by Leena Clover
She jumped down from the desk and walked out.
Dad leaned back and let out a breath. “Give me a few minutes here, Meera.”
I was already out the door.
“Don’t…” Dad called out, well aware of what I was going to do.
I spied Prudence Walker turn a corner and heard the tap of her heels on the stairs. I almost sprinted to catch up with her.
“Leave my Dad alone, you skank!” I yelled.
Most of the students barely turned around, lost in their own worries. But a few stopped to look at us.
Prudence Walker grinned maliciously, but kept on walking. I flew down the stairs, taking two at a time. I grabbed her shoulder and turned her around.
“I’m talking to you!”
Prudence flicked my hand off her shoulder.
“You’re always spouting some nonsense, Meera. What is it this time?”
I wanted to wipe the smirk off her face.
“You know what I’m talking about. Leave. Him. Alone.”
“You can’t order me around,” Prudence snarled, her mouth twisted in its habitual grimace.
“I don’t give a damn who you play around with, but you better stay away from my Dad.”
“Or what?” she challenged. “You going to spy on us 24/7?”
I saw red and pushed her with both hands. Prudence Walker tottered on her heels and fell down with a thud, her scrawny bottom landing on the floor.
I jabbed my finger in the air. “You better watch out. I better not see you pull that kinda stunt around my Dad again.”
The murmur around me was growing louder, but I was oblivious to the scene around me. A crowd had collected, and students were ogling the scene with relish.
“Or what?” Prudence shrieked. “I’m a Professor here, you know. And you’re nobody. Nobody!”
“That won’t matter when you drop dead!” I said coldly, barely aware of what I was saying.
These words would come back to haunt me later.
Prudence shook her head and rolled her eyes, making me angrier by the minute.
“Are you threatening me?” she screamed. “I’ll make your life hell!”
“What you gonna do? Sic your cop boyfriend on me?” I laughed derisively.
A malicious smile flashed across her face, proving I was right.
“I saw how you treated him. We all did. He’ll be walking out soon.”
“Shut up, Meera!” Prudence screamed.
“Sure he will. What man in his right mind would tolerate you?” I taunted. “You’re pure evil.”
“More than one!” Her nasty smirk was back. “Many more than one!”
That brought me back to the problem at hand.
“I don’t care if you flirt around with the entire male population of Swan Creek,” I pointed at her again. “You just stay away from my Dad. I’m warning you!”
“Meera!” my Dad called from the top of the stairs. “Are you coming to lunch?”
“I’m watching you!” I said under my breath, as I turned around and meekly waited for Dad.
“Whatever,” I heard her smirk and the clip clop of her heels slowly died down.
“What was that about?” Dad asked curiously.
I shrugged and took his arm.
“So? Burritos or burgers?” I asked him as we walked out of the building.
Chapter 9
Our single parent household is not really that odd. Divorces were common in the 80's. We had grandparents to look after us, and Jeet got so much love and attention, he seemed to suffer no adverse effects due to our missing mother.
He had aced his SATs, and had applied to all the top universities. The elders at home hoped he would go to Princeton so that he could be close to Aunt Anita. Stanford or Berkley were options too because Uncle Vipul lived there. Jeet himself wanted Harvard or Yale.
Everyone was confident he was a shoo in. But lately, Jeet changed the topic whenever college was mentioned. He had indirectly thrown a few comments that questioned a college education.
“What's wrong with the boy? Is he sweet on some local girl?” Pappa thundered, banging his cane on the carpet.
“No idea,” Dad seemed equally puzzled. “I peeped into his room the other day and looks like he has taken down the Yale and Harvard pennants.”
“It's all because of that nautanki. Nothing good ever came from banging drums.”
Pappa grunted and waved his stick around. Dad defended Jeet.
“Come on Pappa, that's just a hobby. And he is pretty talented. You can't deny that.”
Jeet has been into music since an early age. He learned Indian Classical Music on an old keyboard. Then he discovered drums and there was no looking back.
