“I’m gonna make a move,” Prem said.
“What? The program has not even started as yet. And you must meet Zubin, he tells the naughtiest stories.”
“The orchestra conductor? Never mind, I’ll take the car and send it back for you. Stay, enjoy.”
Sant Chatwal, tall and imposing in his signature red turban, interjected, “Do not worry, I will make sure she gets home.”
Prem looked back and forth between them. “Uh, okay.”
He made his way to street level and his driver brought around the car, which he ducked into without the usual small talk. Still reeling from the unexpected urinal reunion, Prem was silent the entire ride home. The weight of what his father had said, that he had never had confidence in himself, pressed down on him, and he realized this was because it was true. He had always placed the blame on others for pressuring him, for expecting too much. And then he had run away. His thoughts bounced between this and more pressing questions: What would he say when his father inevitably tracked him down? What did his father expect him to do? Was he really invited to the gala as a prominent Desi, or was it his father’s doing? Was he prominent or not?
The apartment was uncharacteristically quiet when Prem got home. The Singhs had taken their visiting relatives to Niagara Falls for the obligatory relatives-visiting-from-India trip, US side only, while Deepak, Mohan, Yogesh, and Lucky were at a card party two buildings over. Overcome with exhaustion, Prem collapsed onto his mattress without changing his clothes and slept for two hours before being awakened by his roommates’ return and the appearance of Beena and Ashok shortly after.
“Jesus,” Prem’s father said as he surveyed the apartment. “So these are the onions. Lataji informed me of these.”
Prem sat up straight and tried to tamp his hair down. “I see you have met Beena,” he said.
“Mr. Chatwal introduced us,” Beena said rather proudly.
What transpired next was a scene right out of Aakhree Raasta, Amitabh’s 1986 double-role crime drama, when father and son face each other in a graveyard and are confronted with the reality of their opposing viewpoints. Ashok made a case for why Prem should join the family business at last, going into great detail about the brilliant prescience of his son’s long-ago multiplex theater idea. By moving away from the 600-seat single-theater format and allowing multiple films to play simultaneously in smaller theaters, filmmakers would be freed from the burden of having to produce mega-blockbusters in order to turn a profit. Filmmaking would flourish, audiences would enjoy greater variety, revenues would soar. They could call the enterprise Kumar BIG Pictures, which would be a subsidiary of Kumar BIG Entertainment, both of which would develop under Prem’s direction. Ashok spoke of how the company still invested in concepts that served the common person, even increasing its footprint in the automatic papad-drying machine industry. He paced back and forth, clutching one elbow behind his back, and then, with some difficulty, plopped down on the mattress next to Prem and exhaled loudly through his nose. “You must take a decision,” he ordered.
Beena washed the Singhs’ dishes and made a pot of chai while Lucky, Deepak, Mohan, and Yogesh stared shamelessly at the Kumars in conversation. After some time, Lucky asked, “Who is this guy?”
“That’s it, you four, out,” Beena said to the roommates, shooing them toward the door with a spatula. “Go to my apartment, watch TV, have paan, out out, hurry up.”
Prem looked down at the floor. “You see, Papa,” he said, “there is a girl.”
“A girl?” Ashok said. “Of course. Well, what is the problem, then? We will get you married to her, she can settle in India, end of story.”
Ashok seemed so relieved, jubilant even, that Prem felt terrible ruining his moment of bliss. He told his father everything—his courtship with Leena, Hemant’s decree, the father and daughter’s unawareness of his privileged background, Leena’s and his breakup, and her subsequent engagement.
Prem went into great detail about his internal struggles with anxiety and shyness, his fear of work, and how Hemant’s demand had actually been a blessing that forced him to face his fear and do something in the world. He was proud to tell his father that he was now a successful man to whom others came for help. He left out the part about the financing from the Mumbai underworld but laid bare the rest, pouring out the contents of his tormented soul, reaching for words to communicate the depth of his pain. At last, he concluded, “For a while I worked at Exxon petrol pump.”
Ashok thumped his heartwrecked son on the back before turning to Beena. “Tell me, Beenaji, what in the hell is happening in this place?”
“Kumarji,” Beena said, “I have been wondering the same thing.”
“You have?” Prem said.
“Of course!” she said. “What is wrong with those Engineers? Why father and daughter are torturing you? Come, let us go ask them.”
“What? No. Out of the question,” Prem responded.
“Splendid idea!” Ashok said. “Where do they stay?”
“Oh, just here, three buildings down.”
“Perfect! Come, Son, let me straighten out this rubbish for you. Why did you not tell me this years back? I could have fixed this all up right then.”
“You don’t, that is not the way—” Prem composed himself and started over. “No one is going anywhere. Except maybe Beena is going home and you are going to a hotel.”
“Does this Leena even want to come back to you?” Ashok asked his son.
“Well, no, not really,” Prem said.
“But you are living here for her,” Ashok said.
“Correct.”
“And she is marrying someone else.”
“Most likely.”
“But she has not married yet.”
“Correct.”
“And you think maybe she will suddenly break with her fiancé and run through a field of tulips into your arms.”
“Not exactly—”
Ashok let out a frustrated harumph. “I am losing patience, Beenaji. Let us go talk to this Engineer.”
“What? Why?” Prem began but quickly gave up. “Fine, go.”
“Have some chai, and maybe get those buffoons out of my apartment,” Beena said to Prem, pulling the door shut behind her.
He didn’t fetch his friends, but he did drink three cups of tea while worrying about what was transpiring in 5F. It wasn’t so much that he was worried about the meeting of the fathers, though this was not a pleasant thought by any means. What concerned him most was what Leena would think when she learned that he had hidden his past from her, that he had lied. Then again, she might not care at all. It was doubtful, though not impossible, that she was in the apartment as all of this was transpiring. And if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t be long before Hemant would catch her up on everything. After finishing the tea, Prem dug around for something stiff to drink.
