your birthday.”
“Now we each are feeding you a piece of cake and telling you something we admire about you,” Amrita says. “Ready, Gracie Didi?”
Gracie nods and opens her mouth.
The Asha House girls bubble over with compliments as they take turns feeding Gracie. You are kind, Gracie Didi. Good. Beautiful. Loving. Happy.
When it’s Kat’s turn, she puts a piece of cake in Gracie’s now-chocolaty mouth. “You are … fierce, Ms. Rivera,” she says. “And powerful. Like fogo. Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”
Gracie chews, swallows, and loses the smile. “I wanted to see if Ravi re
membered,” she says in a low voice. “But he didn’t say a word during Bangla class this morning.”
“You’ve got to stop testing him like this, Gracie. He obviously adores you, but he’s got a lot on his mind.”
Charubala interrupts them. “Are you wanting to learn some more Bollywood dance moves?” she asks.
“Sure,” Kat says.
“Definitely,” says Gracie.
A wail comes from the baby room. Kavita stands up wearily. “That is sounding like Shiuli. She is eating nonstop.”
“A growing girl,” Kat says. “I’ll be in soon to change her.”
Charubala switches on the television to the music video channel. Amrita and a couple of other girls demonstrate how to move hands, hips, eyes, and heads in time with the music. Gracie and Kat try to imitate them. Gracie’s learning fast, Kat notices. Meanwhile, she feels like an oaf. BJJ and bhangra dancing don’t seem to have much in common.
One of the housemothers comes in carrying a huge bouquet of red roses and a big manila envelope. She hands her load to Gracie. “For you,” she says. “Gate guard gave them just now.”
Gracie inhales the scent. “Mmmmm … they’re amazing. But who sent them?” She silently reads the card, her cheeks turning almost as red as the flowers.
“Open it, Gracie Didi!” The girls are clamoring, clustering around Gracie, curious about the envelope.
“I know who they’re from,” Kat says as Gracie pulls out three Avengers comic books. “Gracie’s Biswas!”
The girls burst into loud cheers and start dancing again.
“He remembered,” Gracie tells Kat. “All he said in the card was ‘Feliz cumpleaños, Graciela’ but look, he signed it … Love, Ravi.”
“Of course he did.” Kat’s thumbing through the comics. All of them include scenes with Firebird. “Check this out. You’re his Bonita Juarez.”
“Maybe. Well, he’s my superhero for sure. And he’s looking so fit these days, have you noticed?”
“Not really. But now that I think about it, maybe he is. You should tell him.”
“I would if he said something about these,” Gracie answers, flexing her bicep. Kat gives it a squeeze, feeling pride in her work. “And where is he going on Fridays?”
“I have no idea,” Kat says. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“No way. You can’t make someone tell you their secrets.”
“You’ll have to tell him yours soon. You’re getting so much better at your moves, it’s almost time to schedule our demo.”
“I am getting kind of Fogo-ish, aren’t I?”
“Your Kimura sizzles now. And your mount escape is perfect. All that’s left is a—”
Gracie groans. “I know. That triangle choke. Can’t seem to get that one down, can I?”
“You will. Happy birthday, Fogo. Okay, the girls are waiting, so back you go to the dance floor. Meanwhile, it’s baby time again for Katina Auntie.”
RAVI
INT. BENGALI EMANCIPATION SOCIETY HEADQUARTERS—DAY
“Thanks for the flowers, Ravi,” Gracie says shyly, the morning after her birthday. “And the comics.”
“Glad you liked them. Dad always sends Mom red roses on her birthday, so I thought—Anyway, Firebird is awesome. It’s good you helped me rediscover her.”
Their Bangla lesson’s over, and Gopal is leading them into the lunchroom. Ravi watches Gracie’s confident stride as he follows her. Bontu was right, he thinks. She really does look like Bonita Juarez. Only much more beautiful.
He’s still wondering if Gracie’s noticed the changes in his body, but she doesn’t say anything. Ravi likes how he looks to his own eyes, and especially how he feels—stronger, healthier, more energetic. He doesn’t flinch when he catches glimpses of his naked self in the mirror. The twins laugh hysterically at him, though, when they burst into the bathroom without knocking. Ravi throws on his clothes and chases them through the flat, trying to tickle them both at the same time.
He’s relishing living with a Bengali family so much that it makes him feel guilty when he thinks of his own parents. In the Bose house, he can learn what it means to be Bengali just by being around the family, watching them interact and picking up on the different nonverbals. A head waggle for no; a head tip for yes. He’s learning the meaning of sounds like “eeeesh”—which means “oh, no”—and phrases like “bap-re-bap”—“oh, wow.”
He’s even taking in the way Mira and Arjun flirt with each other, using eye contact and small gestures so their boys don’t notice. It’s different from the over-the-top affectionate way his parents relate to each other.
In the afternoons, he and Arjun often get back at the same time. As they take off their shoes at the door, the twins race up to throw their arms around their father and Ravi.