“You guys are so lucky,” he used to envy my cousins in Jersey. “You can take Tabla lessons. You can go to concerts. There’s just so much more to do!”
Our small town in Oklahoma does not offer the same avenues that areas with higher concentration of South Asians do.
“Why didn't you choose to live in Houston?” Jeet had taken to asking Dad.
At 17, Jeet started a garage band, and they practiced to their heart's content every weekend. None of us took it seriously.
“What if I wanted to study music?” he mused.
We were lying on our backs under a starry sky out in the backyard. A comet was supposed to pass by, and we had set out sleeping bags and begged for a thermos of hot chocolate from Motee Ba. It was getting on to 3 AM and Tony and Becky were fast asleep. Tony was snoring lightly, sleeping on his left side. Becky had her mouth open, and arms spread eagled.
“What do you mean Jeet?” I whispered urgently, mindful not to wake the others.
I wanted this conversation to remain between us.
“You know? Get a degree in music!” Jeet explained.
“And do what?” I burst out. “Do you want to earn a living doing music? Can you?”
“How will I know until I try?” Jeet was suddenly child like.
“We’re not that rich!” I laughed mockingly. “Do you know how many gifted people are out there, struggling to make a living from music? And whatever happened to studying law?”
Jeet had always looked up to Tony as a big brother, and was much impressed by Harvard Law.
Dad had been a bit miffed that his son did not lean toward studying engineering. But he had taken it in stride.
“Well, my daughter's already a genius computer programmer,” Dad had winked at Pappa. “So maybe I’ll tolerate a lawyer for a son. Especially if he goes to Yale or Harvard.”
He and Pappa had clinked their whiskey glasses and guffawed. Of course this was before I dropped out of graduate school.
Did I mention how ambitious Asian parents are where their kids are concerned? I felt a bit worried as this memory surfaced.
“What will Dad say? Have you thought of that?”
“He just wants us to be happy. Don't they always say that?”
Jeet can be so naive sometimes.
“Don't be a fool, Jeet. You know there's a difference. And nothing wrong with thinking about employability while choosing a career. Jobs are getting fewer, you know.”
“I'm not running off tonight, Meera. I'm just saying!” Jeet rolled his eyes. “Can't we even talk it out?”
“Well, we just did, little brother, and let that be the end of this nonsense.”
Our talk had finally stirred the others awake. Tony rubbed his eyes and let out a yawn.
“How ‘bout some of that hot cocoa?” he asked sweetly.
The sky was lightening with the first rays of dawn when Tony and Becky went home. I went inside and snuggled in my bed, eager to catch a few hours of sleep. I slept in later than usual but woke up refreshed, hungry for a big breakfast.
I stepped into the shower and rushed to the kitchen. Something smelled good and I was starving. Motee Ba was standing over a hot skillet, flipping theplas. Theplas are to Patels what tortillas are to Mexicans. Generally, Motee Ba only makes them o
n weekends or birthdays.
“Give your cereal a rest today, Meera!” Motee Ba ordered.
I didn’t need any more convincing.
I watched as Motee Ba rolled out the stiff dough in perfect circles. She cooked them in a frying pan with a drizzle of oil. As much as I love to cook, these theplas are beyond me.
“Practice is the only way you’ll get them right.” Motee Ba and my aunt always drone.
“What's special today?” I teased, ladling some mango chutney on to my plate. “Pappa talk you into these?”
A shrill siren split the air and Stan Miller burst in, shocking us all with his news.
Wiping his tears, he lost no time in dropping his bombshell.
“I’m sure you had something to do with this. And I’m going to prove it.”
“I can't believe you're for real, Stan. You know me!”
“I have to be professional Meera. My personal relationship with you cannot come between the investigation.”
“If you get any more pompous, you’ll burst!”
“You’ll see Meera. I know you threatened Prue. In front of several people. I have witnesses.”
