“One is good luck,” Beena said. “I think you will need it.”
Despite the overwhelming disappointment of that first time, Prem became addicted to the lottery. He continued with the Pick-6 and occasionally ventured into Pick-3 and Pick-4. A few times, he also tried 5 Card Lotto, but drew the line at scratch-card games, which he deemed amateur. As he moved forward with this form of gambling, Prem also took up more traditional modes, such as cards and dice, neither of which he was very good at. One Friday night, he even squeezed into Charlie Patel’s Honda Accord with five other guys to drive down to Atlantic City, where after four hours of epic, nonstop blackjack, he broke even.
Prem started taking every opportunity he could to participate in all manner of get-rich-quick schemes: he paid a bank teller for bogus insider-trading tips, which he didn’t know how to use anyway; upon the advice of Lucky, he went to Burger King and spilled hot coffee on himself but was not able to produce an adequate burn and was subsequently banned from that location; he purchased a crate of super vitamins which would supposedly “sell themselves” but which did not. In this way, he lost his money repeatedly, finally losing it all in a flimsy Ponzi scheme devised by a distant cousin of Tun-Tun in Queens.
At the end of two months of profligacy, down to his last couple of dollars, he stopped. With a deep sense of failure, he sat on the front steps with Beena. The setting sun to their left was dim, not like the burning one in India. She pulled out two tinfoil triangles and handed one to Prem. As they chewed their paan, slurping and slapping it against the roofs of their mouths, he thought about how difficult it was to make something of oneself, how hard it was to strive. The lottery and cards had taken hold of him not because of any special proclivity of his toward gambling, but rather because of his unwillingness to pursue any kind of legitimate enterprise. Beena didn’t say anything. She eventually went inside and made fifty rotis, but Prem sat there for a very long time.
15
When he heard the news that Leena was returning in two days, Prem was holding up one end of a very heavy refrigerator. Bhaskar and Yogita Chhabra from 7A were moving to Hidden Valley Manor and gathered together an eclectic mix of King’s Court’s most able-bodied and eligible bachelors to help move their belongings and possibly marry their daughter. The Chhabras were tiny people, good-humored and good-natured, always smiling, and, Prem thought, the most harmonious couple he’d ever come across. Unfortunately, the daughter Chanchal’s disposition was the exact opposite of that of the parents. Taciturn and unpleasant, Chanchal resented her parents for immigrating her to America, where she worked as a salesgirl at Fashion Bug. On that dewy June morning, birds chirping optimistically nearby, Chanchal opted not to assist her parents, though she was sturdy and somehow a foot and a half taller than both. Instead, she sat on the front stoop with a knife and apple, feeding herself slivers and scowling.
“Isn’t Chanchal looking so nice today?” Yogita said to the bachelors as she struggled with the fridge’s heft. As a courtesy to the sweet-tempered mother, they strained their necks to look over at the daughter, who glared back at them, rage simmering beneath the surface.
“Ya,” Lucky said, clearing his throat, “very clean.”
They shuffled in the direction of the small rental van double-parked in the lot. “Prem, what do you say?” Bhaskar asked. “Nice, no?”
Prem began searching for an apt adjective—cryptic, capable, brave—but the celebrated chartered accountant Yuvraj Bhatacharjee saved him before he had to speak.
“Pumpwalla is in love,” Yuvraj said.
“With Chanchal?” Yogita said hopefully.
“With Leena Engineer,” Yuvraj said.
Prem felt the blood rush to his face. “What? How do you know?”
“Everyone knows,” Lucky said.
“Oh, right.” Prem said. “I forgot.”
“Ya, sorry, I also forgot,” Yogita said, crestfallen. “Oh, but you must be so happy as she is coming back today.”
Prem was caught off guard. When he woke up that morning and headed out to move a fridge, he had not expected anything to happen regarding Leena and was unprepared for it. “Ya, you know, so happy. What time is she coming?”
Just then, Tony Gupta yelled over from the India America Grocers parking lot across the street. “You are not supposed to take the fridge with you!”
“What?” Bhaskar called back.
“Fridge stays here!”
“Okay!”
