The thing that changed was that Leena moved out. She packed up and relocated the salon and herself with it. Mrs. Sneha Dhar was the first to suspect that something was afoot when she spotted Mikesh and Leena hauling boxes from his car into his condo building. Mrs. Namita Tiwari also became suspicious when she called Leena to make a waxing appointment and was told to report to a different address; the same thing happened to Mrs. Deepika Dayal the next day, though she decided to wait rather than jump to the obvious, scandalous conclusion. When they met one afternoon for their monthly kitty party along with the other nine members, all these bits of clues, along with nine more, spilled out onto the table among the potato cutlets and finger sandwiches. The ladies parsed through them until Leena’s sordid new living situation came into stark focus. They went on to the next stage, which was to pronounce judgment while sucking down Bloody Marys, after which they turned to other gossip. At the end of the visit, they each threw in their monthly contributions of five hundred and one dollars for the kitty—which that month went to Hansini Mangal, two-time champion of her women’s tennis league—and left with the unspoken intent to spread any unseemly news they had acquired that day.
By the time the news about Leena moving in with Mikesh had bounced around Edison and landed back at her father’s doorstep, it had morphed into “grocer suffers heart attack due to unmarried daughter’s pregnancy.” Hemant was not surprised; this was just the way things went here. But when Mrs. Laghari came to the store for a bag of urad dal, two types of masala mixes, and nothing from the produce aisle or freezer section, he took the opportunity to set the matter straight. There was neither a scandal nor anything inappropriate going on. His daughter had simply settled down with her fiancé—who, by the way, was a doctor, did you know?—and it was actually a step to be celebrated. It just made sense given their busy schedules, et cetera, et cetera, and it was a move in the right direction with Mikesh Aneja, MD. Hemant left out the part about how he had practically driven her out with a dispute over the TV but was honest about the rest of it. Though he missed Leena terribly and the apartment had become too quiet without her and her revolving door of clients, he was happy with her new living arrangement, and he and his daughter were as close as ever. Which, in effect, brought an end to the gossip, because what was the controversy if her father approved?
Prem, who did not share Hemant’s view, immediately fell down a short set of stairs upon learning the news from Beena. He had been helping her with a large catering delivery, carrying tray after aluminum tray into Hari’s Event Center and Bingo Hall, and took a tumble and landed in a heap at the foot of the back stairs, lathered in a tangy green chutney and tamarind concoction. Nothing could have prepared him for the blow he felt at that moment. Since Leena and Mikesh were not yet married, he held out hope that their relationship had stalled. Maybe she’d grown tired of his thyroid-centric conversation or his Chunky Pandey looks. Prem had learned about Leena’s home salon from a piece in Desi Talk newspaper about Edison’s thriving underground beauty parlor scene. The article did not mention last names or exact locations—for the obvious prison-related reasons—but it was clear to whom “Leena, daughter of a prominent grocer, engaged to a promising young endocrinologist” was referring, so Prem tracked down the reporter to squeeze every bit out of him that he could on the subject. Through Prem’s network of unknowing spies—Urmila Sahu, Nalini Sen, and assorted aunties in King’s Court who could easily be nudged in the direction of giving up other people’s secrets—he was able to glean the salient facts of Leena’s life from afar. This was how he learned she had taken up running in Merrill Park. Her hair was longer now and she always pulled it into a ponytail right before she began, which he observed from the bench of a discreet gazebo. He didn’t believe it was stalking, per se; he simply happened to like to go to the same park on the same days, at the same times, that she did. When he could, he attended events where he knew she would be present—the opening of Desi Mike’s Driving School, Tun-Tun’s inexplicable birthday luau—so he could be near her and remind her that he was in the world. It pained him when he heard from Gitanjali Vora, who heard it straight from Hemant, that Leena had contracted pneumonia, and it pained him just as much to admit that it was probably helpful at that time for her to be engaged to a doctor.
And now this cohabitation news. He biked past Mikesh’s building multiple times that week, though it was out of the way, in Metuchen. It was so much more impressive than King’s Court. How could she not want to live here in this palace, with its functioning light fixtures and its washer and dryer in every unit? The thought of it depressed him, but he kept cycling by all the same.
