“Why did you bring the letter back?”
“I just told you.”
“Keep it and give it to her when she returns. Do not lose it.”
“What do you think, I am your mailman? You keep it.”
Prem wished he had picked a less difficult friend of Leena’s to work with. He stuffed the letter in his pocket and went in search of a second cup of Iqbal’s chai. His roommates were debating the quality of the film so far.
Deepak: “The wordings of the song are so stupid—one, two, three, it is like a nursery poem.”
Mohan: “Find the beauty in the simple things, or ullu ka patha.”
Gopal: “Why son of an owl? ‘Ullu ka patha’ is used in India to say someone is stupid, but in America the owl is wise?”
But Prem’s heart wasn’t in it. Sullen and distracted, he returned to his spot to watch the second half of the two-hour-thirty-one-minute film, during which a gangster tried to avenge his brother’s death by killing the hero in a showdown at the docks but was instead shot by an exceptionally helpful police inspector. It was entertaining, yet not enough to wrest Prem’s mind away from Leena, Minnesota, and the million and one dollars. When the movie ended and they rewound the tape back to “Ek Do Teen” and watched the song again, Prem took to heart its refrain, which spoke of intezaar, the elegant Urdu word for awaiting, expecting, infused with heartache and yearning, often found in songs in which one lover is separated from the other and longs for their return. He considered how, like a Hindi movie trope, he was waiting for her return from Minnesota, and how, perhaps, she would wait for him as he built himself up and not so they could be together forever.
So in the coming days, Prem waited restlessly and began to mull over how to make money—a lot of it and quickly in this land of so much opportunity.
14
Everyone around Prem seemed already to be in hot pursuit of happiness. Despite the continued incidents of racism and harassment in northern New Jersey—vandalism of businesses, a letter bomb, obscenities spray-painted on apartment walls exhorting Hindus to “go home”—and the police’s ongoing insistence that the occurrences could not be categorized as bias crimes, the Indian Americans in Edison pressed on, opening a jewelry store, a sweets shop, and a casual dining establishment specializing in South Indian cuisine that featured a small TV perched on a ledge playing Hindi movies on an endless loop. The shopping strips down at the Woodbridge Township end of Oak Tree Road had fallen into disrepair, losing their customers to those twin pillars of consumerism, the Woodbridge and Menlo Park Malls, and enterprising immigrants bought up the empty retail spaces at a premium. Leena’s friend Falguni started giving singing lessons from her apartment, while Lucky began peddling prepaid international phone cards—a major boon for Indians in America—out of the trunk of Chotubhai “Charlie” Patel’s Honda Accord. Prem felt the crushing pressure of the American dream closing in on him. He had to figure out a way to make some money himself.
But first, he decided to hang out on the front steps. The view right along Oak Tree Road, two buildings back from the parking lot, was different from the Singhs’ and the Engineers’. The colorful, variously shaped cars of America zipped by while men in ties moved expeditiously toward Metropark. Shanta Bhatt was hanging her capacious underwear out on her clothesline, and Urmila Sahu was piling bulk quantities of laundry detergent and mixed nuts onto her balcony. The entire complex that morning buzzed with people going about their business, except for the white-haired, white-clad circle of men in the grass, who had presumably conducted a lifetime of business already and were now basking in their New Jersey retirement. Prem wished he were at their stage of life rather than his own.
After thinking about lying in the grass and doing nothing forever, he walked toward the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of Leena in case she had come back. Lucky called to Prem from across the lot trying to sell him a phone card, and the Kotharis stood next to their brand-new Nissan Maxima with a coconut and a priest. Upon closer inspection, Prem found they were conducting a car pooja, procuring blessings of safety and prosperity for their vehicle and its drivers, with a special clause requesting excellent gas mileage. After the ceremony, the priest handed out his card to those nearby, including Prem, and added, “In inclement weather, we can perform car blessing inside the temple using car keys at devotees’ shrine of choice, no problem.”
The rest of the day, he worked at Exxon in a daze, wondering if he could possibly make a large sum of money by working extra hours there. At night, emptying his pockets before winding down on Beena’s couch, he found the priest’s card and had an idea.
The next morning, he borrowed Kailash Mistry’s bicycle and set out to Krauszer’s convenience store, where Darpan Singh Canadian—so called due to his years spent in British Columbia—was working the first shift. It had drizzled all night, but dawn brought a clear sky and the lingering petrichor smell of spring rain. Prem enjoyed the wind in his face, the first thing he had enjoyed in weeks. He had never been to Krauszer’s and was impressed by the endless candy aisle and the partially obscured pornographic periodicals. After sufficient dawdling, he purchased the thing he had come for: a ticket for the Pick-6 lottery, whose jackpot was currently $2.7 million.
“You want to pick the numbers, eh, or let the machine pick, eh?” Darpan Singh Canadian said. He took great pride in his past and in his Great White Northern heritage, and tried to exhibit his Canadianness at every possible opportunity, though his use of “eh” was often incorrect and jarring.
“How do you like to do it?” Prem said.
“Me? No, no, I never buy lottery tickets. Colossal waste of money.”
