by Leena Clover
“I want job in library,” she pronounced haltingly.
Summoning my fast waning patience, I prodded, “Do you have an application with you?”
“Pardon?” she croaked.
“You need to fill out an application for the library job. Do you have a resume?”
“Pardon. Speak slow please.”
I tried to carefully enunciate the words.
“I have Bio Data!” Inspiration seemed to strike suddenly.
I extended a hand toward her, rightly thinking she would understand gestures better.
“Bio Data in email,” she said.
“Hey, can you please watch the desk for a second?” I delegated to my coworker and motioned the girl to come along to a computer. I figured it would be easier to just show her what to do. I swiped my ID and pulled up a browser.
“Pull up bio data. I print it for you.” I said slowly.
Fortunately, she seemed to catch on and after some fumbled attempts, pulled up a short document spelling out her height, weight, father's name etc.
“You know what, we don't need to know your height!” I tried hard not to sound derisive. “All good,” I smiled, and gave her the universal thumbs up sign, hitting Print.
She suddenly smiled back, transforming her serious face into something almost beautiful.
“Myself Jyothi,” she mumbled shyly.
“I'm sorry, what now?” I bellowed.
“Myself Jyothi. Jyothi Sudhakaran.”
She spoke up a bit this time, and hesitantly extended a hand.
“Oh! Hello Jyothi. I’m Meera. So nice to meet you.”
I shook her hand and stopped mid sentence as she burst out again.
“Meera! You from India too?”
“Well, my parents came from India. I’m American.”
“Not Indian? You look Indian.”
She was confused and I wasn't in a mood to explain. The line behind her was getting longer, so I waved goodbye to her.
“We’ll let you know. Next please.”
I was lounging on the couch, fiddling with the TV remote, when Motee Ba came in and put her feet up.
“I’m so tired. Just heat up those frozen chicken wings you like if you're hungry, Meera.”
She sighed and closed her eyes.
“How was work? Anything interesting?”
“Well, a green book got into a fight with a red book, and then two black books came and broke up their fight,” I told her solemnly and got a smack on my shoulder.
“Don't be insolent, girl!”
“Actually, there was a girl from India who seemed to be from some village. She could hardly speak English, you know.”
I sounded contemptuous.
“What's wrong with being from a village? You know your Pappa hails from a small coastal village in Gujarat?”
My grandpa came from humble beginnings and he never tried to hide it. He had boarded a ship for Africa at 19, and started work in the cotton mills in British Africa. He had risen through the ranks by sheer determination and lived a luxurious life. When the political tensions escalated, he had given up British citizenship to raise his kids in India.
“You decide your own karma,” Pappa was fond of saying, implying there was no limit to what one could achieve with hard work.
He had encouraged Dad to pursue his dream and come to America in the early 80s. My uncle Vipul was also a prodigy, heading a dotcom startup in Silicon Valley.
“She wanted a job but she couldn't even fill out the application properly. Aren't these people supposed to be smart?”
“How do you know she’s not smart? You know a person can be smart without having a command on the English language.”
I shrugged.
“Your Pappa and I never studied English. And we are not as fluent as the locals. Do you resent us too?” she wondered.
“Of course not!! You are my grandparents. I love you!” I hugged her and let the topic slide.
Chapter 5
The initial start of term euphoria died down a bit. Freshmen had reconciled themselves to the punishing routine of school work and jobs. Many had chosen their priorities - 4 years of true learning, or partying and breezing through. The seasoned students had juggled multiple classes, done the Add/ Drop game and narrowed down the courses they really wanted. This was often based on a cunning strategy that would shame Machiavelli. Kids often opted for at least one easy class per semester, one that would land them an A. They chose some classes that were known to be punishing because the professor would make them cry but also teach them something job worthy.
We soon fell into a pattern where the geeks were distinguishable from the number of hours they spent at the library and the kind of reference books they checked out.
Labor Day was upon us and Motee Ba was planning a party. In a small town, people were few and most friendships were close knit. We had split the holidays between four or five local families. Labor Day and Diwali are generally our thing. Sylvie throws a big New Year's bash. Tony's parents take Thanksgiving and Dad's university friend has us over for Christmas every year.
“How many of your students do we have this time, Dad?” I was making the final guest list.
“Three or Four,” Dad mumbled without looking up from his book.
Dad is the advisor for the Indian Students Association, but no way we can invite 300-400 kids home. His role is limited to giving approvals for events, attending cultural shows and providing some oversight. Dad's PHD students were the ones he associated with closely on a regular basis.
“I hope that’s all?” I raised an eye brow.
“What do you mean, Meera?” Dad acted genuinely puzzled.
I cleared my throat. In addition to her odious personality, Prudence Walker had a puppy crush on Dad. She wheedled invites to our home at every opportunity and then did her best to talk me down in front of my family.
I liked to think Dad was clueless about what Prudence felt. The alternative was too horrific.
“What about Prudence?” I asked slyly.
“Well, the whole department is invited, right? So of course Prudence must be coming too.”
“Does she really have to be invited? Did Motee Ba tell you she rammed me with a luggage cart at the airport?”
Dad looked up with a frown.
