“Here,” Leena said, throwing the Maggi Noodles at him and missing, unfortunately hitting Mrs. Ambani in the produce section instead.
“Ow!”
“Take your Maggi and go.”
Outside, he wandered into the parking lot without looking and stumbled on a pothole. A truck from Quicker Liquor stopped just in time to avoid hitting him, its bumper an inch from his face. Surely it would have killed him, he thought. But, then again, how could it if he had already just died?
Instead of going to his apartment or office, Prem went to Beena Joshi’s and collapsed onto her sofa, as he had so many times during his American life. She was putting the finishing touches on the appetizer stations for the awards dinner, most of which had been prepared at a commercial kitchen with the help of a small but formidable staff she’d assembled. The loaded nacho-chaat bar still needed several toppings for which she was seeding pomegranates. “What happened now?” she asked.
“I have to make Dr. Sanjay Gupta from CNN come to the Bollywood Gold Awards, or else Leena will be stabbed in the eye,” he moaned, lying as if on a psychiatrist’s couch.
“Of course. That’s it?” He sat up to look at her face, then slumped back down. “Okay, tell me, but chop these jalapeños at the same time.”
Prem chopped and told, chopped and told, until the whole preposterous story was out and the jalapeños were chopped.
“So Tiger is a woman?”
“Ya, I was surprised too.”
“Impressive.”
“I know.”
“Because, you know, they say the mafia is a man’s world.”
“Hundred percent.”
“I would be successful in that line of work.”
“Hundred percent.”
“Okay, so you made Leena like you maybe, then made her hate you again. Is it 1988?” Prem was not amused. Beena continued, “She really causes lot of headaches for you, don’t you think?”
“No, Tiger is the one causing the problem, not Leena.”
“Yes, but if Leena was not there and Tiger was only threatening your eye and not hers, that would be better, no?”
“Yes, no, I mean, look, I would not even be having this problem if Leena did not exist. This, really, this is not the point,” Prem said, growing frustrated with her lack of understanding of a simple cause-and-effect equation. He leaned against the counter and tried again. “How can I get Sanjay Gupta?”
“You cannot.”
“I know.” Prem buried his face in the crook of his arm. Beena stored the toppings in the drawing-room fridge and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet under the sink. “Let’s think about it in the morning,” she said.
* * *
It was the day before the show, and Prem woke up soaked in his own sweat and smelling of booze. At some point the previous evening, Beena must have put down a sheet on the couch and given him a blanket and pillow. He remembered telling her how grateful he was for their closeness, which began on his very first day in Edison—their Day One friendship, he decided to call it—and she told him she was menopausal.
She was already showered and fresh, organizing her fridges and humming a happy tune, while he felt akin to garbage. Pankaj had already left five messages at one of his phone numbers and nine at the other, but he was in no way ready to deal with them. When Beena saw he was awake, she turned the volume up on the TV, which was tuned to the news. “Beautiful morning, time to get up and face it.”
Prem moaned and pulled the covers over his head.
On the news, there was a segment about female Chechen suicide bombers followed by another on a book about the eruption of Krakatoa. It cut to a commercial, but not before plugging an upcoming special report by medical correspondent Dr. Sanjay Gupta on the effects of sustained wildfire smoke inhalation on heart patients. He would be, and this next part seemed to Prem’s ears much louder and slowed down, reporting from the field at a nursing home in Manalapan, New Jersey, later that day. Prem and Beena registered this information at the same time, simultaneously shushing each other and turning wide-eyed toward the TV. Neither knew where Manalapan was, but both knew that was where they’d be going as soon as Prem cleaned himself up. One could hardly approach CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta smelling the way he was.
Deepak, Mohan, and Yogesh were the only ones in the apartment when he got there. “Stinking like a pub, coming home in the morning and all,” Yogesh said, brushing his teeth while walking around the kitchen. “Who was the lucky auntie?”
“Your mother,” Prem answered, feeling rather proud of how far his “your-mother” jokes had come.
Deepak, eating spaghetti out of a leftovers container, espoused a different theory. “The stars must have arrived and you were partying all night with them. How come you never invite us for partying all night with the stars?”
“Was Aishwarya there?” inquired Yogesh. “Do not tell me Aishwarya was there and you didn’t call us. Just don’t.”
“Why you’re brushing out here, Yogesh? Go back in the bathroom, man.”
The unfounded accusation (the second one, not the first) did give Prem an idea. “A few of the stars would like to go to Olive Garden after the rehearsal is finished tonight. I will be busy, but can you take them?”
“Yes!” Deepak roared.
“Which ones?” Mohan added.
“Will you be busy with romancing your auntie?” Yogesh said.
Prem gave them the details and asked Pankaj to arrange it all. They were grateful and excited, and Prem was glad he was finally able to make someone happy.
Once they were on the road to all the nursing homes in Manalapan—Beena having collected the names and necessary directions—it then occurred to Prem: Even if they were able to find Sanjay Gupta, what would they say to him?
“Maybe I can tell him the true story,” Prem shrugged. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“I am driving,” Beena said, “but I still can hit you with my rolling pin.”
