The

Inscrutable Americans The hilarious

novel describes one year spent on a small
university campus in the US by an Indian
student. He comes out of a small town, locally
reputed to be 'the Paris of Madhya Pradesh'.
His English is comically Indian, and his initial
notions of America are absurdly inadequate
and stereotyped. The theme of the novel is his
comic discovery of America, and his own
growth and maturing through his diverse
adventures there. The novel is thus a
variation on the form of the bildungsroman
with a fool-protagonist, with the difference
that the native wit of the protagonist far
transcends his linguistic limitations. This
novel has thus an acuteness and depth of
meaning which go beyond the obvious comic
implications of the chosen initial situation.
Anurag Mathur was born in New Delhi and educated at Scindia School
(Gwalior), St Stephen's College (Delhi), and the University of Tulsa
(Oklahoma). He lived for three years in the US before returning home to India to
embark on a career in journalism and publishing. He now lives in New Delhi and
contributes regularly to leading Indian magazines and newspapers. He is also the
author of a travel guide called 22 Days in India.
A fanatical cricket player, he also plays tennis and enjoys travelling.
 The
Inscrutable Americans

Anurag Mathur
 Published in 1991 by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002
Sales centres:
Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai
Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu
Kolkata Mumbai
Copyright © Anurag Mathur 1991
Cover deign: Pallavi Agarwala
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and
incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events or
localities is entirely coincidental.
This digital edition published in 2012
e-ISBN: 978-81-291-2158-5
Anurag Mathur asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Digital edition prepared by Ninestars Information Technologies Ltd.
All rights reserved.
This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
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published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored
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liable in law accordingly.
This Book is Dedicated to my
Father and Mother
1
Beloved Younger Brother, Greetings to Respectful Parents. I am hoping all is
well with health and wealth. I am fine at my end. Hoping your end is fine too.
With God's grace and Parents' blessings I am arriving safely in America and
finding good apartment near University. Kindly assure Mother that I am strictly
consuming vegetarian food only in restaurants though I am not knowing if cooks
are Brahmins. I am also constantly remembering Dr Verma's advice and strictly
avoiding American women and other unhealthy habits. I hope Parents' prayers
are residing with me.
Younger Brother, I am having so many things to tell you I am not knowing
where to start. Most surprising thing about America is it is full of Americans.
Everywhere Americans, Americans, bit and white, it is little frightening. The
flight from New Delhi to New York is arriving safely thanks to God's grace and
Parents' prayers and mine too. I am not able to go to bathroom whole time
because I am sitting in corner seat as per Revered Grandmother's wish. Father is
rightly scolding that airplane is flying too high to have good view. Still please
tell her I have done needful.
But, brother, in next two seats are sitting two old gentle ladies and if I am
getting up then they are put in lot of botheration so I am not getting up for
bathroom except when plane is stopping for one hour at London. Many foods are
being served in carts but I am only eating cashewnuts and bread because I am
not knowing what is food and what is meat. I am having good time drinking 37
glasses of Coca-Cola.
They are rolling down a screen and showing film but I am not listening
because air hostess ladies are selling head phones for 2 dollars which is 26 and
in our beloved Jajau town we can sit in balcony seats in Regal Talkies for only
3. I am asking lady if they are giving student discount but she is too busy. I am
also asking her for more Coca-Cola but she is looking like she is weeping and
walking away. I think perhaps she is not understanding proper English.
Then I am sleeping long time after London and when I am waking it is like
we are flying over sea of lights. Everywhere, brother, as far as I am seeing there
are lights, lights. It is like God has made carpet of lights. Then we are landing in
New York and plane is going right up to door so that we are not having to walk
in cold. I must say Americans are very advanced. And as I am leaving airplane,
air hostess is giving me one more can of Coca-Cola. Her two friends are also
with her but why they are laughing so much I do not know. I think these
Americans are strange but friendly people in their hearts. I hope she was not
laughing for racial. Perhaps she was feeling shy earlier.
Then I am going to long bathroom. As I am leaving I am making first friend
in America. This is negro gentleman named Joe who is standing at door and as I
am opening it he is holding out hand so I am shaking it and telling him my name
and he is telling me his. I am telling him if he is ever coming to Jajau he can ask
for National Hair Oil Factory. If I have not returned from Higher Studies please
tell Father that if negro gentleman named Joe is visiting Jajau he may kindly do
needful.
In this way I feel each and every one of us is serving as ambassador of our
beloved motherland. Joe is doubtful I feel because he says 'Far out, man, far out,'
but I am reassuring him that India is only 16 hours away by plane and that is not
very far. I think he is accepting this because he is not saying anything any more.
Next I go to place marked 'Baggage' as Father has advised and suddenly
place I am sitting starts to move throwing me. It is like python we once saw in
forest, only rattling and with luggage bouncing on its back and sometimes
leaping to attack passengers. I am also throwing myself on bag before it is
escaping. I think if I am not wrestling it down it would revert to plane and back
home to India. I am only joking of course.
Before this I am meeting very friendly gentleman at Immigration desk. I do
not know why all relatives had warned against this man, because he is so
friendly. He is talking English strangely but is having kind heart because he is
asking me about nuts and I am saying that I am liking very much and eating
many on plane. 'Totally, totally nuts,' he is saying, which is I feeling American
expression for someone fond of cashewnuts.
Before this he is showing friendliness by asking, 'How is it going?' I am
telling him fully and frankly about all problems and hopes, even though you may
feel that as American he may be too selfish to bother about decline in price of
hair oil in Jajau town. But, brother, he is listening very quietly with eyes on me
for ten minutes and then we are having friendly talk about nuts and he is wanting
me to go.
At Customs, brother, I am getting big shock. One fat man is grunting at me
and looking cleverly from small eyes. 'First visit?' he is asking. 'Yes,' I am
agreeing. 'Move on,' he is saying making chalk marks on bags. As I am picking
up bags he is looking directly at me and saying, 'Watch your ass.'
Now, brother, this is wonderful. How he is knowing we are purchasing
donkey? I think they are knowing everything about everybody who is coming to
America. They are not allowing anybody without knowing his family and
financial status and other things. And we are only buying donkey two days
before my departure. I think they are keeping all information in computers.
Really these Americans are too advanced.
But, brother, now I am worrying. Supposing this is CIA keeping watch or
else how they can know about our donkey? Anyway please do not tell Mother
and Father or they are worrying, but lock all doors and windows. If CIA wants to
recruit me to be spy in Jajau, I will gladly take poison before betraying our
motherland.
Then I am going out and cousins are waiting and receiving me warmly. I will
write soon after settling down.
Your brother, Gopal.
It was midnight and cold, with an icy wind that New York sends to the airport in
winter to greet passengers. Gopal had barely got into the car, he had hardly
touched American soil, or more accurately American concrete, and already he
was in love.
She was the classic American beauty; hair like flowing gold framing her
face, eyes blue as Arctic lakes, she lay stretched in a negligee some thirty feet
long, with breasts of a size that made you expect to see rock climbers clambering
on them. The spotlights on the words below her urged everyone to use her
favourite tampon. As they drove away from the billboard, Gopal craned back
desperately.
'Don't worry,' said Sunil, one of the two Indians who had come to receive
him, patting Gopal with a grin, 'you'll meet lots more like her.'
'The only people,' commented Sushant who was driving, 'who actually look
at American ads, are visiting foreigners. '
Gopal settled back in the seat, not at all convinced that he would meet
anybody else who had such eyes that promised things he had only vaguely heard
of with disbelief in his twenty years in Jajau, but he didn't want to make a scene.
He had been sleepy on the flight, but now that he was actually here, after all
those months of filling forms and taking exams and waiting uncertainly, he felt
excitement spread in his chest like a pleasant cactus.
The car in which they moved seemed a little world in itself, racing silently
through the night. There were numerous glittering dials and the car seemed to
move nearly intuitively at Sushant's touch, somewhat removed from the manful
grapplings that Indian cars demanded before reluctantly yielding. They seemed
in a completely sealed cocoon, able to move swiftly and smoothly for eternity.
No rattles erupted in the engine, no blasts of outside air made their vicious and
victorious way through minute gaps, no opposing headlights malignantly blinded
him, and most of all no horns assailed him at every turn. His ears began to feel
numb in the unaccustomed silence.
'Brother,' he said and his voice was like a trumpet, far too loud and he knew
it, but he had been accustomed too long to combating loud noises, mechanical
and manmade, to be able to lower his decibel level immediately.
'Brother,' he tried again, still unsuccessfully, 'how far is New York'?
'About half an hour,' answered Sushant, switching on the radio, perhaps in
self-defence.
Gopal looked around intently. More billboards sprang at them out of the
dark, like demented salesmen hurling themselves on a customer pleadingly.
Then they fled past as though in sorrow and Gopal wondered if it wasn't a little
pathetic that he had such little time to see so many happy faces .
They went past occasional houses with handfuls of golden light thrown
softly on the lawn. They were pretty houses: large, clean and with a basket hung
on each one. Gopal wondered at those baskets. They went past a row of houses
and each one had the same basket hung outside. Perhaps, he speculated, it was
some religious symbol. He wracked his brains for an appropriate Christian saint
who would explain it, but nobody fitted. Perhaps a lightning conductor, but it
was hardly the right shape. Maybe for garbage, but why would anyone want to
throw his garbage upwards? It was a real mystery and Gopal would have asked
his friends, only he didn't want to look silly.
Then in any case he forgot everything else, because New York rose before
him like a vision of God.
'Brother,' roared Gopal making Sushant swerve, 'can you park quickly?'
Hastily Sushant eased the car on to the shoulder, praying Gopal wouldn't
throw up his airline dinner all over the upholstery. He leaned across and opened
the door, waiting for Gopal to leap out. Gopal gazed ahead transfixed.
'What's happened?' asked Sunil groggily from the back seat. Gopal just
gestured ahead.
'Ah, New York,' said Sunil, snuggling back, 'I felt that way too the first time.'
In amusement Sushant pulled the door shut. 'The first time,' he grinned,
thinking to himself, 'may be Cosmo should do a round up of The First Time I
Saw the Big Apple.' He waited tolerantly for Gopal to recover, who looked like
he'd seen a visitation. 'Well, he is a small town boy,' mused Sushant. 'Bit of a
hick actually.' He was himself a Bombay boy and quite used to big city lights.
'Can I drive now?' he asked.
Gopal nodded, still mesmerised by the city swathed in platinum glitter. They
turned a corner and it was hidden; then passed under some trees and there it was
again. Gopal felt as though the city had known he was coming and was playing a
little game of hide-and-seek with him. But the closer they came the less it hid,
until finally they joined a thunder of cars that seemed fused together like a long
sheet of metal, curving and swerving as one.
Sushant, who had been relaxed was alert now, braking and accelerating,
changing lanes till they reached the exit point and swept out of the stream into a
quieter street.
'I'll give you a quick tour of Manhattan,' he said, as the car rose on a little
mound and then plunged into those tar streets that carry such treacherous
promises, always around the next corner.
Wall Street, Times Square, Greenwich Village, the Empire State Building,
the UN complex, it was all too much for Gopal to take after a sixteen-hour flight.
What was even more distracting was a dawning realisation as they sped along an
interminable tunnel, that made Gopal blurt.
'Brother, you are driving on wrong side of street.'
'Nah,' reassured Sushant, 'it's how Yanks drive.'
'Why?' asked Gopal.
'I think they just like doing things directly opposite to the way we do them in
India,' grinned Sunil.
This made sense to Gopal and he subsided.
'Here we are,' said Sushant as he pulled the car into a slot.
'Where we are?' asked Gopal as they dragged his baggage up a wooden flight
of stairs that thumped at every step.
'A little outside New York,' said Sushant, opening the apartment door and
turning on the light.
Gopal was startled.
'That light switch is upside down,' he exclaimed. 'You are putting it up to
turn it on. '
'I told you,' chortled Sunil. 'Even their taps turn the wrong way from ours.'
Taps reminded Gopal he was thirsty.
'Where is the boiled water, brother?' he asked, heading for the fridge.
The duo roared with laughter.
'Use the tap, it's quite safe.'
'You're sure?' asked Gopal uneasily.
Yes of course,' cackled Sunil. 'Here, you sleep in this room. Good night.'
Gopal sat in the dark in his pyjamas in the moonlight, finally alone. He was
actually and really here. The excitement made him shiver. It was all so alien, so
wonderful, yet so scary. Would he adjust, would they like him, would they be
friendly, would he do well in class, where would he get vegetarian food cooked
by Brahmins?
 Tomorrow evening he would be flying to Eversville. What would that be
like? Today he had been to New York through streets known to every literate
person on earth. So in a way he was part of the legend and the glamour too. He
felt a deep, and yet he recognised yearningly, hopeless empathy with all New
Yorkers. He wondered if Brooke Shields would like him. The central heating
hummed its lullaby and Gopal fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next morning he came slowly awake. For a moment he was going to call
for someone to bring him his tea when he remembered where he was.
Excitement sat him straight up on his bed and he looked out of the window. He
saw a long double-storeyed building opposite, obviously the twin of the one he
was in and between them a parking space already nearly empty. He stretched
luxuriously and padded out. Sushant and Sunil had already left for their office.
Gopal opened the fridge and gaped at the collection of colourful cardboard
boxes. He picked out one that read 'orange juice' and was pondering on the
mystery of how to open it when suddenly loud music erupted from his room.
Panicking, Gopal looked wildly around for something with which to defend
himself. Nobody had been in the room when he left it. Clearly a burglar had
climbed in and while trying to carry away the radio had turned it on. Worse still,
perhaps there was something supernatural in there. Some unthinkable horrow.
Perhaps some racist ghost that hated his presence. Visions from The Exorcist
which he had seen four times on the video at home dripped like cold lead from
his veins into his brain.
'Hey, hey, hey,' laughed a voice in the next room. 'Woiza, woiza, woiza.
What a night and what a day. Hey, hey, hey.' There was something hypnotic
about that choice. Like a demon trapped inside a box enticing him to come and
release it.
Gopal stilled his pounding heart. Nobody had emerged from the room and if
there was a burglar he would have fled by now. Picking up the kitchen knife he
crept to the door and flung it open. There wasn't a soul, the windows were still
shut and the demon in the radio was talking now about the weather. Edging
around the supernaturally alive radio, Gopal reached the window and peered out.
Not a soul. He sagged weakly against the sill. Then flinging the knife down he
strode furiously to the wall phone. He dialled the number written on the sheet
pasted alongside and as Sunil picked it up erupted: 'Bloody radio is bloody
screaming,' he complained. 'Oh sorry,' said Sunil contritely. 'Did that scare you?
I set the radio alarm for ten so that you'd wake up. I'm coming over to pick you
up in about an hour and we can go get a bite to eat. Can you be ready by then?
We'll go to New York and then to the airport. So keep your bags packed.'
Sunil duly arrived an hour later and first went and turned off the radio which
Gopal had circled several times but refused to touch .
'Let's go,' he said and went thumping down the stairs with Gopal's suitcases.
People going downstairs in India made a different sound, thought Gopal. It was a
sort of scuffling rhythm, maybe because the steps are made of cement, while
here each stair seemed a giant piano key that emitted a distinctive, woodenly
musical tonking sound muffled in carpeting.
He opened the door and stepped outside. The wind leapt at his face with
knives. He reeled back.
'Oh shit, sorry,' said Sunil opening the car door and bundling him in before
scampering across to his own side. 'I keep forgetting you're not used to life here.
Actually it's not so cold, it's the wind chill factor.'
If Gopal hadn't been so numb he would have given him a baleful look.
'Anyway,' said Sunil, 'you may as well get used to the American way. I'm
taking you to a McDonald's for a burger.'
Gopal nodded, starting to thaw. A few minutes later they pulled into a
McDonald's and made a dash through the door to escape what Gopal was
starting to think of as 'Sunil's wind chill factor'. Gopal thought the interior
looked like it had been furnished with a child's plastic building-block-set in reds
and yellow. They edged into two chairs.
'What'll you have?' asked Sunil.
'Anything vegetarian,' replied Gopal, not wanting to be difficult.
Sunil regarded him thoughtfully. 'You're going to have a really great time
here I can see. How about some French fries?'
'I have never eaten French food. Is it vegetarian?' asked Gopal. 'I think,
brother, I will have a vegetable hamburger.'
Sunil looked even more thoughtful. 'The Yanks have much to learn from our
ancient civilisation,' he said, 'most of all how to reconcile such contradiction as
vegetables and hamburgers. Why don't you have an egg instead? '
Intimidated by the teenagers screaming instructions to each other behind the
counter, Gopal agreed. He also had seven Cokes, not including the one he
brought back to the car.
'Still no Cokes in India, huh?' asked Sunil.
Gopal shook his head between making bubbles in his glass. 'We have our
own,' he explained. 'But Coke is Coke.'
They drove past trees and shrubs so green and clean that they nearly hurt the
eye. Gopal's own hometown, on the other hand, wrapped itself in a blanket of
dust and grime, much of it, sad to admit, contributed by the National Hair Oil
Factory. Some inkling of this difference seemed to occur to Gopal.
'It is all so quiet and green, brother,' he complained. 'We should start hair oil
factory here. Good market, no?'
Sunil winced. Gopal's eye was attracted to a little town lying below the ridge
on which they were driving.
'What's that, brother?'
'Oh, that's a town - Riverdale.'
'Yes,' nodded Gopal knowledgeably, 'Archie and Jughead are living there.'
Startled, Sunil pondered on a McLuhan world and wondered if the publishers
of Archie comics ever imagined that boys in dusty towns in remote parts of India
earnestly pored over the doings of that quintessentially all-American group.
'I thought it was only comics,' said Gopal, 'but they are actually living?'
'Anything,' said Sunil feelingly, 'is possible in America.'
'Let us find out. Can we go?'
'Some other time,' said Sunil hastily.
They went over a bridge Gopal had not noticed in his confused state last
night. Through the steel girders slashing past alongside, Gopal got his first
daytime look at New York. It looked serene, cool and blue. In the distance the
towers of the World Trade Center rose in effortless insolence, heedless of the
smaller buildings clumped like barnacles around its base. And then they were on
the edges of the city, with its red brownstones looking down on the river. Sunil
was once again like a fighter pilot preparing for a dogfight. He turned right and
eased into the traffic.
'I have some business near Times Square,' he said. 'You can check it out.'
'This is where Time magazine is?' questioned Gopal.
'No, that's further down.'
'Then why it is called Times Square?'
'Beats me,' said Sunil, turning into a parking lot. 'I'll be back in fifteen
minutes; so don't wander too far.'
Gopal, tall, lanky and bespectacled, peered interestedly at the street as he
strolled around. The wind wasn't very strong here and he felt quite elegant in the
new overcoat his mother had bought for the trip. There was a bounce in his step
and he grinned at passersby who eyed him warily. He was walking with the most
exciting people in the most exciting city in the world and even if they all rather
quickly averted their eyes from him and hurried away, he was anxious to be
accepted as nearly one of them.
A very tall, very good-looking black man, dressed in a breathtakingly
beautiful grey overcoat, sauntered past. When Gopal tried his we're-all-New
Yorkers smile, he smiled right back. Gopal was thrilled at being accepted by one
of the elite New Yorkers.
You looking for some fun?' the man asked politely. His voice was low and
husky. It felt like a cat rubbing its fur on Gopal.
'I am having very good time, hee hee,' modestly acknowledged Gopal,
sniggering nervously.
'I knew it. I knew it right away,' said the man putting a brotherly arm around
Gopal's shoulder. 'The moment I saw you I said "Here's a man who knows how
to have a good time." '
His voice had a sincerity and sibilance that inserted itself into Gopal's skin
and began to spread itself warmly. 'Now you come right along with me and we'll
have a little old party, won't we? Yes, sir, just a lil old party, ain't that right?'
'No, no,' said Gopal, starting to shake himself loose, 'I have to wait for Sunil.'
'Hey, man,' said the black, the velvet voice starting to harden, 'don't gimme
none of that.' His voice softened again. You know what I got for you. You know
what I really got for you?' His voice was so soft it fell like candy floss over
Gopal.
He shook his head, suspicious, wary, but curious.
'Well, my man, my main man, what I got is some real live pussy for you.
How about that now? Isn't that what you'd like? Some real live, wild pussy just
for you? Let's go get some of that, man,' he urged, guiding Gopal with his hand.
'No, thank you, sir,' said Gopal, shaking himself loose but not wanting to be
impolite, 'but I'm vegetarian.'
'That's right now,' soothed the tall man bending over him. 'What I got is
prime stuff. So clean and fresh, my man, it's just pure vegetarian. You'll just love
it, brother. You just go eat it to believe it,' he urged.
Gopal shook his head and walked away rapidly. Something was obviously
very wrong here, he sensed. But as his heart and pace slowed he began to
wonder. 'Vegetarian cats?' he puzzled in bewilderment. He reached the parking
lot just as Sunil did.
'You had a good time?' asked Sunil.
'Oh yes, brother,' said Gopal, his spectacles shining enthusiastically, 'I met
friendly man selling cats.'
'Well anything is possible here,' said Sunil. 'Just don't buy nothing.'
'But they're really so advanced brother,' Gopal said in admiration.
'Vegetarian cats. '
They began to drive through the city, heading towards the airport. Gopal was
looking with fascination out of the window. After a while he commented, 'Lot of
advertisements, brother. Everywhere.'
'Yeah.'
'Mostly women in them.'
'Yep.'
 'Mostly with no clothes, brother.'
'Makes it more attractive.'
'What do their fathers say?'
'Nothing terribly complimentary I imagine,' said Sunil. 'Um, Gopal, you
know I don't want you to get me wrong, but America is a very different place.
Now I know that in the big cities in India it's pretty much the same as here where
dating and drinking and stuff is concerned, but what was it like in your town?'
'It's very small town, brother. No dates, nothing, no chance. One boy quietly
went on date with girl but their parents made them marry afterwards. But I am
knowing America is very different, brother, so I have read one very good book. I
am knowing all about it now. So don't worry.'
'Oh good, excellent,' said Sunil, relieved. As an afterthought he asked,
'What's the book, by the way?'
'Collected Letters from Penthouse.'
The car again swerved dangerously. 'Oh shit,' said Sunil. 'Ah Gopal, that
may not be the most accurate account of life here. You know I suggest that
before you actually start socialising with people, maybe you should first settle
down a bit, get to figure out what's what, you know, check out the whole scene.
Are you planning to date girls?'
'Oh no, brother,' erupted Gopal with excessive force. 'Never, brother. I am
promising everyone that I am not meeting girls or drinking or smoking, brother.
I am only going to study, brother,' he swore piously .
'Yeah, sure,' said Sunil with some scepticism. 'But even if you do go out with
some girls, don't pile on, all right? And don't promise to marry them on the first
date either. It's an old line.'
'Brother, you are talking like fool,' protested Gopal. I am only going to
classes, library and home. Nothing else.'
'I bet,' said Sunil. 'Another thing. The girls here are very suspicious of
foreign guys because they think the guys are all trying to lay them. I don't know
why they're so damn wary considering that Yank guys do nothing except try to
lay them too, but since we're foreigners we've got to take it easy a bit. Okay?'
'Oh, yes, brother. I think you are cent per cent right. I feel that we are all
ambassadors from our country to America and if we are behaving well then they
are having us in their good books. I feel,' said Gopal, clearly warming to his
theme, 'that because of our superior culture and all that we must set an example
so that the Americans will improve their behaviour and I feel that relations and
things like that will also improve and trade and all that also, so I feel ...'
'I see, I get your point,' broke in Sunil somewhat hastily. 'Er, Gopal,' he
floundered trying to change the subject, 'how old are you?'
 'Twenty, brother.'
'And you spent all your time in, er, what's its name?'
'Jajau. Yes, brother.'
'Didn't you go out to do your college studies?'
'No, we are having local college and father is wanting me to also work in
factory and get experience. So in morning I did college and afternoon I was in
factory.'
'And what are you going to study in Eversville?'
'Chemical engineering. After that I am returning to use new technologies in
our factory. '
'Well, I'm sure you'll do really well. Their educational system is really very
easy compared to ours. But I must admit I'm still a little worried about how
you'll manage to adjust to the life here. Didn't you go out to the big cities in
India at all?'
'Yes, brother, to Delhi, but only very quickly to meet relatives and for
weddings, because Father is spending mostly time at factory for expansion and
he is taking me with him since I am ten years old.'
You really must know a lot about the business by now.'
'Brother, I am not showing off or wanting to and all that, but last year All
India Association of Hair Oil Dealers is naming me "Most Promising Young
Man of Year". I am having certificate with me to put on wall. Do you think,'
asked Gopal cunningly, 'the Americans are liking it?'
'I am sure,' assured Sunil, understanding Gopal perfectly. 'The American
girls will be very impressed with the certificate.'
They entered another bridge leading out of Manhattan in the direction of
JFK. 'This is one of the oldest bridges in America,' explained Sunil, trying to
educate Gopal a bit. 'It has a really fascinating history.'
Yes,' agreed Gopal, 'Saturday Night Fever is shot here.'
Again Sunil was startled. 'They showed Saturday Night Fever in Jajau?' he
asked incredulously.
'No, no,' said Gopal pityingly. 'I am seeing on video. I am seeing many
realistic and educational American films on video.'
'Which was your favourite?'
'Deep Throat.'
'Holy shit, you watched Deep Throat at home on video?'
'No, no, at friend's house when his parents are away.'
'Where do you get these films anyway?'
'Many good video libraries in town now.'
'And where do they get the films from? '
 'Delhi. Good business in pirated video prints.'
'Don't the cops do anything about it?'
'Brother,' said Gopal patiently, 'you are talking like damn fool.'
Yes, thought Sunil, I certainly am. He'll probably be absolutely fine. In any
case why the hell should I worry. This is the second time in my life that I've met
the guy. 'How exactly are we related?' he asked.
'Your cousin sister is married to my cousin brother. Don't you remember
their wedding? You had come to India for that.'
Cousin sister and cousin brother, mused Sunil. I've really been away a long
time. He remembered the wedding and the vast crowds of what were apparently
close relatives. He recalled reading somewhere that all cultures developed a
variety of names to distinguish the shadings of any element of which there was
an abundance in the environment. So the Eskimos apparently had half a dozen
names for snow and Indians similarly had names for a nearly endless number of
specific relationships. The name for a father's elder brother was different from
that for his younger brother and so were the names for the mother's brothers. It
probably developed from the joint family system where everybody lived
together, thought Sunil. When a kid wanted someone, he couldn't just yell for his
uncle. The house was probably crawling with uncles. He had to specify which
uncle.
It's probably a good indication of the areas in which a society lays the
greatest emphasis, he thought. I wonder what it is that has the largest number of
synonyms in America?
'Brother, look,' said Gopal pointing to a billboard, 'whole family is naked.'
Sex, thought Sunil with sudden inspiration. The sex act has more names in
America than anything else. Well, he thought wryly, well, well, well, so what
else is new. The problem though is that not only are they obsessed with sex,
they're making the rest of the world equally crazy. Look at this poor guy, he
pondered, he's read Penthouse Letters and seen Deep Throat and he thinks that's
America. Well maybe it is, at least more than Yanks are willing to accept, but
how's he going to cope? He's probably been the most sedate, conservative,
godfearing guy in his hick town. I mean how much trouble can you get into in a
hair oil factory, for God's sake. But almost from the moment he's arrived, he's
started to perk up. I don't think he's seen pictures of as many naked women in all
his life as he has after driving half a day on America's streets. It'll be a bloody
miracle if he doesn't turn into a raging sex maniac. And what's that going to do
to his head which must be full of his father's preachings and mother's warnings
and a lifetime of the straight and narrow? Well, he concluded, if it doesn't kill
him he'll go back a new man. God help Jajau then.
 He squinted with affection at the earnest, bespectacled figure beside him.
'How long will you be in the US?'
'One year only. I am finishing diploma course and returning.'
They reached the airport, parked alongside the kerb and got off. Sunil got a
trolley while Gopal took out his bags. 'I'll walk you to the airline counter, but I'll
have to rush back because I'm illegally parked,' said Sunil. 'Who's going to
receive you at Eversville?'
'University said there will be chap with sign,' said Gopal, distractedly
walking towards the row of counters.
'Thank you, brother, for everything. Very nice of you and all that. I hope you
will come and are visiting me at Eversville. Please say my goodbyes to Sushant.'
'I will,' said Sunil, feeling an unaccountable fondness for this hopeless,
gangling, earnest young man so far from home and his natural surroundings. He
dumped the bags on the scale, gave the ticket to the lady attendant, took back the
baggage tags, ticket and boarding pass and put them in Gopal's hand. 'Off you
go,' he said to him gruffly. 'That's the way to your gate. Don't get into the wrong
plane.'
'No, brother,' said Gopal obediently, though clearly extremely distracted, and
set off down the corridor.
Sunil watched him go, feeling somewhat helpless at what lay in store for
him. Then suddenly Gopal turned and loped back.
'Brother,' he asked surreptitiously, 'this may be wrong time to ask, but lady
who gave tickets is having red hair. Brother,' he whispered even more
conspiratorially, 'I am wondering suddenly. Are red-haired ladies having red
hair,' he fumbled desperately, 'all over?' he blurted out.
'I'm sure,' said Sunil giving him a hug and nearly weeping, 'you'll have lots
of opportunities to find out.'
Visibly cheered, Gopal strode eagerly back towards the departure gate.
2

Gopal trundled the trolley carrying his luggage in front of him as he came out
of the arrival area of the airport. He looked anxiously around for someone
carrying a sign with his name and to his relief he spotted one immediately.
'Welcome Gopal Kumar,' it said in large red letters. Underneath it added, 'To the
Dullsville Capital of USA.'
The sign was being waved by a tall, cheerful-looking American with curly
brown hair who was eyeing the arriving passengers eagerly. Just looking at him
made Gopal's spirits rise, which had been considerably crushed by an
exasperated stewardess who snapped, after his request for an eighth Coke, 'Why
don't you buy yourself a factory,' before ignoring him for the rest of the flight.
Gopal headed for the American youth who sized him up as he approached.
He saw a young man with a slightly pockmarked, sallow complexion, about six
feet tall, with thick black-rimmed glasses and longish hair that were so oily that
they reflected light. But the most immediate characteristic was his enthusiasm
and excitement. 'Here,' thought the American, 'is a guy who's glad to be here.'
'Hello, hello,' roared Gopal causing nearby passengers to shy away nervously
and the American to flinch. But not to be outdone he boomed back equally
loudly, 'Hello, hi, hellow there,' his hand grappled with Gopal's arms before they
met and shook. 'I'm Randy.'
Gopal recoiled this time. 'Why?' he asked nervously.
Randy looked at him in amazement. 'Er, why not?' he finally laughed.
'Anyway, let's get out of here and head for the town that time forgot,' he said,
seizing Gopal's trolley and wheeling it down the carpeted corridor. And so,
eyeing each other a little warily, they emerged into the open.
Almost immediately Gopal began to hurt in the icy wind. He hugged his
overcoat around himself and looked in awe at the young American who was
dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt and striding briskly behind the trolley. 'My car's
just a bit ahead,' he said with a backward, sympathetic glance at Gopal who was
shuffling along miserably. 'Here we are,' he announced, opening the door,
flinging in the suitcases and ushering Gopal into the front seat. 'My most humble
chariot,' he announced, settling in and starting the engine.
They drove out of the airport and Gopal began to unfreeze. 'Thank you for
picking me up and all that,' he said awkwardly, remembering his manners. 'Is the
college near by?'
 'No such luck,' grinned the Yank. 'It's about an hour away, not just from here,
but from any place civilised.' He roared with laughter. He had a very infectious
laugh and he laughed a lot, thought Gopal, who was beginning to like him. 'It is,'
Randy continued, 'a real one-horse town.'
'I see,' said Gopal, interested but confused. 'Whose horse is that?'
'I love it,' shrieked the American, pounding the wheel. The car swerved and
another car overtaking them jerked wildly away. Its horn blared and the driver
could be seen yelling with his mouth opening and closing rapidly.
Yeah,' yelled back Gopal's new friend, 'and I hope the next time you meet
your mother she barks at you,' he screamed. Grinning, he turned back towards
Gopal. 'First rule of survival in the US of A,' he informed Gopal who was all
interested immediately, 'Never take no shit from nobody. They give you shit,
you give back two buckets of shit. You know what I mean?'
Gopal certainly did, though it wasn't a very pleasant thought. The American
put on the radio. 'Anything special you want to listen to? he asked.
'No, actually I'm still very sleepy. Jet lag and all that. Can I go to sleep?'
'Sure, this is America, you can do what you like. I'll wake you up when we
get to Eversville. You're staying in the dorm tonight. They're supposed to have
saved some dinner for you, though I wouldn't bet on that. But you go right ahead
and sleep. Here, I'll lower the music.'
Gopal leaned back and dozed. Outside in the early dusk, the trees were
slipping into the twilight. A mist was starting to shade the land grey, then a light
drizzle swept in the blurred what little could be seen. It is all so different,
thought Gopal. I wonder what is happening at home now? They must be
wondering about me too. But at least the people seemed friendly. At least this
one who had come to fetch him did. Maybe too friendly, he thought with a
twinge of uneasiness. He said he is randy. I know from Penthouse Letters about
that, but there only girls are randy. Maybe he is one of those. Boy types. I must
be careful. And then he was asleep.
He barely remembered arriving at Eversville, or getting out at the dormitory,
or falling into bed. The non-stop travel, the excitement, the newness, all finally
pushed him into an exhausted sleep.
The next morning he stirred sleepily awake. He looked around through
gummy eyes and struggled up, wondering where he was. He thought of calling
for the cook to bring in his tea and then suddenly he remembered why he was in
this grey, cell-like room, and he fell back into bed. A feeling of total fright went
through him as though each cell in his body had been touched with ice. He really
didn't want to get up. He worried about what lay ahead. Monsters with American
faces materialised in front of him waiting to perform unimaginable cruelties.
 He heard footsteps outside and wondered if they were waiting beyond the
door to laugh at him. Maybe now that he had arrived they had decided that they
had made a mistake and were going to kick him out. What would he tell
everyone at home? Maybe even now big and tough policemen, hefty-defty, were
on their way to drag him out. What would his parents say? He missed them. By
this time of the morning his mother would have arrived to get him out of bed. He
missed her. He missed her fat waddling figure and the thumps she gave him to
wake him up. Sometimes he used to pretend to be asleep until she got near
enough, then he would suddenly leap up and scare her. Maybe the Americans
would think he looked funny.
Gopal would have carried on fantasising if he hadn't felt the urge to relieve
himself. Wearily he swung his feet on to the floor and pushed himself off the
bed. He looked around for the bathroom, found a door, opened it, and discovered
coat hangers hanging there. Impatiently he went to the other door, turned the
handle and looked into a long corridor. Thoughtfully he came back, considered
the situation, sat down on the bed, got up again, walked twice round the tiny
room, opened the closet door and carefully checked it in case it led into a
bathroom. It didn't. He then came back to sit on the bed and think some more.
There was no getting away from it, he decided, there just wasn't a bathroom
here.
His sleepy mind refused to accept this. Forcing down a feeling of panic, he
tried to examine the situation logically. Awful thoughts about unspeakable toilet
habits practised by Americans kept leaping into his head. Finally, he abruptly
decided that the only reasonable conclusion was that the college had given him a
room without a bathroom. It was simply impossible that the entire nation took to
the fields in the morning in search of release. After all they are the most
powerful nation on earth. What about Ronald Reagan, does he get a bathroom, or
in the morning does he go out to the lawns followed by security guards? I am
thinking like sick man, he told himself sternly. He dashed out of the door.
A kindly soul he met in the corridor, seeing his overwrought state, escorted
him to a door with the sign 'Men'. There he beheld, with the sentiments of a
weary knight glimpsing the Holy Grail, a procession of glorious, glittering,
welcoming pots. However, his joy was shortlived, since he also found that there
wasn't a shred of privacy around any of the pots. It was as casual as a row of
marble thrones expecting a regiment of kings for dinner.
