Toward the end of certain old Hindi movies, at the exact moment that a main character most needs guidance, a spiritual figure appears—an elder, an ascetic, a priest, a yogi—and imparts profound wisdom. This divine intervention leads to what must inevitably come next. Viren Bhai went in his usual corner and sat in lotus pose on the simple mat upon which he slept. He contemplated the whiteboard and its bizarre imperatives. After a prolonged silence, he said, “I am taking a shower now, unless you need the bathroom?”
Leena shook her head. She went about cleaning the kitchen, doing the dishes as she did each evening, trying to think only of the warm water on her hands. It was basic Vedic practice: be present, just be. She pulled the curtains and straightened the cushions on the couch. On the side table was a notepad she hadn’t noticed before, upon which were scribbled the words: “When you don’t know what to do, get quiet so you can hear the still, small voice inside guiding you to true north.”
When Viren Bhai returned, she asked him about the note. “Bhagavad Gita?”
He shook his head. “Oprah.”
“Hm,” she said and thought about it some more.
Two days later, Leena offered Prem her response.
* * *
The only thing Prem could think to do to avert abject hopelessness was to watch a lot of movies. He had camped out at Beena’s for two days, during which time he viewed Mere Yaar Ki Shaadi Hai, Zubeidaa, Gadar: Ek Prem Katha (twice), and Monsoon Wedding, which he found a little too realistic. Beena was frequently in and out of the apartment, which Prem thought curious but not strange enough to mention. Sunday’s rain had subsided, giving way to a blue sky, the clearest they’d had in weeks.
An hour into Kaho Naa…Pyar Hai on Tuesday evening, Prem was startled by a tap at the window. When he got up to have a look, he saw no one who might have caused the disruption. He returned to his movie as the heroine’s father admonished her for her interest in a lowly bicycle-riding car salesman. The tap occurred again, louder this time. Still no one in sight, no bird pecking at the sill. The third occurrence caused more of a bang, and Prem paused the movie.
Outside, it was uncharacteristically quiet. He walked toward the front row of buildings to investigate. All seemed as it always was, but something was slightly askew. In front of Building 3, the parking lot was entirely empty, but farther down, the lot was packed with cars. The circle of white-kurta seniors had shifted to a more remote patch of grass; tenants were hanging out on the front stoops as usual. Only there were more of them, many more. At his approach, they all turned to look at him with excited stares, smiling and creepy.
A cricket match was underway in the parking lot. Prem presumed the crowd was there to watch, but the batsmen dropped their bats and the bowler tossed the ball aside and both teams came together in a line and began to bounce their hips. Some young women from the crowd jumped up and joined the line in an evenly spaced and well-coordinated manner while some older ladies—Urmila Sahu, Nalini Sen, Gitanjali Vora, Shanta Bhatt—slinked into the formation at either side. The hip-bouncing turned seamlessly to sudden, sharp jhatkas at the same time that a car with speakers jutting out of its trunk pulled up, throbbing with a vaguely familiar song. Next, Prem’s roommates past and present and Leena’s friends Varsha, Snighdha, and Falguni bhangraed their way in, followed by Leena’s pretend ex-fiancé, Mikesh, and his husband, Arthur. When the Indo-Pak pizza delivery boy dropped the box and gyrated into the fold, Prem began to suspect something was afoot.
The car deejay amped up the volume on what turned out to be “Bole Chudiyan” from Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, galvanizing the growing audience, including a gaggle of kids and Cash the superintendent, who launched themselves into the performance. Someone on a ladder doing something to a gutter leaped off and grabbed a dhol from out of a bush. He hung it from his neck and thumped it at both ends, adding his raucous percussion to the already pumping bass. All the performers wore blue, Prem noticed, and when he spotted Pankaj in the audience also wearing blue, he wondered if his assistant, too, would join the dance, which he did. It was when the Bollywood stars appeared and took their places as sideys, and Beena, Tun-Tun, and Tony pulled and pushed him until he stood front and center, that Prem understood the show was for him.
Prem thought he knew what might be coming, but then, he’d been so wrong about so much in his life. Yet there was something familiar about this moment, as though he’d lived it a thousand times. The music, the enormous cast of color-coordinated characters, the spontaneous and perfectly in-sync dancing with matching expressions: it was a marvel of uniformity. A film song sequence was playing out in front of him, the kind with huge production values intended to lure moviegoers to theaters for repeat viewings, not just for the spectacle but also to witness the pure expression of emotion and desire. Here, the hero and heroine could perform the things they could not say and allude to the passion they could not enact. Prem had grown up waiting for these songs to be released on Venus and Tips brand cassettes, produced by audio companies that had pressured filmmakers to please squeeze in a few more songs, and they were what had sustained him. The musical number was emblematic of the relationship between two people, and in this particular number, he was the hero. And so, the heroine appeared.
