Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  ***

  Krishna came to work, went home. She came to work, went home. Sheila was at work—and Krishna liked that. Mister Rastogi was at work—and she liked that as well. But then the customers were there as well—and was that so easy?

  They could not give the visas and passports at once to the customers. There was a computerized database, and they had to check the names against the database. Terrorism was a big issue in India and they had to check for that as well.

  “But I am an Indian,” some of the customers said.

  “But we still have to check.”

  “But it is not convenient for me to make two trips: one to leave the application, one to pick up.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “I tried to call before coming—the line is always engaged.”

  “A lot of people call. We have a very small staff.”

  “You should hire more people.”

  Krishna did not answer.

  “A Third World country, nothing but Third World.”

  Krishna was silent for some seconds. And then: “We try to do the best, sir. We try to do the best.”

  But the other was hardly convinced. He complained, he complained some more.

  Krishna listened to the other, controlled herself. What other choice was there? This was hardly a new scene. The scene was repeated day after day, day after day.

  That night Krishna went home to her efficiency apartment some three miles away. It was not a great area but it was the only place she could afford. There were grilled iron bars on the windows. She lived on the second floor above a small alley filled with litter, broken glass all around. Sometimes she could hear the barking of a dog. Sometimes the loud music of some car or some teenagers going past.

  Krishna went to the tiny kitchen. She was too tired to cook, so she heated the frozen bag of “Asian Vegetables” that she had bought at the Safeway. It was a mixture of vegetables: carrots, broccoli, “sugar snap” peas, water chestnuts. It took ten minutes for the vegetables to cook. Sometimes she boiled them, sometimes she steamed them.

  While she waited for the vegetables to cook, she poured herself a glass of water with two cubes of ice. She opened the refrigerator, took out some salad dressing (she would use it on the vegetables). She took a piece of white bread, put it in the toaster. Chapattis, rice, who had time to cook them nowadays? The bread—with or without butter—would be enough.

  The food was cooked, Krishna sat down at the dining table (round, with three chairs). It was a small table, but for her it was enough. After all, this was America and who ever came to the house? Who ever came to visit?

  ***

  One day there was a small function at the Consulate. These functions were held every few months. Republic Day, Independence Day, Holi, Diwali—there was always some occasion. Krishna bathed, put on her blue silk sari with the gold border (it was one of two silk saris that she owned) and went.

  The function was in the evening: there would be food, there would be drinks. The Ambassador him self would come. He would stay for half an hour, say a few words, shake a few hands. Then he would leave. After that, people would be relaxed and the fun would begin.

  Krishna stood there waiting for the fun to begin. But what was the fun? Sheila was there (a good thing). Mister Rastogi was there (a good thing). But they were also the same people she saw every day. Doesn’t one get tired of seeing the same people? Tonight most of the people had brought their families with them. Husbands, wives, children. Did Krishna have a husband? Did she have children?

  She was thirty-one years old and not married. One day she would marry. When would it be?

  Krishna went to the wall and leaned her back to it. There was a small glass of ginger ale in her hand (two ice cubes inside). People came, greeted her; she returned their greeting. They asked her to come and try out the food. She said that she would in a minute.

  She heard conversation around her, laughter. Sometimes the screams of the little children who had gone outside to play in the small courtyard.

  She liked the sounds, she let them sink in. It was not good to pity yourself. She moved from the wall and went to the long table with the food. All these dishes, all these smells. “Krishna,” “Krishna,” she heard her name a few times. She liked that. “Miss Dayanand, good to see you.” She liked that as well. India was far away, home was far away. But now she was with friends, was she not? It was not perfect, but it was something. She was lucky—so much luckier than so many others. It was better not to complain.

  ***

  But the days took their toll. Work, work, always the work. There were iron grilles at work; there were iron grilles in her apartment. Was this the America she had dreamed about? Krishna went to a movie. But she hated sitting in the dark and she left. On weekends she went for walks. Her neighborhood was not safe so she took the afternoon bus to a public place: some mall, some outdoor “festival.” She liked the crowds there, the noise. But the others were in groups, she was alone; after an hour or two she grew tired, she left.

  She did not want to return to her apartment—she seldom wanted to do that. So she tried to go to a church nearby. (She was a Hindu but what did that matter? A place of God is a place of God.) But it was Saturday and the church was closed. She went to a restaurant, asked for a seat near the window and ordered some tea. But how much tea can a person drink? They expect you to buy food, to spend money—something she did not have much of. She soon left.

  She bought the newspaper on her way home, read it that night in her apartment. So much was happening in the city—or was it? So much was happening in the country. She tired of the newspaper, she put it away.

  She turned on the small television in her room (thirteen inches). People talked, they talked. What did they talk about?

  She felt alone, afraid. She dreamed of Monday—how far away it still was! The customers would come, the terrible customers. But at least people would be there. She would not be so afraid.