* * *
Many months passed during which Prem did not see Leena at all. When he finally did, it was from a great distance, in the vast chaos of the India Day Parade, and he wasn’t sure it was actually her. It was a sweltering Sunday, and two men were unloading enormous speakers from a van, their TV Asia shirts sweat-soaked under the arms. To one side of the stage, a Fairfield Farms truck was parked in front of Chowpatty, and a small army of waiters transported bottles of water from the truck to the restaurant. Over ten thousand people were expected, and it seemed to Prem that five thousand were already there, though the organizers and shopkeepers were still setting up and there were no floats in sight. Prem, Mohan, Yogesh, and Lucky had found some space to stand in front of a small stage set up by Money Jet transfer services, which featured a few teenage girls in white Money Jet T-shirts on the verge of dancing. On the main stage, someone said over and over, “Mic check one, mic check, one, two, three, mic check one …” while the mandatory ambulance pushed its way through the crowd and parked near Sona Jewelers. Prem thought he caught a glimpse of Leena hovering around an orange cooler of Frooti mango drink boxes in front of Devi Sweets. She wore a gauzy blue kurti and was with her friends. Prem slipped into the crowd, leaving behind his own friends, and tried to cross the street to where she was. It was a gridlock situation and he had no choice but to shove an elderly lady in a patriotic orange, white, and green sari, followed by a child handing out Granite Planet flyers. He slipped between an Accord with a yellow Om bumper sticker and a Maxima with a Ganesha on the dashboard, then elbowed his way past a non-Indian woman wearing a Cleveland Indians hat selling balloons out of a shopping cart. When he reached the cooler, Leena wasn’t there, but he thought he saw her up the street under a pair of flags, Indian and American, sticking out of a telephone pole near a gigantic Indian Business Association banner. He squeezed between a man with a child on his shoulders and a police barricade and weaved his way through a crowd of blue-shirted women holding Indus American Bank balloons, but when he reached Leena, it wasn’t her; it was a teenager in a Sahara India cricket jersey who joined five other teenagers in Sahara India jerseys. He looked around and couldn’t find Leena. A row of white-haired women on folding chairs sat behind a line of restless children sitting along the curb. A woman with henna-dyed hair used a Diamond Depot promotional postcard as a fan, and a man with a tricolored sash poured water on himself, but no sign of his love.
Prem wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. There she was again, in front of the festive red Kingfisher beer tent, next to the Society of Indo-American Engineers table. By now, the bass was pumping and the emcee was directing everyone to make some noise. Three police cars were visible at the top of the hill, approaching from the far end of Oak Tree, a row of Indian flags and a billowing float behind them. Prem turned and squinted into the distance. When he turned back around, she was gone. Immediately, he was assailed by the familiar emptiness of losing something he never had. A girl in pigtails said, “Uncle?” and offered him a heart-shaped flyer for a matchmaking service.
He didn’t know what he would have done if he had reached her anyway. The marchers were coming now, along with float after float: the TV Asia display adorned with large posters of Gandhi and others; a large inflatable Jet Airways plane promoting nonstop flights to Delhi; an Air India float promoting the same thing, but without the inflatable plane; the Middlesex County Pipes and Drums band featuring white men in kilts and dark glasses; the Swamibapa Pipe Band featuring brown men in kilts and dark glasses. The Marathi Vishwa marchers struggled to hold up a banner, while the Mangalorean Catholic Association of the East Coast moved in a disturbingly synchronized goosestep. Prem watched with indifference as they passed before him. By the time the grand marshal’s orange, white, and green tiered float came into view, with an Indian pageant winner waving an American flag at the top, Prem was lightheaded and dehydrated. The parade became a blur, the myriad passersby all blending into each other, until he was jolted back to coherence by the sight of Hemant Engineer towering above him on the Oak Tree Business Association float.
Prem had heard that Leena’s father had become even more heavily involved with community organizing in recent months after a spate of bias incidents in the area. Indian American shops had been vandalized, swastikas scrawled across their windows—the irony of the symbol being a peaceful Hindu one centuries before it became a hateful Nazi one, lost on the perpetrators. Indian homes had been egged and mailboxes set on fire. In response, business owners became vocal, holding rallies and speaking out on local newscasts. Hemant spoke on the local news about the need for solidarity with other people of color, from whose civil-rights movement they and other Asian Americans had benefited. That same week, he put together a small demonstration outside the police station in which multiple races were represented and for which he wore what he surely considered his best protest attire, a gray Nehru vest over a white kurta pajama which he wore for the parade as well.