“Now you’re just bluffing,” I huffed.
“Am I?” Stan narrowed his eyes. “Don’t go anywhere without informing the police.”
He stormed out of the kitchen, leaving me and Motee Ba gaping after him.
I had lost all my appetite and pushed my plate away. Motee Ba stroked my back, climbing up on the bar stool beside me.
“Calm down Meera. Calm down. We know you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“The nerve of that man!” I spluttered. “He’s treating me like a stranger.”
Then my face fell as I realized what the real issue was.
“Do you really think Prudence…” I felt as if someone had splashed a bucket of cold water on my face.
Dad walked in, and one look at his ashen face told the story.
“Ba!” he began and collapsed into a chair. “I just heard from the Dean. They fished Prudence Walker out of Kappa Pond.”
Ba went over and put a hand on Dad’s shoulder. He interacted with Prudence on a daily basis. He was going to feel the brunt of it.
“She’s dead, Ba! Can you imagine?” Dad was disturbed. “She’s the same age as Meera.”
Motee Ba tried to console Dad. Then she looked at me. I knew what was coming.
“Stan Miller was here. He accused Meera.”
Dad took a moment to grasp what Motee Ba was saying.
“Accused her of what, Ba?”
Then his face cleared and he stood up suddenly, toppling his chair.
“Has he lost his mind? Is he seriously accusing my daughter of murder? Do they even know the cause of her death?”
“He’s just doing his job. He’s new at it.” Motee Ba was tense.
“That doesn’t excuse his behavior. I will have to talk to his superiors.”
Dad was lost in thought. Jeet and Pappa came in and were given the news. Everyone sat stunned. No one had liked Prudence but neither had we wished her ill. Well, except me, in a burst of anger. But everyone knew that didn’t count. Right?
The authorities didn’t release much information. All Dad could find out was that they were treating the death as suspicious. We all knew it was unlikely a healthy young woman would drown in a shallow pond.
Chapter 10
We were in shock for a few days, but everyone tried to go about their usual business. Dad’s work load went up as he tried to reassign the tasks Prudence had been handling.
Motee Ba had almost convinced me to forget Stan’s allegations.
“He’s grieving, dear. He was just lashing out at you.”
I decided to believe her. I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.
Tony and I were having lunch at the Student Union food court. We try to do that at least once a week. It’s the only alone time we get, surrounded as we are by family and friends. Frankly, neither of us is sure why we need alone time. But we have unresolved issues. Boy, do we!
“Have you guys broached the new menu with Sylvie yet?” Tony wanted to know.
“We did. And they’ve started serving it. Folks who try it like it, but we need to spread the word. Maybe I should make some flyers.”
“Yeah! You can put a couple up at the gas station, and some in each department. Some leg work for you.”
“That's a great idea. And maybe I’ll ask Dad to send an email blast to the Indian association.”
“How's the new menu coming along. Brought the house down yet?” I teased Sylvie as I stepped into the cafe after work.
I was spending an hour or two there to lend Becky a hand as promised.
“Folks are liking it,” Jon admitted. “At least, them that are courageous enough to try the new stuff. And some even aksed for the onion fritters two days in a row.”
“I printed out some flyers,” I showed them and told them what Tony and I had discussed.
“That just might do the trick.” Sylvie smiled. “Go for it, child.”
Someone ordered 3 Shish Kabob Blue Plates just then and I hurried into the kitchen to help Becky.
“Do you have the spice marinade ready?” I wanted to know.
“Oh yeah! It’s in the walk-up. The rice is in the microwave.”
We had decided to have simple buttered rice on the plate to go with the spicy chicken kabobs.
I pulled an apron on and started cubing onions and peppers for the kebob skewers. I started mixing my minty yogurt drizzle. I whisked thick yogurt, salt, pepper, smoky cumin and a touch of cayenne pepper. Then I added some fresh mint paste and whisked it again. Filled into a sauce bottle, it was ready to drizzle onto the plate.