  ***

  The weeks and months passed. Slowly they passed. The posting was for three years and sometimes letters came from home. “Are you making friends?” they said. “Are you happy?” they said. “See if you can stay longer. Get an extension on your posting. A student visa of some kind. A green card. America is the place to be. The place to make money. To make your mark.”

  To make money. To make your mark. What did the words mean? Krishna wanted to run away and to go home. They would say that she was stupid to leave America. Let them say so. They would say that she was a failure. Let them say so. She was tired, you see. She wanted to run away.

  Sheila was a perceptive woman and she saw many things. She brought her friend food from home. She talked to her, tried to cheer her up. Sometimes she even invited her to the house for lunch or dinner. Sheila was married and had a six-year-old daughter. Krishna could play with her daughter (how she liked it, too). In this way she could pass the time.

  There were also one or two Indian men that Sheila knew. One had studied in the U.S., was now working as an accountant for a small company. Another was working as an Assistant Manager for the Holiday Inn. Sometimes she invited them as well.

  They all sat in the small dining room, ate their meal. Then they moved to the small living room and drank tea. Sheila’s daughter ran around in the background.

  Krishna asked the man about the company for which he worked.

  “It is a small company. But the work is good. A lot of responsibility.”

  “You like that?”

  “Trial balance, general ledger. They let me work on that. Bank reconciliation. They let me work on that as well.”

  Krishna was impressed and told him so.

  But the man was unfazed. Perhaps he was used to compliments. Perhaps he preferred compliments from more interesting—more attractive—women. Was Krishna one of these?

  Another night the Assistant Manager for the Holiday Inn was there. He said that he had a girlfriend. White. American.

  “And what do your pa
rents say?” said Sheila.

  “I am my own man,” said the other calmly. “What others say, what concern is it to me?”

  Krishna admired the man, admired his confidence. But he was busy, had a companion. Obviously he was not the right man for her.

  Yes, there were these outings, these “adventures.” All days were not bad. But where did these outings and adventures lead?

  Sheila tried to reassure her friend. “Oh they are silly men, forget them,” she said. “They have been in America for too long. They are too spoiled, too Westernized. But there are other men out there—of course, there are. Fish in the sea, fish in the sea—is that not what the Americans say?”

  “I am vegetarian.”

  “We are all vegetarians, Krishna. But fish in the sea, it is a good expression. Do not give up hope. Be strong.”

  Krishna listened to her friend. She was grateful for her advice, grateful for her love. And did she heed the advice as well?

  ***

  More days passed. Krishna went to work, she came home. The customers came—they were the same as before. Some were nice, many were not. The white people thought they were better, they said what they always said: “Third World country. Just like a Third World country.” The Indians came, even they were rude. Perhaps even ruder than the white people. Some of them had green cards now, some of them were American citizens. Perhaps they thought they were successful people now, people with money. They were better than the people at the Consulate and looked down on them. Did they not deserve to look down?

  Krishna smiled at the customers—again she smiled. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Indeed, sir,” she said. She tried not to lose her temper.

  She was learning about America—perhaps that was the moral in it. She was learning about the world: yes, that was the moral as well.

  The weeks passed, the months. And now? More weeks passed and more months. One day there was a bomb threat at the Consulate. The fire department came, the building was evacuated. Later, men in suits came—even some from the FBI. They went from room to room, they looked, they looked. Then they let everyone return to the building. Two of the men sat in the lunch room, interviewed the employees one by one. Krishna’s turn came and she went to the lunch room.

  The men greeted her; she greeted them in return. The men said that perhaps the bomb threat was a prank, perhaps it was not.

  “Do you have any enemies?” they said.

  Krishna looked at them.

  “Any people who do not like you? Who have said bad things about you?”

  Krishna smiled, smiled again. It was a long list. Where did she begin?

  Krishna told them about her work; the men took down a few things. Again she told them; again they took down some things.

  At last the men rose and said that they had heard enough. “Thank you,” they said.

  Krishna rose, bowed to the men.

  “We will call you if we need you.”

  Krishna bowed again. She left the room.

  She felt happy—happy that she had told the truth. That she had unburdened her heart. But would anything change? Would anything really change?

  One weekend Krishna was at Sheila’s house and they were talking about the recent bomb threat. There had been no real developments, no real “leads.” Perhaps it was a prank after all.

  “These things happen,” said Sheila.

  “Yes,” said Krishna.

  “There are bad people in the world,” said Sheila.

  “Yes,” said Krishna.

  “They do bad things. Some people think that we are bad.”

  Krishna nodded.

  There was a short silence. “Let us forget all this garbage,” said Sheila at last. “Let us go outside, go for a walk.”

  It was a cold February day and the women collected their warm things. Sheila’s daughter was nearby. Krishna got the girl’s shoes from the corner, helped her put them on. Then she helped the girl put on the jacket, then the gloves.