The supporting cast parted, revealing Leena, back and center, sparkling in vibrant rani pink, incandescent, ravishing, at once pious and racy, flashy and demure. She was the quintessential Bollywood leading lady, his American dream girl, his one great love, and she was running toward him. The others continued their vigorous ancillary dancing as he rushed to meet her, and they were face to face, not yet embracing but searching each other’s eyes, transported to a faraway land.
The sun was setting when they returned to King’s Court. The choreographed routine had given way to a frenzy of whirling, swirling, kicking, and flirting as the audience joined the performers. Prem took Leena’s hand at last and drew her close. The dhol and song built in intensity, and the frenetic throng spun and spun around them. Together, they all ascended to a delirious, inexorable climax until the last streak of pink sky had gone.
The party went on for hours in the lingering heat of the day. It only ended because the movie stars had an early flight and the others had to work. But Prem and Leena sat on the stoop of Building 3, looking at the sky long after the fireworks she’d arranged for had tapered out. His arm was around her and her fingers played with his at her shoulder.
“Do you think we were meant to be?” she asked. “Like soulmates set up by God?”
Prem smiled. “This isn’t a Hindi movie.”
“But then again,” Leena said, “maybe it is.”
44
They spent the next few nights in Prem’s office, alone and happily cramped. It was the utter fulfillment of everything he had ever wanted, and yet something wasn’t right. Before they could begin their life together, there was one thing he needed to settle. Leena was fixing her hair into a ponytail in the morning when Prem told her what it was.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “He doesn’t want that. In fact, he would be insulted. Really, all these years later, and you know, so many things have changed. For example, I have a highly successful business and I don’t need support from anyone, but if I did need support, he knows you could give it because he knows you have a successful business too. Oh, also, and you already know this, he loves you now! No more need to impress him or win him. You have won! Just leave it.”
Prem had forgotten, after all these years of not talking to her, how much she talked and how much he loved it. He wanted no secrets from her, not now, not ever again, so he laid bare his plan, and eventually she surrendered. They went about their separate days, she off to the store, he to an office park three blocks away.
Three days earlier, he had quietly arranged with his wealth manager to pick up a certified check for a very large amount in the name of Hemant Engineer. The manager, Amol “Alex” Pattnayak, highly discouraged this move, but Prem insisted. Even as he handed Prem the check that day, he recommended a long-term corporate-bond fund instead. But Prem stood firm, without explanation or apology. “Who is this Hemant?” Alex asked. “Does he need a wealth manager?”
The check felt heavy in Prem’s hand. He tucked it into his wallet, which he tucked into his pocket, the one on the front of his shirt so that he would see it if it fell as he cycled to King’s Court. He had imagined so many times over the past decade and a half the triumphant moment when he would present Hemant with the money he had asked for, both of them bursting into tears and embracing under the excessive plant life of apartment 5F. Instead, Hemant looked at the check and whacked Prem on the side of his head.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hemant said. “I do not want your money.”
“But you said you wanted my money,” Prem argued.
“I never said that.”
“Yes—”
Hemant let out a long sigh and sat down at the kitchen table. “The thing I said was I wanted you to earn it. I never said you had to give it to me.” Prem paused to ponder the semantics of the decree. “I know I put you through the torture …” Hemant studied his check, stopping short upon noticing an oversight. “Where is the extra one?”
Prem snapped out of his reverie and examined the check. “He forgot to add it.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter now even? Looks like you are not keeping the check?”
“No, I am not. But extra one is a very important thing. What if you and Leena have the bad luck because of this?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“How do you know how it works?”
“Nobody knows how it works.”
“That is what I am saying!”
Prem understood he had to give his future father-in-law one dollar in order to secure his blessing and, supposedly, to avoid certain destruction. He searched his wallet, but found only two twenties and a Paan-Stop punch card. “I will be back,” he said, leaving the check with Hemant.
It was the only possession he had that was unrelated to Leena and that meant anything to him. Prem raced back to his and Leena’s place and rifled through his duffle bag until he found the framed dollar bill that Amitabh Bachchan had given him a lifetime ago at the Exxon gas station. In recent years, he had considered it the source of his success, a lucky charm of sorts, ascribing to it mystical powers. He would rather have parted with the million dollars than with this, but it had to be done.