A glance at the door showed there was no way to lock it. He peered outside
but no inspiration rounded the corner. He looked wildly around inside but
nothing presented itself that could be used to jam the door. Suddenly
remembering, he dashed to a toilet paper roll, dragged out a handful, folded it
quickly into a square and stuffed it under the corner of the door. It was a trick he
had read about in Penthouse Letters where a young man had met a lady who
apparently was unable to restrain her affection for him for a single second
longer.
As a much-relieved Gopal went out, having laboriously taken the paper out
piecemeal, he accepted with unreserved admiration that Penthouse Letters was
the finest possible guide to surviving in America. He decided to obtain a copy at
the earliest so that he could have an invaluable adviser at hand for the
doubtlessly difficult days that lay ahead.
He returned to his room and began to gather soap, shaving kit and other
equipment preparatory to having a bath. There was a loud banging at his door.
'Open up,' shouted a familiar, cheerful voice outside. 'This is the FBI. Surrender
or die.'
Gopal cautiously opened the door. 'Hi, there,' grinned the friendly face
outside. 'Remember? I'm Randy.'
'Still?' asked Gopal, stunned.
'Of course,' said the Yank. 'Do Indians change the names overnight?'
'Oh,' sighed Gopal in understanding and relief, 'your name is Randy.'
'Sure it is, I told you that.'
'Of course, of course, come in, I'm going for bath. Where it is?'
'This way, this way to the most exalted place.' Heralded by Randy, they
made their way to a room lined with showers. Once again, Gopal noticed with
foreboding, there were no cubicles, just a series of enquiring shower heads
leering at him.
'I think,' said Gopal backing away, 'I will not take bath now.'
'Why? Why?' demanded Randy who had been admiring himself in the
mirror. 'Tell all to Uncle Randy, greeter of innocents, protector of the poor. Is it
the pits? Does our humble loo offend you? Say the word and I'll tear it apart. Out
with it. What's wrong?'
'Well, actually, you know,' admitted Gopal sheepishly, 'there is no privacy
and all that you know.'
'Ah ha,' said Randy, 'my computer-like mind sees all. Fear not fair youth, I
shall stand guard outside and none shall witness thy noble nakedness, as
Shakespeare probably said.'
Hastily Gopal bathed, scalding himself once with a faucet that turned the
opposite way from Indian taps. He shaved, got into the clothes he had brought
and went out. Randy was waiting outside with three other men carrying towels
who flinched as Gopal passed. 'Thank you,' said Gopal. 'How you stopped them
from coming in? '
 'A secret my grandmother taught me,' airily explained Randy. 'A mere
nothing for someone of my talents, brains and sexual ability.'
'Still?' prodded Gopal.
'Oh I told them you thought you had got herpes and had gone in a check.'
'What's herpes?' demanded Gopal.
'Just an all-American signal that you want privacy. Nothing to worry about.'
They dumped Gopal's towel and kit in his room and he began to put on
shoes. 'Let's go, let's go,' said Randy dancing around and sparring. 'Breakfast
time, chow time. I'm so hungry I could eat a cow.'
Gopal stopped abruptly and raised an admonishing finger. 'No. No cows for
me,' he warned sternly.
'Oops,' said Randy, landing a quick left-right to Gopal's suitcase, 'a faux pas,
a fucks pass, let's go. Take your sweater and overcoat. We're going to see the
Dean afterwards.'
They went into the dining hall. The din reminded Gopal of the shopfloor of
his uncle's steel re-rolling mill. They joined a line and Randy picked up two
trays. 'One vegetarian breakfast coming up, courtesy the Cordon Bleu chefs of
Hank's Delivery Service.'
'I am eating eggs.'
'And so you shall. Dozens of them. You want milk or orange juice?'
'Er, orange juice,' said Gopal, a little uneasy about the religious status of
American cows.
They went to a table occupied by two young men. 'Will you move,' asked
Randy conversationally, 'or should I pull out your intestines and strangle you
with them?'
'Up yours, Wolff,' said one, but they moved .
'Fellow Yanks,' resumed Randy after they had sat down, 'I would like you to
meet my friend Gopal. He's the Maharajah of Delhi, his father has eighteen
wives and he lives in a two hundred-room palace.'
'Hi,' said one, 'sounds just like my old man. I'm Fred.'
The other American who was extremely fat carried on eating.
'Ignore this animal,' advised Randy. 'The school just keeps him here for his
sex appeal. By the way,' he asked, suddenly remembering the shower room, 'how
did you manage with the John?'
Gopal paused in mid-chew. 'Who?' he asked.
'Not who, what. The toilet, the loo, el stinko place.'
'Oh that,' said Gopal in embarrassment, aware of the other two watching him,
'I managed. Why it is called John?'
'I'm John,' burped the fat one.
 'That's right,' hooted Randy. 'That's why it's called the John. After this guy
here. Because he's so full of shit.'
Gopal filed this away and regarded the fat boy with more respect. They are
naming rooms after boys here, he thought. Perhaps the way they have streets
named after great people in India. He wondered if they would name any rooms
after him. I must give no cause for complaint, he thought. Maybe a chemical lab,
he fantasised, Gopal Kumar Lab.
'Let's go, let's go,' Randy was thumping his tray. 'The merry Dean awaits us
at his morning orgy.'
They went out of the doors, down some steps and into a large oval of grass.
Buildings fringed it on all sides. Everywhere there were figures sprinting for
various buildings. 'Peasants,' commented Randy, 'racing for their daily slavery.
We, of course, shall stroll leisurely like two Maharajahs of Delhi or Bombay?
Hi, there, Mary Lou,' he called out to a passing girl. 'How're the blow jobs
getting along? '
'Who's she?'
'Oh her,' said Randy pleased with his wit and confident that Gopal wouldn't
understand. 'She's the Linda Lovelace of the campus.'
Gopal gave him a cold look. 'And you are Harry Reems?' he asked
witheringly.
For once even Randy was at a loss for words. By now they had reached a
building marked 'Administration' and a short, red-haired man who was about to
enter held the door open for them. 'You must be Gopal, I hope Randy's been
looking after you. What was he telling you about just now?
'Linda Lovelace, sir.'
Randy gurgled. Dean Smith gave him an old-fashioned look as they went up
the stairs. 'I see Mr Wolff has begun educating you in his area of expertise,' he
said drily. 'I hope the college can do as good a job in its own field.'
They went into a small but pleasant office looking on to the oval. Books
occupied one entire wall. 'Take off your coat, make yourself comfortable.
Coffee? Perhaps Mr Wolff can organise three cups if he can tear himself away
from his contemplation of last night's excesses.'
Randy hastily complied.
'Sit down,' Dean Smith waved to Gopal. 'We have hopes that we can learn a
lot from each other. We don't normally take people for one year, but your
experience and knowledge of specific chemicals was so impressive that we felt
we had to make an exception in your case. I just wish you were staying longer. A
lot of the learning process is just the entire experience of education and I believe
someone from a different culture like yours would benefit greatly before
returning to your homeland. America has much to offer and I hope you will
participate fully and take back pleasant memories with you .
'I appreciate the culture shock may be tremendous, that's why I specially
requested Randy to look after you. Being a very small school we try to make
everyone feel at home so they don't get the sense of being lost that I'm told
happens to a lot of foreign students going to large schools. I hope you don't
misunderstand Randy. He's one of our brightest students in chemical engineering
and possibly the only one who can come anywhere near the kind of knowledge
you seem to have developed. I must say you have a range and depth of
experience that I haven't encountered among many students.'
'My father is teaching me our business from childhood...' said Gopal,
shuffling his feet in embarrassment. He had never received such praise in his life
and wondered if the Dean was being sarcastic.
Randy returned balancing three plastic cups. Gopal tasted the coffee. It was
terrible and he was to discover later that coffee everywhere in America tasted
faintly of burnt beans and fried plastic.
The Dean continued, 'Randy, I want you to take Gopal to the bookstore,
show him the library and campus, help him check out the classrooms and meet
the teachers. We've given him one of the off-campus apartments, haven't we? I
believe you wanted one so you could eat Indian food. Do you think you'd like to
help him move in?'
Gopal turned to see if Randy was agreeable, but apparently this wasn't a
question. He left his coffee unfinished and watched wincing as the Americans
drained their cups with evident enjoyment, Randy slurping his noisily. 'Anytime
you want to see me just drop right in,' said the Dean in farewell as they shook
hands.
'He is very friendly,' Gopal told Randy as they went down a staircase .
Yeah, but not always. Wait till you get bad grades once, you'd think you'd
murdered his mother, the way he carries on. Let's go see the campus.'
Randy took Gopal around the small school. Nothing really made sense,
because it was all so alien, but Gopal tried to get his bearings. The tour would
have been a lot livelier, Gopal suspected, if Randy hadn't been so chastened by
the Deep Throat shock. He was proved correct when before entering the
engineering building, Randy turned and asked in real wonder, 'How'd you know
about Reems and all that stuff?'
'Well, heh, heh,' said Gopal enjoying himself thoroughly, 'I am more clever
than I look.'
'I bet,' said Randy pushing the door open. 'Here, hang on, I'll go see if any of
the profs are free.'
 He strode away. Gopal wandered around the lobby watched by a girl from
behind the reception counter. He looked her way and their eyes met. 'Hi,' she
smiled, 'how's it going?'
'What to say,' confessed Gopal, touched by her interest and not wishing to let
it go unrewarded. 'So many things are happening. First I am not finding
bathroom and having to close door and things like that. Then there is vegetarian
food problem and I am promising my grandmother I will only eat food cooked
by Brahmins in Hank's Delivery Service, though I don't think so. Of course,
Dean Smith is very nice and all that but I am not knowing if I will adjust to
bathroom problem. But I am really loving Coca-Cola. But how all Americans are
using same bathroom I am very worried.'
The girl's eyes had begun to glaze and she had started to cringe backwards
when Gopal was interrupted by Randy's voice. 'Don't waste your time on her,' he
urged Gopal propelling him away, 'she only puts out on the second date. C'mon,
I'll show you around the classes and labs.'
Gopal wandered in bliss through laboratories emitting deliciously familiar
potent odours and classes with charts that he knew by heart. The rows of
computer terminals fascinated him and seemed the only way the laboratory
complex of rooms was different from his college in India. All labs, he thought in
a state of ecstasy, smelt the same.
He was introduced to numberous hearty and welcoming teachers who all
seemed large and jovial and who he would have to learn to differentiate from
each other. He was particularly pleased to see numerous other foreign faces. He
commented on this to Randy, 'Lot of foreign students here.'
'Yeah,' joked Randy, but there was a slight edge to his voice. 'I'm the token
American here. C'mon, let me show you the pirate's den.'
'Is that restaurant?'
'No, it's what I call the bookstore. Damn thieves.'
At the end of the tour Gopal was completely confused. 'Don't worry,' Randy
reassured him, 'you'll find your way around in a week. It's a small place. Now let
me show you your apartment. You want to walk or drive?'
They decided to walk so that Gopal would learn the way. They crossed a
road bordering the lawn, walked past a few white-painted wooden houses and
turned into a double-storeyed apartment complex. Randy rang the bell below the
'Manager' sign and a large lady opened the door. She was wearing a flowered
summer dress with massive arms emerging from it. Her face had no discernible
features except a tiny nose just managing to stay afloat atop the fat. Minuscule
eyes peered like mice from behind the protective layers. Her hair, Gopal thought,
was suspiciously jet black.
 'My, my, my,' she squealed and her voice sounded like the whistle used to
wake soldiers at dawn, 'look who's here. Come in, come in, mercy, you'll catch
your death of cold.' Gopal felt even colder looking at her summer dress.
Inside, it was warm. All the furniture was covered with flowery material and
dozens of glass vases in different shapes, sizes and colours lay everywhere.
'Mind where you sit,' she warned, 'I don't want you hurting my babies.'
Gopal leapt to his feet and looked around in alarm. 'No, love,' she trilled, 'I
meant my vases. They're my babies. My liddle liddle babies. And they love their
Momma the way their Momma loves them. Isn't that so, honey,' she cooed to a
vase in the shape of a winged cupid about to shoot an arrow.
'If that vase was me,' muttered Randy to Gopal, 'I'd shoot that arrow right
into her fat face.' They both sniggered.
'Laugh,' she said, affectionately stroking the cupid, 'that's right, laugh. I love
a jolly old laugh, dearie me, yes I do.' She gave a jolly old laugh that started in a
low whine and gained in bass as though she was changing her sex while
crunched over the cupid vase. The laugh culminated in a vast bellow.
'Oh dear,' she gasped, 'that was good, wasn't it? I just know I'm going to love
you. I love all my boys. You do speak English, don't you? Ah, good. Well, boys,
upsy up we go,' and to Gopal's increasing feeling of hysteria, she skipped like a
schoolgirl to the door. She grabbed a bunch of keys hanging beside the door and
waved them forward. 'Upstairs, your little castle's upstairs,' she whined and
giggled.
She began climbing the stairs, wheezing and stopping and gasping every
three steps. Randy noticed with amazement that she was sweating. 'Oh dear me,'
she panted, 'Gloria's no longer the belle of the ball.' She stumbled in triumph up
the last stair and supported herself with the rails on the side as she tottered her
way forward. At the third door she fumbled with the lock while Randy and
Gopal tensed in case she dropped dead from exhaustion, but she got the door
open and stumbled in.
Randy and Gopal followed and found her flat on her back on the bed,
wheezing like a deflating tyre. Her bosom heaved uncontrollably like a ship in a
storm. 'Just doing my breathing exercises dear, one of those days you know.
Take a look around,' she urged, 'go on.'
Gopal looked and found one small room with a tiny round table with two
chairs, a gallery with a cooking range and sink, and a door to which he hastened.
He opened it and rejoiced in the sight of a toilet and shower. An apprehensive
look around showed no other means of ingress, so clearly this was intended
exclusively for him. He came back beaming to Randy who was fascinatedly
observing Gloria who now appeared to be gargling with her spit.
 'Do you think she'll marry me?' whispered Randy. 'I mean how could anyone
lead a boring life with her around?'
Gloria began to get up, apparently in instalments. First her head, then her
neck, then her bosom, and finally her stomach till she was sitting upright. 'Ah
me, that was fun, wasn't it, toots? What're you going to study here, love?'
'Chemical engineering.'
'Mercy, what brains! I just love brains. I'm educated too. I write poetry, did
you know that?'
'No,' they assured her. 'But of course I'd love to hear some,' Randy urged.
'Well,' she said coyly, her eyes rolling back soulfully. She powered herself to
her feet. 'The twitch of my hip,' she sang.
'Can make a man sick.'
She turned around and twitched one hip to demonstrate. The twitch started at
one end and rolled like wheat rippling across the vast prairies for several seconds
before dashing itself against the far end.
'The glow of my soul can burn a big hole.'
Gloria put one hand on her heart and one hand out and paused. Gopal and
Randy waited breathlessly for more and then realised that the poem was over.
They applauded wildly .
'Dearie me,' whined Gloria cantilevering her bosom down a few inches in
what was meant to be a bow, 'what a good time, what a good time. Well, loveys,
I gotter run.'
She skipped to the door and turned. Her eyes glowed like her soul and she
looked at Gopal. 'I've made a hit,' she crooned. 'Yes, siree Bob, I've made me a
hit.'
They could hear her skipping to the stairs outside like a rhino practising
ballet steps.
'This is true love, man,' hooted Randy clutching his sides and rolling on the
bed, roaring with laughter. 'Boy, oh boy, oh boy.'
'Oh no, no, no,' grimaced Gopal, 'I am sure she is only just friendly. Most
American girls are like this in old age?' he asked.
'Absolutely,' assured Randy. 'She's about average I'd say. What are Indian
girls like?'
'I am not knowing much,' confessed Gopal, 'but why you are called Randy?'
'Because I am. That's why, I guess. And I am because that's my name, know
what I mean?'
'No.'
'Well hell, aren't Indian guys randy?'
'Yes, some boys, but . '
 'You mean you don't go out on dates and stuff?'
'Well in the cities every one is doing, but ours is small town, so . '
'You mean you've never been on a date?'
'Well .'
'Aw come on, you must've laid a couple of girls by now, huh?'
'No, actually . '
'You mean you're actually a virgin?'
Gopal nodded shamefacedly .
'Well, holy shit, I don't think I've ever met one before. It's not infectious, is
it? Stay away from me. Can I get it just by looking at you? Hot damn boy, thank
you, you've given my life meaning and a direction and a goal.'
'What?' stuttered Gopal.
'I'm going to get you laid. Yes, sir, you heard me right. I do hereby swear as
a red-blooded American, that before you go back to India, I'm going to get you
right royally laid from sea to shining sea, so help me God.'
'Hey, heh,' simpered Gopal. 'No, no,' he protested with a noticeable lack of
vigour. 'I cannot do all that and all that and things like that.'
'Oh yes, you can do all that and all that and believe it or not, even things like
that. Do you have a phone here? I'm going to call Hot Pants holly and get this
over with right away.'
Gopal shied away in alarm. 'No, no, no phone yet,' he said in relief. This was
moving a little too fast for him. 'How I am getting one?'
'Easiest thing. I'll fix it. Anyway, let's go buy some groceries and stuff for
you.'
They walked back across the college lawn to Randy's car. 'Hang on a
second,' said Randy racing off, 'I've got to talk to that guy. Oi Mike,' he
screamed, 'wait a sec.'
Gopal loitered around. The wind had dropped and he was really quite cosy in
his overcoat. He breathed deeply and his nose hurt with the clean coldness of the
air. He exhaled watching his breath becoming smoke and then tried to blow
smoke rings. Just then a girl who looked familiar walked by. He recognised her
as being the friendly one who stood behind the counter at the engineering
building. 'Oh hi,' she said in surprise, 'how's it going?'
Gopal beamed at such constant interest. Clearly, the brief introduction he
had given her earlier had only whetted her appetite. 'Well, heh, heh,' he grinned
walking alongside her, 'I am meeting Gloria and getting apartment and you are
really glad to know that now no more problem with toilets, I am having one of
my own. Of course I am not using it yet but why to bother because it's of my
own, isn't it?'
 In answer she dug her hands into her pockets and walked faster. 'Of course if
there are any problems Randy is there. But everyone is very nice and no worries.
It is nice apartment and Gloria is sleeping on bed and it is not falling under her,
heh, heh.' Clearly he had essayed a little joke. By now Gopal was walking as fast
as he could to keep pace with her. 'The mattress is looking thin but I am sure
Gloria is giving new one if any problem. I am sometimes having problems in
bed because of thin mattress ...' He watched puzzled as she fled across the lawn.
He trudged back to where Randy was waiting. 'Woman,' he told Randy with
real feeling, 'are strange people.'
'The wisdom of the inscrutable East,' said Randy clapping him on the
shoulder, 'but I could have told you that myself. C'mon, let's go loot the shops.'
They drove off. 'Wait till you get a load of this place,' said Randy. 'It's a mall
and I never thought much of it, but last year I had this African friend studying
here and he said he'd never seen anything like it. I mean when his relatives came
to visit and asked to see the sights, he'd, like, take them to check out the mall.
And he never got any complaints. Not one.'
They drove into the largest parking log Gopal had seen in his life. Nor, he
thought, looking around, had he ever seen such a vast collection of different cars.
For one wild moment he wondered if they were fakes put there to impress him.
There was every conceivable shape and colour and size and Gopal peered into
every car he passed, some in envious amazement at the opulence and luxury
visible inside, some in pity when they were less impressive than Randy's car. At
some he felt downright derisive and when he saw one with a torn roof, untidy
interior and dusty exterior, he felt compelled to warn Randy: 'That belongs to
crook. I must get good car also. Big one.'
'Damn right you do,' agreed Randy, 'you're not American till you do.'
It was amazing how rapidly if not instinctively Gopal had begun to equate an
automobile's looks with its owner's virtues or their lack. A bad-looking car, he
instantly felt, demonstrated a lawless personality. Oddly, he had never felt a
similar sentiment in all his years in India. But in America, without anyone telling
him so, he had accepted implicitly that the possession became the man. With this
came a desperate, nearly sexual sense of urgency demanding that he own a car
too. Effortlessly he had decided that since a man's acquisitions defined him, he
would like to demonstrate his family's wealth with a suitable symbol. And while
the idea certainly existed in India too, it wasn't as clear cut as here, and with
good reason. In India the options available to a buyer were much fewer, so a
man really bought whatever he could get - often the decision was made for him
by whatever was available, while in America a man's possessions were actually a
very personal statement of his likes, lifestyle and attitude to life. To that extent
his possessions probably did define him far better than any proclamations he
might make.
By now they had entered the mall and Gopal was again stunned. He saw that
it was a huge double-storeyed building with soft music piped everywhere,
discreet lighting throwing an actually welcoming glow, rows of shops, some
simply decorated, some bizarre, others with exquisite window dressing.
Overhead in the centre of the roof was a transparent glass sheet and below it, a
restaurant surrounded by green plants. A waterfall cascaded at one end, but so
soothingly that Gopal wondered if the water wasn't domesticated. There was a
hush all around except for the house-broken water and discreet music. 'It is quiet
as church,' Gopal whispered.
'This is a cathedral for Yanks,' grinned Randy. 'It's the most sacred place we
know. We do all our praying here, first to get something and then afterwards
when the bills arrive. This is really where all our Gods live. Let's go pray to them
for some toothpaste for you.'
Walking through the tinkling silence, Gopal contrasted it with the bazaars at
home. There was a constant roar, like a torrent tearing out of a gorge - no tame
water there. Pedlars shrieked, buyers screamed in horror at the prices,
shopkeepers wailed at the ruination facing them if they lowered their rates any
further. Goods spilled everywhere, fruits, clothes, vegetables, books, fish, and
the odours were so strong they were almost tangible, they felt as loud as the
sounds. People bumped into each other, elbowed their neighbours aside to reach
in and squeeze the mangoes, deftly exchanged children who had got
interchanged, yelled for the proper change, demanded that the oranges be
weighed again with weights that didn't look like they'd been made at the
shopkeeper's house, avoided persistent beggars, checked one last time that they
weren't taking home a different kid from the one they'd come in with and
triumphantly departed. The ears buzzed from the clamour, the throat ached from
the haggling, the arms hurt from the packages, the feet ached from the walking,
but they felt a genuine sense of triumph at having beaten the shopkeepers again,
they hoped, and at a good day work done.
But at the mall, Gopal felt totally helpless at the gentility all around and the
effortless ease with which shopping could be conducted. However, he knew
shopkeepers well and he felt he had no reason to believe that their basic attitude
to customers here would be any different from what it was in India. So when the
girl at the counter totalled his purchases for pots, sheets and plates and
announced, 'That'll be $37 and 52 cents, sir,' he was ready for her.
'25 dollars,' he replied firmly.
'Sorry, sir,' she replied, 'that's 37 dollars and 52 cents.'
 '27 dollars,' Gopal suggested.
'Er, no, sir,' she replied nervously, 'if you've run short of cash we'll gladly
accept all the major credit cards, cheques or travellers cheques.'
'29 dollars,' said Gopal firmly, 'no more or I am going to other nice shop.
They are saying they are having sale but I am giving you chance first.'
The girl began to look around wildly. 'Excuse me, sir,' she pleaded, 'I'll have
to get the manager.' She fled.
Randy, who had been wandering around near by, strolled back. 'What's up?'
he asked.
'I am bargaining.'
'Great,' said Randy. 'High time someone did. This should be fun.' He seated
himself on an ice box.
The manager arrived. He was short, barrel-chested, dressed in a colourful
checked coat and had a pleasant smile on his face at the moment. The girl hid
behind him, peering over occasionally.
'What seems to be the problem, sir?' asked the manager suavely. 'Could I be
of some help?'
'Prices too high,' said Gopal firmly.
'Ha ha ha,' chuckled the manager, 'isn't that the truth. I often say the same to
the wife myself. Now I'll tell you what,' he leaned forward conspiratorially, 'if
you've run out of cash, leave behind any one of these items, I'll reduce $5 and
throw in free this packet of fine chewing gum. How about that? Is that fair or is
that fair?'
'Chewing gum rots teeth,' said Gopal firmly .
The manager flushed. His eyes began to narrow, his smile to fade, but Gopal,
who had grown up amidst grocers wailing at the imminent starvation of their
children, was unaffected.
'All right,' said the manager through clenched teeth, 'what's the real problem
here? Come on, spit it out. You broke or something?'
'No,' said Gopal, 'but this only worth $25.'
'Oh, yeah,' said the manager, 'sez who?'
'Who is setting these prices?' demanded Gopal coldly.
'How the hell do I know? Hey buddy, look, I just work here. I don't want no
trouble, all right?'
'27 dollars.'
'Hey jerko, what're you? Ralph Nader send you, hanh? He's an Arab too, isn't
he?'
'I am Indian. 29 dollars.'
'I don't believe this. What're you ... nuts? Why don't you just take the whole
damn thing free?'
'Thank you,' said Gopal, gathering the package.
'Hey, hang on, wait up. Jesus, I get all the freaks. All right, 30 dollars and
that's it.'
Gopal strode out in triumph.
'Wow,' said Randy in wonder. 'I must try that sometime.'
As they walked towards the exit, Gopal beheld a short black man wearing a
fur cap, half dancing as he walked. His arm turned half circles and his fingers
snapped in time to some invisible music. His feet sprang with each step and his
body curved sideways keeping pace with the snap of his fingers. Gopal was
astonished. 'What is happening to him?' he asked.
'Oh nothing, just be-bopping his way down.'
'He dances?'
'No, just walks.'
'Dance-walk. Wonderful. No one is walking like this in India,' said Gopal
entranced. 'How he is doing it? '
'Easy. Here, I'll show you.'
Gopal watched as Randy demonstrated. 'See, the arm goes like this and
there's the snap. You've got to feel the rhythm. Go on, try it yourself.'
Gopal put down his package and tried. His legs got in each other's way more
than they sprang and the first time he snapped his fingers he nearly gouged out
his eye. But when he tried to concentrate on the snap, his feet instead of
springing began to vibrate like they had Parkinson's disease. However, when he
tried to bring order into his legs, his snap narrowly avoided castrating a passing
shopper.
'Needs more practice,' was Randy's opinion.
'You carry packages, I am practising.'
Randy eagerly picked up the packages and wondered when he had enjoyed
himself more and they made their stately way to the exit, with Gopal trying to
coordinate the spring with the snap.
Outside, he felt free of the hushed atmosphere enough to become a great deal
more adventurous in his springing and snapping. 'Better?' he asked.
'You said it. No question. Just keep it up,' urged Randy.
Gopal be-bopped to the car and practised around it while Randy fished for
his keys. 'Keys lost?' asked Gopal.
'I can't stop watching you.'
'Doing it good?'
'Oh boy. You bet. Here are the keys.'
'I think I am walking like this every time. But everyone will stare?'
 'No, no,' strenuously assured Randy. 'It's how everyone walks. Do it. Go
right ahead.'
Gopal rehearsed a few intricate snaps.
'Food,' he suddenly remembered, 'must get food.'
'Right, nearly forgot. Should we go by the grocery store? '
'No use. Can't cook?'
'Who cooked for you in India?'
'Servants.'
'Well, pardon me. I guess in that case it's back to the mad delights of
McDonald's, your Servantile Highness.'
They drove around till they found the familiar arch. They got off. 'Er, I
thought,' diffidently reminded Randy, 'you were going to walk like, you know,
the way you were practising.'
'Oh yes,' Gopal began to be-bop down, adding a distinctive shoulder twist he
had invented while sitting in the car. Hastily, Randy raced in front of him and
flung open the door for Gopal. 'Hey, guys,' he whispered inside penetratingly,
'get a load of this.'
Half a dozen heads craned around and watched the door attentively. Gopal
walked in perfectly normally, smiled at the perplexed watchers who glared at
Randy and sat down. 'Heh, heh,' he waggled an admonishing finger at Randy, 'I
am not fool.'
Randy sheepishly sat down. 'So what're we eating?'
'Vegetarian.'
'Right, vegetarian for you. Let's see, let's see, hum, hmmm. This is amazing.
There's nothing here except fries.'
'I will have.'
'Nothing else?'
'You say?'
'Yes.'
Randy went to order. 'One Big Mac and six orders of fries.'
The girl looked at him. 'You on a low cal diet?'
'Just get it, okay.' He went back to get Gopal's share of the money and came
back. 'And four Cokes,' he added fiercely. 'You say something?' he asked the
girl.
'Nothin. But I can think, can't I? I mean that's still allowed, inn't? '
It was dark by the time they got back to Gopal's apartment, loaded with
cornflakes, detergents, milk, eggs, bread, sheets, pots, and the entire
paraphernalia required for survival. Halfway through their shopping Gopal had
felt jet-lag creep up his legs and lay an armlock around his head. He had felt too
tired even to haggle.
Now he stumbled up the stairs, dumped the packages near the door, thanked
Randy profusely, invited him with transparently fake earnestness to come in and
have a Coke. Randy declined out of sympathy and left.
Gopal laid out the new bed sheet, got into his pyjamas and was about to shut
off the light when there was a tap at the door. It was Randy. 'Tomorrow,' he said
as Gopal peered out, 'it starts.'
'What?' asked Gopal groggily.
'Operation Devirginisation,' laughed Randy, turning away to race down the
stairs.
Gopal went to bed promising himself he wouldn't dream of girls.
3

Beloved Youngest One, How much I am missing one and all I simply cannot
say. My head is eating circles with all new new things.
Two weeks are already proceeding and I am not even knowing. I am
receiving Respecting Parents' letter and sending reply. You may also kindly
assure that I am strictly avoiding traps of divorcees. But, brother, you tell, how I
am to refuse meeting divorcees when all here are divorcees? Even respected
Landlady who is regarding me as own son is divorcee with three divorces.
Also, brother, I am telling you frankly, Revered Grandmother I am loving
and respecting very much but she is becoming nuisance. How I can help it if no
Brahmins here? And, brother, she is instructing that I must go to every kitchen
before eating and ask if cooks are Brahmins. Brother, here they are not even
knowing what caste is! But you may kindly tell her that I am strictly doing
needful otherwise I am fearing she is starting to sing Holy Songs again and
Mother is getting headache.
I do not know what she is saying if I am telling her that I am also cleaning
own latrine. I think she is leaving Earthly Form. Brother, I am not liking, but
what to do? No one is having servants here. I am even cooking own food but
only eggs. I am grateful to our cook who is telling me how long to boil egg, but
why he is not telling me that water is required to be added? Anyway I am
learning all many things.
I am happy to say Higher Studies are progressing. They are having all
facilities here but standard of studies is not so high as in India. In technical
matters they are having very good teachers but American boys are not taking
much interest. Mostly my class is having foreign students. Course is quite easy
and I am knowing mostly already, so Respected Professor is saying I may take
test and move to next class. They are allowing many kinds of things like this
here. I think this way is better than in India and if we are also doing then nation
will be on march.
Also no one is bothering who you are and you are also not to bother. You are
not believing, but I am calling Respected Professors by first name. One is saying
to me, 'My name is Sam, not Sir Sam. The British are not knighting me yet.'
Good joke I think. Brother, are you imagining if I am going to Great Principal of
Jajau College and calling him by first name? I think he is dying of heart attack.
I am making one friend here by name of Randy but that is not what it is
meaning and is common name. He is very studious, sober and religion-minded
boy you may tell Mother. He is from good family of high status. He is showing
me all different kind of ropes as they are saying here.
I am now knowing where to go. Earlier I am getting lost every time. On first
day I am going to one class and sitting for half an hour and not understanding
one word. First I am thinking it is accent I am not knowing. Then I am thinking I
am gone mad. Then girl sitting near is whispering it is French class. Now I am
having good laugh.
Brother, in food matters I am having big botheration. Everyday I am eating
cornflakes and boiled eggs for all meals. Now when I am burping I am getting
cornflakes taste. But what to do? I think Americans are hating vegetarians. But
their orange juice and milk is being something else. You are having to try it to
believing it.
Well, that is all from my side. Only worry I am having but kindly you are not
telling family, is fear of high blood pressure. I am never having before but all
Americans I am meeting when they are leaving are saying, 'Take it easy.'
Brother, even if I am standing fully relaxed and talking and taking deep breaths
they are still saying, 'Take it easy.' Maybe some problem in water is causing
blood pressure problems. And more they are telling me, more blood pressure I
am getting. Anyway let us see. We are all in God's Hands.
All else is fine at my end. I hope studies and work are progressing and you
are doing hard work at your end.
Assuring that I will check you out later.
Your beloved brother, Gopal.
Just as Gopal finished writing the letter there was a thunderous assault on the
front door accompanied by screams of agony alternating with pants of ecstasy.
This, Gopal had learned, was Randy's way of announcing his arrival. 'Open the
door, let me in,' he screamed. 'I know my daughter's in there. What're you doing
to her lovely white body, you filthy foreigner? Oh will no one help me rescue
her.'
'Door is open,' yelled Gopal.
'Greetings your Maharajical majesty,' said Randy flinging open the door and
bowing like Johnny Carson. 'I have discovered the answer to the most perplexing
question confronting mankind today.'
'What question?'
'How to get you laid.'
'And what is answer? '
 'It is simplicity itself. A stroke of genius such as could only be conceived by
a man of my divine gifts. A man who, despite all evidence to the contrary,
pretends to be like all other men. A man who . '
'You want to eat boiled egg?'
'Oh God, not again. I can't bear it anymore. Oh sob, oh cruel life, everytime
I've come to your place I've been forced to eat boiled eggs. I hope you added the
water this time when you boiled it. I couldn't believe that. I mean how can a guy
who can mentally work out faster than a calculator, the square root of II divided
by 1228 and multiplied by 892,000 not know that you need water to boil an egg?
Tell me that, oh venerable master of mathematics.'
'Are you giving me answer, or am I making you eat egg?'
'What answer? Oh right, to the question of the ages. Quite simple. You know
those three girls you said you liked? The one at the library and the other two at
the engineering school? Well, what we do is get you into your fancy new Sears
Roebuck checked pants. Then you put on your Sears Roebuck tweed coat. Then
you walk up to each girl in turn, put your arm around her waist, with the other
arm you hold her hand, look deep into her eyes and say: "Excuse me please. Are
you wanting to screw?"'
'No.'
'All right. Talk American. Say "Hey honey. Wanna fuck?"'
'Kindly go away.'
'Hey, why not? Look, Gopal, let's face it, you're not doing too great you
know. I mean how long've you been here now? Two weeks?'
Gopal nodded.
'And what's been your strike rate? Zero. I mean zilch. I mean if I had to go
without it for two weeks, nothing, and I do mean nothing, would be safe in a
radius of 50 miles. C'mon, Gopal, let's face it, you can't do any worse you know.
Look at it this way; if they all say "no", you're no worse off than when you
started. And if even one says "yes", you're home and running. How d'you like
that? Am I good or am I great?'
'You are ass. We are going to school.'
'All right, be that way. The truth is you don't deserve an adviser of such
imagination, creativity, daring and stunning good looks. Let's go, let's go.'
As they went down the stairs Gopal tucked in his newly acquired scarf into
his overcoat. He had gone back with Randy to the mall and in the same store
where he had bargained, he found scarves on sale displayed in the window. He
went in, picked one up and strode purposefully to the counter. He met the same
sales girl. She paled visibly on seeing his determined face and cowered.
'How much?' demanded Gopal.
 'Whatever you like,' she assured him nervously.
'Says $5 each in window.'
'So it does. But for you, anything.' She caught the eye of the store manager
who put on his suave smile and headed towards them. Then he saw who was
with her and quickly stepped behind a rack of kitchen utensils.
'You pay what you like, mister,' the girl pleaded. 'I'll pay the rest.'
Mournfully Gopal had put down five dollars, disgusted at being deprived of
a satisfying haggle.
Now as he came down the stairs, feeling warm and elegant, he felt he had
got a good bargain. The curtains in Gloria's living room had been drawn apart
and as she saw him she gave a friendly wave and struck a pose with one hand
poised on her head and another sticking out sideways. She had told him that she
had seen the pose in a book which she showed Gopal, which was one of
Egyptian hieroglyphics and had decided for some mysterious reason that the
posture was part of some intricate Indian dance. She therefore adopted the pose
whenever she saw Gopal, apparently as a way of making him feel at home.
