They hugged for a long time at Newark Airport. “Don’t worry, Papa,” Prem said. “Even on the mattress, under the onions, it is a nice life.”
Ashok patted his son on the back. “She must be something.”
Leena was not only something, she was everything. Every ordinary object or occurrence alluded to her: a swing in the park reminded him of the one in her father’s apartment, Gold Spot on a menu recalled their first encounter. He tried to focus on work and friends, but then he would see some cassette tape, a cricket match on TV, or someone who laughed the way she did, and he was ruined all over again. He watched DDLJ and wondered if she saw the same meaning in it that he did. The primacy of kanyadaan, the father’s blessing—for any marriage, be it arranged, love, or something in between—and whether she could see his refusal to marry without it as a heroic act. It was all in the film. While Prem found comfort in the fact that she had not yet married the doctor, he had a ferocious desire to know why not. When he enlisted Mr. Satish Rajan to investigate the matter—a return favor for intervening in an ongoing mouse infestation issue at Hidden Valley Estates—the only intelligence he acquired was that she’d switched from Coats to Vanity brand thread for her salon.
When the Bollywood Dreams show, the biggest, showiest show yet, was mounted at the Continental Airlines Arena, Prem anonymously gave Leena premium tickets through Varsha Virani. Though twelve thousand people were in attendance, Shilpa Shetty entered from the ceiling on a trapeze lowered from the rafters, Akshay Kumar appeared from within a cloud of smoke, newcomer heartthrob Hrithik Roshan ripped his tight white undershirt from his body and performed a rigorous shirtless dance while Rani Mukerji and Kajol danced fully clothed beside him, and the finale incorporated ticker tape, jugglers with flaming torches, and a pole-vaulting Shah Rukh Khan, Prem was crushed because Leena came with Mikesh instead of Varsha.
He saw her a handful of painful times more that summer, sometimes by accident, sometimes by design. At Singas Famous Pizza, that small chain of informal restaurants with a mysteriously fanatical following among Indian Americans throughout the tristate area, she ordered pineapple topping, which was a distressing reminder of how many little things he did not know about her, of how much had changed since her strictly onion and green pepper days. Another day, as he entered Swagath Gourmet, he spotted her stepping out of Avsar Bridal Emporium, which ruined July for him. He drifted through that summer, weary and withdrawn, beaten down by his decade-long obsession. When the India Day Parade came around again, he went with the intention of seeing her. He’d heard that India America Grocers and Leena’s salon had entered a float this year, one third of which Hemant had sublet to tax and accounting specialist Bansilal Patel CPA LLC. He stood in the crowd in the sweltering August heat and searched the horizon with the distant eyes of a man remembering a long-ago love. When she appeared, she wore a sky-blue salwar and her hair was in a messy ponytail, and she waved and tossed out coupons for one-dollar-off chickpea flour, which people dove after as if for gold. Prem picked one up from the ground. It had been stepped on and was partially torn, but he folded it up and put it in his wallet anyway because she had touched it. On the days he saw her with the doctor, he wondered whether it was better to see her with him or not see her at all. He suspected others were after her as well; a young owner of a chain of motels seemed to be hanging around her a lot on group outings, and a few IT guys also seemed to be vying for attention. Perhaps they’d learned she had no real interest in the doctor and thought they stood a chance, which at once heartened and disturbed Prem. He thought about the prevalence of love triangles in Hindi movies—Devdas, Pyaasa, Sangam, Muqaddar Ka Sikandar, the list went on—and hoped he wasn’t the tragic hero who dies alone. In the deepest depth of his sadness, he questioned what he was doing and doubted that she even remembered his name, only to regain, in time, his hopefulness, because what choice did he have?
Beena, irked by her friend’s situation, asked Prem at the beginning of September, “How can you keep waiting like this? How can you waste your youth?”
He sighed. “Hindi movies can be quite long sometimes.”
It was with the desire to catch a glimpse of her from across a crowded banquet hall that Prem accepted a position as a judge at the Miss India USA pageant. Over six hundred people packed the ballroom at Royal Albert’s Palace to witness thirty-two of the brightest, most talented predominantly pre-med Indian American women in the country compete for the crown and a chance to represent the nation in the Miss India Worldwide pageant, to be held in Dubai in April. Prem was seated next to fellow judge and cricket legend Kapil Dev, who was in a chatty mood.
