“Premji,” Wristwatch said, “I have been expecting you.”
Prem turned to look at a confused donut worker, then back at Wristwatch. He knew the mafia ruffian had not stalked and ambushed him for benevolent reasons, yet Prem wanted only to collapse into the gigantic man’s arms, rest his head on his shoulder, and cry. Seeing someone there who knew where he was from, knew who he actually was, and knew that he owed a large sum of money to a notorious gangster made him feel less alone.
“Wristwatch,” Prem said, “I did not know you liked donuts.”
“I only have tried this kind,” Wristwatch said, holding up his cruller. “It is nice.”
“I am getting a chai. One for you?” Prem said, reaching for his wallet.
“No, thank you.”
“Let me get a chai for you,” Prem said. “We can make a ten-minute truce.”
“No, no, it is not that,” Wristwatch said. “The issue, really, it is just, it is not really chai.”
Prem’s face lit up. “I know!” he said, somewhat too energetically, he realized. But he continued with what he began, tearing apart the notion of a “chai latte” for its obvious contradiction in terms and its profound dissimilarity from its authentic self. He went into what he considered to be a cultural travesty, the lack of actual boiled milk and tea leaves, all of which was supplanted by a gooey syrup pumped into lukewarm, indifferent milk.
Wristwatch looked at him blankly. “At least this concoction has brought some semblance of India’s culture to every corner of every big city in the world.”
“Good point,” Prem admitted. It was fun for a moment to be upset about something other than his own life, but he knew Wristwatch was there to discuss more pressing matters. “So, none for you?”
Prem returned with two coffees and took a seat across from Wristwatch. They sat in silence.
“Look,” Wristwatch said at last. “Tiger Nayak is here.”
Prem jumped out of his chair and looked around frantically.
“Not here in Dunkin’ Donuts,” Wristwatch said. “Here in America, in New Jersey. Edison.”
“In Edison. Tiger Nayak. The international criminal mob leader.”
“Well, we are not as established internationally as we’d like, but we are hoping,” Wristwatch said, touching his fingers to the table, just in case. He cleared his throat. “You are expected to report for a meeting tomorrow, one o’clock, Edison Memorial Tower. Be on time.”
That night, Prem barely slept. Under his onions, he lay awake for hours. He tried to breathe deliberately. Calm his racing heart. Formulate a plan. Not think about Leena. Only think about Leena. He circled through this sequence many times before drifting off, wondering how often the Singhs used their onions and switched them out for new ones.
“Yaar, someone wake up Pumpwalla.”
“I tried. He maybe is dead.”
“Then just roll him to the side.”
“You roll him to the side.”
“I’ll roll your mother to the side.”
This was the negotiation Prem woke up to as his roommates straightened up the apartment in preparation for a viewing of Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., the new Sanjay Dutt blockbuster about the time-honored quest to impress one’s parents by becoming a doctor. Apparently, fifteen to twenty other people would be coming over shortly.
Prem, enjoying the bustle and banter, soon remembered what he had to do that day and moaned, pulling the blanket over his head.
“Pumps, what’s happening to you?” Mohan asked. “Move. Varsha, Falguni, Snigdha, Manaswini are coming.”
“And Gopal, Radha, Abdul Rashid, Dave,” Yogesh said.
“And Dolly,” Deepak added, biting into an apple.
“What did Tun-Tun and Tony say? Coming?” asked Mohan.
“She is coming. He is having loose motions and has to stay with his toilet,” Yogesh replied.
“Do we need some non-Desi friends?” Deepak questioned, now eating a cold rolled-up roti.
“I talk with Roberta at Drug Fair,” Yogesh said. “Sometimes her hair is very high and nice and I tell her.”
“Remember we interacted with those guys ten, twelve years back?” asked Deepak. “The ones who came in many cars?”
“The racists who tried to beat us?”
“Ya, those ones.”
“Should we invite Minerva the Psychic Reader to join our social circle?” Yogesh asked.
“Why you’re forcing me to have non-Desi friends?” Mohan barked. “Petrol, up!”
“Leave him alone,” Amarleen jumped in.
“You leave him alone,” Iqbal jumped in too.
“He is under stress. See?” Amarleen tugged at Prem’s blanket.