Gopal often wondered if, all things considered, he didn't prefer her poetry.
As they drove out, Randy commented, 'That Gloria, boy, has she got the hots
for you? You know, she's kind of cute in her own way. You two could make
quite a couple you know.'
'Thank you,' said Gopal. 'But I am thinking she is more your type.'
'Well, don't dismiss her. Keep her in mind. Who knows, I mean you might
get so desperate one day that overcome by lust you might decide to take the leap.
Of course you might never reappear after having taken the leap, but that's a small
price to pay. And I really think it's worth paying. I mean if I was deprived for
two whole weeks, I would. Now what I mean? How d'you stand it? And what am
I going to tell your Dad when he arrives to investigate your disappearance? That
you've drowned in rolls of blubber?'
Gopal shifted uneasily at the mention of his father. 'I have managed for 21
years,' he said shortly. 'We are going somewhere in afternoon you said?'
Yeah. The college football team is playing a game. The Dean thought you
might like watching it.'
'What is team name?'
'The Eversville Evergreens. And the only thing evergreen about them is that
the dumb shits haven't won a match in recorded human history.'
And so they went that afternoon, participating in one of the sacred rites of
America, if only Gopal knew it, a worship of its truest gods. Sex and violence,
colour and pageantry, brutality and beauty, and most of all, action. All presented
in the guise of a game, of good humour and sportsmanship. Gopal came away
shaken, as though he had seen an ugly side of the soul of this vast and awesome
land.
The first thing that struck him was the sheer wrongness of it all. How
typically American, he thought, to call a game football when it had very little to
do with the foot and nothing at all to do with a ball. The object in question here
was more like a dinosaur's egg and its parents seemed to have emerged from
their pens to fight over its possession with a truly maternal fury.
It was a breathtakingly lovely day for him to begin to discover the dark side
of the dream. An afternoon in autumn, when the trees looked like an artist's
palette and the wind stung the girls' faces into a rosy flawless strawberry flush.
The young people arrived like banners, in streams of colours, dressed in
regulation jeans and jackets of dazzling hues. The flags erected themselves
straight in salute as the stadium filled and a hubbub stormed across the stands.
Gopal and Randy sat in one of the middle rows on the side. The ball - though
nowhere else in the world would it be called that, since a ball is by definition a
sphere, a round object - had already been placed in the middle. But Gopal,
brooding on this impossibly wrong definition, decided he wasn't really so
surprised, since he had recently discovered two astounding facts: one, that while
all America celebrated the 'discovery' of America by Columbus, the land
appeared to have been previously discovered by at least a dozen other prior
visitors, among them several hundred thousand Indians who had been peacefully
inhabiting it for a few thousand years. Second, that while Christopher Columbus
was universally revered - or reviled as the case may be - for his discovery of the
country, America itself was named in what must surely be the most historically
severe case of ingratitude, after one Amerigo Vespucci. Mr Vespucci, from what
a totally mystified Gopal could gather, had had absolutely nothing to do with
America. In the face of such historic misnaming, he concluded, what was a mere
ball?
A roar from the crowd, like a pride of lions spotting the arrival of its lunch,
announced the team and Gopal settled into his bench. In trotted a line of young
ladies who seemed to have mislaid their clothing on this cold and windy day and
who were therefore attired in their underwear.
To Gopal's total and helpless mystification, they began to perform vigorous
exercises alternating with violent orgiastic motions. To this they added cries of
ecstasy which faintly reached Gopal. Not really believing his eyes, he carefully
looked around, fully prepared to witness a veritable hailstorm of trousers being
shed as the males in the audience responded to the unmistakable invitation
extended by the undressed lovelies below, as they prepared to descend for what,
Gopal feared, would be a gang bang unmatched since Cleopatra. In a way, he
felt sorry for the girls could be said to have been asking for the affections of
some 10,000 males simultaneously.
To his added sense of bewilderment, the men around him were totally
unmoved. Some chatted, others gesticulated for the beer seller, a few gazed
vacantly; none seemed gripped by the emotions that possessed Gopal. Maybe, he
thought wildly, they are actually a nation of impotents and that is why they are
having so many sexy advertisements everywhere.
Before he could subtly question Randy on this delicate subject, the stadium
rose to its feet and two lines of astronauts ran on to the field. And then followed
a succession of tableaux that completed Gopal's sense of total bafflement.
Sometimes two of the astronauts mated in positions made familiar by porno
films, at other times they grappled like amorous gorillas, sometimes there were
moments of cultural refinement when they huddled together discussing this and
that. But most of the time, he noted with alarm, they merely bashed each other
enthusiastically. Even when the ball - he winced at the term -was nowhere near
the vast majority of them, they fell upon each other to wreak a mayhem that
would have been fearful if it hadn't been so cheerful.
'Hit 'im again,' the crowd howled around him and Gopal cowered, never
having seen or heard anything like this before.
After a while, when either the game was over or no one was left alive to
carry on any further, they trooped out. 'Don't,' Gopal asked, shaken and tentative,
'they hurting each other?'
'Nah,' reassured Randy. 'It's just a game.'
What, wondered Gopal, quivering, are they like then when they fight each
other?
It was dark when they went outside, Gopal noticed with a shock. So
absorbed had he been in the gladiatorial spectacle that he hadn't noticed the
lights being switched on. But as they stepped out the night was a soft blue. They
had been among the last to leave the stadium as Gopal had tried to gather his
shattered senses.
'Something else, huh?' grinned Randy sympathetically, sensing his state of
shock.
The cars had left, the dueling headlights had finished their jousting. At that
point it seemed to Gopal that Americans spent all their waking moments locked
in some form of vicious battle - and the parking lot was nearly deserted. A few
last cars screeched out, the youthful drivers departing with some kind of
obligatory yell.
You want to go down and get some chow?' asked Randy, somehow feeling a
little abashed.
 'No, I am going home.'
So they went back, Gopal getting off at the apartment and turning to wave
goodbye to Randy. He climbed up the stairs, intent on the sheer, staggering
spectacle he had just witnessed. He was fumbling with the lock when he smelt
the liquor before he heard anything.
He turned quickly and saw the huge flowered dress moving towards him. He
tensed instinctively.
'Hi,' said the voice, and for once it wasn't shrill.
He hesitated with the lock pretending it wasn't opening, but light showed
through. Reluctantly he swung the door open and Gloria waddled in.
'Don't put on the light,' she whispered urgently, sinking into the couch.
'Come here, sit beside me. Please,' she pleaded.
Cautiously Gopal sat down at the far end.
'Come closer. Please. That's all I ask. I won't hurt you.' Her voice was soft
and vulnerable in the half light. Gopal couldn't see her face, just her enormous,
gross body in its cheap flowered print.
'I know I'm just a fat old broad,' he heard the tears wet her voice, 'but I got a
heart too.' Her voice cracked and he could almost see the tears streaming down
like rivulets. 'I don't want nothin from no one,' the jagged whisper continued,
'just a friend to listen to me. I ain't got no one. No one at all. Please. Please just
listen to me.'
In the dark Gopal heard the wretched misery in the voice and it was as
though the image she presented to the world was a mirror and it was cracking in
front of his eyes and he could hear the glass break in her voice, falling underfoot
as the world walked over it.
Suddenly she got up with a speed faster than he had ever seen from her,
shuffled rapidly to the door and was gone in a blast of cold air as the door
opened and shut. He heard her thumping down the stairs.
Slowly Gopal went to bed, his head whirling with bits of blood and girls and
crowds. And crying voices in a dark room. And girls in their underwear
flaunting themselves before heedless stadiums. Girls, he sighed to himself as he
turned and drifted off to sleep. Why there is no escape from them in this
country?
The next morning Randy hurled Gopal's door open, holding a football in one
hand. 'Hey semi-nigger,' he yelled. 'Where're you?'
'Have to wash clothes,' yelled back Gopal from the bathroom.
'Well hurry up. I've got a football. Let's go throw some. I mean it's my duty
to teach some poor ignorant heathen like you the finer points of life in Yankee
Doodle land. Can't have you going back to your ungodly village believing all
Yanks are apes who bash each other - even if it's true.'
'Will take some time.'
'What the hell for? Come on.' Randy cautiously pushed the bathroom door
open. Gopal was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a bucket at his feet half filled
with clothes and water, vigorously rubbing a soapy shirt.
'What the shit is this?' asked Randy in amazement.
Gopal gave him a cold look. 'You don't wash clothes? I am not at all
surprised.'
Randy began to chortle. 'C'mon you ass, lemme show you the laundry.'
He brushed aside Gopal's protests, picked up the bucket and marched out.
'You are laughing like hen,' reprimanded Gopal severely.
They went down the stairs to the far end of the building, opened a door and
walked down into the basement. There Randy patted the first one of the two
rows of gleaming white machines. 'This,' he announced, 'is what separates us
from the Commies. You open the lid thusly, thrust in the clothes in a smooth yet
efficient motion, seize some washing powder left behind like so, sprinkle it
liberally, shut the lid with finality, put in 50 cents and voila, as they say in Gay
Paree, home of the blow job.'
The machine began to gurgle.
'It is doing something,' admitted Gopal, apprehensive but appreciative.
'Now we wait for half an hour or so. You goof, you mean these last few
weeks you've been washing your clothes in the tub?'
Gopal nodded, embarrassed. 'Anyway,' he said quickly, changing the subject,
'let us watch some film.' He gestured to one of the many, large, curiously round
shaped TV screens lining the walls. No doubt, he thought, they are meant to
keep the notoriously restless Yanks entertained for a full half hour as they waited
for their clothes to be washed.
Randy collapsed over a machine. My machine, thought Gopal jealously.
Randy beat his fists on the white metal. 'I love it,' he gasped. 'Oh boy, you think
this is TV! Oh God, is this weird. Gopal, I'm going to make my million today.
I'm going to cut you into little pieces and sell you in cans as the funniest thing
alive. Oh, wow. This,' he gasped, 'you ignorant mathematical genius, is a humble
dryer. After your clothes are washed, you hurl them in there, put in a coin, turn it
on and out they come, soft as your girlfriend's ass. How 'bout that. No wonder
we're beating the Commies everywhere.'
'Actually,' said Gopal, seizing the opportunity to escape from his
mortification, 'you are losing everywhere.'
'Oh, yeah,' flared Randy, 'well, let me tell you Mr Big Shot From India -
hmm,' he acknowledged, accepting the feint. 'Not bad Kumar, not bad at all.
Maybe we'll increase aid to India this year after all.'
'You are not,' blared Gopal, his voice rising, 'giving us much aid. It is mostly
trade.'
'Well,' said Randy with a small smile of satisfaction, 'what say we go throw
the ball a bit while we wait for your clothes? '
Later that afternoon, Randy called Gopal on the phone that had been
installed the previous day in Gopal's apartment. The instrument had arrived the
day after Randy ordered the phone and Gopal watched disbelievingly as the
uniformed man quickly plugged in the pastel box. He attempted to bribe the
technician purely out of a habit ingrained from years of regarding the installation
of a phone as a joyous occasion second only to a birth. The man thought he was
offering a tip and refused. 'I get a salary,' he explained. As he was leaving, he
thought, nice guy. Gopal watched him go down the stairs. Strange fellow, he
mused.
And now he was startled as the phone whirred politely, somewhat different
from the sound of metallic drills that emanated from Indian phones. 'Congrats,'
yelled Randy, 'are you knee deep in blood?'
Gopal had learned to wait patiently for Randy to translate his mystifying
Americanisms into normal English.
'I mean,' gargled Randy, suffocating at his own wit, 'it's the end of your
phone's virginity. So about blood, what I mean is ...'
'Yes yes,' hastily interrupted Gopal, 'I am knowing about all that.'
'Well,' said Randy, disappointed at being so rudely interrupted, 'I called
because now that you've been introduced to the mysteries of washing machines,
you may be ready for a real live American Friday night party. Put on your glad
rags. Be ready by eight. I'll come fetch you. That is of course if you're not
completely booked for tonight. I mean Meryl Streep hasn't been calling and
bothering you, has she?'
'No no,' mumbled Gopal. 'I have to study. I do not know them. Whose party
it is?'
'Who cares, I'll be there at eight. Bye. '
'But you know, things like that and all that,' weakly protested Gopal to the
burring phone.
He was ready at eight, having polished his shoes twice, worn his new Sears
Roebuck trousers and coat and oiled his hair lavishly. He had even broken open
the packaging and worn his brand new underwear for reasons he dared not
contemplate. He had shaved, showered, put on his aftershave and now he waited
patiently. A car horn played a tattoo downstairs and Gopal took a deep breath,
got up, walked to the door, took a look around in case there was anything left to
detain him, and stepped out into the wind.
The party was at an old, double-storeyed wooden house and from the lights,
music and crashes emerging, was already in high gear. 'Looks good,' rejoiced
Randy. 'Looks real good. Gopal my man, tonight's the night. What say? I feel it.
I hope you're in good working condition, because the women are going to leap
on you the moment you walk through the door. I just know it.'
Partly as a result of this prophecy, by the time Randy walked through the
porch to the front door and turned around, there was no sign of Gopal. Rapidly
Randy raced completely around the house once looking for his missing friend.
'Gopal, you goon,' he screamed, 'come on out, you goddam foreigner.'
Silence.
'Oh all right,' yelled Randy. 'Come on in whenever you're sure Yanks don't
eat Indians for dinner at parties.' He went inside.
Gopal peeped from behind a tree, feeling foolish, yet safe. He could look
through a window and see all those healthy, scrubbed Americans laughing,
talking, rapt in each other's company. They will not want me with them, he
thought. Supposing he went in and an absolutely deafening silence fell over
them? Supposing they just stared at him with looks of contempt? Supposing they
forced the host to throw him out? Or worse still what if the girls actually jumped
on him as Randy expected, and instead of being nice, they beat him?
He watched patiently from outside for a while until he saw a girl who
seemed to have a kind face. For a moment she looked at the window and though
he know she couldn't see him in the darkness outside, he felt that she had smiled
in a sympathetic way to him personally. Perhaps what he should do is to rush up
quickly to her and engage her immediately in conversation so that maybe she
would protect him. Just then he saw Randy appear and say something and it
seemed to Gopal that they all turned to look at him through the window as they
roared with laughter.
This clinched it. Clearly Randy had dragged him into this trap where all the
Americans would form a circle around him and laugh at him all night, the girls
loudest of all. Supposing they came racing out just now and jumped on him and -
you are being donkey, he reprimanded himself roughly.
He shook himself, trying to remove his fears. His heart slowed its racing. His
brand new underwear began to itch. Hesitantly he pushed away from the tree and
shuffled his way forward. He was sweating despite the cold. Just before he
reached the porch his nerve broke and he scuttled urgently to the rear of the
house. There he cautiously made his way up some stairs and slipped into the
kitchen.
'Hi,' said a startled voice.
 Gopal was equally shocked, but recovered on seeing the girl with the kind
face. He dug his hands into his overcoat and beamed awkwardly at her. 'I am
friend of Randy,' he explained in a rush in case she was planning to throw him
out.
'Well, we all have our albatrosses,' she laughed and he noted with pleasure
that she had a kind laugh .
'I am sure,' he blurted, 'that you are having kind walk also. I feel you are kind
person.'
'What?' she said, slightly alarmed. 'Well, never mind. Welcome. You must
be Randy's friend from India.'
Gopal bobbed his head so vigorously that his eyes shut. When they opened
again she had her hand out in front of him and was waiting patiently. Hastily he
tried to bring his hand out of his pocket where he found it had got entangled in
his wallet which he had been squeezing furiously. He jerked his hand out
desperately and part of his wallet's contents came spraying out too.
'Oops,' she said and began helping him gather the coins, papers and notes.
'I am not always doing this,' apologised Gopal, bumping into her as they
chased around the floor on their hands and knees.
'Oh that's okay,' she consoled, 'I'm a klutz too. C'mon, let's go in and meet
everybody else. What'll you have to drink?'
'Coke.'
'One Coke coming up. And away we go.'
'I will go in later,' mumbled Gopal. 'I am little busy now.'
'Right,' she agreed. 'I can see that. Okay have it your way.' She gave Gopal
what he thought was the friendliest and most sympathetic smile he'd seen all his
life and away she went. Gopal leaned back against the sink and wondered
miserably how he could get back home to his apartment.
He yearned for his little apartment with its flat green carpet and the fridge
that made funny noises regularly but which he'd got so used to that he looked up
if it didn't hiccup on schedule. And of course he wouldn't mind going and
spending some time with the washing machines and dryers and absorbing their
mysteries. He wondered if there was a way in which he could keep his self-
respect and yet ask Randy if he could show him how the dishwasher worked.
Of course he knew about dishwashers. And had been told repeatedly by his
mother of their magical abilities. In fact, she had given him to understand that if
there was some way in which he could bring one back, she might well regard
herself as repaid for the twenty years she had spent in selflessly bringing up an
ingrate like him. Of course if bringing one back proved impossible, she had
sighed, she would quite understand. After all her heart would get repaired in due
course, perhaps in an incarnation or two, her silence had implied.
Gopal decided he didn't know anyone who had silences as eloquent as his
mother's. Somehow she made the air crackle with her vibrations with the grand
eloquence of a Shakespeare without uttering a word. And what, he thought in
sudden fury, she is going to do with damn dishwasher with four servants in
house to do cooking and cleaning? Maybe, he thought satirically, she will put it
in living room. He chuckled. A moment's thought however revealed that this was
exactly what she probably would do with it, since she wouldn't want any of her
friends to miss seeing it, particularly Mrs Saxena who was both her best friend
and worst enemy and whose son had gone to England to study, which was only
half as far as America from India and which therefore, one of her silences hinted,
meant that his education was only going to be half as good as Gopal's.
However the specifics of making a dishwasher - the Taj Mahal of
mechanical gadgets as far as Gopal's mother was concerned - actually perform,
remained suffused with mystery for Gopal. There were all sorts of interesting
knobs and switches on the one in his kitchen which he would have loved to turn
on and off and experiment with, if it wasn't for a lurking fear that he might
electrocute himself or blow out the power supply of all of Eversville, or both .
In any case, concluded Gopal reluctantly, not only did he not know how to
run a dishwasher, but he was using it as an excuse to not go in and meet all the
people in the next room. Anger rose in him and before he could change his mind
he rushed through the door with his chin high, his chest out, his Coke clutched
before him like a shield, ready to brave the storm of ridicule and derision the
Americans were waiting to fling on him.
Nobody even noticed his grand entrance. A few people smiled in greeting in
the midst of their conversation. The others chattered away. Randy was letting a
girl feel his biceps in the corner, the kind-looking girl waved at him, but overall
the universe didn't alter its course a fraction. Quickly Gopal stepped behind a
rocking chair to recover from this wholly unexpected reception and plan his next
move.
While he was considering his options, a female voice spoke behind him: 'Hi,
I'm Ann. I know who you are.'
Gopal turned and looked at a rather large girl, dressed in an obviously
expensive black dress, smiling at him pleasantly. She wore glasses and her skin
seemed rough.
'Myself is Gopal,' he bashfully muttered.
'Yes I know. Randy's told me all about you. Hey, let's go sit down or
something, my feet're killing me.'
They found a couple of cushions propped in a corner and sank down. Gopal
recognised the colourful cushion material. 'Indian cloth,' he informed her with
pride.
'Is that right? Oh gee that's neat. You mean you can just take one look and
tell if it's Indian? Boy that's real neat. I wish I could do that. Oh I wish I'd been
to college\,' she wailed comically, 'I'm just a dumbo.'
'What you are doing?'
'Oh I'm just a hairdresser. Know what that is? Fixin hair and stuff? No big
deal, but it's good money and I got me a Corvette. Brand new too. Are there hair
dressers in India? '
Yes, yes,' Gopal assured her, 'we are having many. In fact,' he modestly
admitted, 'our company is supplying hair oil to many of them.'
'Oh gee, yeah,' she gushed, impressed. 'You own a factory that makes that
stuff, don't you? Gosh, we're so backward here in America, we don't make no
hair oil at all. How d'you make it? I mean is it like grown on trees and stuff?'
Gopal began to get intense about the subject. He was in his element. Hair oil
was a subject he lived, breathed - and if truth be told - smelt strongly of, and he
could do a great deal to educate this nice young lady on its fascinating history
and mysteries. He launched forth.
When he stopped for breath fifteen minutes later her eyes were shining.
Gopal suddenly realised he had never seen such huge eyelashes on anyone
before.
'Wow,' said Ann, 'that was real neat. I mean you really care about the stuff,
dontcha? And I just love the way you talk, all serious and all. Talk some more to
me. No one ever talks seriously to me.'
Not believing his luck, Gopal obliged. Ten minutes later, he paused for a sip
of his Coke.
'Boy,' said a radiant Ann, 'you talk like a real diplomat, dontcha?'
'Well, heh, heh,' modestly acknowledged Gopal, not quite sure of how
diplomats talked, 'things like that and all that.'
'And you really like to talk to me, dontcha? I mean all that passion comin out
and stuff. It was great. Hey, tell me,' she asked, putting her hand on Gopal's
knee, 'how long've you been here in the States?'
'Well, three weeks.'
'Only three weeks? And already you speak such great English? Boy, wait'll
my friends get a load of you. Hey, I gotta tell you, I like you. I think you've got
kind of a neat name too. Isn't that where all that gas came out and people died
and stuff?'
Gopal looked flabbergasted until understanding dawned. 'No no, that is
Bhopal. I am Gopal.'
 Ann looked puzzled. 'So what's the difference? Hell anyway, I think it's all
kind of neat and stuff. Hey listen, you want to go up and dance and you know,
get down. Know what I mean?' Her hand rose above his knee and settled on his
thigh. Gopal, not sure if all this was real, didn't breathe. He just nodded. It didn't
even occur to him to tell her that he had never danced in his life and his only
experience came from watching Hindi films and Saturday Night Fever. But
clearly, he sensed, good things were coming his way and perhaps, he dared to
fantasise, even his new underwear at some point in the evening might be
exposed to public display in order to impress his audience and drive them wild
with unthinking desire into that last bit over the edge.
'Well, let's go,' said Ann and taking his hand - as Gopal's heart sought to leap
out of its cage - she began to lead him towards the staircase. Gopal's entire
existence was focused on those few inches where her hand met his. How soft it
was. How nice it smelled even at a distance. Could he dare to sneakily grab more
of her hand? How white it looked compared to his brown and veiny paw? What
did she mean by holding his hand? Good heavens, was she lacing her fingers
with his? Just then Randy caught up with them.
'Hey kids,' he lurched into both of them, spewing liquor fumes and the
contents of his wine glass, 'having fun?'
Gopal, his intense meditations broken, snarled at him as they began to climb
the stairs.
'Oh wow,' said Randy, covering his eyes and recoiling from the glimpse of
fang and fury, 'what happened to my docile friend from India? Hey,' he screamed
up at their disappearing fee, 'women'll do that to you everytime. I'm telling ya!'
He staggered away muttering to himself.
Upstairs the music was much louder. They opened the first door trying to
find the right room and caught a glimpse of two people before Ann hastily shut
the door. 'Oops,' she giggled, 'wrong room, wrong people.'
'Yeah,' shrugged Gopal with nonchalant coolness. 'Deep throat.'
They opened the next door and the music pounced on them like a black cat
that had been coiled to leap. They walked inside and in the darkness there was
only the green of the lights of the music system. The air beat to the rhythm of the
music. Ann slipped Gopal's hand and he sensed rather than saw her begin to
undulate to the music. For a moment Gopal stood absolutely still, his eyes
straining, but he could see nothing. He relaxed and since no one could see him,
he began to clumsily dance.
He wasn't, he acknowledged, any good at it. He was merely moving without
being in time with the music. His arms and legs never quite seemed to be where
he wanted them to be at approximately the same time, and his head seemed to
have been stuffed with cement, going by its refusal to move. Still, he hadn't
maimed anyone and since no one could see him he could dance all he wanted.
He increased his velocity and experimented with sticking his arm in the air like
the man in Saturday Night Fever.
Gopal could scarcely believe it. What a good time he was having. What a
story to tell his friends when he got home. They would have had dinner and
would be strolling down the moonlit street towards the railway station where all
the young men around town congregated to watch the trains go in and out. And
he would tell them about this lovely girl - well, they wouldn't know the
difference in any case, and how she had grabbed his leg - he would show them
the spot, a pity he couldn't brand her fingerprints on it as proof, then taken him
by the hand and dragged him into a dark room to dance. And how, brothers, he
had danced like a demon, like John Travolta himself. And then, his friends
would feverishly ask, 'What then?' Well, he would modestly turn away, what
could he say? He was a gentleman after all.
And truth to tell, while dancing with increasing abandon, she had begun to
bump into him repeatedly. Except on the last bump she hadn't bounced away.
Now she was disturbingly close and Gopal was starting to feel distinctly uneasy.
It was one thing to take pleasure in what he would tell his friends at home, quite
another to have a woman he had never met before wafting powder and perfume
up his nostril. 'Let us,' he blared abruptly in her ear, 'go'. And to her
astonishment, he was gone.
4
Beloved Brother,
How I am to tell you of what all things are happening and how I am avoiding
pitfalls and keeping Nation's flag flying.
I am going to first party and I think it is full of divorcees who are waiting for
me with pitfalls. But, brother, I am saying clearly that due to India's glorious
heritage and things like that I am not indulging. I am thinking they are very
impressed due to high morals I am upholding on behalf of Nation.
What all to say, brother. This is not new country, it is new world. They are
playing game which they are calling football in which they are beating each
other without mercies for no reason. But now I am feeling that they should do
more beating because if they are beating each other then at least they are not
beating rest of world.
I am now feeling I am on top of situations and ridin it good. Now I have
been to American party also and behaving with credits I feel I am knowing many
all things now.
You are also kindly not worrying about blood pressure problems because I
am finding 'take it easy' is only American for goodbye. I am not knowing why
they cannot speak like others in world.
Also, brother, you are not telling Mother, but they are having machines here
that are cleaning clothes and drying in jiffy. I am knowing about all things now
and handling with mastery. My clothes are washing whitest and finger lickin
good.
But they are still not having proper servants to clean house and bathroom
and I am having to do. Anyway what to do but at least my new television is
coming yesterday which I am buying from Safeway. I wish I am knowing earlier
that they are my friends right down the street so that I can ask for discount
otherwise how they are my friends?
With respects to Respecting Parents,
Hoping you are taking it easy,
Your brother,
Gopal.
Gopal pressed the buttons on his phone and listened with pleasure to their
musical response to each jab. Once he found a toll free number in a newspaper
advertisement and called it just so that he could have more numbers to jab and
more musical notes to listen to. The lady he called, however, was not very
pleasant when he attempted to haggle further on the already rock-bottom rate
their airline was offering on flights to Alaska and hung up on him. In case she
had accepted, Gopal had absolutely no idea what he would have done with a
ticket to Alaska, but he had taken the precaution of giving Randy's name and
address instead of his own in any case. He was confident Randy could have told
them what to do with their ticket to Alaska.
Now he phoned Randy who answered sleepily.
'Hello, hello,' said Gopal. 'You are wanting to come over? I am,' he added
importantly, 'putting on television.'
'Why,' asked Randy hoarsely, 'what's on?'
'Television,' answered Gopal in surprise .
'Of course, how stupid of me. Aren't Indian TV shows any good or don't you
have TV at all in India?'
'Of course we are having,' roared Gopal with a volume that swept the sleep
out of Randy's head.
'All right, all right,' he hastily placated. 'Jesus, you're touchy, aren't you?
What d'you want to watch?'
'Advertisements.'
'What? Commercials?'
'Yes.'
'What about the shows?'
'Maybe between ads.'
'Shit, why?'
'More interesting. Shows useless.'
'God, how the corporations would love you. You must think I'm crazy if you
think I'm going to sit in front of your new TV set and watch commercials all day.
Anyway, I forgot to ask, how'd you like the party night before last?'
'Very nice, very cultured.'
'No shit? What happened?'
'I am dancing.'
Yeah, like Baryshnikov maybe?'
'No, no, like Travolta.'
'Good for you. How'd you get home? Ann drop you?' 'No,' said Gopal
surprised, 'you are.'
'Did I? God I was so wrecked I can hardly remember. How'd you like Ann?
You jump on her bones?'
'She is very cultured lady.'
 'Ann?'
'Yes.'
'Wow. Listen, I've got to tell you a couple of things about her. If you can tear
yourself away from the TV commercials, why don't we meet at the cafeteria for
lunch? Huh? Half an hour? '
'All right,' agreed Gopal reluctantly, resentful of the sacrifice involved in
missing the commercials. Gopal arrived late at the cafeteria, having been held
enthralled by the newest McDonald's advertisement which he had found twice in
succession after desperately changing channels. Randy was waiting patiently,
still undecided about how to break the news to Gopal that his cultured ladyfriend
was legendary in Eversville for her proclaimed ambition of sleeping with one
thousand different men. In a span of less than three years, she had, through a
wholly admirable perseverance combined with a nearly total lack of quality
control, nearly reached her goal. She had only one left to reach the magic figure
and she was determined to achieve this through the services of a virgin male so
that her odyssey ended, as she put it to Randy, 'with a bang.'
However, a virgin American male above the age when the law, Ann
indignantly felt, took an excessive and unseemly interest in his private life, was
hard to find. So when Randy had informed her at the party that her quest was
over, she had not hesitated a moment before hastening over to Gopal to engage
him in conversation.
Matters had progressed so well that she was congratulating herself on the
dance floor on the imminent consummation of her dream the moment she got
Gopal into the next room, when to her total bafflement he had departed.
When Gopal arrived at the cafeteria, Randy was ready to tell him the entire
thrilling story, but Gopal blurted out, 'Ann is just calling.'
Randy thought a while. Clearly, Ann's goal had not been reached on Friday
night.
'What,' asked Gopal, 'you are wanting to say about her?'
'Nothing much. What did she call about.'
'She is wanting to apply to some college, so she is wanting to get some help
in learning maths. '
'I bet she is,' agreed Randy cordially. 'When's she coming for this maths
lesson.'
'Afternoon today.'
'It should be interesting to see which of the two of you learns more. You sure
you won't have some meat? You're going to need all your strength.'
After lunch Randy solicitously drove Gopal back, dropping him off with
what Gopal thought was a peculiarly ceremonious farewell. He is nice boy but
bit strange sometimes, thought Gopal going up the stairs.
After half an hour there was a knock on the door and Gopal opened it to find
Ann.
'Hi,' she greeted with a warm charm that delighted Gopal. He had not been
blind to the splendid opportunities her arrival would present, if only, he thought
longingly, she could be impressed by him. The first thing he had done was to dig
out from his suitcase the certificate he had received from the National Hair Oil
Dealers Association and prop it prominently on the little table where they were
to study. He thought deeply on any other item he could use as part of his long-
term strategy of so totally impressing her, that within a few months she would
fall prey to his dark desires. He could think of nothing and concluded that he'd
have to try and swing it through sheer charm.
As she sat at the small round table, prattling merrily, Gopal examined her
closely in the daylight and gloried in her eyelashes that projected from her
eyelids like the fans Japanese women use to hide their faces. When she blinked
them too rapidly, flakes of powder drifted from her face. Her hair had the colour,
sheen and texture of gold. It rose with the rigidity of a Gibraltar in an Elvis
Presley-like puff over her forehead. The frozen yellow contrasted with her jet-
black eyebrows, but Gopal thought it made a charming combination. Her
perfume, or perhaps more accurately her perfumes, would have caused him
anxiety about his asthma, if he hadn't been so excited.
'Gosh, it's hot,' she protested, 'shouldn't I take off my coat?'
Gopal leapt to carry it away and put it on the sofa. When he turned she was
fanning herself while standing in a red mini-dress that ended, Gopal swallowed,
an inch below her panties.
'Well,' she said walking purposefully to the sofa and sitting down, 'this looks
a lot more comfortable, doesn't it?'
Hastily Gopal gathered his books as well as his certificate and deposited
them on the floor near her feet.
'We are starting,' he informed her in a voice over which he was only starting
to reassert his authority.
'I certainly hope so,' she smiled fluttering her Japanese fan eyelashes on
which Gopal thought he saw projected various appetising though probably
illegal acts.
Gopal commenced with his normal sincerity. Some ten minutes later, though
personally rapt in his exposition of the delights of integral calculus, he was
forced to admit that his audience's attention seemed to have wavered. She was in
fact proceeding to slip slowly but inexorably down the sofa, much like the
Titanic in its final act, before gently and firmly settling full length, her legs
resting on Gopal. Her dress hiked up even further and from this proximity Gopal
could hardly fail to notice a blue, strategically placed heart on her underwear.
Seeing her lying thus, Gopal considered the possibilities and came to the
inevitable conclusion. 'You are sick?' he asked.
She looked at him through half open eyes whose expression – perhaps
fortunately for him – he couldn't read. She nodded slightly.
'I am getting water for you?' asked Gopal anxious to ingratiate himself with
her when she was in such need, perhaps to be exploited with delightful
consequences later .
She shook her head rather rapidly.
'Then what is happening?' asked Gopal, discouraged by her rejection of his
subtle, though long-term pass.
'My body hurts,' she whispered. 'I think I've sprained my back and leg
muscles.'
'How?'
'Playing tennis, I think.'
'You are needing massage I feel.'
'Yes,' she agreed, cheering visibly.
'I will do,' assured Gopal enthusiastically. 'I am giving massage to
grandmother's legs at home. You may kindly turn around.'
Sitting astride her feet, he began to chop and pummel her legs and back
while severely ignoring those portions of her contained in lamentably ill-fitting
underwear. How they would later laugh together, he told himself, when he had
finally in the next few months conquered all her defences through persistence
and cunning. He could then remind her of this occasion. How easily someone
less strategic minded than he could have misunderstood and made a hasty move
that would have crushed the fragile blossom of their friendship. How impressed
she would be - but laughing all the same no doubt - at his self-control and guile.
After about fifteen minutes she suddenly flipped around. Once again Gopal
found himself looking at the blue heart from close quarters and once again he
felt as though his heart was sinking like an anchor rattling down with its chain,
fathoms deep.
You through messin around?' asked Ann in a hard voice.
Gopal, who had been mesmerised by the heart, guiltily jerked away. He
groped within himself for his voice which apparently had gone down with all
hands along with his heart, and salvaged bits and pieces of it at a time .
'Oh yes, yes, yes. Mathematics and all that. You are feeling well? Have
Coke. You will feel much better. I am getting.' He jumped off the sofa and
scuttled with considerable discomfort to the kitchen galley where he could
obtain a Coke and repair himself.
When Gopal returned bearing the Coke like a peace offering, Ann was
sitting primly upright. 'I think,' she said accusingly, 'you were going to try
something funny, weren't you?' Ignoring Gopal's protestations she went on
savagely, 'Oh yes, I know all about you foreign students, don't think I don't. I
mean I've really got your number, haven't I? Admit it. You were up to some
stuff, weren't you?' Gopal had flushed and his mouth had gone dry. 'Look,
Gopal,' she said patiently, 'I know there's a lot of difference between us, I mean
we do things different here in America. I mean it might be okay in India with all
your harems and stuff, but a girl's got to be really careful here of her reputation,
know what I mean? I mean one wrong move and a girl's reputation is gone, just
like that. I mean it's weird the kind of things people will say about a girl and
there's not a damn thing you can do, not one goddam thing. Well hey, I gotta run.
I'll check you out later. Take care now.' And to his amazement she came and
kissed him on the cheek before leaving. He could have sworn her eyes were wet.
Gopal sat anxiously on the sofa, worried. Supposing she had a big tough
brother and she went weeping to him? Supposing he arrived with ten large
friends carrying iron chains? Supposing she went to the newspapers and
complained that he had tried to loot her virtue? What if the Dean and the
professors arrived in a group waving the newspaper? What if someone sent it to
his parents? What if the immigration people were on their way right now, racing
madly in their cars, desperate to get their hands on him and fling him out of the
country?