The group reversed course, shuffling back toward the apartment. Prem felt at once anxious and overjoyed. His knees began quivering, though he wasn’t sure if this was a result of the unexpected news or the bulkiness of the refrigerator. He tried to look around and scan the apartment grounds without calling too much attention to himself.
“She is not here as yet, Pumpy,” Lucky said.
“Ya, don’t drop the fridge on us,” Yuvraj said.
Yogita turned her efforts to Lucky. “Did you know they are making Chanchal the manager of the Fashion Bug?”
The group turned again to have a look at Chanchal, who had finished her apple and was hurling the core at a rabbit on the lawn.
* * *
Prem spent the remainder of that morning and much of the afternoon lurking behind a bush. He didn’t know what time Leena would be arriving and couldn’t just sit and wait on Beena’s squeaky couch. There was no guarantee she would try to contact him upon her return—though he had a good feeling about it—so he would have to keep a look out without being too conspicuous. Thus, in a move reminiscent of his jumping-behind-the-drapes days, he settled into the Building 4 shrubbery, one building over from the Engineers’.
He ended up seeing everyone but Leena. First, Gitanjali Vora waved to him while hauling a sack of rice up the fire escape; and Shanta Bhatt, who was taking underwear down from her clothesline, called down to inquire if Prem had seen the blockbuster wife-possessed-by-an-unsettled-spirit flick Woh Phir Aayegi yet, which he hadn’t. The circle of white-haired, white-kurta uncles set up camp as usual at eleven, their conversation about the weather in full swing by 11:05 a.m., and soon after that, Kailash Mistry strolled by, singing a ghazal poorly. At noon, Prem thought perhaps he was in luck when an airport taxi pulled into the lot, but it was only Harbhajan visiting his sister again to avoid spending time with his angry family. Gopal came by shortly after to ask why the nickname for John was Jack when both had the same number of letters. Around one, Prem considered giving up, the pitifulness of his endeavor not lost upon him, but Nalini Sen came by with a cup of chai, which he took as divine indication that he should stay put.
It occurred to him that his hiding place was not very hidden, so he shifted farther back into the bushes where he made himself so comfortable that he fell asleep. At two-thirty, he awoke to find a blanket on top of him and a pillow under his head, so he closed his eyes and slept a little more. Finally, after another half hour of surprisingly peaceful sleep, he was kicked in the leg by Beena Joshi looking down at him in the bushes.
“Why kicking?” he said, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Everyone is asking, Why Prem is in the bushes, why he is waiting like that?” Beena said.
“It’s fine, I don’t care if everyone knows,” Prem said in what he felt was a bold, romantic Hindi-movie-hero tone. He fully expected her to kick him again and even adjusted to avoid the blow, but instead, with great effort, she kneeled down to talk to him at his level.
“Prem,” she said softly. “There is some news.”
It was in this tone of voice that he was informed of the first great tragedy of his life, his mother’s passing. So it was fitting that it be used to inform him of the second: Leena Engineer was returning from Minnesota engaged to another man. Beena had heard from Sujata Mehra, who had heard from her brother-in-law, who was well acquainted with Sanjay Sapra. The boy’s name was Mikesh Aneja and he was a doctor, the son of Sanjay Sapra’s cousin Sanjana of Minnesota. He and Leena had been inseparable the past two months, and both families were ecstatic. No wedding date was set as yet.
Obviously there had been a mistake, Prem decided. “Thank you for worrying about me always,” he said. “Really, you are such a nice friend. But you must have heard wrong. Nothing to worry about.”
“Prem—”
“Now, either you should come in here closer so she does not see you, or you should just go from here and do your things for the day.”
“If you do not believe me,” Beena said, this time less gently, “then go ask Sanjay or Sujata. Ask Hemant himself. Just, at least get out from the bushes.” With that, she went away, and he was left to consider what she’d said. Sanjana to Sanjay to nameless brother-in-law to Sujata to Beena to him. What kind of disjointed, unreliable chain of communication was that? So many chances for mistakes. The engagement, if there even was one, could have been for any number of other King’s Court women—Reena, Tina, Meena, Veena, Nina, or one of the two Kareenas. The rhyming name possibilities were endless. Still, he would go to Varsha Virani’s to confirm the mistake.
