Beena led the way through the bedraggled lawn as Ashok looked with curiosity at the place where his son had lived all these years. The buildings were squat and plain, their railings rusted, paint peeling from the window trim. Candy wrappers and cigarette butts littered the grass. Though it was well past midnight, a man was leaning precariously over a balcony, trying to make an adjustment to a satellite dish, while another man on another balcony was yelling into his cell phone. When they reached the Engineers’ apartment, Viren Bhai answered the door.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, as though Beena and a strange man’s late-night visit were typical.
“Hello, Viren Bhai, sorry to disturb, is Hemant at home?” Beena said.
“Yes, yes, come sit,” he said.
“Why does this apartment look like a rainforest?” Ashok said, referring to Hemant’s overgrown plant, whose leaves now covered every inch of ceiling and wall.
“This is Ashok Kumar, founder and chairman—chairman, no? Or is it president? CEO?—CEO of Kumar Group, and our dear Prem’s father.”
Viren Bhai remained serene and unflappable, as always. “Nice to make your acquaintance. I will just call Hemant. It will be one moment.”
There was grunting and muffled discussion in the back room, and finally Hemant appeared in his bedtime kurta pajama, rubbing his eyes. “Is my daughter fine?”
“She is fine,” Beena said. “I mean, I do not actually know if she is fine. Probably she is fine. This is Ashok Kumar, Prem’s father from Delhi.”
The two men sized each other up. Viren Bhai assumed the lotus pose in one corner. Hemant could not understand the connection between this well-dressed, imposing gentleman and the gas-stationwalla who had been after his daughter. “But you look so nice.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, ya, this is the owner of Kumar Group Company, the highly successful and famous industrialist and very important man.”
“But you said he is the father of that cheap street lafunga,” Hemant said, genuinely confused.
“Did you just call my son a cheap street lafunga?”
“You really should not call his son a cheap street lafunga,” Beena said turning to Hemant.
After much back and forth and some light Internet searching, Hemant was at last persuaded that Ashok Kumar was who he said he was and that Prem was his son. “Ashokji! Why did you not say so in the beginning? Come sit on this chair, it is more comfortable. I will bring you some juice. You want juice?”
The two men spoke then as though they were in-laws already, laughing yet respectful, comfortable yet cautious. Hemant, entirely forgetting that Leena was engaged to Mikesh, was ecstatic about his daughter’s possible connection with the prosperous Kumar family, quickly thanking his auspicious plant under his breath. Ashok was pleased to find that Hemant was a hospitable and friendly man after all. Beena was getting quite sleepy and frustrated that no matters were being resolved.
“Now, what about this one million and one dollars?” Ashok asked.
In all his excitement, Hemant had forgotten the cause of Leena and Prem’s breakup and was embarrassed at the mention of it. “Oh, no, that is nothing, you know, forget that. Let us leave the past in the past only and look forward into the bright future of these two young people.”
Ashok shifted in his highly comfortable chair. “They are not so young anymore.”
“Better to not waste time then!” Hemant said.
“How was it that you treated my son in this manner?” Ashok said.
Beena slapped her forehead. She turned to Viren Bhai for support, but his eyes were closed, in meditation or sleep. “You know, nothing needs to be resolved now, let us meet in the morning. I will make dosa—”
“Your son,” Hemant replied, “was penniless and without prospects. I had to take a wise decision for my daughter’s well-being in this country.”
“I see, so your daughter is too foolish to take a wise decision on her own.”
“Did you say my daughter is foolish?”
“You said your daughter is foolish.”
In an instant, a life of luxury flashed before Hemant’s eyes: private jets, top-of-the-line cars, unlimited jet skis, homes in multiple countries, designer saris, red carpets, servants and drivers, and unnecessary jewelry. But then he saw Leena’s sad face after being insulted by her father-in-law. Hemant stood and pointed to the door. “No, thank you, we do not need your money or your insults or your son. Leena has found a nice doctor boy and we are very happy.”
Knowing when to exit an unsuccessful negotiation was one of Ashok’s strengths. He quietly left the apartment and waited outside for Beena.
“What have you done?” Beena yelled at Hemant. “Okay, okay, I can sort it all out,” she sighed, shooing him back toward his room and slipping out.
Hemant could hardly contain his anger. He turned to his peaceful boarder for comfort. “Can you believe that man? Can you believe his son, hiding the truth, telling us nothing about his background and such?”
Viren Bhai slowly opened his eyes and let out a steady, soothing breath. “Oh yes, Prem is the son of Ashok Ratan Kumar, Titan of Technology, Giant of Generics, head of Kumar Group, net worth rupees 7.1 crores. You did not know?”
That night, everyone went to bed—Ashok on Beena’s squeaky plastic couch—but no one slept. Beena had come by to give Prem a summary of the meeting’s salient points. He was somewhat relieved knowing that Leena had not been present. Still, he couldn’t sleep. At 4:31 a.m., he wrote:
198. There are some things I have to tell you about my family. Please do not mind.
199. Also, some goondas from Mumbai are after me.
30
Ashok Ratan Kumar returned to India without his son. He did not understand why Prem had initially agreed to the grocery man’s orders, nor why he continued to live as a paying guest on a mattress and ride a bicycle in the snow. But he did realize, at last, why his son stayed in America. He was there for a girl, albeit one who was not there for him.
“Come back anytime, Son,” Ashok had said. “Anmol will be heading Kumar BIG Entertainment now, but we can always find something else for you, perhaps on the alcohol side?”
“Sure, ya, uh …”
“Come for a short time, come for a long time, bring her, do not bring her,” he said. “Just be in touch.”