Realising that this was unlikely, but concerned all the same, he decided to go
to the cafeteria where at least he would hear any rumours of savage immigration
raids in the neighbourhood. Gopal walked gloomily into the cafeteria. At the
door he met Fred, a friend of Randy's he had met on the first day at breakfast.
'How's it going?' greeted Fred. 'You look like you've got the burden of feeding
all of India's starving millions on your shoulders. What's the problem, pal?'
'I am meeting bad people.'
'Ah bad people, eh?' said Fred, eyeing him shrewdly. 'What kind of bad
people? I mean are they from the college or what? Not drugs type bad people are
they?'
'No, no,' hastily corrected Gopal. 'Brother of girl I know.'
'Ah,' said Fred in relief, 'those kind of bad people. Well, I think what you
need is some protection around here. And I know just the man. Let't go meet
him.'
Unsure but feeling better, Gopal followed him into the cafeteria. They
walked to the far end, and standing there at the juke box was a man, the very
sight of whom made Gopal feel better. He was black, about six and a half feet
tall, and to Gopal appeared to be at least as broad. He wore green, white and red
trousers, a purple shirt with yellow circles on it and gold chains that hung like
wreaths around his neck. On his feet were white high-heeled boots, on his head
was a kind of a cap with a long brim and on his face were mirrored sunglasses.
'This,' said Fred with some reverence, 'is the star of our football team and the
guy who makes sure the campus stays clean. We call him the Peacock. And this
is Gopal. He's one of our new foreign students and he's got a small problem he
wants to talk to you about. Okay, I'll leave you two guys alone. See you later.'
The Peacock's sunglasses measured Gopal as though deciding whether his
story was worth listening to. Finally he seemed to have approved of what he
saw, because he regally gestured to Gopal to follow him and started a procession
out of the building. Of course the procession was only an optical illusion, but it
was a very real one, because the Peacock moved with such disdain that a retinue
always seemed about to turn the corner behind him. His chains jangled so
loudly, his colours clashed so vividly, that an entire entourage appeared to have
collapsed into his person like a kaleidoscope.
He thumped a fist overhead with a passing associate who pleased him,
ignored the sycophantic cries of greeting of scattered fans and sailed majestically
like a technicoloured warship down the sidewalk. Even the wind seemed to
avoid him respectfully since he wore no coat.
Gopal followed uneasily behind, wondering where they were headed. A few
minutes later they arrived at a scattering of stores among which was a bar that
announced itself with the words 'The Drink Tank.' The Peacock turned in here
and Gopal timidly edged in behind him.
There was a strange fusion of golden lights interlaced with music, the clatter
of glasses underlaid by the murmur of conversation, the clack of billiard balls
being hit across dwarf-sized tables, racks of billiard balls being hit across dwarf-
sized tables, racks of billiard cues against the wall and generally civilised faces
all around. Gopal noted with relief several people he recognised from the
college. There was a mumble of 'how you doins' as they went by and such was
his sense of terror at his arrival into the house of sin that he nearly stopped to
enlighten a few people, though he had learned that 'how you doin' really had no
more meaning than 'drop dead.'
But the sheer force or the Peacock's presence dragged him along in his wake
and he joined him in a booth in the corner. Gopal wondered what he would say if
his mother smashed her way in just then. Would she believe that he had a good,
nonalcoholic reason for being there? Could he tell her about Ann? That would
really clinch it for her. She would catch him by the ear and drag him out into the
car park where a helicopter would be waiting and hit him on the head all the way
back home to India and - he shook his head to clear it so that he could
concentrate on the magnificent, mysterious and hitherto silent presence opposite
him.
Gopal cleared his throat. 'You see, I am telling you frankly -'
The Peacock raised a hand the size of an oar to stop him. 'You buy me a
beer,' he said in a high-pitched voice that seemed to be generated in his jaw
rather than his lungs, 'and I'll lend you an ear.'
Gopal ordered a beer and a Coke and when that arrived summed up the
entire situation to the Peacock with as much good taste as he could, while of
course ensuring that the lady's fair reputation was not besmirched and the blame
fell on his own animal passions. However, he concluded, the result of his
indiscretion was that he now feared reprisals from the lady's relatives. Could the
Peacock help protect him?
The Peacock's reflecting glasses, which had not been removed, glittered. 'I
ain't no greedy,' he pronounced reasonably, 'but I sure am needy.'
This Gopal could understand. Whenever their factory in Jajau had
experienced problems, small armies of bureaucrats had miraculously
materialised and descended on it, all of them apparently needy too. He went into
an instinctive whine about the poverty in India, the sacrifices his parents were
making in sending him here, he even invented a sister who took in laundry to
help pay his bills.
The Peacock's sunglasses remained impassive. 'No sheen, without green,' he
announced with finality.
Gopal sought to interpret this and deduced correctly that the green referred to
dollars. He thought with a fleeting bitterness of how completely in character it
was for the Americans, when they finally had a phrase that was accurate and not
misleading, to have it relating to money. Materialistic people, he thought with
pitying sorrow. They are not having our superior spirituality.
He got down to the business of serious haggling.
After many minutes the Peacock's sunglasses remained like ice cubes. Gopal
speculated if they had become such an integral part of him that they actually
reflected whatever went on inside his head. He decided not to push his luck too
far. He couldn't after all threaten to take his business to another shop. And in the
absence of that ultimate threat, it was a seller's market. 'How much?' he finally
asked in surrender.
The sunglasses glinted. 'When the time comes to roll, make sure you got the
toll,' the Peacock intoned.
This, Gopal gathered, indicated that the costs would depend upon the
services required. They shook hands on that and Gopal paid the bill and left.
It was dark outside and a thin drizzle fell. Gopal dug his hands into his
pocket, put his head down and walked. He had found that he preferred the night.
He enjoyed the anonymity it gave him, because during the day wherever he
went, people looked at him twice. It wasn't usually a hostile look, merely a
startled one. He wasn't white and he wasn't black, he was just a puzzling brown.
Once a child had come up to him at a grocery store and swiped his little fingers
across Gopal's arm to check if perhaps the brown colour was merely dirt that had
congealed. Finding no dirt on his fingers, he trotted back puzzled to his mortified
mother.
Gopal had never really thought of himself as being any particular colour
while in India. Here it defined nearly every moment of his life. Nor was he used
to receiving so much attention and he certainly didn't enjoy it, particularly
because it arose from curiosity rather than approval. Yet he was helpless at
blending with the others. Often when he walked into a room he felt that his skin
had burst into flames. He actually sensed the glow of fire. It was as though so
many glances locking on to him sparked a kind of spontaneous combustion. He
sensed a few people shrink, others become too friendly, nobody was normal.
His entire life in India had become irrelevant and meant nothing. Not his
own achievements, not his family's affluence, everything was beyond the curtain
of mirrors with which America bounded itself. Nothing beyond mattered. Here
he had to recreate himself, but the basic building block of his new persona was
his colour. No matter what he achieved, or however respected he became in the
classroom, the moment he stepped outside, his colour came and wrapped itself
around him like a clown's clothes that had been hanging outside, waiting for
him. In the classroom itself though he felt a sense of being de-coloured; the
better he did, the less alien and awkward he felt. He revelled in the sense of
attracting respect. But once outside, he constantly felt as though nature had
constructed him badly.
But in the dark, his stride was less stilted, his posture less rigid. He felt he
could flow with the wind. He walked past the wooden houses, wondering how
anyone could feel a wooden edifice with all its signs of impermanence, to be a
home. After all a home was a place where generations lived and grew and died.
It needed bricks and concrete to withstand the generations. It was a form of
forever. But a wooden house was such an insecure thing. It could collapse, or be
eaten by insects, or become rotted by rains. Even vigorous visiting relatives and
their broods could leave it in a shambles.
But the Americans seemed strangely content all the same. He could see them
eating their bizzarely early dinners, cocooned in golden light. That was another
feature of theirs. Golden light meant homes, bars intimacy. Tube lights, or any
form of white light, was for classrooms, hospitals, large stores, anything public
and impersonal. He couldn't recall seeing an exception.
The leaves rustled under him and he kept a wary eye out for dogs. He had
already adjusted to the fact that Americans almost never walked anywhere; they
either jogged or drove. Therefore their dogs seemed also to assume that anyone
who was walking was definitely a burglar and needed to be discouraged.
Once again he noticed the strange baskets hung outside the houses which he
had also noticed while driving to New York. Now he puzzled over whether they
were one of those fads to which Americans suddenly and virulently became
addicted. Someone in his class had once tried to explain to him the pleasure to be
obtained from pet rocks and Gopal had been so baffled at trying to comprehend
it that by mistake he had wandered into the ladies toilet. Fortunately, to his
relief, not unmixed with some disappointment, it was unoccupied.
But nothing in his keen observations gave the slightest clue about those
baskets. Perhaps, he speculated, it was a national conspiracy intended to mystify
foreigners. They were quite capable of it. His own building lacked one,
otherwise he could have hidden somewhere and seen what dreadful use it was
put to.
By now he had turned into his complex and had begun to climb the stairs.
For the first time since Gloria's nocturnal visit to him, her curtains were open.
She sat at the window, slowly raised her hand and shyly wiggled her fingers.
Gopal bobbed his head at her and walked up faster, persuading himself that it
was because he didn't want to miss the TV commercials.
A few evenings later he was sitting in his apartment, studying and eating a
pizza - he had discovered that it was possible to order pizza with exclusively
vegetarian combinations, following which he hadn't touched cornflakes again -
when the phone ventured its civilised buzz. It was Randy. 'Wanna go to a bar?'
he asked .
Gopal felt that he really had to study. On the other hand he was extremely
curious about what a real bar was like. 'The Drink Tank', he recognised, was just
a college hang-out.
'No, no,' he demurred, nearly begging to be overruled, 'how I can?'
'Great,' said Randy who had clearly developed acute insights into Gopal's
psyche, 'I'm on my way.'
Driving along in Randy's car, Gopal felt a sense of grand daring and
inexpressible sophistication. 'What kind of bar this is?' he asked.
'Oh, no big deal,' said Randy. 'Just your basic drinks and dancing, you know.'
'Of course,' agreed Gopal importantly.
 They drove through a part of town Gopal had never seen before and arrived
at a horse-shoe shaped group of buildings, all ablaze with lights. 'Which one is
bar?' asked Gopal as they parked in the middle of the U shape.
'Oh all of them. Let's take them one by one.'
They got out and started walking. There were lights blinking everywhere,
though there didn't seem many people around. A strange smell of wet socks
permeated the air. Randy barged his way through the first door and Gopal
followed. He stopped abruptly at the total blackness. In the middle of the room
was an empty, brightly-lit stage and it seemed to suck all the light through some
gravitational force into itself. Gopal didn't move, afraid that he would bump into
someone or something. He felt Randy's arm reach across his shoulders pulling
him to one side. 'This way,' he guided. Cautiously they eased into a booth set
alongside the wall.
Slowly Gopal's eyes adjusted and he realised the room wasn't as dark as he
had thought. He made out the bar and various other tables and chairs scattered
about. Randy went away and returned shortly with a pitcher of beer and a Coke.
Gopal waited impatiently for the singer to appear on stage. Suddenly, so abruptly
that he started, the music began. In the darkness around the lighted stage,
movements began as though something was gathering pieces of itself together
preparatory to being born and the most beautiful girl Gopal had ever seen
materialised, golden-skinned, blond-haired, like a naked angel. She danced as
unselfconsciously as if she were at a party, but she wasn't wearing a scrap,
except for a minute bikini pantie.
There was laughter somewhere and Gopal quickly looked down in case they
were laughing at him. He refused to look up throughout that first number, though
every nerve in his body was screaming at him to look. Never had he felt such a
total sense of helplessness. Gone was his feeling of sophistication. He felt like a
newborn gazing at a new universe.
When he did look up, it wasn't directly at the stage, but surreptitiously, to
one side, then to the other trying to see if anyone was watching him. Nobody's
eyes met his and cautiously Gopal began to look at that blazing fireball, not
directly all at once, but little by little, like someone approaching a ticking bomb.
Every time he looked up his eyes rested fractionally longer through narrowed
slits, until taking courage with a deep breath, he defiantly opened his eyes wide
and kept them focused on his first sight of a live naked woman.
She wasn't, he concluded many months later, a bad way to be introduced to
the specie. She was tall, with no extra flesh and she moved with an eroticism that
made him suddenly realise what dancing was meant to emulate. He couldn't
begin to describe her different attributes, and whether they were good, bad or
indifferent, since he couldn't see her in sections, but as one glittering,
breathtaking, unique vision.
The music stopped and she stepped back into the void. Gopal burst into wild
applause, positive that his approval would be drowned in the cheers of the
multitude. At which point everyone in the room actually turned to look at him in
surprise. Quickly he stopped and sank back into his seat, not even sure of when
he had stood up.
He looked at Randy, excited yet drained, ready to leave since the show was
clearly over. Obviously there couldn't be two different women in America, he
felt, who would agree to appear naked on a stage surrounded by strange men.
The music began again and another naked lady appeared, so apparently there
actually were two such women. However Gopal averted his eyes from her. He
felt that since he had given himself so completely to the first one, to look upon
the new one would be a form of adultery. Besides which, his by now
experienced eye told him, this one was shorter, squatter and less pretty.
Then his woman, as he had begun to think of her, appeared in the twilight in
front of the stage. She had put on a loose red robe that was unbuttoned at the
neck and her hair was now tied back in a ponytail, while on stage it had waved
and tossed like a flag semaphoring a message of lust. Gopal willed her into
coming to their table and she headed in their direction like a missile homing into
a radar beam. Apparently his applause had not gone unrecognised.
'Why, hi there,' she said in pleasure and her voice made Gopal's head feel
like a surf was roaring and dashing against it inside. 'You liked my dance, huh?'
she put her hand under Gopal's chin and moved his head forward and back. 'My,
but that's thirsty work,' she edged alongside Gopal on the couch and her thigh
seared his leg like a delicious flame. 'You going to buy me a drink, honey? Huh?
You going to buy both of us a lil drink?'
Oh yes, Gopal's head moved vigorously. As a matter of fact he was going to
buy her the Empire State Building if she asked for it.
'A big drink, honey?' she wheedled. A hand pleaded with Gopal by pressing
him high on the thigh. Gopal's eyes turned to glassy water. 'A real big lil drink
for the two of us, huh? Hey Rosy,' she turned to another girl in a similar red robe
carrying a tray, 'two big ones here.'
'He doesn't drink,' warned Randy.
'Aw, but for me he will, won't you, honey?' Her hand returned pleadingly to
his thigh.
Oh yes, Gopal's head assured her, he certainly would drink. The entire
Mississippi River if she so thought fit.
Hardly any time seemed to have passed, or perhaps it was her hand whose
every motion seemed to make time disappear, but two very large and ornate urns
were convoyed to them. They were green and over-wrought and filled with a
fizzing substance. 'Champagne,' announced their bearer, 'fifty bucks.'
'Oh, love,' breathed the girl into Gopal's ear, her hands leaping up the last
few inches from Gopal's thigh, 'make her go away. We got things to do together.'
With shaking hands Gopal paid up and turned breathing heavily to his friend.
She took a sip of her urn. 'Mmm,' she said, 'wow. Be with you in a minute.' And
she walked away.
'Gone to bathroom,' Gopal informed Randy. He waited patiently. He waited
impatiently. When she reappeared she went and sat at another table and seemed
to be having an animated discussion with the men there. Gopal gestured politely.
He gestured violently. Then pleadingly. Despite his increasingly active
importunings she remained where she was. She didn't even look at him.
Gopal glared at Randy who appeared to be meditating. 'We go,' he growled.
By the time they neared Gopal's apartment, his breathing had returned to
normal and he was no longer grinding his teeth. 'Friday night,' he informed
Randy, 'we go back.'
'Methinks I may have created a Frankenstein,' said Randy.
Friday night they were back. This time the parking lot was full and they
could hear the music from outside. They went in and she was dancing again.
Two men were getting up from a table set against the stage and Gopal
determinedly strode to it and sat down. As Randy strolled up more leisurely,
Gopal asked him, 'Got cigarette?'
Randy eyed him in surprise. 'Will impress her,' Gopal whispered to him
jerking his head in the direction of the dancing girl. She saw Gopal, recognised
him, gave a small nod and sank to her knees in front of him. With legs akimbo,
she undulated forward and backward in time to the music, less than a foot from
his face, till Gopal, transfixed, was beaded with sweat. The music ended. She got
up, swivelled around and strode away with a last heart-stopping twitch, leaving
Gopal with eyes staring and mouth agape.
She came around the stage a while later in her red robe. 'Still haven't had
enough, huh?'
'I will only buy beer,' warned Gopal with finger raised. He stood up
awkwardly. 'You can sit,' he offered with clumsy gallantry.
She smiled, her eyes bright with amusement. 'All right,' she accepted,
dragging up a chair, 'let's hear your pitch.'
Gopal gave it his best. He spoke, he gestured, he drew charts on the table
using the dew on the beer pitcher. She listened quietly throughout, her face
wreathed in cigarette smoke, her eyes expressionlessly on his face, listening to
the details of the mammoth and sustained programme that had made India one of
the ten most industrialised countries in the world. Only when another girl walked
by saying, 'you're on, Mary Ann,' did she stir.
She smiled into his eyes and he saw how blue they were. 'Far out,' she said.
'A guy who likes to talk to me.' She kissed her fingers and put them gently on his
cheek.
When she appeared again on stage, she still wore her robe. She waited until
Gopal had looked long at her, then dropped it from around her shoulders. Then
she danced for him. Gopal was to see many many more naked women dance, but
this was the only one he never forgot. She was nearly totally nude, but there was
something oddly apologetic in the dance. Certainly she didn't dance as well as
she had earlier, but that was perhaps because she didn't once remove her eyes
from his. She moved for him, she swayed at him and she looked always deep
into his eyes. And when the dance ended, Gopal stood up for once
unembarrassed and clapped loud and long.
After that there were other dancers, other women; Mary Ann danced again
too, but she didn't look at him. Finally, when all the women began to seem alike,
they decided to leave. They stepped outside and the fresh air hurt their lungs till
they adjusted to it.
'That was fun,' said Randy, lurching more than he strictly needed to. 'Boy,
that was fun. Gopal, you god damned furriner, you're becoming American. I
mean you can get a damn go-go whore to fall for you. Hoo, boy.'
They walked laughing into the parking lot, looking for Randy's car. They
reached it and Randy began to search for his keys when he felt a powerful hand
push him against the door and hold him there. He felt a knife prick his neck and
a voice say: 'Don't even breathe, boy.'
At the same time Gopal turned and saw five men already in a semicircle
around him. With the flashing lights in the background he could hardly see their
faces, but from their checked shirts and caps he thought they looked like the kind
of men he had seen driving pick-up trucks.
'Well, well, boys,' said the biggest of them. 'What've we got here?'
Gopal felt cold with fright and hot at the same time. 'What is it?' he tried to
put some strength into his voice, but it sounded reedy even to him .
'Oh nothin, nothin, nothin at all,' said the biggest one. 'We jest don't like no
Eye-ranians, is all.'
Gopal felt a spring of relief. 'I am Indian.'
'That's right. That's what I said. Get him, boys.'
Two of them grabbed Gopal's arms and pinned them to the car. Gopal smelt
the alcohol on them. The big one leisurely strolled forward and Gopal's gut
burned when he saw him opening a knife. 'I am Indian,' he gasped pleadingly.
The man was upon him, his face an inch from Gopal's. 'I jest don't like no
Eye-ranians, boy. No furrin niggers neither. I jest don't like em. Comin in here,
takin our jobs, takin our women. I jest don't like it, boy. Why don't you git back
to your camel land while you can? Know what I mean? Know what I'm sayin
you furrin fuckin filthy asshole?'
His knife had been busy below and as Gopal held his breath it cut away the
front of his trousers completely. 'Well lookey here, boys, he's got a teeny weeny
camel pleaser.'
The others guffawed. One of them came over and lifted Gopal's genitals with
one finger while looking coldly and with utter contempt into his eyes. 'Ain't got
much here,' he announced. 'Not even enough to please them goats, forgit them
camels.'
The big one with the knife was moving in again. He will kill me, thought
Gopal. Bizzarely, he suddenly thought, and I have never even kissed a girl.
The man's knife slid down again. Gopal gritted his teeth and looked straight
ahead into the distance trying not to show fear. He felt snot flow down his nose.
He read the flashing lights, hoping that if he concentrated on them he would feel
the pain less when the animal stabbed him. 'Sin Land', read the largest of the
lights. And underneath in a continuous chain running round like it was the news,
ran a series, 'where the sin never sets, where the sin always shines, where every
day is sin day,' Gopal wondered if that was going to be the last thing he was
going to see on earth .
He was so frightened he couldn't feel the cold. His legs felt as though they
were made of metal and bolted to the ground. He felt himself trembling but some
reserves somewhere stopped him from pleading for his life. In his quivering
brain he felt a thought rattle. 'If I am to die in this urine-smelling parking lot, it is
my fate.' The thought gave him courage. He took a deep breath and gathered his
voice which felt as if it had disintegrated and fallen in pieces into different
extremities of his body. When he was sure he had collected it, he stoked it till it
felt full size again. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the man was
still looking with a mocking fury into his eyes and his knife was still lightly
touching Gopal's naked groin.
Gopal released his voice cautiously. 'How much you want?' He was amazed
at its quiet arrogance.
The man drew back his head and roared with laughter. His spittle, smelling
like whisky, sprayed Gopal's face. 'I want to cut your thing off, that's what I
want,' he jeered. 'Hey boys, d'you think the camels'll miss it?
The others sniggered.
 Randy's muffled voice emerged unsteadily. 'Hey you guys, c'mon, the guy's
not an Iranian. He's an Indian. You've had your fun, now give us a break. Okay?'
The man nodded slowly apparently in comprehension. Again Gopal felt a
match of hope sputter in his chest. 'Don't know nothin about that,' he said, this
time shaking his head, 'they's all Eye-ranians to me.'
A large group emerged from one of the bars and began laughing and
whooping its way towards them.
'Hey,' said one of the men to the big one nervously, 'c'mon, stick im dead and
let's get outta here. C'mon,' he urged frantically but greedily, 'make im bleed and
let's go.'
From the other side suddenly a car turned in and for a moment its headlight
outlined them clearly. The group heading towards them let out startled yells and
began running forward .
'I'll git back to you later,' promised the big man to Gopal. Then he raced to
their vehicle which was already moving and was helped to climb into the back. It
was, Gopal noticed with a small, frozen hint of satisfaction, a pickup truck. It
was gone in a blaze of red lights and shrieking tyres.
You okay?' The first of the group reached Gopal. 'What the shit is going on?
What happened here?'
There were startled cries from the other side of the car where Randy had
been found slumped over the hood. 'He's hurt,' said one, 'someone call the cops.'
'I'm okay,' said Randy gathering himself. 'He cut me.'
By now more people had come pouring out and someone lifted Randy's shirt.
'I'm a medical student,' he announced, 'let's have some room here. It's not too
bad,' he said, 'it's just a nick. What happened?'
A police car arrived with its maddening lights and a towel, of all things,
materialised from somewhere in the crowd for Gopal to wrap around himself.
Two ridiculously young police officers who had been speaking to some people
in the crowd came politely forward. 'If you'll come this way, sir, I'll need a
statement from you.'
Gopal was led trembling violently to the police car where he sat quietly,
feeling not so much hurt as humiliated, while Randy recounted the story to the
policemen, interspersed with contrite apologies to Gopal.
Slowly Gopal began to feel totally, paralysingly numb. He couldn't make out
what was being said, he couldn't remember what had happened, he couldn't think
of anything. He couldn't even feel himself shiver. In a trance he barely felt the
car start off, stop, and Randy help him up the stairs to his bed. He felt as though
his world had become a dark room with nothing except himself in it. No sounds
reached in, no lights switched on, there was just him in the dark. He lay alone in
this silent blackness and wondered why he hadn't seen Brooke Shields in New
York. She must be bigger than in Blue Lagoon, he speculated. Then he fell
asleep.
5

The next thing he felt was a hand gently shaking him. It was Randy. 'Hey,
wake up, Gopal,' he whispered gently, 'It's noon.'
Gopal stretched languorously and felt wonderful. He wondered what Randy
was doing here and decided to force him to make himself useful. 'Tea, slave,' he
ordered and was alarmed to hear a familiar whiny laugh outside, followed by
Gloria's vast bulk tripping in carrying a tea tray.
Suddenly all the events of the previous night rose like black vomit in him
and he sat back against the headrest. Gloria stopped uncertainly and Randy
urged him on. 'C'mon, Gopal, have your tea. The Dean's waiting outside.'
Started, Gopal pulled off the bedclothes and swung his legs down. He found
he was still wearing last night's torn trousers and hastily got back and covered
himself.
'I'll get him,' said Randy and a moment later the Dean came in followed by
two uniformed campus security men and three other people who seemed to have
no other purpose than to look embarrassed.
'Gopal,' said the Dean setting himself on the edge of the bed and shaking his
hand, 'I can't tell you how sorry I am about what happened. I can assure you the
police will do all they can to catch these people and I want you to know that - '
Gopal sat quietly and listened to it all. The memory of the events was like a
stack of photographs kept face down in his mind and he could as yet only dare to
carefully turn the corner of one or two and speculate on which image they
contained.
'- and I hope you won't reconsider your decision to stay here at Eversville in
the light of the unfortunate incident. I've asked Campus Security to post a man
here and if there's anything I can do, anything at all, you just let me know. Now
you take it easy for a while and when you're feeling better let's meet on this
again and take it from there. Well, I've got to go now, but if there's anything I
can do, just holler.'
His entourage followed him out. Randy came back. 'I've got to go home and
change. See you soon.' From which Gopal guessed correctly that Randy had
spent the night on his sofa.
'How you are feeling?' asked Gopal, touched. 'And your back?' he asked,
suddenly remembering Randy had been hurt.
'Oh, that little thing,' dismissed Randy modestly. He flexed his biceps and
posed. 'Nothing can harm the man of steel. By the way, have you ever wondered
about Superman's sex life? I mean if you're the man of steel, then do women like
it or not? I mean in my case of course they love it, but -'
'Out, out,' urged Gopal burrowing under the covers, and gathering it was
business as usual.
When he re-emerged Randy was gone but Gloria had reappeared carrying a
tray with his tea which she had gone to reheat. Gopal watched warily as she
tiptoed towards him and ceremoniously deposited the tray on his lap before
scampering out. On the tray was an envelope which he opened carefully.
'Dear Gopal,' it said in a child-like scrawl, 'Some Americans are bad, And
some are good and true, But this one who likes you , Is really all true blue.'
(I wrote this in creative inspiration when I learned what happened. I felt it in
my soul.) Gloria
This, thought Gopal sipping his tea, must be the same multitalented soul that
burned holes in things. He wondered if it was a trick of the light, or his angle on
the bed, or even the time of the morning, but the white roots of Gloria's solid
black mass of hair seemed to have grown by several inches. He hurriedly slurped
his tea and got out of bed since he had to decide whether he wanted to stay on in
this country or get back home where it was duller but a lot safer.
He was wrestling with his dilemma when he walked out of the apartment and
headed for the campus. By the time he reached the cafeteria he felt like a
diabetic overdosing on sugar. News of his ordeal had obviously travelled fast
and wherever he turned he encountered smiles - sympathetic smiles, encouraging
smiles, guilty smiles, all sorts of smiles. He could have sworn he saw people
race across the lawn just to have the pleasure of smiling at him. A man he was
positive he had never clapped eyes on in his life slapped him warmly on the
back, clicked his tongue in what he obviously regarded as the ultimate sign of
friendship and said, 'Here's my main man.'
Outside the cafeteria door he saw a short, thin, long-haired and swarthy
individual who could only be the other Indian on campus Gopal had been told
about but had never met. He possessed a moustache like the man in the Camel
cigarette advertisements and the moment he opened his mouth Gopal decided he
disliked him.
'You must be Goh-Pahl,' he said stylishly, curling his lip and affecting the
nasal drawl illiterate Indians adopt when they think they're speaking like
Americans. 'I'm Andy. '
Gopal looked at him incredulously.
'Well, my Indian name is Anand, but all my friends call me Andy.'
 'Hello Anand,' said Gopal politely.
'And this is my American girlfriend Sue. Her Dad owns a big business up
north.'
Gopal recognised her with a start as the girl with the kind face from the
party. They murmured polite hellos.
'Say Goh-Pahl, I heard about your accident. You sure you didn't provoke
them?'
Gopal sneered at him, not even bothering to answer.
'Well, it could have happened much more easily in India. I mean it was
happening to me all the time there, that is why I had to leave. I said, "No way
man. I don't need this shit. I'm leaving." And of course the government thought I
was too dangerous to them and put spies after me.'
Gopal laughed outright.
'Hey listen, Goh-Pahl, why don't you come over now to my apartment? I've
got a colour TV and you can watch it for a while.'
Gopal tried to select from a range of rejections that would succinctly tell
Anand what he could do with his colour TV. But Anand cleverly added, 'And
I've got some Indian food ready too.'
Gopal hesitated, his craving for home food warring with his dislike of this
insufferable fool. The cafeteria door opened and a smell of boiled beef and
disinfectant wafted out. Gopal capitulated.
They walked around the cafeteria to the parking lot where Anand's car was
parked. They got in with Anand insisting that Sue sit in the back so that Gopal
could sit in front and marvel at the car's gadgets. 'Want me to put on some
music? I've got classical, rock, jazz, you name it. No Indian of course. I don't go
for that shit.'
Gopal demurred and prayed that at least the food would be good.
'Should I put on the heater? You know American cars have these heaters.
Man, I used to freeze my butt off in India in the winters and melt in the
summers. How long before Indian cars get that stuff, huh?'
'We are already having now. My car has music and heaters, both.'
Anand checked himself. 'Yeah? Really? Oh sure. I heard about these new
models. Want me to put on the radio? We can catch eighteen stations here. In
India,' he tossed back spitefully to Sue, 'they only have one.'
Gopal sighed deeply. 'There are many channels,' he informed gently, 'but
only one broadcasting authority.'
Yeah, but they're all bullshit, man. Real bull. I used to listen to those and say
"this is real bullshit man." You know what India needs, Goh-Pahl? You know
what India really needs?'
 Gopal didn't answer, believing this to be a rhetorical question.
'Let me tell you what it needs. It needs the free enterprise system. That's
right. That's what it needs. It's all fucked up, man. You know they should make
me the prime minister, you know I'd fix things and teach them how a democracy
should be run. A real democracy. You know what I'd do?'
Gopal practised deep breathing.
'I'd line up all the politicians there and shoot them dead, that's what I'd do.'
Sue commented reproachfully, 'That doesn't sound terribly democratic,
Andy.'
'Hey, you don't know these guys, Sue. You know this guy Rajiv Gandhi?
Well, do you know what job I had to do when I was in India? Well listen to this,
let me tell you. I was an assistant at a shoe store. Can you believe that?'
'Oh I'm sure Rajiv Gandhi didn't order that,' objected Sue. 'He's kind of cute.'
'Why not? It all comes from the top I'm telling you.'
'What you are doing now?' asked Gopal.
'Well, I study of course, and I sell real estate at the same time. And I can tell
you, I wouldn't go back home if Rajiv Gandhi paid me a million bucks.'
'I am sure,' murmured Gopal soothingly, 'Rajiv Gandhi will be very upset to
hear that.'
'That's right,' rejoiced Anand, much pleased at the prospect of Rajiv Gandhi's
distress. 'Not for a million bucks. And I tell you only I know how to make that
country work. You know what I think they should do about the population
problem?'
Gopal wondered if he would survive if he opened the door and leapt out.
'I'll tell you what they should do about the population problem. They should
just castrate the whole lot of them. That's right, that's what they should do.'
They pulled up alongside a small, single-storeyed apartment complex before
Anand could suggest more solutions to India's problems and Gopal was the first
to leap out.
'Castrate the bastards,' muttered Anand vengefully, opening the door.
The apartment was comfortably done up and from the cushions, rugs and art
objects scattered about, considerable effort had obviously gone into making it
homely. Gopal contrasted it with his own Spartan furnishings and concluded that
quite clearly this man genuinely intended to make this country his home .
His voice emerged from the kitchen, 'What'll you have? I've got bourbon,
gin, wine, beer, tequila, you name it. Not like that inferior stuff you get in India,
I can tell you.'
'Coke.'
'You sure? I mean this is America, nobody'll tell your folks.'
 Yes. Coke.'
'Okay, though I'm telling you, you're missing out on something.'
He emerged with a can and Gopal watched as he popped it open. Though he
wouldn't admit it to anyone, Gopal thought one of the most glorious sights in
America was the popping open of cans. It combined technology, a solicitude for
consumers, a deceptive ease and the poetry of the actual pop followed by the
Wagnerian symphony of the hissing soda. By comparison, the unscrewing or
decapping of bottles paled into ordinariness.
The cans, as well as the machines into which you dropped coins and which
disgorged food, enthralled Gopal. It still seemed incredible that machines could
be so highly trained that they would not only provide you with different kinds of
chocolates and sandwiches, but also give you back the change. One machine
even consumed dollar bills with a greedy hum and sucked at your fingers as if it
was a venus fly trap wanting more, before digesting your money with a rumble.
This was followed by creaks and rattles as it disgorged your food and ended with
a silvery tinkle as it returned your change. Gopal was considering tape-recording
the entire process and sending it back to his friends, asking if they could
decipher what the whole thing was about just from the sound. He wondered what
they'd make of it. Once he'd peeked quickly behind the machine when seized by
the suspicion that there were people who actually did all the work while
maintaining this fagade of Technology as Provider. But no, there was a gap
between the wall and the back of the machine. He scrutinised the bottom half of
the machine which seemed excessively large, with considerable suspicion, but it
seemed unlikely that anybody would push plates up and down all day while
lying flat on his back like Michelangelo. To a bedazzled Gopal, the analogy
between masterpieces didn't seem so far-fetched.
As Gopal sipped his Coke, Anand returned. 'Sorry,' he apologised, 'I forgot
all about the TV Keep sitting,' he admonished Gopal, 'in America you don't have
to get up to put on the TV'
He lifted a remote control box and switched it on. 'Here,' he said handing
him the box. 'Make yourself comfortable,' he added, kicking at Gopal's chair,
which to his fright began to undulate under him like the Loch Ness Monster.
Gopal found himself stretched almost fully flat, alarmed and wondering with a
certain lack of respect at the need for inanimate objects that suddenly and
without provocation leapt to life. He remembered the radio in New York on his
first morning.
He was still too shaken to check the mechanical configuration that could lead
to a small, normal, perfectly wholesome looking little chair, suddenly elongating
itself into a basketball-player length. Besides there was Anand to cope with, who
was not wistfully demanding to know when colour would come to Indian
television.
'Has been since '82 now,' Gopal informed him.
'Oh yeah?' there was a resentful belligerence to Anand's voice. 'Well it can't
be as good as American colour. You know I can catch 36 channels on this. I
mean it really blows your mind. How many can you get on Indian TV?'
'One,' Gopal admitted humbly.
'One?' Anand chortled. 'Here one channel isn't even television. Well,
anyway,' he consoled Gopal, 'India has a lot of growing up to do and America
will show the way. Well, the food should be heated up by now. Hey Sue, help
me serve,' he yelled into the bedroom into which she'd disappeared.
Gopal began to ungrit his teeth as familiar, delicious, Indian food smells
began to comfortably wrap themselves around the room like a halo.
'There we go,' said Anand in satisfaction. 'Come and get it.'
Gopal moved forward with the careful slowness of a person who is
restraining himself from bursting into a sprint.
'Help yourself,' urged Anand. 'You know, Goh-Pahl, I find that Indian food
always tastes better in America.'
'Oh Andy,' broke in Sue, 'I'm sure it does not too. Why don't we all just eat.'
They started, Gopal reverentially. He had to admit that the food was superb.
'Very good,' he acknowledged.
'The reason,' resumed Anand, 'is that the materials are so clean and pure
here. Not like that shit in India I can tell you. Man, that used to really freak me
out, all that adulteration. Man, I wouldn't go back if Rajiv Gandhi paid me two
million bucks.'