I picked up some soaked bamboo skewers and started stringing the chicken pieces along with the veggies. I added a zucchini, a pepper, an onion and then a piece of chicken, and then repeated it. I placed these on the hot grill, and cooked them about 3-4 minutes on each side. Flames shot up when they encountered the oil in the marinade. The high temperature would make the chicken juicy and the flame grilled smoky flavor would be just right. I salivated just thinking about it.
“We'll do two of these skewers per plate. That's 6 nice chunks of chicken. What do you think?”
Becky gave me a thumbs up sign. She was wilting some spinach in oil and garlic. She was enthusiastic.
“This could be our best seller. It’s modern, and just zesty enough.”
I pulled out three blue plates and added two ladlefuls of rice over half of the plate. I placed two chicken skewers over the rice and then added the greens over the remaining quarter of the plate. I added some hot pakoras in one corner. I drizzled the yogurt sauce over the chicken and rice, and nudged Becky to load it up on the tray.
Just then, we heard a loud commotion outside. And a voice I was beginning to dread.
“It’s that girl!” I groaned. “She's becoming a pain in the you know what.”
I glowered, at no one in particular.
I caught the swinging door as Becky went out with the shish kabob plates. I waved to the professor couple and their teenage son who had ordered it. Then I peeped out to see what the commotion was.
Jyothi Sudhakaran was holding Jon and Sylvie captive. Today, she was dressed a bit more down home, with something of a mismatch. A slightly frayed sweater set in baby blue clashed against camo pants that were loose in the hips and the knees. Actually, they were just plain loose. These are from the thrift store, I realized suddenly. What was Miss Brahmin doing dressed up in thrift store chic, I wondered.
“I want the job. Please, I really need the money.”
“Well, we might add on some help if this new menu draws more people.” Jon looked at Sylvie. “But not just yet.”
“Have you worked in food service before, young lady?” Sylvie wanted to know.
“Of course not!” The girl was vehement, not realizing her pride was self damaging. “In my country, only poor people work in hotel. I come from good fami
ly. Iyer Brahmin, you know.”
She looked at Jon and Sylvie expectantly.
I snorted at the hopeless question. How Jon and Sylvie, a Creole couple from Louisiana would know what a Brahmin from India was escaped me.
“Brahmins are the highest caste. They do not do such work. We have maid servant who comes in to cook.”
Judging by the indignation slowly growing on Sylvie's face, the girl was saying the wrong things to the wrong people.
“Cooking and cleaning are servants' jobs.” The girl proclaimed again loudly. “I cannot touch nonveg food. No eggs, chickens, fish.”
She made a grotesque face in disdain.
“I will take the orders. And bring the bills etc.”
“Most people pay by credit card or check,” Jon told her. “But when we hire, it will be to serve the orders, clean the tables, and wash the dishes. We don't have no fancy dish washer. We wash dishes by hand.”
Jon was being clear.
“Ayyyyooo... no! I just tell you. Cleaning is for the low caste people. And wash the dishes. Never!”
“Why do you even want a job, then?” Jon, one of the most easy going people I knew, was frazzled now, and getting disturbed.
“I need to pay the rent. And the fees. I was supposed to get the scholarship after coming here. There is big difference in dollar and rupee. So!! I do the job. But I cannot tell anyone about it.”
“Meera!” Jon yelled. “Come and get this girl to leave.”
Jon was mumbling beneath his breath, and Sylvie was shooting daggers at her with her eyes.
I stepped out.
“You! If you give me job at library, I do not need this!” Jyothi accused me.
“I don’t control who gets the jobs. I already told you.” I enunciated slowly, knowing she hardly understood what I said.
“And secondly, you cannot work here. You can never work here, because you are not authorized to work off campus. It is against-the-law.”
“Why not pay me under the table?” Jyothi suggested shamelessly.
Sylvie and Jon seemed aghast.