  “It is a little nippy out there,” said Sheila. “Bring the scarf.”

  Nippy. Krishna liked the word. Whether the word was English or American, she did not know, but it was a good word. She went to the closet, took out the girl’s pink and blue scarf (she knew exactly where it was).

  “Yes, it is nippy today, very nippy,” Krishna said.

  The women and daughter opened the main door and stepped outside. It was indeed nippy. It was often nippy in America.

  “But the sun is out,” said Sheila. “I see it.”

  Krishna nodded.

  “The sun—I like the sun.”

  Krishna did not say anything.

  A few seconds passed. “But it is still cold,” Krishna said suddenly. And here she scrunched her shoulders and blew out air through her slightly parted lips. “The scarf for the little girl—I will not forget the scarf.”

  My Father Is Investigated by the Authorities

  I was ten years old then. My father was investigated by the authorities. One day some people came, they knocked down the door. They said that they were from the Income Tax Division. One day more people came: they said that they were from the Central Bureau of Investigation. They opened up suitcases, they opened up almirahs. They threw things all over the beds and the floor. They opened the few dressers we had. Again they took things, they threw them all over the beds and the floor.

  “And what do you want?” we said.

  They did not answer.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Silence.

  The raids of the authorities were reported all over the newspapers. The reporters camped themselves outside our house—they were in the alley, they were in the veranda—they were there at all hours of the day and night. I would be on my way to school and the reporters would stop me: “And how much money did they find?”

  “Money?”

  “How much money did they find under the bed?” I did not know what they were talking about, I had no idea. But I began to conclude that there had been a robbery. But then why were they looking—looking for this money in our house; looking for it under the bed?

  At home all was hush-hush: no one would talk about it. Once or twice I asked the others and I was told only: “There are bad people in the world.” And again: “They have no shame.” And again: “They accuse others: they are bad people. This is just the way they are.”

  Old people came to the house, relatives came. There were raised voices, there were whispers. Doors were closed. There were (or so I assumed) secret meetings behind the doors.

  What was it that my father had done? What was it that he had been accused of doing?

  The reporters stopped me—again and again they stopped me on my way to, or from, school.

  “And did they find money?” “How much money was there—how much money did they find under the bed?”

  ***

  One day there was a hockey match at our school. It was a good match, we played for a long time. But after the match the sky turned grey and dark—a sudden rain began to fall. We all became wet (became drenched), we all hurried to find shelter. There were some hawks in the sky—even, I thought, one or two vultures. They circled overhead, circled ominously. What were they looking for?

  “They are looking for your father,” someone said.

  “My father?”

  “They are looking for anyone who has money under his bed.”

  In this way they spoke—what strange and cruel words they were.

  “But did they find any money?” I suddenly burst out. “Did they find any money under the bed?”

  But the others just looked at me—they looked.

  I made my way—I tried to make my way home. There was water, water everywhere. In some places the water was up to my ankles; in one or two places it was even up to my knees.

  When I arrived home I saw that the people had not left. Rain or no rain, the people would not leave. Some of them were outside, the black (and often large) umbrellas over their heads. Some of them had
found shelter in the veranda. But there they were still—as if attached to the place, refusing to leave.

  “And did they find money,” they called out, “did they find money? How much money did they find under the bed?”

  ***

  Yes, this is the way it was. My father was a good man, he was a decent man. And he had been accused.

  How much money he had taken, no one would say. Why he had done it, no one would say. But that he had done it—done it, in fact—of that they were convinced. Of that they had already made up their minds.

  One day a man came, he opened a tin box: there were a few coins. He opened a tin box: there were no coins. He opened a tin box: there were coins, all the coins in the world.

  The coins, the coins: were they a symbol of some kind? A symbol of what?

  ***

  One day an old man came to the house. His back was bent, there was a red mark on his forehead. The others went out to greet him. They said that there was a bad omen—a graha—over the house. And if they listened to the old man, if they followed his advice, would it not help? The omen—the graha—would it not go away?

  He was an old man, he walked with a stick. They said that he was from the Red Fort (in old Delhi), or perhaps from Greater Kailash (just across from the market and near the chemist store). They said that during the day he brought a gunny sack, he sat under the tree there—sat there for hours. He took out his books—they were small leaflets, not even books—he read from them.

  Sometimes it grew hot, the heat was unbearable. Then he closed the leaflets, he swung them back and forth gently—he used them as a fan.

  He read from the books, often he read out loud. He read about love, he read about hate. He read about the things—all the things of the world.

  “And these things,” we said, “what are they?”

  “One must be good,” he said, “one must be kind. One must bring food to the father. When he is sick, one must bring him medicine. When he is sad, one must sit by his side, one must tell him stories.”

  “Stories, what kind of stories?”