Gopal put his head down and burrowed into the food. He experimented with
chewing so loudly that it would drown Anand's voice, which was now urging
him to write to all his friends and relatives in India in praise of the free market
system.
'I do that all the time,' Anand assured him.
Gopal said something through a full mouth about this no doubt making
Anand very popular.
'What? What d'you say?' demanded Anand. 'Well anyway, eat up, eat up. It's
good all-American food.'
Gopal let that pass .
Afterwards, replete, he followed Anand to his car and was driven to his
apartment. Only when he got in did he remember that he still hadn't decided
about returning to India.
Lying in bed, he was astonished at the severity of his responses to Anand's
views on India. In India itself he would have paid no attention to them. Here in
America he felt himself personally liable for every one of India's policies and
answerable for their failures. One evening he had been requested to attend a
question-and-answer session with a political science class in which a
surprisingly well-informed young man had launched a bitter attack on India's
alleged closeness to the Soviet Union - about which Gopal in any case knew
nothing and cared even less - ending with a vehement 'Why? Why after PL 480
and the massive cheque write-off are you so close to the Reds?'
Gopal had felt so upset at the young man's passionate sense of having been
ill-done by, that he had considered apologising to him while promising never to
do it again. In the event, he had merely muttered incomprehensibly.
It had not been one of his more glorious moments. At the best of times his
awareness of politics was low, being largely confined to the ritual incantation of
'all politicians are thieves,' which has had inherited from his father. At the class,
he was further unnerved by the nearly theatrical languor of the students. So long
as he was one of them, it wasn't so apparent, but now that he stood behind the
podium and saw this class together, he was nearly struck dumb. One had his
thick boots on the table. Another was peering into an empty Twinkie's wrapping
as though it was Alladin's Cave that might yet yield treasures. Several were
sipping coffee from paper cups. A latecomer arrived and began to disrobe. Two
people were diligently helping each other light what Gopal sincerely hoped were
cigarettes. A poetic soul was gazing dreamily out of the window as though
Camelot had suddenly swum into view. In the face of this pure, unaffected,
masterful disinterest, Gopal felt the few facts he had hastily crammed fall into a
black pit of panic that suddenly opened inside his head.
He contrasted this with India where the students projected a nearly unseemly
reverence for their teacher and an apparently hypnotised interest in his pearls of
wisdom. In reality they were probably even more bored than the Americans so
candidly demonstrated, but at least, Gopal thought indignantly, they had the
decency to hide it.
In any case he had mumbled through his speech as rapidly as he could so
that they could all go home. For the sake of courtesy he had asked if there were
any questions as he was gathering his papers. To his consternation, there were
many. He had fended them off feebly and gone back puzzled as to how he could
have gone through life back home while knowing so little about the country.
Now propped up in bed, he again realised that he had to make up his mind.
On one side was a sense of humiliation and fear, on the other was the fascinating
spectacle of watching a new universe reveal itself. If he stayed, obviously he
would grow enormously as a human being by the sheer process of surviving in
this enchanted forest where light switches worked upside down, men spoke in
rhyme and national conspiracies of silence existed about unexplained baskets
outside houses. On the other hand if he stayed, he might not survive at all. Yet
also to be considered was the important fact that he still hadn't seen Brooke
Shields.
He wondered now about how he had ever imagined that he would meet her,
as though she was the lady with the Welcome Wagon he saw in commercials.
But all the same the fact remained, he still hadn't seen Brooke Shields. He
wondered cunningly if she could be manipulated into seeing him if he sent her a
lifetime's supply of hair oil. Perhaps in sheer gratitude she would fly over
immediately and there she would be, thumping at his door, coat aswirl in the
wind. Gopal gloated at the thought of the look on Randy's face when he heard
about it.
The phone burred, nudging him out of his favourite fantasy. It was Randy.
'Today evening. Right. Double date. Be ready. Bye.'
Gopal's decision about whether to go or stay was necessarily postponed. A
double date. He rushed to get his underwear to put under his mattress so that it
would be ironed by the evening. When the familiar klaxon blared, Gopal was, as
Randy often said about himself, 'as ready and as willin as anyone's ever going to
be.'
He got into the front seat of the car and Randy sped off. 'I think you already
know both the ladies, Gopal.'
Gopal tried to plug in his seat belt, say hello and see who they were at the
same time. A miracle prevented his neck from snapping but he caught a glimpse
of both. They were Ann and Sue. He smiled hello to Ann, grateful that she hadn't
brought her brother along, but said in surprise to Sue, 'Anand?'
'Oh, he's a boyfriend. He's not the only boyfriend,' she laughed.
Gopal laughed back far too loudly. 'Where we are going?' he asked.
'For dinner. Followed by Plato's Retreat.'
'New disco?'
Randy groaned. 'You know, Gopal, I should carry a box with eyeballs in it.
And everytime you say something I can just hit a button and the eyeballs can
revolve instead of my having to roll my eyes around so much. I'm sure it's not
good for my eyes. '
They arrived at an obviously expensive restaurant. As they waited to be
seated, Gopal noticed the other patrons looking at him obliquely and then at the
two American girls he was with. Gopal looked straight back at anyone he
thought was staring at him, but he never quite managed to catch anybody in the
act. Everytime he looked at someone, his eyes skittered away like mice. But it
was uncomfortable and again he felt his skin begin to burn.
The headwaiter arrived oozing charm. 'Is that a table for three, sir?' he asked
looking directly at Randy.
Randy, who had been observing one of the waitresses with more than
academic interest, slowly turned and his eyes locked on to the headwaiter's with
a nearly audible click. 'Yeah?' he asked so politely and laconically that it was a
threat.
'Oh I'm so sorry, sir,' gushed the headwaiter though quite clearly he wasn't, 'I
hadn't noticed your distinguished guest. Do forgive me. This way, sir.'
He led the way in a confident stride that simultaneously conveyed servility
and superciliousness. 'I hope you'll feel completely comfortable here, sir,' he said
with a small edge to his voice that made Gopal feel anything but comfortable.
Their table was situated next to the kitchen door and was nearly hidden from the
rest of the room. Gopal wished he had the courage to demand a better table, but
sat down instead.
'And the young ladies,' continued the headwaiter in a deferential voice that
contrasted with his knowing eyes, 'can I get them something unusual?'
There was nothing even remotely objectionable in his words, but his tone
suggested that the company they were keeping was unusual enough by itself.
'No nothing right away,' said Randy, deciding to hint about Gopal's
affluence, 'but just don't get anything too unusual, or our friend here from India
might decide to buy the restaurant. '
The headwaiter tittered politely at the thought. 'Ah from India is he, sir, I
thought as much. I always contribute my bit at the church, sir. Shall I get the
wine list?'
'No, don't bother,' said Randy. 'Just get us a good white wine.'
The man bowed and left. Randy began talking hastily to cover the
awkwardness that was palpable. 'So tell me about your factory, Gopal. Their
family owns a company,' he explained. 'Makes great stuff too. So what's the
story on that?' he rambled on rapidly.
The headwaiter was back soon. In his hand he held a tray from which he
lifted a brown plug which he placed in front of Gopal after reaching over Randy.
He waited with a bland smile.
Gopal was nonplussed. He hesitated, wondering if it was an appetiser he was
supposed to taste or a relic he was meant to pocket and carry away. Before he
could commit some momentous faux pas, Sue picked it up and handed it back to
the man. 'Just get the wine,' she suggested firmly. 'Okay?'
'With pleasure, ma'am. Er, how many glasses, sir?'
'Four,' announced Gopal loudly, surprising himself most of all.
 The headwaiter bowed his way out.
Another waiter came over and somewhat shamefacedly gave them the
menus.
The headwaiter returned and ceremoniously poured out the wine.
'And a specially large one for our overseas friend, sir,' he announced.
'To good times,' toasted Randy. He took a sip of his wine and found that
Gopal had already tossed down his entire glass. Gopal stared triumphantly at the
headwaiter .
'My word, sir, you must be thirsty,' he murmured, refilling the glass to the
brim.
Gopal consumed it in another gulp. The headwaiter refilled it. Randy began
telling a long story about the meaning of life which he insisted required all of
Gopal's concentration. Sue agreed and pulled his wine glass her way. Groggily
Gopal heard something about pink ping-pong balls constituting the real meaning
of life and then found himself free to repossess his glass and continue sampling
its remarkable contents.
He lost count of how many times he had lifted and put down the glass.
Randy had commenced another story which Gopal could hear only sporadically
through the buzzing in his ears, but it was obviously a very funny one because he
found himself laughing uproariously with the others. Then Ann and Sue took
turns telling even funnier stories and they were all so amused that they were
barely able to eat their food which had mysteriously arrived. Later they
discovered that Ann had ordered for everyone since the waiter's repeated pleas
had been ignored by the other three.
Gopal told them his favourite story about the Japanese tourist group in Delhi
that a lazy tourist guide had conducted around a hotel named Taj Mahal instead
of going through the bother of taking them on a four-hour trip to Agra to see the
real thing. The tourists had apparently not even realised there was a difference,
or perhaps they had been too polite to mention it. But somewhere in Japan there
were various neighbours being shown vacation slides, who were probably
convinced that the Taj Mahal contained reception counters, restaurants and
elevators.
You mean it doesn't?' asked Randy. They all roared.
There were numerous other equally amusing stories and Gopal, through his
foggy head, couldn't remember when he had had such a wonderful time. The
others declined dessert, preferring coffee, but Gopal opted for the largest ice
cream available. As the plate of ice cream with its accompanying fruits and nuts
began to finish, Gopal's head began to think again, somewhat.
When the headwaiter arrived carrying the bill, Gopal was faintly able to hear
his murmured polite 'hope that you enjoyed the food'. 'Yes, yes,' enthusiastically
acknowledged Gopal, 'very good. But,' he paused, a thought starting to glow in
his mind like an ember on a foggy day, 'what I am eating?'
The others collapsed again in merriment and Gopal joined them too, the
ember drowned in laughter. When they surfaced for breath, he dimly heard the
headwaiter's amused answer, 'Why, steak, sir. That's what madam ordered,' he
gestured to Ann.
Gopal accepted this while wiping tears of laughter from his eyes with his
sleeve. He fought loudly with Randy over the bill and they finally decided to
split it. They began to unsteadily lurch their way out, helped by various waiters,
as though they were batons being passed from hand to hand. As they recovered
their coats and scarves, the headwaiter came to bid a final goodbye. By now he
seemed to have become quite fond of them.
'Do come again, sir,' he urged.
'Certainly,' promised Gopal, preparing to step out.
'By the way,' he asked casually, 'what kind of vegetable is steak?'
'Oh that's not a vegetable, sir,' said the headwaiter quickly, anxious to make
up for his earlier rudeness, 'that's beef.'
Gopal froze. The fumes fled from his head. His heart seemed to stop. He
looked stupidly outside.
'Oh shit,' said Randy, suddenly quiet.
'Why? Why?' demanded Ann. 'It's great beef here. I mean I've eaten here lots
and it's the best red meat you can buy. That's why I ordered steak. I mean didn't
you like it, Gopal?' she asked, genuinely concerned .
'I can assure you, sir,' added the headwaiter, 'I personally select the choicest
cuts. There's nothing to be concerned about, sir, livestock is specially grown for
slaughter.'
'Shh, shh,' Randy hushed him, 'sacred cows.'
'Oh dear, oh dear,' bemoaned Ann, awareness dawning. 'I'm so sorry. Oh
gosh, how stupid of me.'
'Oh good heavens, sir,' apologised the headwaiter, rattled by this
development and then even more stricken at the look on the paralysed Gopal's
face. 'I'm so sorry, sir, we've never had this problem here before, sir. Oh wow,
but, but ... I can assure you, sir,' he was stammering as he sought desperately for
something to say, 'I can assure you that, that . that American cows aren't as
sacred as Indian cows, sir.'
Randy and Sue, despite their concern for Gopal, relapsed into howls of
laughter, and even Gopal began to feel himself thaw at the explanation. He felt
Randy and Sue each put an arm around him and giggling, propel him forward,
out of the door. After a last wild look behind and around in case his grandmother
was lurking around somewhere and had witnessed one of her many dire
predictions come true, Gopal allowed himself to be led to the car.
The next morning Gopal woke up, his head feeling as if the Americans and
Russians were exchanging thermonuclear devices inside its premises. His tongue
felt as though a constipated alligator was waggling its scaly tail and he suspected
smelt like one too. The business end of the alligator seemed to the deep in his
innards helping himself to a snack.
Gopal staggered out of bed, stumbled to the bathroom and violently threw up
in the tub. Sweating and panting, he groped his way back to the bed and lay there
gasping. His breathing began to ease and he started to feel much better. He went
back to the bathroom and cleaned out the mess. The nuclear war inside his head
had subsided, but an active insurgency still seemed under way, characterised by
a nearly continuous burst of machine gun fire across the centre of his head.
He brushed his teeth and found to his surprise that it had a therapeutic, if
temporary, effect. He got himself an icy orange juice carton and sitting down on
his bed, he opened the curtains on the little window alongside. The view wasn't
much, just a chain link fence and beyond that a short path through some trees,
but Gopal thought it was a wonderland.
It had rained at night and the glass had frosted slightly. But through it he
could see how clean the air was and the water dripping off the metal on the
fence. The trees shivered in a sudden wind and the branches were iridescent with
light. Gopal had found that one of his greatest pleasures was getting up early and
looking at such an ordinary, such a quintessentially American, such a
breathtakingly beautiful scene.
There was a hammering on his door and the howl of a werewolf outside
followed by yaps, screeches and bow-wows. Gopal gathered that Randy had
arrived. He went to open the door.
'Get dressed, ponder,' announced Randy striding energetically in and heading
straight for the fridge. 'We're going to church.'
'Feeling sick,' said Gopal collapsing on the bed.
'You got a hangover?'
'Yes,' said Gopal with unmistakable pride.
'I'm not surprised. You had your first date, your first drink, and your first
beef. And all in a night's work. You've got to expect to pay some price for it.
C'mon, get off your butt. If you go to church maybe God'll forgive you for eating
beef.'
'Christian God,' said Gopal. 'Doesn't count.'
'Well, what'll help get you forgiveness then?'
 'Holy water from the Ganges. '
'Yeah, well, won't Budweiser from Milwaukee do as good? I mean, who'd
know the difference. What're you supposed to do with the water in any case?'
'Bathe in it.'
'Well that sure rules out Bud. You coming or what? I've told them you'll give
a talk on modern India after the service. You can't let down your Fatherland, can
you?'
'Motherland.'
'Whatever. Parentland. Now get dressed for Christ's sake.'
As they drove down, Randy asked: 'You been to a church before?'
'Yes, sometimes.'
'You have? I mean you have churches in India?'
Yes, yes, many. Also many Christians.'
'How'd they get there?'
'British converted many.'
'And so what were you doing in a church? You're not Christian, are you?'
'No, no, Hindu. But school where for some time I studied had Christian
Fathers as teachers. We had to go to chapel.'
'No shit, what denomination?'
'What?' Gopal was puzzled. 'Christian of course.'
'Right, right. How come they didn't convert you?'
'I am high-caste Hindu. Conversions were among lower castes.'
'Yeah, I guess that figures. Say, Gopal, what caste would I be in India?'
'Depends on what ancestors did.'
'How far down? Which ancestors?'
'Not sure.'
'Well,' recollected Randy, 'I know my grandpa's name, though I'm not sure
what he did. How far back can you go? '
'Oh about fifty ancestors.'
'Whaaat? You know the names of fifty ancestors? I don't believe it.'
'Yes, yes, quite true.'
'Jesus. What'd they do?'
'Sold hair oil.'
'You're joking. You're kidding! I'm going insane! This is crazy.'
'No, no. Actually not only hair oil, sold other things too. But mostly hair oil.
Long history in India of hair oil. Mentioned also in Kama Sutra.'
'Jesus! Supplied by your family no doubt.'
'Probably.'
'Well don't give them a lecture on hair oil or the Kama Sutra at the church.
They'll freak. Here we are.'
The church was a modern-looking structure with a high curved front where
the steeple should have been. But the interior was familiar, as were the stained
glass windows and cushioned benches. The service was a rite he remembered
from his childhood, as were the songs.
Everything passed off smoothly except for a brief moment when Gopal
joined in singing Lead Kindly Light, only to have Randy nudge him urgently
with the news that they were singing Abide With Me.
Afterwards those interested, or intimidated beforehand by the priest, retired
to the Committee Room and in exquisitely polite silence heard Gopal expound
on India's industrial achievements, its satellite programme, its computer software
exports, its mammoth armament manufacture and other good stuff.
While most people smiled encouragingly, and a few had nostrils flaring
periodically along with dilating pupils and clenched mouths, one little old lady
furiously scribbled notes and nodded intelligently every now and then. Gopal
directed his speech at her.
At the end when he asked if there were any questions, her hand shot up
immediately.
Yes, madam,' he encouraged her.
'Young man,' she rose creaking to her feet, 'tell me. Do you drive elephants
in the daytime as well as in the night time? I mean do they have headlights and
tail lights that blink when they turn at night?'
6

In the months that followed, Gopal remembered her vividly as one of his
symbols of America. Virtually every literate person in the world has a few
symbols which for him mean America. For most of those who have never
visited, it is the Statue of Liberty, Niagara Falls, skyscrapers. But those who
have stayed in the country for a while invariably have their own personal lists.
Gopal had added the lady to his, which he had drawn up based upon the total
inscrutability displayed by the symbol. To gain admission into his list, a symbol
had to be completely and uniquely American, and so baffling that any right-
thinking foreigner would swoon on encountering it. So far he had listed
vegetarian cats, the baskets outside houses and now the old lady Gopal was
wondering what else could qualify for the honour. He was sitting one dark
evening by a window high up in the tower of the library. It was his favourite
place. He could look down at a scene of nearly pastoral serenity. There was the
lushness of the lawns, a few trees rustling quietly, as though content to watch
from the background the periodic small army of eager rushers. Gopal wondered
if the souls of dead professors came finally to roost in the trees where they could
continue to watch over the campus, changeless and everchanging .
He wondered what it would be like to be a professor in this place, with its
quiet beauty, its civility, to see the young faces finding love, sorrow and
sometimes a little learning, to grow old gracefully like the trees, rustling in
amusement at youth discovering the old verities every new semester. It wouldn't
be a bad life, Gopal mused, so far from the clamour of commerce. He had come
a long way, he suddenly thought, from the night when he was trying to decide
whether to leave the country that very minute. Finally he had decided it would
be too much of an admission of failure if he went back without a degree. What
would he have said that his friends wouldn't disbelieve? What's more, what
would his mother have said to her friends, especially Mrs Saxena, whose son
was still in England and apparently untouched by Skinheads. He had decided to
stay, but to take as many courses as he could so that he got his degree as soon as
possible.
The days had sped in a blur of classes and libraries. Having once already
eaten beef he had decided that he couldn't be doomed more than once and had
descended upon hamburgers as though he had invented them. Perhaps that was
the turning point in his adjustment to American life. No vegetarian ever made it
fully. They were always having to inspect menus minutely and explain their
preference somewhat defiantly.
And now here he was a few brief months later, wondering if he should
abandon a family business that was so old that it was nearly genetic. His father
used to joke, 'We don't have blood in our veins, we have hair oil.'
There was an old history book in Gopal's house which had belonged to his
grandfather. Gopal often picked it up to smell its mustiness, to feel its engraved
hard cover, the brittleness of its paper that cracked like biscuits. And as he read
the long and ancient saga of India's endless history, whenever he turned a page
and found some small unexplained stain on it, he fantasised that the stain marked
a spot in history where the family business was present in some tiny way,
perhaps as a head massage for some mighty king the night before a fearsome
battle. They were a vial of oil in the torrent of history.
Could he leave all that? Could he ever really leave India? Would he ever be
anything but an alien in any other country? With his head here, his heart in India
and his skin set on fire by the gaze of strangers, could he ever leave forever the
smell of woodsmoke and jasmine on a winter's night? The stars, often so many
of them that there seemed a rainfall of light. And the night itself spread like a
dark blue wanton. Dawn and the sun rising like an explosion of softness. A
hundred ruins weeping silently amidst the thunder and dust of everyday life. The
sheer bliss of being home, of walking the streets amidst littered scraps of
humanity, amidst cows and garbage, yet totally content at being home, being
where you belonged, where no man looked at you twice on the streets in
question.
And yet here there was tranquility, efficiency, a certain new-world courtesy
and civility all their own. There were amazing facilities to study, unimaginable
in India. The business of living was made easy, so you could get on with doing
more than surviving. Ye gods, the very phones worked. Initially, Gopal
grimaced at the memory, he used to pick up the phone and listen to the dial tone
as if it was music sublime. Food, drink, transport, communication, housing,
clothing, the essentials were cheap and easy. In India you clawed your way
through the day, through dirt and glamour and people who seemed to strip the
skin off your bones when they dealt with you, leaving every nerve raw. Here it
was all so much more courteous even at its worst, hushed, gentler. They spoke to
you with a respect that wrapped you in cotton wool. You didn't feel that every
man coveted your property or your self-respect or was otherwise desperately
straining to find ways to humble you .
It was a failing, Gopal knew, of village folk. This overwhelming pride, this
need to be arrogant with very little really to be arrogant about. And India was
still actually only a generation removed from the villages. Everyone still
demanded to know who you are, what you do, what your parents did and
whether they did so legally. Here, he exulted, no one seemed to care. True, it
was initially annoying not to be able to bask in your ancestral glory, but
gradually he felt a great sense of deliverance. You were not responsible for some
totally forgotten yet deeply resented past, you were responsible only for your
own actions and often not even that. No one cared. After the initial sense of
puzzlement, Gopal had come to be extremely proud of the fact that he had no
idea who his next-door neighbour was. He was merely a constantly changing set
of music heard indistinctly through the wall.
In India, Gopal shuddered as he thought of his neighbours who seemed to
have no other occupation in life then to look burningly into his house all day.
And his neighbour's neighbour did the same to him. And his neighbour to him.
And so on, until Gopal could visualise India as one endless chain of neighbours,
each fanatically and sleeplessly obsessed with what was happening in his
neighbour's house and life.
At this exact point, as Gopal was visualising this nightmare nation of
neighbours, he felt a gun touch the back of his neck and a voice hiss. 'Move and
you die.'
Either, thought Gopal, it's the Vietnamese finally arrived in America for
revenge, or it's Randy.
'Beat it, Randy,' he said concentrating on his book. 'I am studying.'
Randy came across and sat on his table.
'Thanksgiving weekend's arriving,' he announced. 'I'm going home. What're
you doing?'
'I will stay here and study. '
'You want to come home with me for the weekend? Might be fun.'
Gopal was touched.
'Really?'
'Sure. I asked the folks. No big deal. Matter of fact they're all pretty excited.'
'Very nice of you and all that,' thanked Gopal formally, shaking hands. 'I am
very happy and all that and ...'
'Oh shut up,' said Randy hastily, 'I'll pick you up Friday morning. You don't
have any feathers and bows and arrows, do you?'
'No,' said Gopal nonplussed, wondering if this was regulation wear for
Thanksgiving.
'Well, too bad. My family's never met an Indian before and they think you'll
come dressed in war paint. Bye.'
Gopal was ready early on Friday morning, excited at his first real trip out of
Eversville into America. He had found from Randy that he lived about three
hundred miles away in a town called Springfield. Gopal had got an atlas and
went through it, trying to find Springfield. To his consternation, he found not
merely one, but literally dozens. Virtually every state seemed to have several.
Another phone call to Randy elicited that it was the Springfield in the
neighbouring state. Further research revealed that it had a population of about
7,000. Thereafter the sources were strangely silent on its notable features, tourist
spots and rich history. Among places you must see, it mentioned only 'Noodle
Factory'.
As they were driving out, Gopal hesitantly mentioned this strange lapse on
the part of the guide book.
'No, no, nothing wrong with the guide book,' Randy assured him. 'There just
isn't anything else to see.'
'Nothing? '
'Nope. Just the noodle factory. That's why we call ourselves the noodle
capital of the South Central United States.'
Gopal sniggered.
'And I don't want any of your lip, Gopal. I mean your town, what's its name?
Jajau, Jesus, what a name. I mean that can't be much better. But at least we're
honest. What'd you say you guys called Jajau? 'The Paris of the state of Madhya
Pradesh. Wow!'
Gopal settled back, refusing to be provoked. 'We are asking both towns to
become sister cities I think,' he suggested.
They were out of the town soon and Gopal began to take in the magnificence
of the American countryside. Generally, he had been told by well-travelled
relatives, the countryside of Europe, though undeniably pretty, required a bit of
fog or mist to display them in their best colours - anything that hid them a bit.
But looking through the clear cold air that appeared to magnify rather than
conceal the American scenery, he was taken aback by how lovely it was. The
sparkling greens, the rich gold and rusts, yet all of it so controlled. Though
clearly untrimmed by human hand, it all seemed so intrinsically civilised.
In India, he contrasted, when it was arid you could practically see the
parched lips of the people, when green it was so monstrously lush and tangled
that the trees seemed to have writhing snakes instead of roots. And poisonous
snakes at that. The extremes were too harsh, they made you wary. There was too
much history coiled under every rock. He had never been able to admire
wholeheartedly some old structure or even some part of India without later
finding that it contained in its bowels some history of horrow, or as often, the
abject disgrace of some Indian defeat at the hands of a few foreigners.
 Here he sensed there was nothing in the landscape but itself. He was
delighted at this liberation from history. The trees, the meadows, the houses
were just themselves; attractive, healthy, often beautiful, civil in their lack of
extremes, open in what they had to offer. There were no poisonous snakes
crawling here. How curiously like Americans themselves, he thought. Obviously
the characteristics of the land seemed to have entered into the people too.
Perhaps, he thought with a start, that was true of India as well. The extremes of
kindness and cruelty, the brooding patience, and always, behind the smile, a
slithering something.
Suddenly Gopal noticed a strange aloneness. He looked carefully all around
and confirmed that there wasn't a human in sight anywhere. Again, he thought,
in India, no matter how deserted a place appeared, if you looked diligently you
would always spot a distant farmer, or someone herding his cow, or even one of
the many souls nature had created with the apparently express destiny of gaping
at life. And if you stopped the car in the midst of sublime silence, within minutes
a bush would rustle and someone would drag his sheep away, a distant tinkling
would herald a bicycle, or one of the gapers would materialise from thin air to
gawk at you.
But here, Gopal was absolutely sure, there was nothing except nature. Even
the road, with its straight lines, its empty sleeve reaching endlessly forward,
seemed more organic then manmade. On an impulse, Gopal asked Randy to stop
the car and went out to relieve himself behind a tree. This was the ultimate test
to discover if there actually were any life forms around in the undergrowth or
behind the trees. In India, a bare minute after you stopped for such sensitive and
urgent requirements, a cow would emerge to observe you with philosophic
sadness, as though reluctantly reconciled to the appalling toilet habits of
mankind. Or a dog would appear to compete for space on that very same tree. Or
a child materialise from a bush behind which he had apparently been waiting
patiently all his life with the solitary ambition of gazing upon you at that delicate
moment .
But again, Gopal reconfirmed, nothing stirred except the wind, the leaves
and a few birds. Gopal shivered, zipped himself up and hastened to the car. Such
solitude was, was - he groped for a word - not unnatural exactly, but, but - un-
Indian, he thought triumphantly. That was the correct word.
You through fertilising the fields?' asked Randy.
Gopal got in and urged him on.
'Well,' said Randy as they drove off, 'at least there's one part of America
that's forever Gopal.'
There was a loud buzz in the car.
 'You've forgotten your seat belt again, Gopal.'
Gopal began to buckle it on. He had never understood this national mania for
seat belts. In India, he thought, cars didn't even have seat belts. And if a
manufacturer did install them, the driver would probably merely assume it was a
useful device with which to strangle opposing drivers during one of their
numerous fights.
Certainly there was great merit in seat belts. But typically the Yanks had
made such a fetish out of it, that it annoyed every right thinking person. It was
like cigarettes. Gopal, who smoked very rarely, found himself defiantly lighting
up in rebellion against the implicit national demand that he not smoke in public.
It had come to a point now where he only smoked in public; he felt it was a
democratic protest against the forces of fascism.
Thus occupied, they drove along. Eventually they came to an overhead
bridge festooned with names in the characteristic white on green. One of them,
Gopal noticed with astonishment, claimed that Beirut lay 11 miles to the east.
'Driving very fast,' Gopal commented.
'Not really. Barely over the speed limit. Why?'
'Sign says Beirut only 11 miles away. You are reaching Asia. '
'Very funny. But Beirut's not the only one. We've got the names of all the big
cities in the world here in the States. We even have a couple of Delhis.'
Gopal was thrilled. 'Let us go.'
'Nah, the one I know about's in California. Anyway, we're nearly home.
Don't blink too long, otherwise you'll miss the town.'
Shortly they saw a sign announcing Springfield and after turning right, drove
immediately past a row of white wooden houses. They seemed small but clean
and several had children's cycles and toys littered in front. They drove a little
further, turned into another road and went up to the garage of a house
indistinguishable from the others.
'The Wolff's Lair,' Randy announced.
They unloaded their luggage, walked into the garage and through a door
there into the kitchen. Gopal was struck by the way nearly all American houses
had garages intermixed with them just as they had bedrooms. It was as though a
garage was an extra room for a valued member of the family, which in its own
way it probably was. Everywhere else in the world people kept their garages at a
proper distance from their abodes out of a healthy respect for the petrol fumes
and grease smells they contained. In America, even though there was no
shortage of space, the garage, with all its accumulated litter, lay as naturally
inside the house as the baby's nursery. Gopal speculated on the scene in case the
family baby and the family car were left parked outside the house one night.
Certainly there would be anguished cries of 'My baby!' but which would Mr and
Mrs America rush to first?
He shook himself out of such idle reverie and tried to gauge from the sounds
where Randy's parents were. He suspected they were hiding in case he shot an
arrow through the first one who came through the door. He waited alone
awkwardly in the kitchen since Randy had gone to roust his family. In a while
there were the familiar wooden thumps that seemed the background
accompaniment to all American living and Randy returned with his parents.
His father was short, red-faced, balding, wearing a pair of well-used overalls
and obviously very shy about their visitor. But he shook hands bravely enough
and retired quickly to the refrigerator. The mother was nearly as tall as he,
extremely plump, wearing an apron over her blue dress. She had fat, rosy cheeks
with tiny, shrewd, yet merry eyes and she obviously laughed a lot.
'Well, mercy,' she said and her voice seemed to fill the room, 'why have you
left the poor dear in the kitchen?'
She wiped her hands on her apron and putting a motherly arm around Gopal
led him to the living room.
'Come, come,' she urged, 'you must be starving. I've fixed a light lunch for
you. Growing boys need to eat.'
The light lunch turned out to comprise some nine dishes and every time
Gopal finished one helping she seized his plate and heaped more of everything
on it. Obviously she had been well briefed, because she had somehow managed
an exclusively vegetarian meal, some of the dishes being so obviously
experimental that Gopal had never seen them before. Nor, he suspected, had she.
Gopal wolfed it all down, encouraged by loud approval from Mrs Wolff
along with the most severe admonishments to Randy for not imitating the
example set by his nice young friend. Finally, when Randy threatened to throw
up all over the table, she allowed them to stop. Gopal sat back groaning and
replete.
'This is a good boy,' chuckled Mrs Wolff noting his blissful state. 'One more
little scoop of ice cream? '
Gopal could only clutch his stomach and gurgle a refusal. Much pleased,
Mrs Wolff bustled off, clearing the table.
Moments later they heard the front door open and close and stealthy
footsteps begin to climb the stairs. Like an overfed panther, Randy hobbled to
the door and leapt out. There was a scuffle and screams and he reappeared with
an armlock around a wriggling, blond-haired girl of about ten who was giggling,
trying to get free.
'This,' he announced, 'is the Wolff cub. Responds to the name of Tabatha and
is known to bite. Say hi to my friend Tabby.'
The girl buried her head in his shoulder and peered back giggling.
'She has rotten manners,' said Randy, 'I can't imagine where she gets them
from.'
'I have small present for her,' said Gopal and captured her interest. They
trooped out to a room beside the stairs where Randy had put his suitcase.
Gopal took out a vividly coloured piece of rectangular cloth embroidered
with tiny glass pieces and ceremoniously handed it to Tabatha. She was thrilled.
'What is it?'
'Well,' said Gopal, 'you decide.'
Actually it was a table cloth, but after giving a similar gift to numerous
Americans, he had found them using it as a wall hanging, a bed spread, and often
even as a skirt. He had concluded it was best to let the Americans decide what
they thought it was.
Tabatha raced off with the cloth and Gopal collapsed on the bed.
'Your room,' Randy waved around. 'Be it e'er so humble.'
'Nice, nice,' assured Gopal. 'What your father does?'
'Oh, he's a carpenter. Makes stuff you know. '
'Mother works?'
'Oh, yeah. Bakes all this food and stuff and supplies it to a couple of
restaurants and families who order it. I mean she's got this menu and anyone
who wants something calls her. She's even got this Indian dish on her menu.'
'Maybe we will have for dinner?'
'You just had it for lunch.'
'Oh, yes,' said Gopal trying to figure out which one it could have been.
'Really excellent. Very nice.'
Randy grinned sardonically. 'Hell, what do her customers know. I don't think
anyone in Springfield's been out of the state, much less to India.'
Gopal began to doze.
You want to catch a few z's?' Randy pushed himself off the wall. 'There's
nothing wildly exciting happening in Springfield this century. Yell when you
wake up. Sleep well.'
Gopal began to fall asleep. It had been months since he had been near any
family environment and the simple, unaffected aura here of a home gave him a
pang of homesickness. He wondered what was happening in his own home in
India. His father would be away at work, his mother would be bustling around
ordering the servants about - suddenly he wondered with his American
experience of handling everyday chores, since their cook cooked, their gardener
gardened and the cleaner cleaned, what did his mother do? Well, anyway, she
was probably hassling his brother right now, he thought with a fiendish grin.
Wanting to know why he wasn't studying, and if he was, why he wasn't eating,
and if he had, why he hadn't eaten enough. Serves him right, thought Gopal, for
being younger. And there would be his grandmother pottering around the
courtyard to her holy tulsi plant before which she mumbled prayers or sang
loudly, depending on whether she had remembered to put in her dentures or not.
Warmed by the sense of being again with a family, he fell asleep .
When he woke again he saw that it was nearly 6 o'clock. From the cookie
smells that were insinuating themselves into his nostrils, he feared that Mrs
Wolff had organised a light tea.
He wandered out and met Randy's father who mumbled an embarrassed 'Hi'
and dashed into the dining room. Gopal followed and as he had suspected, found
Mrs Wolff heaping the table with sandwiches, cakes, doughnuts and other
unknown delicacies.
'This one's Indian,' Mrs Wolff pointed to a plate.
Gopal gingerly bit into a piece. It tasted like aluminium.
'Excellent,' he enthused. 'Really, really, very very excellent.' He tried to edge
out of the room so he could find a place to dump the offending object.
'You stay here and eat,' ordered Mrs Wolff. 'Mercy, you're thin as a stick.
Just like my Randy. Well never mind. I'll put some meat on those bones soon. Sit
you down.'
Gopal wondered if his mother's soul had somehow transmigrated across the
globe and though visa-less, evaded the vigilance of the Immigration Service and
settled within Mrs Wolff.
'Have to go to bathroom,' he excused himself, knowing that this was a reason
against which even the most skilled mothers were helpless. He retired to the
bathroom and flushed the unidentified object down the toilet. He lurked there for
a while, wondering how he could escape eating some more of these rare Indian
delicacies that Mrs Wolff had prepared with such considerateness. He couldn't
think of a way out and manfully concluded that he would just have to risk food
poisoning in the cause of Indo-American relations.
He returned to the dining room and was relieved to see Randy already there
stuffing food into a bag.
'We're going to catch a movie at the drive-in,' he explained, 'and Mom wants
us to take this stuff along so we can eat it later. '
'Eat eat,' urged Mrs Wolff, 'it's good for you both. You're thin as walking
sticks. It's a mercy you don't blow away in the wind. What d'you want for dinner
when you come back?'
