In the “100 Innovators” edition of Time, Harvard professor Molly Galvan praises how you have made DTG synonymous with accessible grooming. Forbes lauds your offering free threading to women seeking employment and your commitment to training survivors of domestic violence for your “hair force” of aestheticians. Your favorite is the Fast Company piece “Rehabilitation Through Hair Elimination,” which you casually leave by your father’s bedside.
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Despite the effort Prem put into tracking Leena over the years, he was unaware of the great heights her business had reached. He knew about the home salon and mall threading but didn’t feel it necessitated any ongoing research. It’s not that he thought she couldn’t build a massive enterprise, but that she wasn’t one to crave such a thing. “Why does everything have to grow and expand and become an empire?” she used to say. So when Prem read the Time magazine piece about Leena’s empire, he gasped.
“What happened?” Sayali said from the kitchen, where she was tacking up another picture of a waterfall while waiting for the chai to boil. Prem had been reclining on her couch, his head on an armrest, flipping through magazines. He was purposefully relaxing that week in anticipation of the considerable work ahead of him for the Bollywood Gold Awards, a show he’d invented to give audiences and participants alike something new. He and Beena had devised the list of nominees one evening over papdi chaat at Arjun’s Street Snack Shack, and then, in the interest of efficiency, went ahead and picked the winners as well. Madhuri Dixit, Aishwarya Rai, and Shah Rukh Khan (essentially the cast of the recent hit Devdas), among others, were lured to New Jersey with the promise of a golden Gold Spot statuette—a nod to the beloved, recently discontinued soda. To add an additional dose of glitz and prestige, Prem planned to bestow upon an as-yet-undetermined Hollywood celebrity the Friend of India Award, an idea also dreamed up over papdi chaat.
When he came to Leena’s page in Time, he sprung to an upright position. “Oh, are you reading the section on Mohini Bhardwaj?” Sayali inquired. “They say she’s going to win a medal in Athens. When did you become excited for women’s gymnastics?”
Prem couldn’t believe what he was reading. A nationwide network, charitable partnerships, plans for expansion. It felt like a betrayal, though he wasn’t sure of what or by whom. How could he not know this much of her world? Sayali set down two mugs on her Alaska: The Last Frontier coasters on the coffee table and waited for him to speak. “Gymnastics, ya, you know. I like when they jump,” he said. She looked at him, puzzled. “On the beam,” he added. He downed his tea, in the process scalding his tongue, and begged her forgiveness, he just remembered he had to go, he would call her soon, sorry.
Outside, it smelled of fire, though there was none, bringing Prem back to India, where there always seemed to be a suggestion of a fire nearby. He wanted to be alone. He took his bike to Oak Tree Road, hauling himself down the street looking for a spicy paan. He wanted not to think about Leena and the entire life she’d lived without him, instead seeking only to satisfy his craving. It wasn’t good for him, he knew, but it was a compulsion he couldn’t shake. At Once Up-Paan a Time, he ordered two, for which he was charged an inflated price, the desperation written on his face.
That same smoky May evening, Hemant Engineer was rushed to JFK hospital with chest pain. A coronary angiogram showed significant blockage in more than one artery, and he was scheduled to have bypass surgery four days later. Leena stayed by her father’s side night and day, essentially moving into his room. After five excruciating hours of surgery, Hemant was wheeled out to his recovery room in surgical intensive care, and the anguish of uncertainty was past. Leena’s role turned from distraught daughter to gatekeeper and part-time unintentional host.
Beena was first to visit, bearing khichdi, the Indian patient’s rice-based comfort food of choice. Next came Uttam Jindal, armed with a new jet-black wig and fresh dhokla. Sanjay Sapra came late but stayed the longest, setting up camp in one corner, where he served water and refreshments to guests. Kailash Mistry offered to sing, and astrologist, palmist, and self-driving priest Tilak Upadhyaya popped by to offer his services. Leena’s friend Varsha brought homemade thepla in a blue Royal Dansk Danish Butter Cookies tin, and Charlie Patel brought a DVD of Lagaan, the Indian cricket lover’s movie of choice. By the time visiting hours were over, all of the major business leaders of the Oak Tree community had come by, as well as several prominent Indians in politics and news and most of King’s Court Buildings 3 through 12.
Leena had been so busy expanding her own sphere of influence, she’d forgotten that her father’s had reached unruly new heights. Just a year ago, he had been named chairman of the board of the Indian American Retailers Association, and the year before that, he’d been honored by the American National Cricket Club for his dedication to promoting the game in America. Whenever she came to the apartment, a crowd was waiting to ask for favors, pledge their support, collaborate on projects, and plan events. As she stood by his hospital bed, she felt proud that they’d both done so well, fueled by the same personal fortitude and otherworldly immigrant determination, coupled with the abiding fear of sliding backward into that life where they couldn’t save her mother.
But perhaps so much activity had worn her father out. “Okay, thank you, everyone, for coming, time to go, Papa needs rest,” she said to Gitanjali Vora, Shanta Bhatt, Nalini Sen, Urmila Sahu, Lucky, Gopal, Mohan, Deepak, Iqbal, Amarleen, Tun-Tun, Tony, and others she didn’t know.
Almost no one stopped talking or made any movement toward the door. Urmila asked Leena if she could come to the hospital to thread her upper lip regularly if ever she was in a coma. “Maybe twice every month?”