Seeing him up there draped in an orange sash, Prem felt a pang of sadness that he couldn’t commend him on the good work he was doing. He wondered if Hemant had heard of his success and whether he experienced any regret about rejecting him. The Marlboro Hindi School passed by with their banner, as did the Sindhi Association of New Jersey with theirs, followed by a campaign float for a congressional candidate looking for Indian American votes. The humidity was suffocating, yet the marchers continued to march and the watchers continued to watch, perhaps, Prem thought, because the dense crowds and constant music, the air of masala and unbearable sun, recalled for them the clamor of the country they had left behind. When the Asian American Hotel Owners Association float went by, Prem reflected on the backbreaking work that the members of that group had undertaken since coming to this country, and inevitably his thoughts went to Leena. She must be working so hard for her business. As the Gopi All-Natural Paneer float drifted forward, close on the heels of the Korean American marching band, Prem felt the acute sting of time passing by.
28
Toward the end of that decade, when Indian American teenagers turned on the TV, they began to catch glimpses of themselves. Nupur Lala, a fourteen-year-old Tampa native, spelled “logorrhea” to win the Scripps National Spelling Bee, just one in a wave of Indian Americans who would dominate the competition for years to come. M. Night Shyamalan wrote and directed the blockbuster The Sixth Sense, and Kalpana Chawla became the first Indian American astronaut. Impossibly beautiful Indian supermodels began winning international pageants and dating Derek Jeter. While Kumar had not yet gone with Harold to White Castle and Aziz had not yet mastered anything and Mindy had not yet taken over everything, the browning of America had begun, with a yoga studio on every corner and Starbucks offering chai lattes, also on every corner.
This tide rising in America had already risen one hundredfold in Edison. The movie theater on Oak Tree Road began to include Bollywood films in its offerings, and soon, half the screens were showing the latest hits out of India—Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (K2H2), Biwi No. 1, Anari No. 1, and all of the “No. 1” movies thereafter—until they finally decided to forgo American films altogether and show only Indian ones. The Eastern Broadcasting Corporation launched a radio station featuring only Indian programming, which required purchasing a particular type of radio, on which the local Indian-owned electronics stores made a killing. Packaged Indian foods became readily available at Foodtown, ShopRite, Pathmark, and A&P, and a former toy factory was transformed into a Swaminarayan temple. In 2000, the grand and garish Royal Albert’s Palace, boasting four banquet halls, a restaurant, and a twenty-one-foot-tall statue of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, was inaugurated by the Chief Minister of Gujarat; it would go on to host thousands of Indian American weddings, baby showers, political fundraisers, beauty pageants, and parties for birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and one divorce. All this growth bolstered the suspicion held by many and disputed by few that Edison, New Jersey, had, by the turn of the century, the highest concentration of Indian people outside of India.
Now in his twelfth year of longing for Leena, Prem looked sadly upon his adopted home’s progress as it reminded him of how long it had been since Hemant laid down his decree. And while Oak Tree Road was shiny and new, the people around him were showing signs of aging. Iqbal Singh developed a limping gait due to bursitis of the hip, and Tun-Tun was fitted for dentures. Deepak and Lucky lost most of their hair, while Beena Joshi had been sleeping a lot lately. Others, such as Sujata Mehra, Shanta Bhatt, and the Yadavs, moved on to bigger, flashier homes in other parts of Edison and in Colonia and Metuchen, and a few made it all the way to toney Watchung and Short Hills. But Prem remained through the vicissitudes of twelve years, two months, and twenty-one days as he was. Still nervous and skinny, sleeping under a basket of onions, fully entrenched in the habit of loving her.
Though Prem himself had not changed much, his reputation in King’s Court had soared to great heights. He had been the most reliable name in Bollywood entertainment in New Jersey for almost a decade, producing sold-out show after sold-out show, each one more spectacular than the last. His neighbors respected and admired him, but at the same time, they wondered where all the money was going. “He has gone from zero to hero, but why he is still riding the bicycle?” they would say. They never saw him spend any money, and, in fact, a few said he was quite stingy, never treating anyone to dinner or giving away free tickets. People wondered why he continued to live in King’s Court as a paying guest on someone’s floor and why the office he rented was in a dilapidated former motel. Thus an aura of mystery began to surround Prem. Some said he was remitting the money to poor, sick relatives in India or funding the construction of schools in remote villages. Others claimed he was squandering it all in Atlantic City. A myth grew about the enormity of his wealth, with some speculating he had saved so much that he could buy ten Mercedes or launch his own university where he could occasionally offer guest lectures on entrepreneurship, which, of course, he would never do because of his aversion to large group discussions. People began approaching him for help with their complicated matters—negotiating with a landlord to procure parking passes for paying guests, settling a dispute between rival purveyors of kababs over the name Tikka on a Stikka—which Prem would oblige, asking only that they be prepared to return the favor if someday the need arose.