“Ravi Dada, can you beat the next level now?” one of them asks.
Mira shakes her head. “Homework first, boys. Then your game guru can show you the way.”
As Ravi looks around the dinner table, he sometimes wonders what it might have been like to have been adopted, or even fostered, here in Kolkata.
He certainly wouldn’t have had to work so hard to reclaim his Bengali-ness.
But he misses his parents, too. They attach funny, goofy selfies to every email they send, and each one makes him smile. How can he not be glad that the three of them ended up in the same family? Besides, even if Ravi wanted to rewrite his story, there’s no going back.
KAT
INT. KOLKATA CHRISTIAN CHURCH—DAY
Instead of listening to the songs or sermon, Kat is sitting in church worrying. Not about herself and her future. That can wait.
She’s thinking about Kavita instead. Hope she won’t cave in to the Hyena’s request to testify. And what’s going to happen to Shiuli? And Baby Diana? Logan? And these beautiful girls at Asha House, sitting quietly around her in their yellow canary outfits?
She’s worrying about Ravi, too. There he is, a few pews behind them, letting the twins lean into him as usual, but something inside him seems … angry. He doesn’t aim it at her, or at Bontu, or anyone else, and laughs and jokes and is as kind as ever, but Kat’s always been able to recognize anger. She hasn’t said anything about it yet, but she sees it. Guess that’s what happens when your hopes get dashed, she thinks, glancing back again at her friend’s face. They turn into anger.
Who is he angry at? Not his parents. He adores them. And not his birth mother, she hopes. If he is, then the “sermon” she preached that day in the rickshaw didn’t make any difference at all. But why not? She repeated what Grandma Vee had told her, almost word for word. Had she left something out?
As the choir sings the closing hymn, something about “take it to the Lord in prayer,” Kat goes over the conversation she and Grandma Vee had so many weeks before. Suddenly, she remembers the tears that traveled down those ancient cheeks. Thou wilt find a solace there, the choir sings.
Oh. Now Kat sees it.
Grandma Vee shared her story with Kat.
All of it. The suffering and sorrow, too.
To really get it, to want to take on the Golden Rule as her own, Kat had to hear Grandma Vee’s story first.
She’s going to have to tell Ravi hers.
RAVI
As usual, Ravi looks around for Gracie at church, and as usual, she’s nowhere in sight. She’s been attending Mass at Saint Teresa’s memorial chapel on Friday afternoons, so every Sunday he thinks she might turn up here. But she never does.
“The woman they hire for baby care doesn’t know Logan and Diana and Shiuli like we do,” she explained, when Ravi asked about it. “And besides, I like to keep the girls who aren’t Christians company on Sunday mornings.”
“And I take her shift when she leaves to meet you for lunch,” Kat added.
Any excuse to avoid Arjun, Ravi thinks, dropping cash into the collection basket and passing it down the row.
At first, Gracie invited Ravi to join her at Mother House on Fridays, but he told
her he was busy. He didn’t say why; she didn’t ask him again. At least he has Sunday lunch to look forward to. She never misses that.
He spots Kat sitting in her usual place next to the Asha House girls. She goes to Mass on Fridays with Gracie and comes here on Sunday mornings. Two worship services, every week. For someone who didn’t grow up religious, Ravi thinks, she’s sure taking church seriously.
After the closing hymn, it’s starting to rain, so the congregation disperses quickly. Ravi’s shocked when Kat climbs into his rickshaw for the ride back to the Boses’. She hasn’t joined them at the Bose flat since that first Sunday.
“Glad you’re coming to lunch,” he says.
“I’m just along for the ride. I’ll head to Asha House after you get out.” Kat isn’t looking at him. Her body is tense. She’s almost Nefertiti again, but not quite.
Ravi tells the driver the address of the flat and they start moving. It’s pouring now, and with the canopy up, a rickshaw feels like an intimate place. Probably too tight of a space for Kat to be sitting next to a guy, Ravi thinks. They’ve only ridden like this that one time before. Just as he did that time, he keeps his body carefully plastered against his side of the rickshaw.
“How’s Kavita?” he asks, to break the silence.
“Kavita’s tired,” says Kat. “But the baby’s fine. Beautiful, actually. Perfect. Her name is Shiuli.”
Ravi listens to the rain pounding the canopy and the wheels splashing through puddles. Poor rickshaw driver’s sopping, but he’s humming a song as he pedals.
“You okay, Kat?”
Kat turns to him and takes a deep breath. “Yes, and no. Kavita’s why I came here. To ‘love my neighbor as myself.’ When I arrived in Boston, Ravi, I was messed up. Angry. Really angry. But then Grandma Vee told me her story, and how she survived it … by ‘Golden-Ruling.’ I tried to tell you some of that before, but … well, can I tell you why I left Oakland?”
Forward Me Back to You Page 23
