“You don’t want chains?”
“I really would very much like his autograph. Please.”
As they elbowed their way through the VIP dancing area toward the stage and Shatrughan Sinha, Prem had an idea. He could offer Harbhajan backstage passes for all future Superstar Entertainment shows in exchange for his silence. Thus he would not lose any money and Harbhajan would be placated, no, thrilled. Feeling quite good about this plan, Prem squeezed through the thick crowd of Desis. Just a few months back, they had faced yet more racist attacks on Oak Tree Road—a barrage of spit, BB-gun pellets, and lazy ethnic slurs—yet here they were, celebrating the festival of lights in the birthplace of the light bulb. The community’s resilience was staggering.
As they approached Shatrughan Sinha, Prem spotted Leena among a friend group with too many males, all in her thrall. Her long hair tumbled down her back as she laughed and threw her head back as if everything was great.
29
Not long after that, Prem attended the India Abroad Prominent Desis in America gala in New York City. At first, he thought there must be some mistake when Iqbal handed him the gilded envelope. He thought perhaps the organizers wanted to extract a donation from him, but then it occurred to him that he actually was a prominent Desi.
When he entered the grand and gaudy ballroom with his gaudy and grand date, Beena Joshi, on his arm, Prem felt what an honor it was to be there. Immediately he spotted Drs. Sanjay Gupta and Deepak Chopra, presumably discussing doctorly things. Not far from them, Bhairavi Desai, activist and founder of the New York Taxi Workers Alliance, was asking M. Night Shyamalan, “So, when did you decide he would be dead the whole time?” To their left, D J Rekha commended Jhumpa Lahiri for winning the Pulitzer Prize and thereby rendering creative writing an acceptable career by Indian immigrant parents for their American children, and to the right, Fareed Zakaria gnawed on a dinner roll and asked, “Why is Western bread so hard?”
While it was an honor to be there among the stars of the Indian community in America, Prem became noticeably sweaty at the mere thought of mingling. Plus, lately, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Wristwatch everywhere—at the post office, in the toothpaste aisle at Drug Fair, hovering near the open bar at this gala—and he worried that his grip on reality was becoming increasingly tenuous. At least Beena was accompanying him that evening and could help ground him.
“I was moved by your use of the child’s perspective as a lens through which to view the adult horrors of partition,” Beena said to acclaimed filmmaker Deepa Mehta. She was comporting herself in a surprisingly classy and dignified way, Prem thought. And why not? She belonged there as much as anyone, she worked as hard as anyone in that room, and no one had endured as much.
Wildly successful hotelier Sant Singh Chatwal added, “I completely concur! Wise choice by the book’s author and beautifully translated to the screen by Ms. Mehta,” then turning to Beena, “Do I know you, madam?”
While Beena charmed and regaled, Prem slouched and avoided eye contact. Anxious and drenched, he excused himself to find the men’s room. Soon they would take their seats and munch on their salads, listen to speeches, and politely clap. Then he could go back to his regular things. The Atlantic City show was coming along nicely, with preparations going well for the sold-out show. A few local casinos had purchased $1,500 VIP seats as gifts for their high-roller clients, and the show was being televised for the first time by satellite TV channel Star Plus. All of this was excellent for Prem’s bottom line, and though he was busier than ever and had taken to carrying two cell phones and occasionally sleeping in his office, and though he’d received a letter written in blood on official T-Company stationery—who could have guessed a crime syndicate would have its own letterhead—demanding a return on investment, it was all okay because it distracted him from the agony of unrequited love.
The dim, golden glow of the ballroom made everything float as in a watery dream, so when he entered the men’s room and came upon his father at a urinal, he rubbed his eyes to make him go away. He went about his business, but soon, midstream, he realized his father was still there.
“Son,” Ashok Ratan Kumar said from two urinals down. “This is not how I wanted first to see you.”
Prem had trouble understanding what was happening. Here was his father, in America, at this gala, hair almost completely silver, pants unzipped. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“I have missed you,” the Titan of Technology said. “How could you stay away so long?”
“Papa,” Prem answered, “you told me to.”
“When?”
“In your letter. With the tongue scrapers?”
“Oh, yes,” Ashok said. “I have had some time to think since then.”
Tears poured down both Kumars’ faces as they zipped up. They looked at each other and then, under the sterile lights of the Times Square Marriott Marquis’s sixth-floor men’s room, they reached for each other and locked in a powerful embrace, a climactic Bollywood moment, the camera looking down on them from a God’s-eye view, circling, spinning as a dramatic, soaring soundtrack obscured their sobs.
Three men entered the restroom, two heading to the urinals, one ducking into a stall. The father and son separated.
“What are you doing here?” Prem asked.
“Of course I came to see you,” Ashok said.
“No, I don’t mean in America, I mean, what are you doing here, in this men’s room at this hotel?”
“Oh, oh, ya, I am presenting an award.”
“You are?”
“You know, I thought I maybe could do both things in one trip.”
Prem didn’t know what to say, so his father kept talking. “I know how well your company, Superstar Activities—”
“Entertainment.”
“Superstar Entertainment has done. It is at the height of its success. Even in India you are known for what you have done here.”
“That reminds me, how did you involve Lata Mangeshkar?”
“No one can tell Lataji what to do. She does what she wants,” Ashok said. He continued, “But more than the money you must have made, I am impressed with your vision. Come home, Son. You have shown everyone what you can accomplish. There is no need to continue. Come back, join Kumar Group.”
Prem felt the old familiar sadness rise and cause a lump to form in his throat. If ever he was going to say the thing he wanted to say, now was the time. His fists clenched and his heart raced. “You never had confidence in me before. You wanted me to get married to a wealthy family and stay away from your precious company.”
Ashok was stunned. His mouth agape, he looked at his son with deep confusion and hurt in his eyes, straining as if seeing him from a great distance. “I believed in you. Always, I had confidence in you. The problem was you did not have confidence in yourself.”
A troubling odor began to seep out from under the door of the third stall. This, combined with the turmoil in his head, caused Prem to feel a sudden suffocation. He had to leave immediately. “I am going home,” he said.
“Wait, I will go with you after this award-presenting business,” Ashok said.
“I have to go now, Papa.”
“I will find you after. I will come to Edison to your little place.”
“No, don’t find me, don’t do anything. Just …” Without finishing his thought, Prem exited the men’s room.
Beena was part of a small horde of people leaning in to listen to world-renowned conductor Zubin Mehta tell a story. “And then he pulled his pants back up!” Zubin said, setting off an uproar of laughter. Prem tugged on Beena’s elbow, pulling her out of the crowd.