'Ah nothin, Mom, we'll just pick up a burger or something,' hastily said
Randy.
'Well, I was thinking of making a completely Indian dinner so your nice
friend here can eat lots. I bet he's so thin because he doesn't like American food.'
'No, no, I am loving,' protested Gopal, aghast at the prospect, 'really loving
all American foods.'
'Let's go, let's go,' urged Randy carrying out a small sack full of food.
They raced to the car and drove off.
'Mother,' grumbled Randy.
'Mine is worse. She used to make servant catch me while she stuffed food in
my mouth.'
'Ah,' chuckled Randy, 'childhood confessions.'
'Till day I left for America.'
'Don't tell that to my mom, she'll get ideas. Oh boy, mothers. Anyway, we're
picking up these two girls and going to the drive-in. You like drive-in theatres?'
'Never been.'
'You don't have them in India?'
'In one or two cities. Not near my town. Who are these girls?'
'Oh, Jill and Bernice. Bernice is a wild one. She's your date.'
Gopal salivated and sniggered nervously. 'No, no, heh, heh, heh,' he
protested. 'I am sure she is nice girl. And Jill?'
'Well, she and I've been a twosome around here since grade school. Nothing
new about us.'
They parked in front of a modest house. Its lights had been switched on in
the dusk .
'You want to come in?' asked Randy getting out.
'No, no, I will wait.'
Randy strode off. Gopal watched him ring the bell and the door instantly
open to swallow him. He heard cries of welcome. He could see figures going
back and forth behind the window and then a flood of farewells whose force
seemed to fling the door open. The parents appeared waving at Randy and the
two girls and trying to peer into the car to see if they could make out what he
looked like. Though Gopal knew they couldn't see him, he tried to look as
civilised as he could and not at all the sort who had misplaced his feathers and
tomahawk or whatever it was that Americans thought of when they thought of
Indians.
He was tempted for one wild moment to leap out and emit war whoops,
ending with pouncing on Randy and biting him. But it wouldn't do any good, he
concluded. Randy would probably persuade them that this was a normal Indian
greeting. He could almost hear his sincere voice '- and because there are so many
starving millions, to allow yourself to have a bite taken out of you shows that
you are ready to share your food with the person and leads to the highest form of
karma.'
To Gopal's regret, no amount of persuasion had been able to convince Randy
that there weren't starving millions in India any more. Gopal had once told him
in desperation, 'now even beggars are well-fed,' but to no avail. Randy remained
positive that Gopal was lying on behalf of his country and that not only did
everyone starve there, but Gopal's first square meal must have been eaten after
he came to America. Usually he selected the most public places in which to
embarrass Gopal with loud statements of his views. And sure enough as he
opened the door he announced, 'And heeeeere's Gopal. Brought straight here,
ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment and edification from famine-
stricken India. Don't be surprised, folks, if you find a bag full of food around.
Let's face it, our friend needs it. Right?'
A red-faced Gopal muttered his hellos. Jill, who was rather pleasant-looking
with her hair tied in a ponytail, was obviously very friendly. She smiled at him
and Gopal decided that she was good wife-material for Randy. Bernice, on the
other hand, he noticed with a silent shiver of pleasure, was chewing gum.
While there was nothing inherently remarkable about chewing gum, after all
nearly the entire population did, to the wild delight of dentists, there were ways
and ways of chewing gum in America. Girls, especially, had developed it into
not just an art form, but a very personal and eloquent language. It was
astonishing how much they could convey just by the way they chewed the gum.
Sometimes they were merely chewing. At other times their chews suggested
they were interested in whoever they were looking at, but weren't sure.
Sometimes they were contemptuous of what or who they saw. While still
looking at the person, their masticating jaws clearly stated that they had turned
their face away.
When angry, they didn't chew - they bit. If they stopped chewing altogether,
it was a sign of the most extreme displeasure preparatory to an explosion of
wrath. At the other extreme, a sign of great approval was a chew slowing so that
the gum could be gathered to create a gentle bubble. However, the cognoscenti
were aware that an excessively large bubble displayed not extra-approval, but
either flirtation or a patronising contempt. Gopal was positive he had seen high
school girls conducting intense conversations purely through the medium of
chewing gum at each other.
On some happy occasions the chewer communicated that a certain erotic
interest was rhythmically powering her jaws. And such, decided Gopal, certainly
seemed the case with Bernice .
 'Well, hi there,' she exclaimed with such pleasure that Gopal wondered if she
had heard of his mathematical prowess.
'Yes, yes, very well and all that. Very good,' Gopal felt himself gibber like
an idiot.
She had, he noticed, hair so golden, so wavy, so shimmering, that it
undulated around her like waves flowing into an ocean sunset. Her eyes were
like blue fires, and Gopal, like a little boy in the dark who had gazed too long
into the flame, couldn't look away. When she smiled, it was an act of
unspeakable intimacy. The rest of the night flashed before his eyes. Her skin
shone as if it had been rubbed with diamonds. And that American smell of
cleanliness, soap and perfume, with just a hint of the tang of chewing gum, was
heady in the little car. He breathed deeply and like so many visitors to that
mysterious country, was intoxicated and in love.
'Movin right along,' chortled Randy driving off, much amused at the effect
on Gopal. 'Bernice, why dontcha tell Gopal about drive-ins. He ain't been to
none.'
'Oh, yes, yes, I am,' objected Gopal loudly, anxious not to appear like a hick
before this vision.
'Well anyway,' drawled Bernice, slowly eyeing Gopal up and down with a
gaze, he could swear, that burned the clothes off his skin wherever it rested,
'they're real fun places. I mean all the neat guys go there to make out. You know
what I mean, make out and stuff?'
'Certainly, everything, yes, yes,' Gopal assured her, his mind racing. 'Make
out.' He turned the words quickly around in his head like they were a Rubik's
Cube, twisting them this way and that to see if he could find a pattern.
Something to do with making things, he speculated, like sandcastles on the
beach in Archie Comics. No doubt this was some form of socially meaningful
construction work that the young elite of Springfield performed during a movie.
It seemed a bit far-fetched to him, but he had learned to withhold judgment of
things American. Or perhaps they endeavoured to 'make out' the finer nuances of
some deeply relevant and artistically significant film. This seemed more likely
considering that 'making out' something was a visual and intellectual process, as
were movies.
Reassured at having deciphered the enigma and pleased at this sign of
devotion to art in his lovely companion, he asked: 'What film it is?'
'Who cares?' said Randy.
'I know,' said Jill. 'It's Texas Chainsaw Massacre Part III.'
Once again Gopal was plunged into thought. But he couldn't think clearly for
long because of the proximity of Bernice. Though she wasn't actually touching
him, he was positive the heat from her arm was tanning his hand like a
microwave oven.
Then they reached a gate and beyond it Gopal saw the familiar screen with
those magical pictures. But he couldn't hear any sound and he wondered when
they were going to switch it on and deafen the countryside. They drove in and
Gopal saw that it looked exactly like the parking lot outside the mall in
Eversville, except that each space was marked with poles. They drove into one
slot and Randy got out, picked up a speaker hanging from the pole and stuck it
into the window. The sound of a chainsaw slicing into bone sprayed into the car
like blood.
Gopal was stunned by this sign of American ingenuity. They are really
advanced, he thought, impressed. For a moment he had forgotten all about
Bernice. Randy put a speaker into the other window as well and strode off.
Gopal saw him walk to a booth at the back and return with huge bottles of Coke.
'Here's the Coke, here're Mom's sandwiches. When you want'em, grab'em.'
Gopal was fascinated at this novel experience. He looked around and saw a
few figures dimly in the cars, others sat on the roof even in the cold with the
inevitable paper glasses. Nowhere were there signs of construction activity or
anybody making anything.
Bernice's hand began to brush against his as she jiggled the glass to shake
the ice, so Gopal obligingly moved away. He was still trying to absorb this
entirely new sensation. The loudspeakers were loud and scratchy, but he felt a
certain sense of grandeur in sitting back in the privacy of a car and watching
young girls get murdered while he ate a sandwich and drank Coke. Watching a
video at home couldn't compare. It was too common, the box itself so small that
it trivialised your interest. Besides anyone wandering past your house could
come in and watch, thereby devaluing it to a democratic level. This was Roman.
He was Caesar, a Maharajah watching blood sports performed for him while he
sat regally in privacy.
Nearly half an hour had elapsed while Gopal sat like Caesar and Randy and
Jill had slid so far forward that Gopal couldn't see their heads any more. He
wondered if they were able to see the screen. Bernice, his Bernice he thought
with pride, was slumped away from him against the door. There was a tap on her
side on the window and she sat up.
'Bill,' she squealed and each particle of each syllable of her voice was like a
knife thrown into Gopal's heart. 'Who're you here with?'
'Oh, bunch of jerks.'
'Well come on in. It's cold outside.'
'But your friends ...'
 'Oh he won't mind,' Bernice said quickly, 'he's from India. Come in,' she
moved into Gopal making room.
Randy's head appeared over the front seat. 'Hi Bill,' he said without
enthusiasm, 'don't you have a date to go to?'
'As a matter of fact I don't,' said Bill, opening the door and edging in without
yanking out the speaker in the window .
Randy sighed and disappeared. Gopal was in a ferment. Clearly he had
competition. The best way, he decided, to win Bernice was to impress her with
his intellect. He would soon send this interloper scuttling by the sheer force of
his oratory, he swore.
Bernice was formally introducing them when Gopal began his campaign to
woo Bernice.
'I am sure you are feeling very concerned about trade deficits of third world
countries,' he suggested.
'Who, me?' asked Bernice in real alarm.
'Well, these are because some very strange problems are occurring because
of OPEC price increases.' Gopal noticed with satisfaction that Bernice was
leaning back to hear him better, but a sword slid into his guts as he realised she
was leaning into Bill who put both arms around her waist.
Gopal redoubled his efforts.
'You see, due to large transfer of funds from developing countries to OPEC,
short-term resource crisis is prevailing. But in long term due to developmental
needs of OPEC block and manpower and intermediate technology exports from
developing nations, reverse recycling is occurring, leading to improved balance
of payment position.'
Gopal saw Bill lower his head and kiss Bernice who raised her arms to lock
them around his neck. The sword in Gopal's gut multiplied into many more
swords that flung themselves into every portion of his anatomy, embedding
themselves and twisting cruelly.
'Well,' Gopal began to subside sadly, 'and all that. But cash flow position is
more healthy now,' he ended defiantly.
Bill raised his head with difficulty. 'Hey, don't stop now, buddy, carry on.
This is great stuff.'
An impatient Bernice dragged his head down again.
Gopal glared at the screen and muttered to himself. While in other
circumstances he would have been fascinated to observe in real life and from
such close quarters these arcane erotic arts, right then his bloodstream still felt
too full of knives cruising endlessly down, pricking his veins from inside.
Bernice was proceeding to get really enthusiastic. Gopal bit something soft
in his mouth which he could have sworn was his heart. Bernice adjusted herself
and dragged Bill lower whose hands began creeping southwards down Bernice's
front. Gopal regarded each crawling hand as he would a cobra. He wondered
what he should do.
He leaned forward and looked over the front seat to find Randy's face
similarly enmeshed with Jill's. He sat back. The situation was becoming critical
because Bill's hands were about to reach unthinkable outposts. Gopal raised his
Coke glass and poured its contents over the front seat where he approximated
Randy's head would be.
There was a yell of shock and Randy's face appeared dripping brown beads.
'They did it,' said Gopal virtuously pointing to Bill and Bernice who were
still engrossed.
'Yeah,' grunted Randy, taking in the scene. 'Okay you two, break it up. Out.
We're going home.'
The duo exited, still not completely disentangled, but helped out by a last
spiteful push from Gopal.
They drove away and Gopal sulked for a week. He didn't sleep that night,
wet smacking sounds flooding his dreams like a dam bursting every half hour.
All the little knives in his system gathered themselves into one huge sword on
which he felt impaled and which seemed to jut into the roof of his head with its
hilt in both feet.
He glowered at young Tabatha who hid from him. He muttered monosyllabic
answers to Mrs Wolff's friendly questions. He barely noticed the magnificent
Thanksgiving dinner the next day and deliberately refused to praise Mrs Wolff's
turkey except to ask if turkeys also gave thanks on Thanksgiving. He glared at
Randy whenever their eyes met who winced helplessly. And before leaving he
handed out the Wolff's farewell presents with the worst grace he could muster.
He was not a very nice guest.
On the drive back to Eversville, he refused to look at the countryside, much
less admire it.
7

Back in college, Gopal devoted himself to his work. Though he knew it was an
illusion, he thought he sensed his mind flower and expand. The Indian system of
education had drilled his mind and beaten it until it was a tight, rigid mass laid
upon the fundamentals of science that had been dug deep until they sank into his
subconscious. Now from this unshakeable base, he was able to make sorties that
his American colleagues couldn't imagine trying, unsure as they were about the
basics.
For the first time he began to learn the joy of analysis rather than retention.
Based upon the core of fundamentals that had been hammered into him - often
quite literally - he experimented with leaps of logic. Often he paused uncertainly,
as though in mid-air, waiting for someone to admonish him and demand that he
return to thinking by the book. Instead he found encouragement. His mind
soared. He felt himself flying. For the first time in his life he gloried in studying.
I came out of India at the right time, he felt. He had got the best of an
educational system where the early years instilled discipline and the basics, but
the subsequent repetition of the same crippled minds that were ready to take off.
In America he found that encouragement, yet simultaneously he found that the
American students seemed unable to utilise the truly astonishing opportunities
that their educational system offered at the higher levels .
He found himself studying late in the library, staying even later in the lab,
not because he wanted higher grades, but because he was enjoying it. He felt that
his grasp over his subject had become so thorough, that he was able to go back
to the fundamentals, to those dragons of his earlier days, and look at them with a
new eye. Why were they constructed as they were? What was the intent and
what the result? Could they be improved upon? Such questioning would have
been heresy to his Indian teachers, a scandal. But they had done their job and
Gopal had left them behind. He often considered amusedly with what horror
they would react to his questions and the viewpoints he held now. But now he
thought of them, the giants of his childhood, as dusty, shrunken old men with
barred minds.
Here, he exulted, they loved questions. They didn't care if they were insane,
in fact the crazier the better, so long as they were also intelligent. Even the
students, astonishingly, didn't seem to resent his clearly superior abilities. At
least, he amended, most of them didn't. They said they enjoyed his sallies and
they spoke to him, asked to study with him and expressed their admiration to
him with a frankness that was staggering, yet deeply touching. Initially he was
so incredulous at their straightforward talk that he suspected they were being
sarcastic. But very quickly he realised they were transparently honest.
In India, he sighed with real pain, we could write the definitive book on
envy. For centuries outsiders had exploited this fatal flaw, using it to divide and
rule. And even today, rumours of a person's success caused demonic leaps of
fury in the breasts of nearly everyone who heard about it. The immediate
response was to either belittle him, or, if possible, to find ways to actively
impede him. Using a simple contrast, Gopal suspected he received more
compliments in one month in America on his abilities and his work, than he had
received in all his life in India put together.
And then they wonder why there's a brain drain, he thought. It wasn't often
any longer out of a desire for a more comfortable life in America - in India an
affluent person usually lived better than one in America - but it was also for the
sheer bliss of a friendly, supportive, well-equipped, encouraging work
environment. It could be to get away from the fierce, eternal, all-encompassing
hatred with which colleagues in India battled each other and everybody else,
usually for no discernible reason other than habit. Transplanted to America,
however, they were transformed into paragons of efficiency and tolerance,
mused Gopal.
He closed his book as the lights in the library began to be turned on and off
as a sign it was closing. As he stepped out into the night, the wind seemed to
have a colder thrust to it than usual. He had hardly walked fifty feet when he felt
a soft white dandelion rest on his cheek. He brushed it away and to his surprise it
felt cold. He looked up and there were many of them floating gently downward.
They looked like the little blossoms of a tree, but when they touched him they
turned to water.
Snow, Gopal thought with a shock. Goodness me, they are having snow.
He had never seen snow before except in photographs where it lay like the
skin of some dead white beast on the ground. He had not realised that it danced
with such joy through the air, with the beauty of a ballet dancer. Its touch upon
him was hesitant as a child's. And as Gopal raced under each flake trying to
catch it in his mouth, he could have sworn each was alive as it playfully evaded
him and settled on his hair or his coat. One enterprising fellow made his way on
to the back of his neck and rested there for quite a while .
Gopal ran about, his ungainly legs pumping furiously, trying to swallow as
many snowflakes as he could. It wasn't easy. Some bumped into his nose,
another on his jaw, but it was exhilarating. He dashed about, his overcoat
flapping, sucking in the air so clean and clear that it felt like a miraculous new
drink. He snapped at a flake, leaping up for it, and his teeth clicked on
themselves. A flake fell on his eye and stung. He blinked, trying to clear it and
then brushed his sleeve over the eye.
When he could see again he saw with embarrassment that one of the security
guards was sitting near by on his scooter and had been obviously watching him
for some time. He was a burly, cheerful, red-faced man and Gopal wondered
what he made of the sight of a foreign student leaping like a deer at midnight on
the lawn, attacking snowflakes.
The guard started his scooter. 'Feels good to have a full stomach, doesn't it?'
he remarked kindly, driving away.
Worse was to follow. There was a rustle among the nearby trees and Gopal
realised that obviously there had been another witness to his infantile behaviour.
A figure moved towards him in the dark and Sue's amused face came into the
moonlight.
'Some exotic Indian night dance?' she suggested.
'What you are doing here at this time?'
'Coming out of the library. Same as you. Some of us Yanks work as hard as
you guys do, believe it or not.'
Gopal heh heh'd in embarrassment, scuffling his feet.
'Well,' asked Sue, 'are we going to have a cup of coffee or are we going to
freeze here?'
'Certainly, certainly, oh yes, coffee.'
Sue took his arm and they began walking. Her normally friendly face was
particularly soft tonight and she looked incredibly amused .
'You've never seen snow before, have you, Gopal?' she said so gently that it
wasn't an insult or a put-down.
'Well, only snow in India is in Himalaya mountains. I have not been.'
Sue put her arm through his and they walked closer together, seeking
warmth in the cold. Gopal gathered from the direction that they were going to
his apartment, but they walked past it, past a hedge to a tiny cottage next door.
'You are living here?' asked Gopal in surprise.
Sue smiled and nodded. Gopal was surprised he had never noticed the place,
perhaps because it lay on the side away from the college. Sue went up the porch
stairs and was fumbling with the lock. A sign alongside the door said
'Weizensacker.'
'What this is?' asked Gopal.
'Not what. Who. And the who is me.'
'Your name.'
 'Yep. Step right in,' she invited pushing the door open.
Gopal walked in, careful but curious. He found a single room with a sofa, a
small dining table with three chairs and a staircase on the side, going up. The
carpet was threadbare and the furnishings were worn. Whatever cloth was visible
was faded. A few brightly coloured cushions lightened the room. Even the lights
were dim.
'Well,' said Sue, a little uncertain how all this would look to Gopal, 'home,
sweet home. Why don't you sit on those cushions, they're near the heater. I'll turn
it on.'
Gopal went over and watched her light up a contraption that looked like
petrol cans joined together. A blue flame appeared and it began to hiss and emit
a reluctant kind of warmth.
'It'll heat up,' she assured him. 'I'll go make some coffee. Make yourself at
home.'
Gopal looked around again. It all seemed so simple and poor. A few prints
hung on the wall and a spray of flowers sat in a vase on the dining table.
Opposite the sofa was a small television set. Gopal switched it on and found it
was black and white. He watched it unseeingly for a while, feeling sorry for
Sue's obvious poverty. She seemed such a nice girl and he wondered why she
hadn't married and moved out to some place better.
Sue returned with two steaming mugs.
'So,' she said handing one to Gopal, 'what d'you think?'
You are having money problems?' Gopal blurted out. And was then
horrified.
Sue didn't seem offended. She laughed. 'Yes, indeed. You can say that
again.'
Gopal wondered how to frame the next question. Finally he asked, 'Why?'
'Ah why. You want the whole story? All right, I'll tell you.' She settled back
against the sofa. 'No big deal here. I was married and now I'm not. He doesn't
pay alimony and I don't care where he is. He walked out one night and now I'm
trying to put myself through college so I'll be self-sufficient before I get married
again. I have a part-time job that helps pay the bills and that's about it I guess.'
Gopal thought the most heart-breaking parts were the things she hadn't said.
Sue put her hand on his arm. 'Please,' she asked softly, 'no questions, okay? I
don't want to think about it. It's all behind me. Okay?'
Gopal hesitated and then nodded.
'And now tell me about you, of mysterious stranger from the East. What
ancient secrets lie behind your inscrutable smile?'
Gopal giggled loudly at the thought.
 'Hair oil,' he trumpeted with a rare burst of humour. Her solemnity dissolved
too. 'You actually make hair oil? '
'Yes, yes. Many.'
'And you actually make money on it?'
'Oof, oof.' Sue gathered this meant yes.
'Well, tell me all about you. I mean how'd you get to Eversville of all
places?'
'I am applying to many places and getting admission to five. Eversville is
cheapest.'
'Yeah, but why come States-side at all? I mean your life seems a dream back
there with servants and stuff.'
'Well, seeing world and things like that is making me broader before I am
settling down to do business.'
'It's certainly making you broader,' tartly commented Sue. 'You're twice the
size you were when you first came.'
Gopal chuckled, highly pleased. He started telling her about how plumpness
was greatly respected in India as a sign of prosperity and from there on the
conversation went on to the different sizes of his numerous relatives. Gopal had
never found anyone so easy to talk to before and he astonished himself by his
volubility and frankness. A bottle of wine had appeared somehow and was
nearly exhausted before Gopal was. Finally he felt sleepy, dizzy and intoxicated,
both by the wine and by Sue.
He tried to stagger to his feet and got on his knees, swaying.
Sue pushed him back gently.
'Sleep,' she said, putting a cushion under his head, 'I'll get you a blanket.'
Gopal lay still, the brightness of excitement combating the alcohol urging
slumber. He heard Sue come down the stairs and the warmth of a woolly blanket
all over him.
Sue got up and switched off the lights. There was just the hiss of the heater
and the blue glow of its flame.
'Sleep well,' said Sue .
He felt her tuck the blanket under him. Her lips touched his for a while.
'Good night,' she said and he heard her on the stairs.
Something inside him burst like a flare and he was bathed from inside with
white light. The excitement surged in him like a swell and then subsided. Before
he fell into a deep dreamless sleep, with sudden clarity he thought, 'I am in love.'
The next thing he remembered was Sue's hand gently waking him. Groggily
he woke. The wine felt as though it had accumulated inside his head and was
sloshing there. Sue smelt of soap and nice things. It was still dark but the light
was on. It was cold.
'I'm going out camping, Gopal,' he heard Sue say. 'But you can stay till you
get up. When you leave, just make sure the door latches shut behind you, okay?'
'What? Who?' Gopal mumbled trying to struggle up.
'Go to sleep, sleepyhead.' He felt her kiss again. 'See you when I get back.'
He fell back flat, his heart pumping so loudly he was afraid he would have to
hold it with both hands to control it. He heard the door open and close behind
Sue and went instantly back to sleep.
When he woke again it was 11 o'clock in the morning. I will miss classes, he
thought. He remembered the night and warmth began to flutter in his chest as
though his breastbones had chrysallised into butterflies and were trying to fly
away. One kiss, he slowly counted to himself. Two, he exulted aloud.
He leapt up from the makeshift bed and did a few steps that he persuaded
himself were like Michael Jackson's moonwalk. How to celebrate? He thought in
excitement. Push ups. I will do push ups, he decided. Dumb, dumb, how dumb,
he berated himself. You cannot do push ups to celebrate .
He picked up his overcoat and rushed out.
The town had turned white. The streets, the houses, the trees, all were a clean
glittering white. Gopal saluted this with the moonwalk too. A passing couple
turned to stare at him, and not caring for once, Gopal added the be-bop he had
learned from Randy at the mall, to his moonwalk. The couple had stopped to
watch, so Gopal decided to sing them a song of joy as well.
The only song that came to his mind at that moment was the Indian national
anthem, so he burst into that, keeping time with his moonwalk and punctuating it
with his best be-bops.
Since Gopal sang about as well as he danced, the couple turned and fled.
Gopal hastened after them as fast as his moonwalk would allow, holding his
heart at the higher notes, till they sprinted away in panic. Gopal returned,
winding down the anthem to a hum as he climbed the stairs to his room. Only
after he got in did he realise that he hadn't put on his overcoat at all.
A hot shower cleared his head and some cornflakes made him feel more
settled. He strode off purposefully to class and greeted all the surprised teachers
and students with boisterous hellos and handshakes. He laughed unnecessarily at
everything, and far too loudly in any case and called everyone he knew by
wrong names. Then he settled himself in his chair, piled his books in front like a
fortress and got down to some serious day-dreaming.
By the time it was evening he was extremely restless. The moment the last
class finished he gathered his books and without waiting to dawdle for a chat he
galloped to her house. He knocked on the door, rattled it and waited. Nothing
stirred. He knocked even more loudly and reluctantly concluded that she hadn't
returned yet .
Slowly he went back to his apartment and sat down at his dining table which
was piled high with books, since he never used it for eating. He drew the curtain
and saw that he could see up to the hedge dividing his apartment complex from
Sue's house. He could even see the top of her house.
He opened his books and tried to study. Every hour he went down and
knocked on her door in case she had driven in from the other side. The house
remained silent.
At about midnight he began to really worry. So far he had told himself that it
was probably some kind of Girl Scout's picnic with bonfires and singing and
clapping, but now he wondered if something had happened to her and her
friends. Perhaps they had met with an accident. He wished he had seen their
vehicle before she left. If it had been a bus then the other vehicle must have been
pulverised, serves them right.
At two in the morning, he looked down with surprise at the number of pages
he had read of his book though he couldn't recall a word. He went down to check
again and coming down her porch suddenly found the ground had turned to ice.
He slid feet first, landing with a jar.
Shaken, he told himself he was being foolish. No woman was worth the
trouble, his experienced friend Prakash used to always tell him. They are like
taxis, Prakash never failed to add. If one goes away, another comes along. In any
case, Gopal told himself, still lying flat on the ground, she is probably sleeping
in some silly tent being mother to schoolgirls who were scared of the creaks and
sighs in the dark outside.
Gopal picked himself up and went back home, annoyed with Sue and
determined to get a good night's sleep. The next day was Saturday and he looked
forward to a long rest. Hah, taxis, he gloated.
He was up at six tapping at her door. As the day wore on it became
progressively more embarrassing to make a pilgrimage to her unyielding door
every hour. Gloria had begun to notice and had placed herself by the window
where she could watch the staircase. To add to Gopal's worries, it looked like she
was writing another poem.
He thought of walking past Sue's house and around the block till she arrived,
but he was afraid of the slippery streets. He fantasised that he would go to the
house across the street and so enthrall them with his charm that they would let
him sit at their window all day and keep watch on her house. Finally he just
stayed behind his own window.
He was there all day, believing that a big yellow bus would rattle into view
any moment and she would emerge amidst a chorus of adolescent goodbyes. By
accident he would happen to be walking down the stairs and coincidentally
would bump into her. How casually he would say hello to her, graciously
acknowledging the stares of the appraising school girls, how casually he would
pick up her little packing case and walk her to the door. And once inside, she
would melt into his arms. He refused to speculate any further than that just now.
He sustained himself on cornflakes, orange juice, peanuts, cookies and
potato chips from his larder, refusing to take the time off to go and eat. He didn't
want to order a pizza because for some perverse reason he decided it would be a
bad omen to eat and would delay her arrival.
The day dragged itself like a bag lady with overfull paper sacks. The sun set
and there was no sign of her. Finally at 8.30, according to two sets of watches
that both seemed to be functioning with abominable slowness, Gopal gave up in
disgust and decided to walk down to the grocery store to replenish his stocks.
He trudged down, wondering what it was about her that he could have found
so interesting. Aside of course from the fact that her name didn't begin with the
letter J. It was amazing how many American names did. There was Joe, John,
Josephine, Joanna, Joyce, Jack, Jake and probably hundreds of others, he
thought. He bought the groceries and holding the bag with both hands began
walking back. But aside from the J factor, he thought critically, there was
nothing special about her.
She was back! His heart raced. There was a car in front of her house and
several lights were on inside. The groceries weighing him down now felt the
weight of a tennis ball. He thought of hurling them from this spot through
Randy's window in the men's dormitory. He thought of charging into her house
and scaring her. But he restrained himself and decided the strategy of coolness
would pay the greatest dividends.
He went up to his apartment, carefully deposited the bag on the table, wiped
his shoes with the curtain, dusted himself thoroughly and otherwise prepared and
improved himself in every manner that did not require him to leave the window
from where he could see her house.
Regally he thumped down the stairs. Fortunately no car drove away from her
house, otherwise he would have had to abandon his quiet dignity and fling
himself down with wild cries. Breathing deeply and evenly and smoothing his
coat, he reached her porch.
Before climbing up he peered curiously into the car and noticed it was a two-
seater. He stopped. A sense of alarm rose in him. He backed himself into the
hedge and then crept along it till he reached the back of her house. He stood in
the short space between the house and a dark wall. He stood against the wall and
looked into the lighted room where he had slept the night some centuries ago.
Suddenly a face appeared at the window and Gopal froze. He realised that
the face couldn't see him in the dark, but he dared not breathe. The face, he
noticed, was young, male, with a red moustache, freckles, red hair. While
apparently looking at him, it was combing its hair.
The sword that rose in Gopal's throat now felt like an old, familiar enemy.
He watched aching and motionless as the face finished its toilet. Gopal was
certain it winked at him. Then it turned and Gopal saw the rest of the body to
which it was attached walk back, shout a goodbye up the stairs and leave. At
least, thought Gopal, after two days and a night together, the least the face could
have done was to wait till she came down the stairs to say goodbye.
He felt alone, more alone. The face had been company. He dragged himself
away. Each leg felt like an elephant's trunk, his spine as if it had become an eel
and he couldn't seem to lift his arms above knee level. He could scarcely
recollect getting to his room, so engrossed was he in the sword stuck all the way
up his chest, now slowly twisting and turning itself to cause the greatest hurt.
He punched Randy's number on the phone with fingers that didn't want to
leave the buttons.
'Bar?' he suggested as Randy answered.
You had one of those days too, huh? I'm on my way.'
By the time Randy arrived, Gopal had three empty beer cans in front of him
and was stubbing out his fourth cigarette.
Randy held out a sheet of paper.
'It was stuck on your door.'
Gopal read it.
On the stairs today you went up and down
I hope you don't fall and break your crown.
You make my heart go pitter pat,
So don't fall and break your nat. (nut)
Glori a
Gopal handed Randy a beer.
'We are both needing.'
Carrying their beer they went out. The wind turned their breath to smoke and
Gopal remembered his childhood when he would try to make smoke rings on
winter nights. He refused to look at the direction of Sue's house. As they drove
through the neighbourhood, he recalled how annoyed he used to feel at their
stopping at every alternate street.
'Why you are always stopping?' he had irately asked.
'Well, there are all these stop signs you know. It's the law.'
 'You are stopping only because sign is saying to stop?' Gopal had been
amazed.
Yep. Don't they in India?'
'Ha, never. No one is bothering with signs and many not even with red lights.
If government is liking stop signs so much, then let them stop.'
Randy had tried to unravel the logic of this. 'But doesn't that kind of lead to a
lot of traffic accidents?'
Gopal was even more surprised. 'Of course.'
'Then why don't they stop?'
'Because it is all in God's hands.'
'Wow.'
'You see, it is in His hands when we are going up and for how long we are
staying here on earth. Isn't it?'
Yeah, well I guess that's finally true.'
'Then who is damn government to tell us what to do?'
Randy sometimes reminded Gopal about that conversation along with
solicitous questions about the 'damn government'. But today neither of them was
feeling humorous. Both drank steadily and quietly from their cans.
'Which bar we are going? '
'You haven't been here before. A lot of young people come here. Mostly
singles.'
They parked on the street. There seemed a large number of cars on both
sides and they had to walk for a few minutes before reaching a house. Randy
walked down a few stairs. They came to a door with a guard outside who
hesitated almost imperceptibly when he saw Gopal.
'It's really crowded tonight, sir,' he apologised, 'I'm not sure you'll even find
standing room.'
Randy stood his ground. 'We'll manage.'
The guard opened the door and the music screamed its welcome and the
darkness swept out an arm and pulled them into its fold.
Only thing that welcomes you in America, groused Gopal to himself, is
darkness. He was relieved to be out of the light and the guard's hesitancy. The
music was so loud and so alive, that it actually seemed a living thing. Randy
seemed to have disappeared into it and Gopal hastened to stumble his way to the
wall and wedge himself into the corner against the bar.
He looked around cautiously. There really were a very large number of
people. He noticed they seemed older than the students Gopal knew and were
certainly better dressed. There seemed more women than men. They were all
displaying that unique American gift for holding suave, sophisticated, apparently
witty conversations in the midst of music so loud that nobody from any other
country can hear a word. Gopal wondered how they did it.
Maybe they're pretending, he speculated. He saw a girl sitting a foot and a
half away from him throw back her head and laugh at something that had been
said by a man sitting with his shoulder against Gopal. Gopal hadn't heard either
the man's words or the laughter. But obviously the girl had heard him because
she would hardly risk a glorious laugh on a wild guess if she couldn't hear him at
all. Supposing he was informing her of his mother's death.
All around there were people chatting, laughing, as though the music that
was driving nails into his ears didn't exist at all. Maybe they lip read, thought
Gopal. In any case nobody seemed to have come singly, because everybody
seemed to be extremely good friends. After all can everyone lip read a stranger?
Not unless they're a nation of lip readers. He thought about this for a while.
Could there be another national conspiracy? Armies of kindergarten children
being made to talk to each other while disco music blared through earphones
clamped over their ears?
He felt a thump on his back and turned to find Randy mouthing soundlessly
at him. Gopal laughed politely. Randy tried to pull him away towards two girls
standing a little behind him waiting patiently. Gopal hugged the bar as if it was
the last life raft on an empty ocean. At the best of times he felt paralysingly shy
of girls. Even when he knew them well and could hear them perfectly, he had
great difficulty in doing anything other than mumbling at them. Now he sweated
at the prospect of trying to converse with strange women whose every word
would be inaudible. Finally, when it became clear that the only way to prise
Gopal's fingers off the bar would be by seeing them off, Randy gave him a
disgusted look and walked away.
Gopal huddled over the bar top with enormous relief. He found himself
looking into the laughing if dilated pupils of one of the bar girls. She said
something and filled a tall glass with beer from a keg and put the glass before
him. Gopal pulled out a note from his picket, saw it was a ten dollar bill and
gave it to her. He gestured to his glass and then to the keg and she nodded that
she understood that she should keep his glass filled till the dollars ran out.
Gopal concentrated on finishing as many beer glasses as he could, afraid to
look around in case Randy pounced on him. Soon his ears began to buzz and he
felt even more deaf. The bar girl kept his glass full and smiled at him every time.
She had a nice smile and she was pretty. He began to drink his beer faster so that
he could see her smile more often. He realised that she had been trying to talk to
him while he had grinned back inanely. He wondered what she was saying but
the thought was too difficult to hold.
 Then suddenly she disappeared. He gazed intently down the bar trying to
find her, and suddenly she was at his shoulder, a coat over her waitress costume.
Wonderingly he allowed her to lead him out, but even his non-existent senses
had enough awareness left for him to give Randy a kindly smile on the way to
the door and to note the look on his face whose expression Gopal would
remember to his grave.
Outside, the guard looked at the two of them leaving together as though his
worst fears had been confirmed.
'Have a very good night, sir,' he wished them sadly.
The wind had dropped as they stumbled to her car and got in. Gopal had to
try several times before he could locate his bottom on the seat.
'Drunk,' he muttered explanatorily.
'Don't apologise,' she giggled, 'I personally follow the policy of one glass for
myself for every five glasses to the customers.'