Prem rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to proceed.
“But ya, good luck, you know, eh.”
“I’ll let the machine pick,” Prem said. He tucked the ticket carefully into his wallet, which he shoved deep into his jeans pocket.
“You can see the lotto drawing tomorrow night before Cosby Show. A very tall, nice girl pulls the balls from the machine and reads them. I always watch.”
“I thought you never buy lottery tickets.”
“She wears small clothes.”
Prem had a long bike ride from there to the Ram Mandir temple, but he was in no particular hurry. He admired the impossibly green lawns and violated several traffic rules, which elicited the comforting blare of car horns that reminded him of his original home. He passed under train tracks near the Metuchen train station and got slightly lost trying to find the correct tree-lined street. He arrived at the Ram Mandir at eleven, early enough to avoid the crowds at the noontime aarti service, which began at one. Once inside, he was overcome by a sudden calm. The onetime church had retained its innate churchiness, with lofty ceilings, stained-glass windows, and a massive wooden door that never opened. Prem entered through the side entrance, where he encountered, naturally, a pile of shoes. In their smelly midst, he felt hopeful. He had never been the most religiously inclined Hindu, but when the sandalwood and plumeria waft of nag champa incense hit him, he was brought back to the temple visits of his childhood and the innocent faith in something greater than himself. He removed his shoes and walked upstairs, where he found the priest from the King’s Court parking lot and made his unusual request.
“You want a blessing on the lottery ticket?” the priest said, scratching something fervently under the many layers of fabric below his waist.
“Yes, Panditji, is it possible? I know it is irregular, but I would be very grateful.”
“Not irregular. Just this year I have done archana for a dog, a medical license, a plane ticket, a motel, and a tree. Ten dollars, choose your god.”
Prem chose Krishna, the most joyful, soulful, and eloquent representation, he felt, of the divine light. He stood before the altar, his spirit lifted by the realization that miracles can happen. While the priest chanted the pertinent mantras, Prem offered his own silent prayer, beginning with gratitude for everything in his life, especially Leena, and ending by pleading for a winning ticket. “I’ll do anything,” he implored. “I will give most of the money to the temple and to orphanages, I will do extensive pooja every day, I will even give up nonvegetarian food. Please, Lord. Thank you.” After he was finished with his supplication and the priest offered him some blessed fruit, Prem went back outside into the radiant daylight feeling really rather optimistic. He hopped back onto the bike and set out for King’s Court, eating his apple along the way.
For the next day and a half, he did nothing that would bring him closer to making any money. He played carrom with Gitanjali Vora on a scratched-up board until his striker finger began to develop a welt. Then he helped a new family, the Bajpais, move into Building 13. He ate scrambled eggs with tamarind chutney that Beena force-fed him. He watched Shree 420. His confidence in his consecrated ticket was so absolute that he sat down at Beena’s dining table and wrote an aerogram to his father, explaining that he would not be returning to India as he had “significant matters” he was dealing with in the States, details to come. When it came time for the Pick-6 drawing, he watched it on the plastic-covered couch with Beena, who had bought into the potency of the priest’s ticket pooja and was accordingly giddy.
“I always think of buying a ticket, but then I think, No, only dummies play the lottery, but look, you might become a crore-pati, a millionaire, only you would have to give almost half to that greedy grocerywalla. But what will you do with the remaining money? Let me see the numbers. You should have picked them yourself—more auspicious.”
Prem was giddy too with these same thoughts about making so much money so soon. Would he collect his prize and then go to Hemant, or go directly there tonight and present him with the winning ticket? But how would Hemant know it was a winning ticket? It may be best to collect the money first, but who knows how long that might take? “I think I will let Leena decide what to do with the extra money,” he said.
“Yes, but please also buy a Mercedes.”
The lottery lady was indeed tall and wearing small clothing. She stood beside an overly elaborate contraption containing the numbered balls, which were sucked up through a tube and came to rest at the top. When the balls started to pop and circulate in their large plastic vessel, Prem’s heart began to race. The lady’s only job was to smile and turn the numbers so they faced the camera.
A male voice offscreen read the actual numbers aloud, which seemed to Prem like a waste of human resources. The first number came up, and the voice said, “19.” He had a 19 on his ticket. Beena practically punched Prem in the face with excitement.
The next number was 41. Prem’s ticket had a 41. Beena could not contain herself. She threw the entire weight of her body onto him during a badly executed hug, causing him to tip over on his side, his cheek pressing into plastic. He sat back up and kept a steady gaze on the TV, not wanting to break the spell. But when the third number was a match, he lost his senses and started strangling Beena’s fleshy arm while bouncing up and down in his seat. This could be it, he thought. The one moment when something actually went right in his life.
The following number took a long time to pop into place, and the tall lady seemed to have some trouble straightening it out. When at last the faceless man announced the number, it was not a match. And neither were the next two. Prem released his grip on Beena’s arm and folded the ticket into a tiny square.
“No, no, keep the ticket! Three numbers matched—you win one dollar!”
“Wow, great, one dollar,” Prem said.
