“And he looks like Shashi Kapoor, I know, I have heard. That is no reason to ruin your life.”
Prem raised a finger in the air and attempted again to jump into the conversation. “Sir, actually, I do not think I look like Shashi Kapoor. Some people have mentioned it, but really, I don’t think so. Maybe the hair and eyebrows, I don’t know.”
Hemant and Leena looked at Prem then continued on with their fight. “You always say good character is the most important thing,” Leena said, dumping too much sugar into the chai. “Prem has that. Now you are saying you don’t like him because he has no money?”
“I do not like him because he does not value the opportunity of America. He is not trying.”
“He is not trying? Of course he is trying. He is even planning to buy a gas station one day, right, Prem?”
“Ya, someday, you know, maybe,” Prem said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Hemant scrutinized Prem from head to toe, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as he made his way down. At last, he said, “You cannot marry him, you are marrying a doctor.”
Prem looked at Leena, alarmed. She shrugged and seemed not to know. “What doctor?” Leena said.
“Any doctor!” Hemant said.
“What? No!” Leena said.
“Should I become a doctor? I can become a doctor,” Prem said.
“Don’t become a doctor,” Leena said.
There was a lull in the argument, and Prem felt he could no longer remain standing. He crossed the room and sat on the couch, hanging his head and assuming a steeple-handed thinking position, which he soon abandoned after realizing it was a manner he’d inherited from his father. He had to find a way to make this situation better. Finally, heart pounding, he raised his head and spoke directly to Hemant. “Sir, please. Please. I can make a good life for your daughter. I can find a better job, I can find ten jobs. Even if we never become rich, we always will be happy. I always will want your daughter to be happy. Please, sir, I fall at your feet.”
A clap of thunder caused the three of them to look outside, where the sky had turned dark in the middle of the day and Viren Bhai was doing complicated yoga. It was not yet pouring, but the threat was there, just like in so many Hindi movies when the pivotal moment of apparent doom—the rejection of the illegitimate child, the banishment of the wayward son, the orphan’s revelation that his employer in a garment factory is actually his biological father, who had abandoned his pregnant, unwed biological mother, who subsequently died in childbirth—is portended by a perfectly timed flash of lightning or unrelenting torrential rain. The melodramatic movie weather signaled to Prem that something was coming, and it was worse than what had already come. There was a knock at the door.
Hemant opened it to find a young, well-groomed white man, jarring and conspicuous on a King’s Court doorstep. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” the young man began. “I’m from the Oak Wood Church, and we are trying to find what we can do as a group to serve the community.”
“What you can do? You can remove this cockroach from my home,” Hemant said, looking over his shoulder at Prem. He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Leena let out a sort of growl of frustration.
“We’re alone in the apartment, finally,” Prem offered with a weak smile.
Leena’s expression softened and she joined Prem on the couch, leaving adequate space between them. “I am so sorry for how my father is talking about you. You know he doesn’t believe all what he is saying, right?”
“I think he believes it,” Prem said. He felt no anger toward Hemant. Instead, he felt embarrassment for being an unsuccessful person, a failure. If he had been more capable, he might have had what he wanted in life, which was Leena. He looked around at the modest apartment teeming with knick-knacks, home décor, furniture, paper goods, fruit, the account book on the table. It was a life built on hard work in a foreign land, he thought, and felt deep shame.
Hemant came back in grumbling. “These young people, thinking they know better than me, telling me what I should think.” He tossed a leaflet in the trash and took a seat on the swing, which creaked under his weight. Leena and Prem straightened up their posture as if this might help, but Hemant did not look at them. He rocked gently back and forth, looking at the ceiling, at the floor, around the room, into the distance—anywhere but at them. Finally, he planted his feet on the floor and stopped the swing’s movement. “I have decided,” he began. His nostrils flared wildly, and a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room, revealing the silhouette of Viren Bhai in flying pigeon pose behind him. “You see, I want you to have a good life,” he said, speaking only to Leena. “A life where you will not have to worry. If you think this gaswalla can give you this, then you can marry him—”
Prem and Leena gasped.
“If, only if”—Hemant paused for a sharp thunderclap to pass—“he first earns one million and one dollars.”
There was a long, dumbfounded silence. Prem and Leena sat slack-jawed and speechless, trying to understand what had just happened.
“Are you crazy?” Leena finally said. “You must be tired. Come, take rest and we will discuss more in the evening.” She started to get up to help her father who was obviously in need of a nap, but Prem remained seated. He could see that Hemant was entirely lucid and serious.
“Go on,” he said.
Hemant laid out the terms of his decree:
1) Prem and Leena must not communicate with each other until he has earned the money;
2) Leena must be open to meeting other suitable boys;
3) there is no calendar deadline for the completion of the task.
“And, of course, you must vacate this apartment immediately,” Hemant said.
“Of course,” Prem said. “Now, when I make the money, should I have it in cash or check?”
“Cashier’s check, maybe?” Hemant said.
“Gold bars would be another option,” Prem said.
“Yes, that might be nice,” Hemant said.
“Stop this! No one is getting gold bars,” Leena said, jumping up from the couch and throwing her hands in the air. “Papa, how can you sell me like some kind of biscuit from the store?”
“I am not selling you like a biscuit, I am ensuring that you marry someone who can take care of you.”
“I do not need anyone to take care of me,” she said, deadly serious.
“I know, my dear, but I do not want you to have to take care of him.”
“That is fair,” Prem said.
“I don’t understand,” Leena said, turning to Prem. “Are you agreeing to this crazy demand?”