Prem’s legendary status was further cemented by an unannounced visit from the Nightingale of India, the most renowned and adored of all playback singers—the hidden songbirds that constitute the backbone of the Bollywood movie industry—the preeminent Melody Queen herself, Lata Mangeshkar. She was in New Jersey rehearsing for Superstar Entertainment’s upcoming Bollywood Dreams show at Continental Airlines Arena—the largest venue yet—and had grown homesick for moong dal khichdi. Prem offered to take her to Oak Tree Road, where she would have plenty of restaurant options, though khichdi would likely not be on any menu. The seventy-one-year-old politely rejected this plan in favor of a home-cooked meal, if possible. So he called a car and off they went to King’s Court. Beena would not be home until after six, so they would have to wait in 3D for some time until he could knock on her door and announce that Lata Mangeshkar was in need of khichdi.
Prem was nervous about what Lata, who must certainly have become accustomed to luxury, would think of King’s Court, but as they walked up the broken path, fragments of concrete scattered in the grass, she looked up and smiled at the modest building. “Reminds me of a home I once knew,” she sighed.
He was delighted that she was not horrified. “And our laundry facilities have recently been remodeled.” The loud, staggered shushing sound of dozens of pressure cookers letting out steam engulfed King’s Court as it did every evening. A man on a balcony two buildings over was yelling into his cell phone to someone in India, though the days of having to yell were long gone. Lata, seemingly unfazed by the shushing and yelling, walked right up the creaky steps and into the cramped apartment, continuing to smile even after the screaming began.
“Holy fucking fuck!” Lucky was the first to recognize Prem’s distinguished guest. Others had similarly offensive reactions that almost gave Prem a cardiac event.
“Stop, just stop it! I mean, come meet Lata Mangeshkar.”
“Tun-Tun, Tun-Tun, come quickly,” Tony yelled into a very large cell phone, “Petrol has brought Lata Mangeshkar!”
Yogesh, who had moved in a few weeks before, began hyperventilating, and Iqbal was the first to invoke God. “Hai Rabba, Lata Mangeshkar is here!”
Mohan called out the window, “Hey yaar, Lata Mangeshkar is here!”
“Shut up your face, really?” someone yelled from below.
Deepak dropped his pudding cup, picked up the home phone, and dialed quickly. “Dolly? Lata Mangeshkar is in our drawing room. Quickly, bring everyone.”
“Who is making the chai? Who is making the chai?” Iqbal panicked.
Prem had hoped no one would be home, but everyone was home, plus some people who used to live there and some he’d never seen before. One of them vacated a chair so Lata Mangeshkar could sit down. Sweet and decorous in her signature white sari with colorful border, she spoke to the room. “Namaskar, very nice to meet you all. Please, sit. Do not make any fuss for me.”
Amarleen was the only one not starstruck. “I suppose you will be requiring tea,” she said.
Everyone else bombarded the singer with questions and assorted compliments.
“Do you always meet the stars of the movies?”
“Who is the better singer, you or your sister?”
“I like your sari.”
“Your singing is like a sweet breeze that flies over the ocean and into my ears.”
“How come you never married?”
“What is your favorite song that you have sung?”
“Thank you for your glorious service to the humanity.”
Then they began requesting songs, arguing among themselves over which song she should sing—“Dam Bhar Jo Udhar Munh Phere” or “Bade Aarmanon Se Rakha Hai Sanam,” “Kahan Ho Tum” or “Sawan ka Mahina”—without noticing that Lata had slumped over in her chair, clutching her head.
“Didi!” Prem said, addressing her as “older sister,” the term of endearment bestowed upon her by fans worldwide. “Are you going to puke?”
“No, no, just sudden headache. Can I rest here?” Lata Mangeshkar said, slouching toward Prem’s mattress. This caused an enormous fracas, with Iqbal insisting on the bedroom and others frantically trying to remove the onions. “She cannot sleep under onions, it is not right,” Urmila Sahu said. “She sang Aaj Phir Jeene Ki Tamanna Hai.’”
Prem watched all of this in horror until he realized he would have to do the thing he hated, which was to take control of the situation. “Everybody! Step back from Lata Mangeshkar.”