“I cannot decide, yaar, Goblet of Fire was good, but Prisoner of Azkaban was fantastic,” Kapil Dev said. It was intolerably, unusually hot outside for September in New Jersey, but the massive room was overwhelmed by air conditioning. Heavily bejeweled women mingled among tables while their husbands moved on to their second Johnnie Walkers. Prem immediately spotted Leena chatting with Snigdha, her father nearby straining to catch a glimpse of Kapil Dev. She wore a maharani pink sari with simple earrings, her hair in a high bun. She was more stunning than all of the contestants taken together. If he could have, he would have awarded her every prize right then: Miss Beautiful Smile, Miss Beautiful Skin, Miss Beautiful Eyes, Miss Beautiful Hair, Miss Talented, Miss Photogenic, and Miss Well-spoken; and then he would invent five new categories—Miss Contagious Laugh, Miss Exceedingly Straight Teeth, Miss Astute Businesswoman, Miss Devoted Daughter, Miss Not-Too-Much Makeup—and bestow them upon her as well.
“Really?” Kapil Dev continued. “You have not read any of them?”
The night went on like this, with Kapil Dev whispering in his ear and Prem finding reasons to turn and glance in Leena’s direction. When Miss Michigan, whose hobbies included Bharata Natyam dancing and spending time with her grandmother, lost a set of eyelashes during the Indian dress competition, Leena laughed but quickly covered her mouth with her hand to keep it in. When Miss Virginia, a fan of kung fu films and Justin Timberlake, tried to execute a show-stopping twirl in the last leg of the evening gown segment, Leena accepted a refill of her wine. He sat through three Bollywood dances, two off-key vocalists, one tap-dancing performance, a violin solo, a poetry recital, and an inspirational talk, all the while thinking, Leena, Leena, Leena. When the interviews began and one subpar contestant after another answered the question, “How would you use the Miss India USA crown to help the world?” he had had enough.
“What is wrong? Are you okay?” Kapil Dev nudged Prem’s arm gently. “I know, Miss Kentucky’s answer was terrible, but really, try to hold it together, man.”
Prem had buried his face in his arms on the table and begun emitting a low moan. The judge on the other side of him, model and acclaimed cookbook author Padma Lakshmi, also tried to help him rally, and onstage, the emcee paused and gawked. The entire ballroom that night thought the owner of Superstar Entertainment had been so disgusted by Miss Kentucky’s incomprehensible, rambling answer about using her platform to eradicate dengue fever that he became physically ill. Only Lucky, watching from backstage, as The Sassy Salwar was the official sponsor of the Indian Dress category, saw that Prem’s sudden collapse nearly coincided with Leena exiting the ballroom with a tall and handsome man. It had been years since Prem and Leena’s short-lived, star-crossed romance, and Prem hadn’t mentioned her name since. Not many knew what had caused the breakup, and the whole episode was soon forgotten as the community carried on with living. Prem always seemed fine; not cheerful, but certainly content. Few could have guessed.
Lucky leaped onto the stage from his place in the wings. “No need to worry, his buddy is here,” he said to everyone in the ballroom and jumped down to the judges’ table. “Don’t worry, buddy,” he whispered to Prem, “let’s get out of here.” He put his arm around his roommate and walked him out of the ballroom, on the way announcing, “Tummy troubles! Probably the mutton. Nobody eat any more mutton!” By the time it was announced that the Miss India USA 2001 crown went to Miss Minnesota, Nirali Nath, they were back at King’s Court. They hadn’t spoken at all on the car ride home. Lucky tucked Prem into his mattress and turned off all the lights. He got himself ready for bed as well and checked one last time on Prem, who was already fast asleep. All this time, Lucky thought.
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LITTLE INDIA IN NEW JERSEY
Backlash in Our Backyards
BY MONA KULKARNI October 8, 2001
Page 1
Though it has been almost a month since the devastating attacks of September 11, for brown-skinned people in America, the terror has only just begun.