They had hardly gone a few streets when she stopped in front of an old red
brick building that was now closer to black. They staggered up the stairs, thanks
largely to the handrails which Gopal used like a rope-climber and staggered into
her room. They collapsed on her bed .
Before Gopal could struggle upright she was all over him. He plunged back
and closed his eyes as he felt her lips and teeth on his neck. A red curtain
undulated behind his eyes. Slowly the earth began to heave. Even in his drunken
state Gopal sensed that the earth was scheduled to heave much later. Besides
which he could only dimly feel where she was now on some extremity of his
body, much less be aroused by her.
He felt himself begin to surge like the sea. The alcohol began to rise and fall
in his veins like black waves in a storm. He felt as though his body was going up
and down on crests and troughs, as though he was immersed in an ocean. I am
feeling seasick, his mind gasped. He began to sweat as he lowered internal sluice
gates against torrents of sickness. But the bile rose further and further with each
attack, until with overwhelming force it flung aside his restraints and poured out
in a gush of vomit.
The two nights of drinking, the junk food, the excitement and the despair, the
worry, the most recent binge, all came pouring out till he felt his guts would
come out through his throat too.
He had still retained enough awareness to turn his face away from where the
girl was, so she was more concerned than angry.
'Aw gee, I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were sick, aw gee,' she apologised,
rubbing Gopal's chest with a soothing circular motion.
'Okay, take it easy. You'll feel much better now.' She stroked the panting
Gopal's sweaty head. The hair oil was melting but she carried on patting him.
Gopal's breathing eased. His chest began to feel cool. His brain, which had
felt as if it was trying to emerge through his eyes and ears, fell back into place.
The rest of his insides began to settle down. His ears stopped singing. Cautiously
he waited until the feeling of well-being became a slightly permanent one. Then
he began to feel embarrassed.
'I will help in cleaning,' he told the girl, pushing her away.
He tried to get up. To his shock the same feeling of rising and falling,
making his head swim, making him feel seasick again, came over him. He tried
to push himself up and felt himself sucked back as though he was lying in
quicksand.
He felt the girl take his hand and pull him to his feet. He turned to look at the
bed and he thought he was reeling because the bedcover was undulating towards
him as though it intended to capture him and drag him back to its depths.
Gopal staggered back in alarm. The girl put a supporting arm around him.
'Whoa there,' she said kindly. 'It's only a water bed.'
Everything suddenly became clear to Gopal. He had heard of these depraved
inventions before. His sense of being underwater, his feeling of seasickness, all
became understandable. He was even able to look at the device with cautious
curiosity, though it was hard to believe that it wasn't alive, a large, round,
protoplasm, quivering hungrily for its prey.
Now he could smell the vomit and his own bitter taste.
'Clean up,' he suggested again.
'Nah, that's okay. No big deal. I'll take care of it,' the girl reassured him with
exaggerated casualness, probably relieved that he wasn't dying in her room.
'Want me to drop you someplace?'
'I am staying near college.'
'Well, if you're ready to move, let's go. You want some coffee or something?'
'No, no,' said Gopal, heading out.
All the way to his apartment he kept quiet, his face averted from her so that
she wouldn't have to breathe his smells. Embarrassment made him vibrate like,
he thought, the water bed. Since nothing could really condone his behaviour, he
decided against saying anything at all. He felt as though he was no longer a man.
He felt disgraced, as low as the vomit he had left behind.
He began to worry if the girl and he knew anyone in common and if news of
his traumatic failure might get to the college. He began to wonder how best to
protect himself. At least she didn't know his name, he thought with relief, so the
chances of her pinpointing him as an embarrassment and failure were remote.
In a friendly, reassuring voice she asked, 'And where're you from?'
 Gopal's mind raced like a rat. All could be lost here. 'From Pakistan.'
'Aw gee, that's great. And I've forgotten your name.'
Gopal struggled with himself. 'Myself is Abdul.'
They had arrived at the campus.
'I am getting off at corner here,' said Gopal.
'That's okay. I'll drop you to your place.'
'I am staying in men's dorm. They are not allowing visitors at night.' Gopal
was astonished but pleased at his fluent lies.
'Oh okay,' she pulled over. 'Maybe we can get together sometime, huh?'
'Certainly. But I am returning to Pakistan next week.'
'Aw gee, that's a real pity. Well, take care now. By the way, my name's
Cindy.'
They shook hands in greeting and farewell, but briefly. Gopal got out and
watched her car till it had disappeared, to make sure she couldn't see which way
he was going. Then he tramped home .
When he got there he found a sealed envelope taped to his door, saying 'To
Gopal, from Sue.' He tore it up unread and tossed the scraps over the rails. He
watched them float away, like lost souls, luminous.
8

The next morning Sue called and the moment Gopal heard her voice he put the
phone down. Sue called again and he did the same thing. She called a third time
and Gopal now kept the phone off the hook. He refused to think of her. He felt
all his emotions about her boiling inside him and he firmly gathered them
together, stuffed them into some kind of internal box and put a lid on them. It
felt like a pressure cooker.
Must study, must study, he told himself, rushing around and gathering his
books. He slammed the door behind him and set off for the library. He had
discovered that thought was sometimes an antidote for emotions. Whenever he
felt himself particularly distressed and hurt, he dashed inside his head into a
room reserved for mathematics.
There, amidst familiar symbols and predictable logic, he performed mental
calisthenics until he was exhausted. It was calming, absorbing and when he felt
more in control, he cautiously opened the door and peered out. Often the
monsters of emotions were gone for good. At other times he could see them
hiding near by, so he would return to the room and immerse himself in its
strange, incestuous beauty till he felt it was safe again.
The worst was when he thought it was safe and would walk out and take
himself somewhere when suddenly, some hidden animal of emotion would leap
inside him and sink its teeth into his guts. It left him feeling utterly helpless. And
it seemed to happen much more often in America where girls were concerned.
Perhaps the fact of living alone made him concentrate much more on such
emotions, sharpening them. In India there were many friends to share them with
and many relatives to keep him diverted, besides which he had never been in
position of such intimacy with girls.
Even when he did meet them in India, there were the armours of politeness,
of common friends, fears of society, to protect him. Here he felt emotionally
naked within minutes. The girls went under his skin as if it was made of paper,
made themselves at home deep inside him and sharpened their nails on his
bones.
With Sue, he had sensed that she touched a part of him that he had never
known existed. She had barely grazed something that had lain dormant if not
dead all these years in India and whose existence he wouldn't even have
suspected all his life. But the reverberations of that little caress had rolled
through him so loudly, so ominously, so painfully, that he had realised that if
Sue actually began to play on whatever that thing was within him, she would
control his life totally. He would alter direction, become a different person,
anything could happen.
Even after just their fleeting moments together, he felt so betrayed by her
weekend with another man, that he couldn't bear to think of them together. He
felt numb at the consequences to him in case he spent more time with her and
she then wandered away with somebody else.
Strange creatures these women, he thought warily. Looking so soft and
weak, but what troubles they are causing!
He hastened towards the refuge of the library. Footsteps squelched behind
him.
'So what'd I do wrong?' her familiar voice asked .
Gopal shook his head and walked on.
She stayed in place behind his shoulder. He could sense her thinking. 'You're
making me feel cheap. Is that what you want?'
Gopal didn't answer. The pressure cooker in him was boiling and he had to
sit on it.
'I'm sorry,' she said softly. 'I know it was wrong, but he's an old friend and I
had promised him. Forgive me this once, okay?'
The pressure cooker overflowed scalding his insides, but he still had it under
control. Just about. Gopal ran from Sue. From her voice and its softness and
need and hurt. From the lovely promises it held. From the future that being with
her would first cause to crumble and then reshape.
He felt his eyes grow wet but he kept running.
Once again he dived desperately into the always welcoming world of books,
of words, of logic. Once again books were the balm for his shredded heart.
Sitting again in his eyrie, in the nook he had made his own, he thought for the
first time in his life of his heart.
Though doubtlessly a vital portion of his anatomy, he had to confess he had
never given it much thought as it went about its lawful business. Now he had to
adjust to the fact that it wasn't just a basic heart, it was also some kind of serpent
in disguise. It lay there all asleep, then when you least expected it, the damn
thing leapt up and bit you in painful areas. It had never, he thought bitterly,
behaved like that in India.
It was so easy and so tempting to think of American girls as sex objects, but
his own ability to handle the emotions that accompany a relationship was
certainly in doubt. Gopal sensed that his own development in this area was so
primitive that he probably had the emotional state of an adolescent in a junior
high school in America. But the women he met were obviously much better able
to manage a relationship, as well as several others simultaneously. On the other
hand, he, a shaken Gopal felt, merely had the arrogant brashness of the utterly
naive. For a few brief moments he had felt Sue open the hidden box of his
emotions and he had glimpsed inside it an overwhelming joy, and coexisting in
the same space, the red writhing worms of hurt.
Gopal didn't think he wanted to see more of the box. Yet in this country that
didn't seem possible. Not only were they careless of the box and what it could do
to them, they seemed to take out its contents and display it on the sidewalk for
strangers to examine. Not that they were unaffected by the trauma; they seemed
to hurt a lot of the time. It was just that they never seemed to learn. One
emotional disaster always seemed to be a prelude to an even bigger holocaust.
He had held long discussions on this with the learned Randy, whose opinions
and views on matters relating to sex and its aftermath were, like those of many
young Americans, frighteningly experienced for his years. Gopal didn't think
that in the rest of his life in India he would experience as many emotional
upheavals as he had in these last few months. He couldn't even begin to compare
with Randy whose experiments with the other sex seemed to have started as
soon as he was able to climb over the cradle walls. He freely and casually
admitted to devastating heartbreaks. 'You get used to it,' he grinned. 'You just
staple the pieces together and carry on. Just don't try it too often though,' he
cautioned as an afterthought.
Gopal was determined not to try it at all. All his broodings about hearts and
emotions and boxes of snakes had made him feel uneasily like the heroes in
romantic novels that Mrs Saxena's daughter read at an appalling rate. Gopal had
flipped through some on visits to the Saxena house and warned the mother that
such garbage would turn her daughter's brains into a junkyard. Privately, he
believed that Miss Saxena was so ugly that such books were the closest she
would ever get to romance.
To now find himself pondering such embarrassing subjects made him feel
foolish and irritable. He was quite content to amble along in life without having
to see exposed some red wound in his recesses which he had never suspected. A
life, he concluded, devoted largely to selling hair oil, was a far more sensible
one. Let the Americans keep their obsession with sex and romance and let them
pay for it. It would be good revenge for Vietnam. And yet, how curious that they
rejected any suggestion that they were a deeply, incurably romantic people, as
displayed by everything they did - from the unending pursuit of each other at the
individual plane, to the amazing insistence on human rights at the international
scale. All of it demonstrated an undying belief that a better world, a more perfect
relationship, a rosier future, was possible.
And that was probably the essence of romance, thought Gopal, this belief
that things can be made better, that the future will become brighter. India, on the
other hand, seemed to believe, based on its past, that the future normally made
life worse. At the personal level, Indians didn't even seem to believe in love as
an emotion directed at a unique person, as displayed by that monument to
pessimism, the arranged marriage. Nearly total strangers were married off to
each other on the theory that people from roughly the same background and with
a clear idea of the duties and responsibilities of each, would make happy
marriages. In a depressing majority of cases, they did.
Gopal slammed his book shut in disgust. He had caught himself brooding
about romance again. He decided to go out into the cold afternoon air and let it
sweep these mushy thoughts from his mind .
He walked briskly out of the library and saw two people tossing a frisbee. He
wondered idly why so many Frisbee players had beards. He had tried to throw
one once with undistinguished success. He found himself walking towards the
cafeteria breathing deeply, feeling the clean air fill his lungs with light.
Outside the cafeteria two people, a man of about thirty-five and a woman
who was much older, were distributing leaflets to everyone who came out or
went through the door. As Gopal approached them, both looked awkward. The
man looked familiar to Gopal, who waited patiently in front of them till they
reluctantly gave him a leaflet each.
The one from the lady was a straightforward request for money by an
organisation that said it wanted funds to train soldiers to work for Christ to
convert the Godless heathens. The man's leaflet was far more fascinating.
It reminded the reader about the global Communist conspiracy against
America and warned that its latest manifestation was the attempt to mix coloured
blood with white Americans so as to 'dilute the perfection of the Aryan race
whose achievements have taken the world to where it is.'
Gopal brightened visibly at the prospect of an argument. He smiled his
friendliest grin at the man who was shrinking visibly in embarrassment but
maintaining a defiant hostility.
'We have met?' questioned Gopal.
The man looked even more awkward. Gopal heard him mutter something
about restaurants and beef. Suddenly he recognised him as the supercilious
headwaiter at the restaurant where he had first eaten beef with Sue, Ann and
Randy.
Gopal clasped the man's hand in pleasure.
'How wonderful I am seeing you again,' he exulted. 'Come in,' he beamed,
urging him through the door with such courtesy that the man, clearly wishing he
was anywhere but here, reluctantly crept in. The lady, looking confused,
followed .
Gopal led to the far corner, while assuring the man of how pleased he was to
meet such an old friend.
'Sit, sit,' urged Gopal. He had come to believe that though the American
personality contained many positive elements, it lacked the essential one of
enjoying arguments. People either said 'yes' or 'no' or sometimes a 'maybe'. If
they liked something they said so and if they didn't they let you know that too.
Sometimes they were even polite about it, but decisively so. If they didn't like
something and still didn't walk away, it was a dangerous sign, portending
physical violence.
Their attitude was so clear cut, that it left no space, no large chunks of vacant
territory on which a person could base an argument, fortify it, launch attacks
from it, defend it and when all seemed lost, sneak out in the night to wage
guerrilla war leaving the old argument in ruins.
There was a very real pleasure to be derived from such arguments
approximating war and Gopal felt its absence keenly. Either Americans were too
busy to occupy themselves in such pointless pursuits, or they took the reasons
being propounded thoughtfully, not realising that in any mutually gratifying
agreement, as in any war, the main purpose was the process of the whole thing,
not the logic or its lack in it. Gopal felt disappointed in the Americans for not
appreciating this, particularly since they were a nation that had gone into
Vietnam, Grenada and reflagged oil tankers and otherwise displayed such a
masterful talent for being illogical.
Gopal sometimes pined for his Indian friends among whom he had seen
savage fights occur between people who were on the same side of a question.
What evenings there used to be! Fiercely contesting this and that and often God
alone knew what, but always disagreeing. It was common to find people entering
a room vehemently rejecting what everyone else was saying, or had said, or
indeed might say .
Americans though never seemed to take such vigorous positions. And if they
did and found them so savagely and scornfully attacked, they turned red and
Gopal always feared that they might pull out a gun and resolve the matter with a
wholly permanent finality, which, apart from being painful, would be
dishearteningly terminal.
But today, Gopal exulted, he had found a headwaiter after his own heart.
'Have milk shake,' Gopal urged. 'What is your good name?'
'Ah, I'm Tom.'
 'Myself is Gopal. Let us discuss.'
Tom clearly didn't want to discuss and was looking trapped.
'You are knowing that Aryans are coming to India?' Tom looked surprised.
Gopal drew a symbol on the table with ash from the ash tray.
'You are recognising?'
'Yeah, sure, that's something near Hitler's swastika sign.'
'Commonly used religious symbol in India.'
'Is that right,' said Tom relieved that the discussion was over, 'that's a
completely new ball game then. Sure is.'
'And Asians are scoring higher in IQ tests.'
'Hey hey hey, time out, time out. Now hold on there for one cotton pickin'
minute.' Tom was starting to lose his politeness. 'That's not true and I know it.'
'And no Communist threat is there to America, there is only big Communist
threat to Communism.'
'Well, hell, you're one hell of a ball player, I can tell you that. But you don't
know nothin about here in America. There's one Commie under every rock as
Joe McCarthy said. And I can tell you, we've got to be real careful. Now nothing
personal you know, but we've got our own problems and our own way of doin
things here and we don't want nobody messin with nothin we do, know what I
mean?'
'Children from mixed marriages,' said Gopal thumping the table, 'are having
more brains.'
'Well mebbe they do and mebbe they don't,' said Tom placating but
determined, 'but we don't want none of them here. We're going to keep America
just the way it's always been and that's the only way to keep it great. My grand-
daddy died fightin for it, my Dad was wounded in the war, my brother served in
Korea and I did my duty in Nam. We've paid our dues and we done all we could
for this country, but we didn't do it to turn America into no nigger heaven,
pardon my saying so. And we'll do it again if we have to against those Commie
rats and anybody else that don't like the way things are. That's the American
way.'
'Amen,' burst out the lady.
Gopal tried to interrupt. Tom ignored him.
'And I can tell you it makes me sick to my stomach the way this country's
goin to hell and nobody's doin nothin about it. Well I reckon it's time some red-
blooded Americans got together and told them all where to get off. Now nothin
personal against you, sir, you being a visitor and all, but coloured blood is the
real problem we got here. It's the Comunists trying to do us in and it's time
America woke up to that.'
 'Amen,' repeated the lady.
'And don't think I don't know what's happening,' Tom nodded significantly. 'I
got a good head here and I kin use it. I seen the foreign people comin in here and
takin our jobs and the factories closing down. Yes, sir, don't think I ain't seen
nothin. I know what it's all about.'
'You see,' Gopal explained patiently, 'you are needing foreign investment - '
'Oh no, oh no, no, we're not. We ain't needin nothing foreign. We never did
before and we sure don't now. That's not what made America great.'
'Then what you are needing?' challenged Gopal, delighted.
'We need American jobs for American people. We need to tell our people
about the Communist menace and warn them about them foreigners. Can you
believe,' and Tom's voice suddenly had a wondering softness to it that made
Gopal's nerves tingle, 'that men who've risked their lives for this country now
ain't got no jobs. And it's all started when them foreigners came in and took our
jobs and the factories closed down. Yeah, I seen it all. We've got to make
America for Americans again.'
'You were working in factory?' asked Gopal quietly. There was such
suppressed passion in Tom's voice that Gopal sensed it was not a college debate
any longer.
'Trained mechanic,' Tom nodded. 'Best damn one you ever saw. I could fix a
truck in Nam almost as fast as I could kill a gook, if you'll pardon my French.
And now I ain't held a job in three years.'
'You are headwaiter in restaurant.'
'You call that a job? It's what high school kids do for pocket money. I got me
a wife and kids to support. Sure I fake it real good, but what's a guy to do? You
tell me that.'
Gopal was abashed at the anguish in Tom's eyes. It wasn't a harmless
argument any more. It was a hurt man and a very real family standing behind
him. The children must be small, Gopal thought.
'Any trouble here?' a soft, high-pitched voice asked.
They looked up and it was the Peacock, 6 feet 6 inches, with a new hat, an
even more colourful shirt and his reflecting sunglasses. He put his hands on the
table and they looked like sledgehammers .
'Nah,' said Tom and a lingering bitterness infused his voice. 'What could
possibly go wrong? Everything's just great. Well, sir,' he stood up and adopted
his headwaiter stance and language, 'I do hope we'll have the pleasure of your
company real soon.'
He bowed and left. The lady trotted behind him, both carrying leaflets that
Gopal suspected were really a plea to God or man or anyone to come to their
assistance. No one, Gopal felt with a pitying certainty, ever would.
'What'd he want?' the Peacock asked.
'Oh he is not having job so he is hating world.'
'White boy's learnin about life, huh?'
'No, no,' said Gopal defending Tom, 'he is poor, I think so he is writing
leaflets and distributing.'
'Writing leaflets, huh,' the Peacock's sunglasses reflected thoughtfully, 'and I
suppose you felt real sorry for him.'
'Well,' said Gopal shocked at such hardheartedness, 'I mean of course and I
mean things like that -'
'Come,' said the Peacock swivelling on his heel and sailing out, his shirt
billowing behind him.
Gopal hastily followed, afraid of the consequences if he disobeyed. The
Peacock flung open the door with a sound like the crack of thunder and to Gopal
it sounded like the elements themselves fell over each other to provide the sound
effects to the Peacock's majestic passage. They reached a sports car with flames
painted on its sides and both got in.
It was like being in an aircraft cockpit. There were needles and gauges
everywhere, soft green lights lit the instruments, switches caused windows to
whirr, all sorts of witchery occurred as they drifted out of the college.
Gopal would have enjoyed the hi-tech wizardry more if he could have
figured out where the Peacock was taking him. Perhaps he was going to tie his
arms to a tree and beat him. Or he might be, Gopal thought with a wince, a
homosexual. He contemplated the consequences of that with dread. Or he might
have a divorced sister he would call to a church and who Gopal woul marry,
without the Peacock even asking it, his presence being threat enough. Gopal
wondered how he would explain his new bride to his parents. His grandmother
wouldn't desist from holy songs for the rest of this incarnation. Gopal was
starting to panic. What on earth could the Peacock want with him?
'Nice day,' suggested Gopal tentatively.
The sunglasses turned and looked at him and looked away without comment.
Gopal didn't dare say another word in case the Peacock reached across and
crushed his neck like a beer can. He tried to breathe more softly so it would
annoy the Peacock less.
They had passed through the parts of Eversville that Gopal recognised and
were now driving between a vast junkyard. On both sides were stacked piles of
rusted objects, cardboard boxes, abandoned cars and inexplicable shapes. It
looked, thought Gopal, like what Headwaiter Tom would probably imagine an
Indian supermarket to look like.
 Gopal saw a few figures carrying sacks shuffling from spot to spot, finding
and choosing items they could put into their bags. They all seemed old, or at
least it appeared that way from a distance.
Almost immediately after the junkyard ended, they entered what seemed a
ghost town. Buildings so weary that they seemed upright only with a heroic
effort. A tattered curtain fluttered out of a window like the flag of an
impoverished nation. The automobiles, those expressions of an American's self-
image, were rusted, battered, tired. The lawns were untended. Windows stared
brokenly. Clothes hung brazenly to dry on clotheslines in front of the homes.
Clearly the place was inhabited. People became visible, some sitting on house
steps, others leaning against walls, all seemed to carry a brown paper bag
clutched at the neck. And all of them, Gopal gradually realised, were black.
The Peacock slowly drove through the streets. Such was the languor of the
lollers, so listless were they, that almost none of them acknowledged the great
car prowling through them, like a tiger among sheep.
Suddenly a fight erupted among a group. There was a fierce uproar for a
while, then they dispersed, a few to resume lounging against the wall, some to
disappear into alleys, leaving one very tall man standing in the middle of the
street screaming at the sun. A trickle of some kind of liquid ran down the
sidewalk and over his feet. He ignored it, his ranting increased. Gopal couldn't
understand a word of what he said, but he could sense the rage and the
frustration of the man which spewed out of his mouth like a tangible flame.
'What is happening to him?' Gopal asked.
'Same thing that's happening to everyone around here. They is born poor,
they stays poor and they dies poor. You'd be mad too if it happened to you.'
Gopal shook his head in disbelief. 'It is not even looking like America. No
one is working, there is so much dirt, it is so poor.'
'I figure they don't think it's part of America either. The white boys keep the
junkyard between them and us and they don't want to see us or hear about us.'
'What work people are doing here?'
'Not much. The most money you make is going through the junkyard and
picking up whatever whitey throws away. You wouldn't believe the kind of stuff
the white boys got no use for.'
'You are living here?'
'Sure did. And if it wasn't for football I still would be. And if I don't make it
big, if someone busts my knees in a game, this is home again. There are a lot of
soul brothers who didn't do so good that're still here. The ones that are lucky.'
'And unlucky ones?'
'Dead or in jail. Sure happened to a lot of them.'
 Gopal shivered. Even with the gusts of wind he could sense the empty
stillness. It felt menacing. One day it will go up like a petrol tank, he thought.
You wanna go back now?' asked the Peacock. His voice was kind. Gopal
nodded.
'When I heard the white boy bellyaching about his problems, I thought
maybe I otta show you some real problems. Show you how the black man lives.
Ain't as cute as white America, is it?'
Gopal suddenly asked: 'Why you are earlier talking in rhyme?'
'I ain't one for talking much to folks I don't know. When I have to talk, I
make it short and sweet and real educated. I ain't having no one laughing at me.
Say, what do they think in India of the colour problem? You have much of that?'
'Well,' Gopal fumbled, trying to find a way to explain to this giant young
man the complexities of India.
'I mean,' continued the Peacock, 'do they look down on the black man?'
'Well,' parried Gopal, not wanting to give him the bad news, 'actually
everyone is brown.'
'It figures,' nodded the Peacock in resigned understanding. 'The black man's
the lowest on the pole everywhere, huh?'
Gopal twisted in embarrassment. He tried to frame a brief history of India
and the impact of fair-skinned invaders and the final result of two hundred years
of British rule. He groped for some American parallel.
'You know,' said the Peacock, 'I really want sometime to get out of this place
and go walk among my own people, know what I mean? Not have everyone
stare like you're a freak. '
'Yes, that I am understanding fully. I am also wanting many times to go
home.'
'Maybe we can both go,' joked the big man. More seriously he asked: 'Is
there much football played in India? I mean can I get a job on a team?'
Gopal tried to laugh it off. 'Heh, heh. Maybe we are using Taj Mahal for
football matches.'
'Great,' enthused the Peacock, now really interested. 'Is that like the local
stadium?'
Gopal looked at him sideways and found him serious. 'No, no,' he placated,
'we are only playing soccer.'
The Peacock's excitement dissipated.
'What your real name is?' asked Gopal.
'Peacock is it. Don't use no other. Like Mr T. Know who I mean? Big, mean
mother?'
'Oh yes I have seen on TV'
 'Well, here we are,' said the Peacock drawing up outside the cafeteria. 'I hope
you checked out what I had to show you.'
He reached over, took Gopal's hand, twisted and mangled it and ended by
bouncing his fist off Gopal's palm.
'That's the soul shake. Keep the peace, brother.'
Gopal got off. His hand ached and he wondered if what he had seen was
actually true. It seemed like a part of the dream that America hid from everyone.
He trudged home shaking his head in amazement, partly because there existed
such dismal poverty in this richest of all lands and partly because such few
people knew about it.
The next afternoon after classes had finished for the day he headed for the
cafeteria and again saw Tom outside its door, handing out leaflets. They nodded
quickly to each other and Gopal walked in.
After some time Tom came in and sheepishly stood near Gopal's table .
'Sit, sit,' urged Gopal.
'Well, just for a while,' Tom conceded, edging in. 'Boy, I really gave you an
earful, didn't I? You must think I'm weird or something. I mean I've been
thinking about it all night.'
'No, no,' assured Gopal. 'You are patriot. That is good thing.'
'Yeah, but all the stuff I said. I mean you must really think Americans are
strange.'
'People are people,' said Gopal. 'Indians are also like this.'
'Really?' Tom was surprised.
'Yes, yes. Everywhere people are same. I am having uncle who is so proud
of India and culture that he is thinking all others are inferior.'
'India had culture?' Tom was downright sceptical.
'Going back 4,000 years back. Many palaces, tombs, art and dances.'
'How come no one ever hears of it? I mean no offence, but let's face it, who's
heard of India?'
'Well, Christopher Columbus is hearing. What you think he is looking for
when he is discovering America?'
'Oh yeah, that's right. Now, that's pretty far out. Never thought of that. But
say, ain't it right that only the highest castes can make money and everyone else
is treated like shit? I mean I know about all that stuff.'
Gopal was pleased that Tom had at least heard of castes and was genuinely
touched by his interest and willingness to listen.
'No, no, no, not true at all.'
'Well,' challenged Tom, now feeling himself on firmer ground, 'ain't it right
that all your leaders - d'you call them presidents? - all belonged to the highest
caste? I mean that guy in the underwear and bedsheet who kept getting rolled in
that movie I saw -'
'Mahatma Gandhi. He was not from highest caste. He was from trader caste. '
'Is that right? And say, how come he didn't waste those guys who were
bashing him? Man, he should have got a gun and shot them all dead.'
'He is,' said Gopal with heroic restraint, 'having other ideas.'
'Boy, sure burned me up, watching him get pasted. Say, you're not Christian,
are you?'
'No, I am Hindu.'
'Oh, right. Is that like Moslem?'
'No, no. Separate.'
'So do you like to go to churches and stuff?'
'We are having temples.' Gopal wondered what this was leading to.
'Well hey, listen, you seem like a really nice guy. Know what I mean? And
this Sunday there's a special prayer service at my church, so if you're not doing
nothing, d'you want to like come along and listen to the word of our Lord, I
mean take in His words?'
'I am reading Bible many times.'
Tom gaped. 'Well, that's real nice, really great. But you ain't heard nothing
till you hear our preacher. Man, is he something else? I mean when you've heard
him, you stay heard. Know what I mean?'
Gopal did. The desire to seek converts was a palpable one among all
Christian preachers in India despite firm discouragement by the government. In
America, where there was something of a shortage of people who remained to be
converted, preachers must be starved of heathen souls to save. Perhaps that
explained the born again creed. It offered a new challenge, some old souls that
could be retreaded.
'All right,' he agreed, reluctant to give offence, and aware that it was a great
concession for someone of Tom's beliefs to invite him. 'But I do not know way. '
'That's okay,' assured Tom. 'I'll pick you up. Where do you stay?'
Sunday morning was drizzly and gloomy. Gopal wondered if he could
pretend to be sick, but with a sigh got dressed. Tom arrived and Gopal met his
wife and two little daughters in the car. The wife was shy and nervous, but the
children were not. They told him all about their friends on the way.
They drove till the outskirts of the town and parked outside a plain wooden
building painted red. A sign said 'Church of Redemption'. Tom's wife - Gopal
couldn't remember her name - scampered away in relief to join a group waiting
outside. Obviously everyone had been told beforehand about his visit, because
he received many friendly smiles and 'how you doins' from people who didn't
look very friendly.
Gopal wondered why he felt an aura of roughness around them. The men
seemed large and bulky, the clothes very loud, the accents harsh. The women
wore perfumes that smelled cheap. Their eyes had an edge to their glances. Their
voices seemed shriller and more savage than what Gopal had become used to.
Everyone was looking at him covertly.
They walked in and sat down on the simple wooden benches. The voice
became more hushed. The organ started and the service began. Gopal didn't feel
as much at home as he had in the first church he had gone to for his speech on
modern India, so he didn't join the singing. He watched the minister who was a
short, stocky man with thick features and black hair brushed back. His face had
adopted a look of such piety that Gopal distrusted him.
As the music died down the preacher began to rock from side to side,
increasing the speed until he burst out. 'Satan,' he roared, thumping the pulpit,
'Satan is everywhere today.'
'Amen,' murmured the congregation .
'All round me, I look around and what do I see? I see fornication.' He waved
at the walls and Gopal looked eagerly around only to be disappointed.
'I see drugs. I see the demon drink. I see our brothers and sisters being
unfaithful to their marriage vows. I see Japanese cars. I see our factories closing.
I see our sisters showing their nakedness everywhere.'
'Amen,' said Gopal, attracting severe looks.
'I see the Communist menace all round us. I see the Godless Communists
come raining down on us, taking away our jobs, making us slaves, raping our
flocks.'
Raping our flocks? thought Gopal incredulously, was he accusing the Soviet
High Praesedium of bestiality?
Yes, my brothers, I see Godlessness everywhere and I hang my head in
shame.'
He hung his head in shame for a while.
'And why do I hang my head in shame? Is it because I have done some
wrong? Yes, my brothers, because I have sinned. Because we have all sinned.
Because seeing Satan and his works around us, yet we do nothing. Therefore we
have sinned. Oh there is none so blind as those who will not see.'
'Hallelujah!' said the flock.
'And yet it is our duty, our sacred duty to battle Satan and his Communist
hordes.'
'Amen.'
'And do you know why, my friends? Because I had a dream last night.'
 'Hallelujah!'
Yes, brothers and sisters, I had a dream. And in my dream a shining light
came and in a voice of thunder it said, "Go forth and battle Satan. Go ye and
battle his Communist type empire." And I said, "But, Lord, I am weak and alone.
Satan has many tanks." And he said, "Oee of little faith. Speak to your flock.
And their strength shall multiply manifold. My strength shall be their strength.
Say to them it is the Lord's work. Get them to distribute leaflets."'
'Praise the Lord,' chorused the worshippers.
'And I said, "Lord, forgive me my trespasses, but many will fall by the
wayside and die, slain by the Communists, so tell me, Lord, give me a sign, tell
me why we should battle the Communists." And the Lord said, my friends, he
said in a voice that made the Heavens shiver. He said: "Because they don't
follow the American way."'
'Amen.' 'That's right.' 'Praise be the Lord.'
'And yet many among us today,' the reverend was obviously in great form,
'walk the path going right down to hell. Yes, my friends, going right down to
hell. O little do they know of what waits at the end of that path, that terrible
path.'
'Say it preacher.' 'Amen.'
'Hell, my friends. Hell waits at the end of that terrible path.'
'Hallelujah! Say it like it is.'
'And the walls of hell are ten thousand miles thick. And whosoever goes in,
he surely will never come out again. Because black devils will leap on him and
tear him limb from limb. They will cut out his sinning heart and roast it on a
spit.'
'Say it right out, brother.' 'Praise be the Lord.'
'And they will grill his liver and eat his kidneys and drink his blood.'
'That's right.' 'Sure will.' 'Amen.'
'And there is no escape. None at all. Because the walls of hell are ten
thousand miles thick.'
'That's saying it like it is reverend.' 'Hallelujah!'
'Ten thousand miles thick, my friends. And their livers grilled for eternity.
Because the more God cooks the sinner the more he needs to be cooked. '
'Sure does.' 'Praise the Lord.'
'And yet, my friends,' the reverend raised a finger, 'the Lord is merciful.'
'Amen.' 'Praise be His name.' 'Sure is.'
'Merciful and kind. And in his heart he finds room to forgive sinners if only
they will accept him.'
'Hallelujah!'
 Gopal thought the preacher was looking at him and wondered if all this
wasn't getting a bit personal.
'Once, my friends,' the preacher went on, looking occasionally at Gopal,
'once I was a sinner too. A Godless miserable suffering creature.'
'Praise be to the Lord.' 'Amen.'
'Fornicating and drinking, living a Godless life, with no place for the Lord in
my heart.'
'Amen.'
'But one day, I was a drivin down the street, just a drivin down the street.'
'Hallelujah!'
'And I had stopped at a red light. That's right. Just a stopped at a traffic light.'
'Praise be to God.'
'That's right. And I heard a tapping at my window, that's right.'
'Amen.'
'And it was Jesus.'
'Hallelujah!'
'And he was a knockin at my window and sayin "Let me in, brother, let me
into our car."'
'Praise be His name.'
'But I just drove my car away. Because I was sinner and I was afraid.'
'Amen. '
'But Jesus, he just ran right alongside the car, tappin at the window and sayin
"Let me in, brother. Let me into your car." Until I opened the window and let
Jesus in, into my car and into my heart and into my life.'
'Glory to the Lord.' 'Hallelujah.' 'Amen.' 'Praised be the name of the Lord.'
Gopal gathered this might not be an opportune moment to enquire if Jesus
had encountered any difficulties in getting his cross through the window.
The congregation burst into song. After it finished Gopal assured Tom that
he was deeply moved and they left. On the way out he congratulated the
reverend on his inspiring speech.
'I hope we'll see you again in our midst soon.'
'Certainly, most certainly,' Gopal assured him with all sincerity. 'I am having
wonderful time.'
The reverend beamed. 'We all have a wonderful time in the Lord's house.'
They left.
Dearest Brother,
Kindly convey greetings to Respectable Parents.
So, what all is cooking? With me, good times are prevailing. I am knowing
all many things about America now. I am finding Mexican place to eat where for
five dollars you are eating all you want, so I am until I am full filled and well fed
up. The staff are gathering and giving such looks I cannot tell you. It is serving
them right. Now whenever I am going they are turning even more white. But,
Brother, Mexican food is tasting so much like Indian that what to do?
Anyway, I am learning many important things about Americans. Biggest
thing is language. It is earlier making many problematics for me, because like
everyone I am thinking Americans are speaking English. But, Brother, it is not
English, it is American. I am facing so many embarrassings on this reason.