“Come on, Meera. How old are you anyway? I thought you girls had forgotten all that silliness by now.”
The ‘silliness’ Dad referred to had never been forgotten by either party. It continued to escalate every year. And I didn’t think it would ever end until one of us left the scene.
I was handing over yet another opportunity to Prudence to lord it over me. She had the cushy job my Dad wanted me to have, teaching at the university, being the department’s rising star.
“OK. I’ll put her down then.”
Sometimes I wondered if I should have finished my Masters and gone on for a PHD. Then I shook the feeling off. There was work to be done.
Becky had come early to help me set up, and everyone was bringing something.
“So what's on the menu? You making any of your special fried chicken?”
I rattled off a list.
“Fried Chicken, coleslaw, and Fiery Chili. Queso Dip and my 8 Cup Fruit and Nut Salad. Sylvie’s getting biscuits and pies. Motee Ba is setting out some apricot jam made from our own apricots.”
“What about cocktails?” Becky frowned. “Wanna make some Micheladas?”
“Alright! They'll go well with the chili and the fried chicken.”
My buttermilk fried chicken is a Southern staple. Only I make it super hot with a spicy kick. Folks around here love their spice, and my mouth watered just thinking of it.
I made a mix of onion powder, garlic powder, paprika, thyme, cayenne pepper, salt and black pepper. I added some coriander and cumin powder for good measure. I first rubbed the chicken with this dry mix along with some vinegar and let it marinate. Then the spice rub was added to the flour and the buttermilk.
/> The chicken pieces were dredged in flour, rolled in buttermilk, dredged in flour again and then fried until juicy and tender.
Becky snapped me out of my reverie.
“Do we have enough queso? You know we always run out.”
“Hmmm. I got the big bag of Mexican cheese mix from Sam's. I think it should be enough for everyone.”
Over here in the South, we live in Queso land. Cheese is fine, but queso is better, with plenty of jalapenos and colored peppers.
“What's the weather forecast like?” Pappa asked as he walked in on us.
“There's a storm watch but probably won't come to anything.”
I shrugged him off. Who wanted to think of storms when there was so much food to be put on the table?
After a light lunch, we all started setting up picnic tables. I shook the blue checked table cloths and laid them on the tables, placing food bowls on the ends to keep them from flying off. Tony and Jeet had just finished stringing fairy lights on the trees in the backyard.
The sky had darkened a bit, and the lights looked pretty against a backdrop of thick grey clouds.
“Maybe we should set out the tables on the covered part of the patio, rather than out here in the open,” Dad mused.
He looked worried.
“Lighten up, Dad. We got it covered.” Jeet was quite confident as always.
Dad's students arrived first, squashed together in an ancient student car. The battered Civic had probably been owned by 10 different people by now, changing hands every 2-3 years.
One of them handed over a Walmart shopping bag. “Black Forest Cake.”
They stood shyly to one side, mentally rehearsing what to say.
An apple green Beetle came up the driveway. I tensed, steeling myself for the unpleasantness that was coming up.
Prudence Walker stepped out of the car, her head slightly tilted upwards, her nose in the air. She sniffed, as if troubled by some nasty smell.
The car shook a bit as a stocky, plump body wheezed out of it.
“Stan Miller? What’s he doing with her?” I muttered as my eyes met Becky’s.
Tony and Jeet had come up behind us.
“Hurry up, will you? What’s taking so long?” Prudence hissed.
Stan Miller was a familiar figure around our household. He had grown up on the farm next door and had been in and out of our kitchen.
His face turned red as he felt us watching him.
“I say, Prue…” he nudged her and tipped his head toward us.
“Hello, Patels!” she spit out. “And the Patel posse…” She waved a hand in the air, casually dismissing Tony and Becky.
She ignored us and marched inside, heading straight toward my Dad. Stan hurried after her, trying to keep up.
“Isn’t he a bit simple for her tastes?” Tony voiced my thoughts.
“You know Prudence,” Becky said bitterly. “I bet she enjoys making him run around. No doubt she’s just playing with him.”
Everyone else arrived almost at once, bearing wine bottles and flowers. Soon the party got into full swing.
“This fried chicken is the best, Meera. You certainly seem to have put more effort in it than in your Bluetooth term paper.” One of Dad's coworkers and my ex-professor smiled mischievously.
“You should call yourself a Food Engineer, Meera, instead of an Electrical Engineer,” Prudence added a malicious barb.
“Have you tried the chili yet?” I handed Prudence a cup of chili spiked with some extra dashes of Sriracha hot sauce hidden under cheese and scallions.
She mixed it and spooned some along with lots of cheese and tentatively put it in her mouth. She tried to swallow and teared up, running to the drinks table to gulp down some iced water. Becky and I tried to hide our smiles. I looked up to see Motee Ba frowning at me, shaking her head. I would get some choice comments from her later, but I reveled in the moment.
Stan was scarfing down chili, already going for seconds.
“This chili’s the best, Meera!” he spoke with his mouth full. “You should try this, Prue.”
He looked around for his date, chewing off a big bite of a drumstick. Juice from the chicken trickled down his chin.
Prudence Walker turned around just then and her face turned ugly.
