There was an abrupt silence. Prem cleared his throat. “I will take the Nightingale of India to Beena Joshi’s, where she can rest peacefully. Come, Nightingale,” he said and helped Lata Mangeshkar to her feet and out the door. In the stairwell, Prem faced the most shocking turn of events he had ever encountered.
“Prem,” Lata said, apparently headache-free, “your father has asked me to check on you and report to him how you are doing. Now, what am I to tell him, that you sleep on the floor under a bag of onions?”
The reality of the situation did not immediately settle in. “It is not a bag, it is a basket,” Prem said.
“He is worried about you. How could you leave your family behind this way? What would your mother have said if she were still in this life?”
Prem was dumbstruck. It was not out of the realm of possibility that his father knew Lata Mangeshkar, as famous movie types and wealthy industrialists often ran in the same circles. But did she sign on to perform at the concert just to spy on him? Had other stars been double agents for his father? Did she trick him into taking her to his home? Did she even want khichdi?
“Uh, no, Didi, I think you have the wrong number, you must be thinking of some other fellow, you are tired, let us get you to a proper bed.”
Lata Mangeshkar stopped in her tracks and turned to look directly at Prem. “You are the son of Ashok Ratan Kumar, head of the Kumar Group. Do these people know?”
The creaking of a floorboard in the stairwell below them drew Prem’s attention away from the awkward interrogation and toward a man who was listening from downstairs. It was Harbhajan Gill, the taxi driver brother of Amarleen, who had never stopped being suspicious of Prem from a years-ago incident. It seemed he had heard everything.
* * *
In the ensuing weeks, it became clear that Harbhajan was the most incompetent blackmailer ever. At first, he didn’t say anything. They had passed each other on the stairs that day without a word, not even an acknowledgment that Lata Mangeshkar was there. Later, when Harbhajan visited King’s Court, he would only scowl at Prem from afar. But he began visiting more and more frequently, as if to taunt Prem, staring at him while gnawing on a stalk of sugar cane.
Prem wished Harbhajan would come speak with him like a normal human being. He supposed he could approach the man himself, but the thought of it made him anxious and sweaty. The dread of what might happen caused Prem to live in a constant state of alarm and nausea. To take his mind off of the looming revelation of his hidden past and the subsequent inevitable backlash against his years of duplicity, Prem took up speed dating.
The events he went to were the Desi kind, though the occasional stray non-Indian with an Indian fetish was always welcome. Often taking place in hotel banquet spaces or restaurant party rooms, Desi speed dating was typically limited to fifteen women and fifteen men aged forty or under, who would spend four minutes chatting with each of their dates with the hope of unearthing their life partners. Prem, of course, was not on the hunt for a life partner but enjoyed talking with the participants and supporting them in their quests.
“So, what kind of car do you drive?”
This was the first question that Prem was asked on his first date at his first speed-dating affair, which took place at the Quality Inn Edison-New Brunswick in plain and unnecessarily frigid Conference Room B. “I ride a bicycle,” he said.
The girl made a note on her scorecard.
Things got easier as the evening progressed, the women more friendly and Prem more relaxed. He settled into a routine in which he stated upfront that he was there to cheer on the participants and give them a short break during the course of dating, which confused everyone at first but ultimately helped them get comfortable and feel good about themselves. He helped one woman realize that a scar on her neck gave her character and another that her awkwardness was endearing. At his next speed-dating session, he gave an uplifting pep talk to a reticent radiologist. His usual social anxiety did not come into play in this milieu because (a) he was not interested in finding a romantic partner; and (b) he didn’t have to face a group of boisterous people who conversed easily with each other, but rather could speak one on one with nervous people who were obliged to speak to him as well. All social interaction should be this organized, he thought.
At his seventh such event, at Akbar Restaurant and Banquet Hall, where the lighting was particularly dim and the Desi trance music particularly entrancing, Prem was thoroughly enjoying a conversation with a petite accountant about Amitabh Bachchan’s recent return to prominence, so much so that he was unaware of what was transpiring at the next table. When it came time for the men to rotate, Prem found himself seated across from Harbhajan Gill.
“Harbhajan?”
“You did not think I would find you, did you?” Harbhajan said. The driver, with his excessively unbuttoned shirt and dark glasses, struck Prem as a regular, sort of sidey guy trying to move into the role of lead villain.
“I see you every day,” Prem said.
“But not like this.”
“Uh, ya, you’re right, not at speed dating,” Prem said. He noticed the organizers glaring in their direction. “Are you looking for a girl?” he said, leaning in closer to Harbhajan. “I think you’re on the wrong side, man. Wait, what happened to your angry wife?”