“Me too, I want that service too!” Shanta added.
It wasn’t a terrible idea, coma contracts, and Leena tucked it away for later. “Fabulous plan, Auntie, yes, let us discuss it some other time, okay, bye, yes, bye,” she said, directing her to the door, where Gopal was asking Mohan, “If there is ‘understood,’ why there’s no ‘overstood?’”
Finally, Hemant spoke, clearing his throat loudly before beginning. “My heart, although in need of repairing, feels full today. My friends, my colleagues, my community, my accountant, thank you for coming.” He joined his palms and bowed his head in gratitude. “Now go,” he ordered. As the crowd said their goodbyes and get-wells and shuffled out, Hemant added, “Not Prem. Prem, you stay.”
Leena had not even noticed Prem there, hovering by the door with Beena, and the suddenness of his presence was jarring. So many years had passed since she’d seen him so close up. He was no longer the gangly boy in gas-station coveralls without a rupee to his name, but instead a tidy, more self-possessed man, older and full of days. He had retained his sideburns and feathery hair, as though trying to freeze himself in an oddly specific moment in time, but weariness was also evident in his face, markers of half a lifetime lived. His features were the same, though, graceful and arresting, his essential Shashi Kapoorness still intact.
She’d watched him at a distance through the years and knew about the wild success of his superstar shows. On more than one occasion, she’d observed him standing alone and off to the side and felt sorry for him. But there, in the hospital, he no longer seemed like someone to pity. The question remained, however: why was he here?
“Leena, before you leave—” Hemant started.
“Papa, no, no, I am staying,” Leena said, sweeping the hair back from his forehead with her fingers.
“I need you to take care of Hriyan,” Hemant said. “He needs water right away.”
“Of course, Papa. I’ll stop at the store first to make sure—”
“The store is just fine,” Hemant interrupted. “It is Hriyan I am worried about. Are you not?”
“Of course, I am, Papa,” Leena assured him. She felt suddenly like she did not understand her father at all. His obsession with the plant, his asking Prem to stay back—she really needed to spend more time with him to make sure his mind was functioning properly. “I will be back in two, three hours,” she said. The last of the visitors exited, and Prem came forward directly toward her with a piercing, unnerving gaze. They didn’t speak that day but exchanged nods of acknowledgment, their sleeves brushing as they passed. Leena kissed her father, gathered her things, and left, not noticing the piece of her hair Prem had picked from her sweater and tucked into his pocket.
* * *
Prem had arrived at the hospital with a degree of trepidation, knowing she would be there. He wanted to see her—of course, he always did—but he didn’t know how she would react to his presence. The absurdity of wanting to visit Hemant yet being nervous about running into Leena was not lost on him. But he had to pay his respects, so he braced himself and went in.
The old man’s room was full to the brim with guests, which Prem expected. Hemant had become an important person in their little world, respected and loved. After the assistance Hemant had given Prem with the detained megastars at the airport, they had continued to help each other as needed. Prem connected Hemant with his special-effects lighting guy for an upcoming fundraiser; Hemant helped Prem to buy Thums Up in bulk for a new show he was planning. Though Prem viewed Hemant as the same tightfisted shopkeeper with the choleric disposition who had caused him to wait a lifetime for love, he also discovered that he was kind of nice.
When Hemant called for him to stay back, Prem presumed it was to discuss getting an actor to appear for the grand reopening of his store’s refrigerated aisle. He considered ducking behind a gurney, harkening back to his days behind the drapes in his childhood home. He had been watching Leena for ten minutes but wasn’t ready for her to see him. He took a deep breath and went into the room, coming closer to her than he had in fifteen years, one month, and eleven days, during which he’d thought of her every day. Worry lines had become evident between her brows, as had a few fine lines around her eyes. Some freckles had gained prominence at the end of her nose, and flecks of gray had appeared at her temples. She was thirty-five now. She was perfect.
After that initial visit, Prem became a fixture at JFK Medical Center’s Surgical ICU, room 4021. The daily visitors soon reduced in number, and by the time Hemant was transferred to inpatient rehab in the basement, Prem and Leena were the only ones left.
“Who is ready for Beena Joshi’s famous veg biryani?” Prem removed the lid from a Daisy sour-cream container while Leena organized Hemant’s personal items. They hadn’t spoken to each other directly yet, but instead had been speaking around each other.
“I’m going to King’s Court, Papa, to get your clean clothes. Anything you want from there?”
“Tongue scraper,” Hemant said.
“Got it,” Leena said. “You will be okay here?”
Hemant shook his head. “Ya, ya, don’t worry. Prem is here.”
Prem had begun spoon-feeding biryani to Hemant. Leena took in the bizarre scene and turned to go.
“Remember,” Hemant called. “Water for Hriyan.”
When she returned a few hours later, Prem was hard at work rubbing her father’s feet.
“Enough. That was wonderful,” Hemant said to Prem. “Now I will sleep for some time.”
“Very good, just rest,” Prem said, sliding Hemant’s socks back on. “I will get the Jell-O.”
Hemant looked at Prem with a softness in his eyes that Leena had thought was reserved only for her and the plant. “I never noticed before,” Hemant said, “you have a very calming nice voice. Like Jagjit Singh.” Prem smiled and adjusted Hemant’s pillow as he fell gently asleep.
When Prem left, Leena stopped sorting and organizing and jolted her father awake. “Papa! What is happening here?”