“You’re such a slob!” she said in a loud voice everyone could hear.
A couple of heads turned to see what was happening.
“Didn’t I warn you to mind your manners, you idiot?”
Stan’s face turned red. He swallowed his mouthful and almost choked. He spluttered and sprayed the air with the contents of his mouth.
“Ewwww…” Prudence squealed, jumping back to keep some distance between them.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Stan looked deeply embarrassed.
Prudence twisted her mouth in displeasure and walked away.
Becky handed Stan a bunch of napkins and Tony offered him a bottle of water.
“She’s good at heart, you know,” he said meekly.
The sky darkened further and the lights flickered. Then they went off completely.
“Has anyone checked the weather lately?” Pappa tapped his cane nervously.
“Well! There's a tornado watch for the county, but nothing near us. It should pass somewhere around Guthrie.” Prudence was stuffing her face with pie now, looking cool as a cucumber.
“What! Why did no one mention this before?” Dad joined the worry warts. “Meera! You know your grandpa gets tense in bad weather. And we need to watch his blood pressure.”
Motee Ba was trying to pacify everyone.
The guests sensed something amiss, and deviated toward each other. Dad was coaxing Pappa to go inside. Becky, Tony, Jeet and I were cautiously standing in a corner, ready to bolt if the adults got angrier.
“When was the last time we checked the shelter?” Pappa hollered. “Anand! Tell me Now!”
“Err ... I, I don't know,” Dad stammered.
He is generally out of tune with the practical side of life.
“Pappa! There is no need to panic. Why don't you go in and lie down?”
The cajoling tone further infuriated Pappa who lashed out like a caged lion.
“Who's panicking, boy! You don't panic enough. And you don't learn from your mistakes.”
Dad looked stricken and turned ashen, as a horrific memory finally clicked in his mind. “You don't think...”
He looked at Motee Ba helplessly, suddenly seeming lost like a small boy.
Just then, the single tone wail of a siren split the sky. The volume rose and now there could be no doubt that we were in for a weather related emergency. Jeet and Tony had run to his truck to tune into the weather channel.
“Funnels have been sighted on the outskirts of Perkins,” Tony panted. “Everyone is advised to seek shelter.”
Chapter 6
Dad had opened the door of our storm shelter by then, and was ushering all the ladies in. The Patel family had been struck hard by the vagaries of weather 16 years ago, and when we got this lot to build our ranch, Pappa had insisted that the storm shelter be the first thing put in.
“We can easily get 12-15 people in here,” Dad assured everyone. “It’s the best thing to do now. Also the most sensible.”
He looked around, ready to veto any opposition.
The sky suddenly opened up and drenched everything in sight. A gust of wind took away the tablecloths and the bowl of coleslaw placed on the edge. Hail started creating a rhythm on the flagged patio floor, turning into big golf ball sized rocks. There was a splintering sound as a windshield shattered on impact.
“Ouch!” Prudence Walker wailed as one pointy piece cut her in the arm, opening up a flesh wound that started to bleed.
The last thing I saw was pieces of chicken floating away in the rivulets created by the sudden downpour, as Dad and Tony pulled me in and slammed the door of the shelter shut.
“What do we do now?” Jeet appeared to be the coolest in his ignorance.
>
Sylvie and Motee Ba were sitting quietly in a corner, praying to their respective Gods with closed eyes. Pappa was tapping his cane and looking around, bewildered.
Tony had his arms around Becky and me, ever the protective force in our lives.
“We wait, Jeet,” Dad explained. “We wait until we get the all clear. Then we go out and fix the damage.”
He looked defeated.
“I can design a Tera Byte network running through ten remote countries. I can file patents for new communications protocols. But I cannot stop a tornado if it wants to touch down.”
Tears were streaming down his face and I was shocked at this rare display of emotion.
“Is he talking about your Mom?” Becky whispered.
“I think so.”
I was feeling a bit emotional myself, finally connecting the dots and understanding Pappa's distress.
Sixteen years ago, one such tornado tore our lives apart. Jeet was just a baby and too young to remember. I was seven but so terrified that I had blocked out the day completely from my memory, doctors said. As a young family, we lived in a starter home on the other side of town. Houses were closer together, and it was a well populated neighborhood.
Everyone thought the two day tornado watch would end by noon as projected. Dad had been at the university, teaching a summer class. Motee Ba was also at work on campus. My Mom, an elementary school teacher, had just brought me home when the sirens split the sky. They thought it was a drill, until Mom realized that people were running helter skelter toward whatever shelter they could find.
Pappa was much younger, but still an old guy. The huge funnel he spotted in the distance spelt death and gave him wings. He had gathered Baby Jeet and me and ran toward some empty drain pipes near the railway track at the end of our block. Mom was just behind him.
He barely scooted down to crawl through the pipes when everything around him had dissolved in a big cloud of dust and vapor. My mother never reached the drain pipe. Pappa sat there for hours, praying she had taken shelter somewhere else.
The tornado, an F-3 twister, wrought a path of destruction. Our living room and kitchen wall fell in, and one part of the roof had blown away. Rescue workers dug through the rubble feverishly.