In the week immediately following the attack, Americans of South Asian or Middle Eastern descent faced an unprecedented number of incidents of racial bias, ranging from verbal abuse to vandalism, bullying in schools and workplace intimidation to physical assault and murder.
On September 15, Balbir Singh Sodhi, a Sikh gas-station owner in Mesa, Ariz., was shot and killed in the parking lot of his Chevron, where he had stepped outside to plant flowers. His killer, later identified as Frank Roque, was heard at a bar saying he was going to punish those responsible for September 11 by shooting “towelheads.” Sodhi, a father of five, is remembered as a generous, loving man who gave candy to children and allowed customers to pay later if short on cash. Earlier that day, he had donated the contents of his wallet—about $75—to a 9/11 victims’ fund.
On September 15, admitted white supremacist Mark Anthony Stroman took revenge for the September 11 attacks by shooting Pakistani immigrant Waqar Hasan in the head while he was grilling hamburgers in his Dallas, Texas, convenience store. Six days later, Stroman shot Bangladeshi immigrant Raisuddin Bhuiyan in the face at a gas station. While Bhuiyan survived, he was left blind in one eye. Still not finished with his killing spree, Stroman shot and killed Vasudev Patel, a Hindu Indian immigrant, on October 4 at his convenience store. The killer was arrested the following day.
While the horrific killings of Sodhi, Hassan and Patel were, to an extent, covered by the national news media, the everyday insults have remained largely hidden: the Sikh cab driver from Washington state who was brutally beaten by a customer; the “Towell [sic] Heads Go-Home!” sign left outside a Salem, Ore., convenience store owned by an Indian immigrant; the threatening phone calls and rocks thrown through Sikh Americans’ windows in Canfield, Ohio; the Pakistani man in Tulsa who, after being badly beaten and left with missing teeth and swollen eyes, still proclaimed his love for America; the countless South Asian and Middle Eastern Americans who were told to go back to their countries; the Indian man wiping away his tears outside a Washington mini mart after being threatened and harassed while working there. This list, compiled by South Asian American Leaders of Tomorrow (SAALT), goes on. The organization has been meticulously documenting such instances and has reported the occurrence of 645 in the first week after 9/11 alone.
Many believe there will be more.
Whatever the case, South Asian communities around the country have been organizing to stand up against racism and ignorance. Here in the Edison area, local businessman and community activist Hemant Engineer is coordinating a protest march for October 20. “We must show that we are strong and cannot be bullied. We are no longer helpless ‘dots’ to be easily busted,” Engineer says, referencing the string of crimes perpetrated in the 1980s by the hate group Dotbusters.
“Also, we here, whether we are Hindu, Sikh, Parsi, Buddhist or Muslim, we are not terrorists, we did not attack anyone. And now we are the ones being terrorized,” he continued. Mayor George Spadoro, Congressman Frank Pallone, Jr., and local police enforcement have already confirmed their participation in the event.
South Asians in the area have also begun taking certain precautionary measures against possible bias attacks, such as displaying American flags on their lawns and U.S.A. bumper stickers on their cars to announce their allegiance to the country. Men have shaved their beards and women have donned bindis, all in an effort to show they do not share the religion of the hijackers. Others are skeptical of such tactics. With the high concentration of Indians in our area—the population of Indians in New Jersey has increased by 113% in the past 10 years, reaching 169,180 people in 2000—some are concerned that the density and visibility of Indians here will make us an easy target.
Page 2
LETTERS
October 8, 2001
Model Minorities No More
In the “Letters” section of your September 24 issue, a Mr. Kavi Bakshi exhorted Hindu Americans to “please fly your American flags, shave your beards and wear your bindis.” I would just like to say that these things will not protect us. Instead of separating ourselves from other minorities in this country, now is the time to join forces with them.
We have long embraced the “model minority” label thrust upon us, which used us as a shining example of how, with hard work, any rule-abiding citizen can succeed in America. But now, we are experiencing the same widespread, blatant racism that other minority communities have always endured. We must not think we are different or better. We all are Muslims.
For more on this line of thinking, I implore you to please pick up Vijay Prashad’s eye-opening “The Karma of Brownfolk” from which my opinions derive.
Hasmukh Jha Colonia, N.J.
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