“She is with my angry kids,” Harbhajan said. “Why you are here? Did I not tell you to find the blonde wife? Never mind, never mind, I am not here for that. You know what I am here for.”
“Okay, but why did you have to follow me here and sneak into the incorrect side of speed dating? Why could we not talk in King’s Court?”
“I don’t know, this seemed better. Now I am going to blackmail you.”
Prem braced himself for a devastating monetary value. “Just tell me, what do you want.”
Harbhajan caressed a tuft of hair on his chest. “You tell me.”
“You want me to tell you what you want?” Prem said.
“No, but ya, I mean, what do the blackmailers usually charge in this kind of situation?”
“Well, I think it depends on many factors. Do you want me to check with some people and get back to you?”
“Ya, ya, check, that would be good.” Harbhajan narrowed his eyes and leaned in. “Don’t take too much of time, Pumpwalla. I will be watching you,” he warned, then stood and rotated to the next date.
Prem could hardly believe that Harbhajan had turned out to be such a diabolical taxi driver. He began popping up in increasingly odd locales, in the seat next to him at the movie theater or the ends of grocery store aisles, exacerbating Prem’s already extreme anxiety. The Continental Airlines Arena show was in a few weeks, he hadn’t caught a glimpse of Leena in ages, and Lata Mangeshkar was still on his back. Together, all of this made Prem’s head spin faster than the inner circle of a traditional Gujarati folk dance.
These were the concerns that were on his mind as he stood on the sidelines at the Raritan Center Navratri, the largest celebration of that holiday beyond the borders of India. Traditionally a nine-day autumn festival occurring in various forms throughout India—some regions honored the goddess Durga, while others commemorated Lord Rama’s victory over the demon king Ravana, and still others took an admirably feminist slant by celebrating multiple goddesses, and all versions shared the theme of good’s triumph over evil—this American incarnation of Navratri took place over five consecutive weekends in an industrial park three times the size of a football field, in a heated canvas tent with metal detectors at its entrance. Here, the holiday was observed in the Gujarati manner with the production of a large-scale garba, the traditional, high-energy, percussive yet graceful folk dance performed in concentric rings of decked-out dancers spiraling and circling, gradually increasing in speed until reaching a frenzied peak. Just a decade earlier, this festival had taken place in various auditoriums, cultural centers, and school gymnasiums throughout the state, but the crowds grew every year until a massive venue accommodating ten thousand guests seemed appropriate. There had been trouble the past few years, with the township taking legal action against the organizers, citing complaints of noise pollution from the live music. But in the end, the Indian Americans won.
Chomping on a paan as he stood watching, Prem wondered if the court victory had emboldened the band to play even more vociferously. Two singers seemed to be battling for the title of most grating, and standing in the wings was Shatrughan Sinha, the Shotgun himself, aging film hero and womanizer turned politician, waiting to be honored. The mustachioed philanderer was slated to appear in Prem’s Bollywood Dreams show, in what the actor considered a collect-two-paychecks-with-one-airline-ticket scheduling coup. Prem’s usual array of roommates, former gas-station colleagues, and various others were scanning the crowd for potential young women to accost, urging him to join them as they homed in on a pack of unwitting targets. But Prem focused his attention on the opposite direction, toward the bleachers and food stalls, the sari vendors and jewelry displays. He knew Leena would not be dancing; she harbored the firm belief that only Gujaratis were qualified to participate in garba and all else should refrain. He searched for her among the cotton kurtis and the magnificent eight-armed Durga statues, but instead, he spotted Harbhajan Gill lurking behind a rack of bangles.
Prem went directly to him. “Why are you lurking again? Just come talk to me, man.”
“I am not lurking, I am shopping,” Harbhajan corrected. He ran a finger down a row of bangles, causing them to tinkle softly, then slid over to the somewhat-fine jewelry section. “A few gold chains would be nice …”
Prem immediately began to calculate how much it would set him back to buy his blackmailer a few necklaces. How had it come to this? Was the secret of his upper-class upbringing even worth this hassle? Alas, the answer was yes. After all these years of his toiling to belong, to be one of the struggling gang, what would they say if they discovered the truth of his deception? They would be outraged. They might boycott his shows and kick him out of the apartment, maybe even out of King’s Court. And Leena, who already wanted nothing to do with him, would want him even less. Just then, Prem glimpsed a gigantic sunglassed man who looked a lot like Wristwatch prowling nearby. He wondered how he had come to have two ill-intentioned guys spying on him at a garba.
“I thought of something I want from you,” Harbhajan said.
“I understand, you want some chains,” Prem said.
“Can you make me meet Shatrughan Sinha?”