Once sitting with Good Friends, we are making good times. Saying jokes
and laughing but when I am also saying good joke, they are saying, 'get out of
here'. I am going home and not sleeping that night I am in so much fury. Now I
am finding that it is also joke to say that. They are having many such sayings.
Once I am chatting with lady at College Office and she is saying, 'Get off my
back.' Now really, Brother, how anyone can say I will leap on their back in
middle of afternoon in office? One more time some of us are going to hospital
where my friend Randy's good friend is lying after car crash. We are finding
nurse who is telling us he has died. Naturally we are feeling upsets and all that,
but as we are leaving, nurse is saying, 'Have a nice day, sir,' I am giving her such
look that I feel she is surely catching fire like gas stove. But, Brother, she is only
looking sad.
Many times I am meeting girls of good family during study time and they are
saying 'so long'. Really, Brother, you are not telling anyone this, but I am
blushing. How they can know? And I am assuring you I am only spending times
in Prayer and Higher Studies. Then who is spreading this rumour about me, I am
thinking. What they are meaning by saying 'so long'?
And once I am hearing fight, one boy is saying 'Give me a break,' other
fellow shouting 'Stick it.' So I am thinking this fellow is wanting stick to break
other boy's leg. But why other boy is wanting some part of own body broken? I
am feeling full of puzzles.
One day one boy is reading Mark Twain book and enjoying. So being
friendly I am asking if he is liking Mark Twain. He is replying 'Oh it is
something else'. Now, Brother, again I am wondering that if he is enjoying
something else so much, then why he is sitting like damn fool and laughing at
Mark Twain book?
So many things they are saying. One boy named Mike Smith is confessing 'I
am son of gun'. So I am asking, 'Who is Mr Smith?' He is replying in surprise.
'He is my father.' Then I am wondering If Mr Smith is step-father, or his mother
is doing something wrong with Mr Gun. Or some other deep reason. I am filling
with thoughts.
One fellow is always saying 'I am bushed'. I am feeling he must be big
supporter of George Bush. But biggest problem earlier is word ending with 'it'.
Someone says 'darn it' and there is nothing to sew. One fellow says 'beat it' and I
am eager to beat him but supposing it is meaning something else? Or they say
'sit on it', which is very kind of them, but there is nowhere to sit. On streets,
stranger will ask 'Are you with it?' I ask, 'Are I with what?' He says 'Cool it'.
Now, Brother, what is this wonderful 'it' everywhere you will ask? Anyway, it is
long story and now I am understanding all many things.
I feel my American has improved but my English has deproved.
Hoping you are taking cares now.
Your Brother,
Gopal.
9

Snow and the Christmas vacation descended upon the campus like a mist of
silence. The buildings, the grass, everything lay white and quiet. Gopal
wandered past the slumbering buildings like a disconsolate ghost. Just a few
days ago there had been a wild clamour with cars arriving and departing,
farewell shrieks, the thump of luggage being loaded and a general feeling of
complete chaos.
In disgust Gopal had shut himself in his room, only emerging when it was
night. For the next few days he had delighted in the silence, strolling
proprietorially through the campus as though he was its sole inhabitant
Sometimes he met other figures and they nodded to each other in an immediate
intimacy. He even made friends with the campus security people for the first
time.
But a week later, he was restless. The silence was unnatural. Cemeteries
should be silent, not colleges, he thought. Even the quiet during classtime was a
respite from the normal roar which Gopal realised with surprise was strangely
refreshing. Now the buildings brooded, as though hurt. Icicles wept from the
eaves. He missed the friends he had made, particularly Randy.
He speculated on how lonely he would have been without Randy. True, he
had met other Americans in class, but they never seemed to want to meet him
after school. They were friendly and cordial during the day, sitting and studying
with him, but his after-hours social life revolved around Randy and his whims.
Fortunately there were many of them and Gopal now realised just how lively his
life was when Randy was around. But without him, Gopal suspected he would
have felt as desolate as the campus now did.
He had heard of some foreign students leaving out of loneliness. In one
extreme case a Palestinian boy, who apparently didn't have a home to go back to,
had killed himself with a shotgun. Gopal hadn't been able to even imagine a
loneliness and desperation so extreme. All his life he had been surrounded by
people to a point where he took their existence for granted as much as he did the
air. He had simply accepted Randy as another welcome body. Now totally alone
for the first time in his life, he realised that not all foreign students acquired such
valuable friends.
Gopal suddenly thought that up to this moment in his life, he had always
been within reach of someone he could call, or phone, or visit. Now suddenly he
was on a desert island. For the first few days it was interesting, even exhilarating
to find ways to amuse himself. But he got bored of that very quickly and he
began to feel a physical need to meet people. It was as though his metabolism
had got used to a drug and demanded more of it.
He began to feel alone and depressed. To make it worse, he noticed that the
Americans, the most resolutely independent of all people, had suddenly bonded
together in the unfamiliar guise of families. Wherever he walked in the evenings,
he saw log fires in homes, Christmas trees, laughing groups gathered contentedly
together, silver decorations overhead. He often stopped outside the homes,
watching intently. He felt like a spirit wandering unseen through the human race
.
Watching, he could almost feel the warmth of a room, part fire, part family
and the wind chill would bring memories of his own distant home to make him
feel more miserable. The leaves would squelch uncouthly underfoot as he
walked away. He often ached for home. His fat mother and her stupid friends,
his creaky grandmother with her endless wheezy songs, his busy father shrewdly
assessing each moment, his younger brother making a pest of himself. The
servants so distantly in the background yet so much a part of the family. His
friends, some angular, some confident, their walks through the twilight streets,
through smoke and garbage and the intoxicating whiff of jasmine. Overhead the
familiar sky of home. And he would trudge for his apartment, snivelling in the
hurting wind.
He waited one morning for the ridiculously inefficient bus service to take
him to the mall where he intended to spend the day just to be near people. He
waited for nearly two hours for the bus to arrive. He cursed to himself
throughout about the conspiracy by big American car companies to cripple the
mass transportation system so the people would be compelled to buy cars.
The bus, once it arrived, proved to be very comfortable, though Gopal felt
guilty having to make the entire bus wait as the driver punched out his change.
There weren't many people inside, Gopal noticed, as he lurched his way to the
back and squeezed into the last but one row. There were several black ladies of
fairly advanced years and a few men who appeared even older than them.
Though none was a pauper, all were obviously from the lower-income group.
Gopal felt an odd sense of failure at sharing the bus with them instead of going
in a car.
He could have bought a car long ago, but he had felt that the process of
adjusting to driving on the wrong side of the road and getting a driver's licence
was hardly worth the effort, given the short time he was to spend here. In any
case, he didn't need to travel much and whenever he had to go beyond walking
distance from the campus, someone was always available in the parking lot or
the cafeteria to give him a ride.
He began to settle down to the ambience in the bus. He lowered his shield
and sensed the air. To his surprise he felt an acceptance of him. No one seemed
to be making any judgments about him, nor did there seem any hostility. He
couldn't even sense much curiosity. Black people, he thought, seemed to resent
foreigners much less than the whites. They may not go out of their way to
welcome you, he thought, but at least they don't dislike you.
From the whites, on the other hand, he had found extremes of friendliness or
dislike. Even when they ignored him, Gopal felt it was an active kind of
ignoring. With the blacks he had sensed an acceptance that was passive and
therefore felt more genuine. Perhaps they feel that anyone coloured is to be
welcomed as a likely ally on their side in the racial divide, he speculated. Or
perhaps at some date a soldier in some racial war.
He could only wonder why there wasn't a continuous violent insurgency by
the blacks, given the wealth with which they were surrounded and their own
poverty. He also thought it shortsighted of the whites not to have made a
determined effort to bring more blacks into the middle class in order to lower the
crime rate, if nothing else. After his visit to the Peacock's ghetto, he had tried to
educate himself about the situation of blacks in America and had been shocked
at the statistics regarding black unemployment and crime. He believed that
people in such large numbers could only have turned to crime out of desperation.
And Gopal didn't believe that a country as wealthy, as well run, as cohesive as
the United States couldn't solve this relatively small problem if they actually
wanted to.
Engrossed in the intriguing question of why this problem was allowed to
continue in this inscrutable society, despite the insecurity it caused to the entire
country, he got off the bus and walked into the mall. Perhaps they want to keep
poor people as soldiers for the army, he thought, hesitating inside the doorway.
A pair of lips, unmistakably a pair of female lips, kissed him with a smack on his
lips and laughed away.
Gopal's brains turned to butter. He felt that by now familiar sense of utter
bafflement. He tried to urge his mind, which had closed shop completely, to start
itself again. What could explain this? He tried to think of perfectly logical
reasons. There are many, he assured himself. None presented themselves. He felt
his grip on sanity loosening. Maybe I am imagining it, he thought. He licked his
lips and got the sweet taste of lipstick. Why? he floundered. Poison? he started to
panic. Racists in the CIA had found a subtle way to kill him.
He saw people around him grin. One said kindly, pointing upwards,
'Mistletoe.'
Gopal looked up and saw some inoffensive leaves. No doubt some potent
aphrodisiac, he thought with enormous relief, whose periodic exhalations made
American women uncontrollable with desire. It didn't sound terribly convincing,
for one if there had been such an aphrodisiac, Randy would have found a way to
bathe in it daily, but no other explanation came in sight. This, Gopal decided, is
another one of those baffling American mysteries. He carried on through the
mall, keeping a wary eye open for lurking mistletoes.
He felt enmeshed soon in songs, gaiety, silver threads. There were people
everywhere. Red-robed Santa Clauses stood at regular intervals and though
Gopal had heard all about them, he had never seen one before. After his initial
curiosity he lost interest in them, deciding they were meant for children. One of
the Santas beckoned to him and Gopal approached him grinning.
'Ho, ho, ho,' said the Santa, 'Merry Christmas, Gopal. '
Gopal went into a fright. 'CIA' was his first thought again, his heart racing.
A closer look revealed it was only one of the students from the college.
'Hey, heh, Merry Christmas,' said Gopal sheepishly.
'Hey Gopal, can you take may place for a second? I've got to go to the john.'
'Me?'
'Here, I've got this spare robe and beard in the bag. Don't worry about the
padding. There you go, there's nothing to it. Just ring the bell and say "Ho, ho,
ho, Merry Christmas?"'
Gopal, wearing a scratchy red robe and a magnificent white bead, and
feeling extraordinarily foolish, timidly rang the bell and essayed a few weak ho,
ho-hos. Then realising his plaintive bleats were attracting even more attention,
he ventured full-throated ho, ho, hos. 'Merry Christmas and things like that,' he
roared. These seemed to be appreciated; so he really got into the spirit of the
occasion. His bell rang like a buoy in a storm and his ho, ho, hos were positively
operatic.
If passersby thought a skinny brown Santa wishing them a merry Christmas
in an Indian accent in a shopping mall in Eversville was an unusual sight, they
were too polite to tell him.
In a while the other student returned.
'Great job,' he patted Gopal, wincing at the tolling bell's reverberations.
'I can do,' assured Gopal, now really keen. 'Ho, ho, ho and all that.'
'Thanks, thanks.' The man had to shout to make himself heard. 'But if I don't
do it myself I don't get paid. Know what I mean?'
'Oh yes,' Gopal's bell wound down sadly. 'I will do again if you want. '
'Sure buddy, any time. Thanks again.' He resumed his duty.
 Gopal walked about with a spring in his step, listening critically to the
performance of the other Santas. In general he kept his views to himself, but he
felt compelled to reprimand one man: 'Useless. Ring bell harder.'
The Santa gave him an evil glare and rang the bell near Gopal's ear.
All day Gopal wandered through the mall. It was Christmas Eve and
everyone was finishing their shopping. There were crowds everywhere and for
once it felt and sounded like an Indian bazaar. In the anarchic dash to grab the
last items remaining, the restraints of civilisation had fallen and the mobs had
begun to assert themselves.
There were screams to catch the shopgirls' attention, tugging sessions to gain
possession of an object, hefty thumps from the shoulder to clear the way and the
elbow had developed into a deadly weapon. Usually dulcet voices sharpened into
spears and transfixed harassed workers on the spot. Families with a talent for
strategy had brought along large and formidable aunts who trundled like tanks
crushing all opposition in their path, while the lighter troops pillaged behind
them. The overly civilised and weak were left to wave pitifully and fruitlessly
from the back of the crowd.
Gopal gloried in it. He thought it God's wish that people when they
encountered such a profusion of goods should burst upon it like wolves
introduced to a lamb after a month-long fast. He had long felt that the American
dispiritedness in the face of consumer products that fairly begged for high
passion, was a sign of dangerous dissipation. He was pleased to see that their
year-long languor was the result of excessive availability rather than a softening
of that vigorous American spirit that had stolen California from the Mexicans,
Louisiana from the French and much of the rest of the country from the
American Indians. When confronted with opposition, he noted with joy, the
Americans wrestled, abused and snatched their prizes with a vigour that would
have won them applause even in an Indian bazaar and boded well for the future
of the Free World.
He drifted comfortably all day, for once secure that no one was looking at
him or was even remotely interested. Watching the mayhem, he speculated that
American civil defence plans against a possible Russian invasion should include
some word about the Reds having evil designs on the local supermarkets. And
then, he thought, let the women defend them. If the Russians, Gopal thought
pityingly, couldn't keep Afghanistan, what chance did they have of even setting
foot in Sears.
As the evening arrived, the shoppers began to leave the ransacked mall.
Gopal wished time would pass a little more slowly, so he could delay returning
to his little room and the frozen pizza in the ice box which was tonight's dinner.
Once again he began to feel lonely. People were leaving in groups, or in pairs, or
carrying parcels that showed that they expected to be with other people later in
the evening or at the very latest by the next day. Gopal, disconsolate, watched
them leave.
He decided he should also go before the bus service stopped, which it was
capable of doing at the most inconvenient hours. As he was on his way out, near
the exit he saw a huddled figure handing out leaflets embarrassedly, without
looking at anyone. He had long hair and was unshaven and kept his eyes fixed
on the floor.
As Gopal went past he took the yellow sheet of paper the man held out and
balled it up ready to toss it into the first bin he saw. He wondered which
denomination was now soliciting funds. Curiosity made him unfold it.
'Swedish Massage,' it read. 'Your favourite massage by our lovely and
trained girls expert in fulfilling your every fantasy. Come one come all. '
Gopal grimaced at the last phrase. He began to feel less full of self-pity. It
would be better than an evening at home alone. And what a story he would have
to tell Randy when he returned. He could casually inform him that he had
managed the deed all by himself without any of Randy's help, thank you. And
then of course the details. And what details there would be!
To his surprise Gopal found he was already in the parking lot. Cautiously he
looked around and then surreptitiously read the message again. A map gave
instructions on how to get there and Gopal tried to figure out which bus, if any,
went in that direction. Finally he gave up and decided to walk.
It was dark now and he supposed it was cold, though he didn't seem to be
able to feel it. He turned away from the main road and following the map's
directions went into quiet residential streets. The houses were ablaze with
Christmas Eve decorations, but Gopal hardly gave them a thought.
He felt energetic, excited and purposeful. He tried not to think of the house
ahead, but his mind told him it was high time he fulfilled, he thought piously,
Randy's ambition. They were bound to be nice girls, he assured himself, from
good families who had fallen upon hard times. He would be gentle with
whichever one he selected, he decided. He thought she would have blond hair
and skin whose freshness leapt like the wind. Maybe she would weep a little, he
thought, his mind muddled as he took the last turn and walked down the quiet
lane. Would his mother like her? He was already a little in love with her. She
would look something like Brooke Shields.
The street became darker. At the end of the lane he saw the dim glow of a
house. He walked up to it and rang the bell. There were red curtains on the
windows which had bars on them. He rang the bell again and it clanged loudly.
The door opened and a woman looked out. He could see the chain still holding
the door .
'Yeah?' she asked.
Now that he was here Gopal was abashed. The excitement abruptly vanished
and he nearly fled. He rustled the leaflet.
'Got it at the mall,' he muttered.
'You want a massage?'
Gopal nodded. The door closed. This was his chance to run. He stepped back
and the door opened again. He rushed forward before he changed his mind. The
door shut behind him with many clicks and he felt relieved. If there were any
ghosts pursuing him in the dark they would have to sit outside.
The woman was extremely plump and wore a shiny blue dress.
'You wanna sit?' she asked.
Gopal saw two rooms on either side with some sort of ornate upholstery on
the furniture, but he sat on a plain chair in the hall at the foot of the stairs. The
rooms upstairs, he thought, must be where the girls were.
'Sorry for the delay,' the woman apologised mechanically, seating herself
behind a table, 'but I've only got one girl working tonight and she's busy with a
client right now. What with Christmas Eve I suppose I'm lucky to have anyone at
all.'
'Yes, yes,' said Gopal sympathising completely with the problem of finding
good help these days.
'The other one just upped and left. Just like that,' the woman snapped her
fingers, livening up at a responsive audience.
'Terrible,' Gopal commiserated, hoping to ingratiate himself with her.
'Say,' she asked curiously, 'where you from?'
'India,' Gopal responded at once. 'Very poor country,' he added, hoping it
would induce her to lower the rates. 'Ah,' he cleared his throat, 'how much?'
'Depends what you want.'
Gopal thought about this. 'Meaning? '
'Well there's $45 for the Delux, that's for half an hour. $60 for the Super
Deluxe, that's for 45 minutes. And $75 for the Harem Special. That's for 90
minutes.'
'I will have,' Gopal salivated, 'Harem Special.'
'Cash in advance.'
Gopal reached into his pocket. The genes of generations of Jajau's most
fierce bargainers held him back, even at this delicate moment.
'Any student discount?' he asked.
'Sorry.' She was firm.
 'I have many friends,' Gopal hinted.
She paused. 'Well,' she decided, 'not this time. But anytime you bring five or
more people maybe we can work something out.'
Capitulating, Gopal counted out the money.
'Margie,' the lady yelled up the stairs. 'There's another gentleman here who
wants a date with you. Hurry up. You haven't got all day.'
In a while there were sounds upstairs and a short, balding young man came
hurriedly down the stairs. Gopal brushed past him as he climbed up. Behind him
he heard the door open and close for the small man. He went up the stairs with
trepidation.
There was a door on either side at the top, but the one on the left was ajar.
He pushed it open with hands that trembled like mice. The room was empty but
he could hear water running behind a closed door. He stepped in cautiously and
shut the door. The room was almost totally bare except for a metal table with a
rubber sheet on it. Gopal thought it looked like an operating room except for the
picture of Madonna in her underwear on the wall and red curtains on the
window. A small table near the metal platform held bottles and vials of liquids .
Gopal found he had stopped breathing. He wished the room had been a little
cosier for such a historic moment, but no doubt the girl would make up by her
warmth. The bathroom door opened and Gopal looked swiftly and looked away.
His first thought was that she didn't look like Brooke Shields. His second was
that she had stringy brown hair, wore a blue bikini, was thin and short and her
face wore a look that would have been vulnerable if she hadn't hardened it. She
was pretty in a wan way. His third thought was that she looked familiar.
He looked again and saw the same spark of recognition in her eyes before
she turned away. He recognised her as a girl he had seen on campus. He
hesitated wondering if the deal was off.
She handed him a towel. You can wear this.'
Gopal took it and went into the bathroom and got out of his clothes. In a way
he felt better that she wasn't a total stranger. He could even remember sitting at
the table next to hers one lunchtime in the cafeteria. He wrapped the towel
around his waist, sucked in his stomach, flexed his muscles and swaggered out.
She was squeezing some lotion onto her palm. 'Lie down,' she motioned
listlessly.
Careful to keep himself covered, Gopal lay down on his back.
'Turn over,' she commanded.
Gopal flipped around and he felt her pour some liquid onto his back before
starting to knead and pummel him. Gopal lay passively for a while, enjoying her
small yet firm hands rhythmically working their way over his shoulders. Let her
get used to me, he thought.
'How much time you got?' she asked.
'Harem Special.' His voice was muffled.
He lay still for a while longer and then turned around and looked at her
directly .
'How much for more?' he asked.
She kneaded his chest. 'Harem Special's the best we got.' Her voice was non-
committal.
Gopal turned around and wondered how to broach the subject more
effectively. He decided on subtlety. When he felt her hands leave him and go
back to the lotions, he turned around and dropped the towel to the floor.
Your towel's fallen,' she said tonelessly, picking it up and putting it on his
groin.
As she started kneading his thighs, Gopal caught her hand.
'I'll scream,' she said listlessly. 'We've got bouncers in the house.'
Gopal let go and closed his eyes. This is ridiculous, he thought.
'What you are wanting?' he asked.
'A good night's rest.'
Gopal turned over again. Nothing like this had ever occurred in either Deep
Throat or Penthouse Letters. In fact he had gathered from these two major
reference works that the chief problem faced by males in America was fighting
off females. And here he was even paying one and still failing to succeed.
Maybe she's new and shy, he thought. Perhaps he needed to gently woo her.
You are doing anything at all?' he asked.
'Just Swedish massage.' Her voice sounded like it had fallen asleep while her
hands continued fluttering like headless chickens.
Gopal caught both her hands this time.
'Not even touching me? I am paying $75 already.' His voice pleaded yet was
angry 'I'll call the cops. That's prostitution.' Her monotone was unchanged. 'This
buzzer on the floor connects to the cop station. We've got protection. '
She waited tiredly, her eyes downcast, making no effort to free herself. Her
exhausted passivity disgusted Gopal. He turned again on his stomach and lay
there viciously. When she said 'Time's up,' he checked his watch.
'Twenty-five minutes more. Keep on,' he demanded savagely.
Wordlessly she continued.
Half an hour later Gopal came storming down the stairs, glowing with health
and fury. He flung himself out of the door and raged off in the general direction
of his apartment. Some homing instinct guided him because his mind was busy
seething. No actual thoughts formed, just a wild fury.
 He didn't know how long it took, but abruptly he was at the complex. He
took the stairs as though in a single stride. An envelope was taped to his door
with Gloria's scrawl on it, probably containing a Christmas poem. Gopal opened
the envelope, tore up the single sheet inside unread and put it in his mouth and
chewed it.
He raged to the fridge, pulled out a beer, took out the thoroughly masticated
letter and threw it into the garbage can. He started to drink furiously. He put on
the television and paced up and down, snorting at the beer. 75 dollars, he boiled.
He went back for another beer, pulled out the half-filled plastic garbage bag,
knotted it and flung himself out of the room dragging it behind him. As he came
down the stairs, Gloria's door opened and she tip-toed out, beckoning to him.
She shut the door softly behind her. Gopal walked to her warily.
'Sorry,' she twinkled sweetly.
'Huh?' Gopal growled.
'Didn't you read my letter? I put it on your door.'
Gopal muttered incomprehensibly.
'Well I've met this nice boy Troy that I used to know earlier and he's moved
in with me. So I guess our thing's over. Sorry.' She dimpled her fingers at him
and left .
'Our thing!' Gopal bared his fangs at her retreating back.
He dragged the garbage sack towards the rear where the garbage bin was
kept. On an impulse he raced back and flung the sack at Gloria's door.
Even her, he thought in disbelieving fury. Even her. He whirled around and
raced up and down the car park area. I will get married, he thought in wild rage.
That will show everyone.
He ran towards the hedge to propose marriage to Sue. He rounded it and
skidded to a stop. The same two seater car was parked there and all the lights
were out in Sue's house.
Gopal lifted his face to the moon and howled.
The next few days were among the most miserable of Gopal's life. Lonely,
hurting, with no one to turn to, he was reduced to calling Anand in desperation.
He heard the phone ring and the whirr of the answering machine. 'Hi there -'
Gopal slammed the phone down.
With nothing better to do, he took to wandering around the streets, despite
the slush and snow. One afternoon he found himself in an unfamiliar road and
spotted a shack announcing 'XXX movies. Gadgets. Novelties. Sex aids.'
Intrigued, he walked in.
The bell over the door jangled and the man behind the counter looked up. He
nodded pleasantly and Gopal relaxed. He was always worried when entering a
bar or any other place he thought of as sinful, in case the people there demanded
to know what he was doing in such a dreadful place and threw him out. He also
nursed a persistent dread that his grandmother would suddenly come hobbling
into sight. He appreciated that this was an unrealistic fear since there was very
little chance of encountering his grandmother in a porno store in Eversville,
particularly since she had never been outside India and now could hardly walk.
But she seemed present in spirit on this as on many such occasions, peering over
his shoulder at the sex aids and muttering holy songs.
There was no one else in the store and Gopal browsed through the goods,
though gaped through them might be a more accurate description. There were all
manner of gadgets, many of them of such shape, size and dimension, that it
boggled the mind trying to imagine someone putting them to use. Looking at
them closely, Gopal felt sceptical at anyone actually using whips, chains, masks,
sticks with bumps on them and other implements to which he felt embarrassed at
even trying to put a name. Maybe they are just meant for displaying in homes, he
speculated. The Yanks were quite capable of it. He tried to imagine the Dean's
living room with one of these things on the centre table, while the Dean's wife
tried to pass it off as the tusk of an African elephant.
He drifted to the books section and browsed through the magazines. He had
seen many of them already, but not so many together. He found that several
specialised in particular areas. One was called Mamas with Mammoth
Mammaries. It was a monthly publication. Others were so explicit that Gopal felt
that they were no longer pornography, but were more accurately gynaecology.
He drifted back to the counter and the man behind it, thin, bearded and long-
haired, joined his palms together and bowed a 'namaste', the Indian greeting.
Gopal, amidst these exotic surroundings, couldn't believe his eyes. Must be
having backache or something, he told himself.
The man spoke clearly, 'Namaste.'
Gopal wondered if he was going mad. I am hearing things, he told himself
firmly.
'Namaste, sahib,' the man insisted.
Gopal had to admit that the man was saying something.
'Hello there,' he boomed .
'Namaste,' the man repeated; translating, 'I salute the divine in thee.'
'Namaste,' replied Gopal reluctantly, wondering if the spirit of his
grandmother had somehow entered into the man.
'I knew it. One look and I said "Here's an Indian."'
Gopal wondered if his Pakistani story would sell here. 'How you are
knowing?'
 'Spent a year there. Goa, Varanasi, Kathmandu. I seen it all.'
'Very nice,' admired Gopal trying not to look at the shop's wares.
'I'm Tom,' the man stuck out his hand over the counter.
'I'm, I'm,' Gopal groped, till struck with a happy inspiration. 'I'm Anand. My
friends are calling me Andy,'
'Namaste, Anand,' the man folded his hands again, 'where's home in India for
you?'
'Oh, my home,' Gopal fumbled, 'Madras.' This was some 2000 miles from his
house.
'Gee, that's great. I just loved India. I can't wait to go back. Matter of fact I'm
planning a trip again next year. Say, why don't you give me your address and
maybe we could meet up in India? What d'you say?'
'Most certainly, yes, yes,' burst Gopal enthusiastically, paling visibly at the
thought.
He hastily concocted an address for Tom who wrote it down.
'So tell me,' encouraged Tom, 'what d'you like here?' He was clearly touched
by Gopal parting with his address. 'Look around, go ahead. Think of it as your
own store.'
Gopal winced.
Tom came out from behind the counter to help Gopal regard it as his own
store. "Take what you like,' he urged. 'Anything for a friend from India. Maybe
something for the family back home?' he asked helpfully .
He began to pluck a gadget here and a thingummy there, like a friendly
grocer among his vegetables, before heaping them all into a cardboard box. 'Feel
free,' he urged. 'How about one of these inflatable dolls for those winter nights,
huh? See, you just blow into this and she swells up nice and good. See?'
To Gopal's horror it began to inflate to female proportions down to the last
anatomical detail.
'And then you just remove this stopper and she goes right back into her bag.'
The doll deflated with a hiss.
'So how about that, huh?' boasted Tom. 'Take it, take it. A little free
something from America for the family. Bet it'll crack them up.'
Gopal didn't doubt it.
'But you will have trouble,' Gopal protested at the door, carrying the bag of
horrors.
'No problem. Hey, no problem,' Tom assured him. 'I can handle it. I'll say we
got robbed. I'm planning to leave in any case.'
They were outside now and Gopal couldn't wait for Tom to go back so that
he could throw away the box. But Tom was clearly intent on playing the good
host. He stood outside waving.
'Hey,' he yelled, 'where's your car? Want me to give you a ride?'
Gopal stumbled in fright. 'No, no, just around corner. Bye.'
'Namaste. See you in India.'
Gopal hastened around the corner struggling with the box. He dumped it on
the sidewalk the instant Tom was out of sight, shuddering. He wiped his hands
on his trouser, feeling them unclean.
'Hey!' said a gruff voice near by and with a start Gopal saw a man who had
been raking leaves .
You want to pick that up?' He pointed to the box.
Without a moment's pause, Gopal sprinted down the road, the man's
outraged cries receding behind him.
Sitting safely in his apartment, he wondered what the man would make of
the varied contents of the box. But since he lived so close to the shop, perhaps he
was used to finding strange objects growing like unusual mushrooms on his
lawns. What must his life be like, mused Gopal, never knowing what the dog
was going to dig up and drag back home? And supposing he had small children.
How did he explain humming bananas to their enquiring minds. And what about
the people who actually made the gadgets, what did they say to their children
when they came home?
'What did you do today at the office, Daddy?'
'Oh I made eleven dildoes, son.'
'Gee whiz Dad!'
Gopal's mind had begun to race. How about the actors in pornographic films,
what did they say to their wives in the evening?
'Have a hard day at work, dear.'
'Whew, Betty, you can say that again. Fourteen retakes of an orgasm scene
and a homosexual orgy.'
'Poor dear. Here, have a nice refreshing aphrodisiac.'
And did such a couple celebrate their wedding anniversary by refraining
from sex?
Gopal could have carried on in this unhealthy vein if the phone hadn't
politely burred, seeking his attention. He picked it up.
'Herb's abortion parlour,' he chortled, 'you are raping them and we are
scraping them.'
He guffawed at his witty imitation of a receptionist he had overheard in the
Science Building.
There was a silence at the other end .
'Very nice, Gopal,' came the dry voice of the Dean. 'I see the Wolff
educational system has been at least as successful as ours.'
'Oh no, no, no,' protesed an abashed Gopal. 'Randy is not saying anything.'
He tried to defend his friend accused wrongly for once.
'I'm sure,' said the Dean ironically. 'Well anyway, we're having a New Year's
Eve dinner tonight for our friends and I wondered if you would like to join us?'
'Oh yes, sir, yes, yes,' accepted Gopal, extremely touched and pleased.
'I know it's a little late, but it just occurred to me that you might be feeling a
little left out of things at this time of the year. So I thought I'd check.'
'Very kind of you and things like that,' mumbled Gopal awkwardly. 'I will
certainly be very happy.'
'Great. I'll call Dr Love and ask him to give you a ride. He lives in your
complex. Is around eight okay?'
'Very good, sir. Certainly.'
Gopal hadn't known that Dr Love lived in such proximity. He was a
chemistry professor and though Gopal thought highly of his professional
abilities, he also felt that he looked like a camel. He was tall and supercilious
and he hunched a little. When he walked there was a bounce in his step exactly
like a camel's, making Gopal want to leap upon his shoulders, whip his posterior
and make clucking sounds. Of course he never revealed his dark desires to Dr
Love, but greeted him with decorously downcast eyes.
When the bell rang at eight, Gopal was bathed, cologned and oiled. (His
mother had packed enough to last a year, plus little more for emergencies.) Dr
Love stood towering at the door, his lips parted in an unfamiliar grin.
'Ready?' he asked .
He loped down the corridor, Gopal following, trying to surreptitiously
imitate his bouncing gait.
They got into the car and drove off.
'And so,' said Dr Love, clearly making polite conversation, 'how do you love
America?'
Gopal glared at him and decided to answer with some chemistry problems.
This eased the atmosphere considerably and they managed to get to the Dean's
place without mishap.
The house, Gopal saw with surprise, was in one of the more expensive parts
of town and was a large, double-storeyed structure fronted by a long, well-kept
lawn. Gopal had always thought that teachers were very poorly paid and lived in
the American equivalent of hovels. But clearly he had been wrong. His
professors rose in his estimation. They parked in the driveway behind a few cars.
Some people seemed to have already arrived.
Dr Love rang the bell and it was opened by a lady who was apparently the
Dean's wife. Gopal examined her as she and Dr Love kissed each other on the
cheek. She was dressed in blue, had brown hair, but wore far too much make-up.
She was very attractive, but her skin had roughened and the sudden inexplicable
collapse of American women into middle age seemed to have occurred to her.
Gopal wondered why it happened so abruptly to American women. Perhaps the
blazing freshness of their youth burned their skins prematurely. There was
nothing graceful about their middle age, which wasn't even a middle age. One
year they had that overwhelming radiance, the next they had slipped into
wrinkles and parchmented skin and old age.
However, like most American women, her delight in receiving guests
seemed to have increased in direct proportion to her age. While in most other
countries, women maintained an even balance between propriety and
effusiveness in their greetings to visitors throughout their lives, in America it
ranged from one extreme to the other. It started with gum-chewing insolence as
teenagers. 'Yeah?' they grunted nastily. Sometimes they didn't even do that,
merely raising their eyebrows in disgust. In the more extreme cases, they didn't
even bother to raise their eyebrows. They just stared in expressionless contempt.
But as they began to grow older, the volume and intensity of their hellos began
to increase, till by college it was nearly civil. By the time they began working, it
became positively human. At marriage a quantum leap into excessive delight
took place. And you knew someone had entered middle age when she opened the
door and on beholding you her effusions made you suspect that this was by far
the most significant, memorable and thrilling moment of her life.
Such was the case now. It always made Gopal feel wildly insecure, feeling
that there was no way he could hope to live up to the hopes contained in that
greeting. Such joy implied that the party was dying before his arrival, but now
that he was here, his wit, gaiety and verve would ignite it. Then that 'I've heard
so much about you' was positively frightening. He had tried to analyse it and
decided that his fear was caused by, first, the implication that the husband and
wife spent all their waking hours feverishly discussing him. And second, the
much hinted that there was a very great deal indeed which perhaps she ought not
to have known about him, but now most certainly did.
The entire package of greetings was designed to make strong men faint. 'And
how've you been?' was uttered in tones of such solicitude, that it made you feel
as though you were recently released from shock therapy following your arrest
for child molestation. This was usually followed by 'we've all been just dying to
meet you,' leading to feelings of alarm at the vision of rows of wives keeling
over dead as a result of your cruel absence. To people who were quite
accustomed to being cordially ignored at most parties at home, such delirium at
their arrival suggested that they were expected to perform amazing feats centre
stage, or at the very least, party tricks. Alternately, the hostess's joy suggested
that surely you had brought such wondrous gifts as would enthrall all America
and be the envy of the civilised world.
After the first few parties and feelings of foolishness Gopal had learned to
take along some rubbishy Indian items. This, as always, was accepted by the
hostess with such peals of pleasure, such shrieks of ecstasy, that Gopal always
feared one of them would fall flat at his feet, her brain circuits overloaded with
alpha waves, her mouth foaming, her feet drumming.
As the Dean's wife displayed his little table cloth to her friends with such
gloating pride that it made you suspect she had never seen a table cloth before,
Gopal galloped to the bar to hide behind a bowl of peanuts. He observed the
other women whose reactions of wild bliss and pure envy seemed to indicate that
they too had never before seen such a rare and wonderful work of art as that
table cloth. Nor, from their paroxysms, did they seem to think it likely that they
every would again.
Gopal shifted from behind the peanuts to the cashewnuts, which being larger
seemed to offer more scope for camouflage. But he was ruthlessly dragged out
and made to stand before a semi-circle of wives who seemed to have achieved a
nearly permanent state of orgasm over his table cloth.
'It's lovely,' moaned one.
'It's wonderrrrful,' groaned another.
If a table cloth can do this to them, wondered Gopal, what would happen if
they went to the shop I went to this morning. He thought about this. Probably
nothing, he concluded.
'Where can I get one from?' begged another, her pleading demeanour
suggesting that she was ready to sell everything she possessed, including herself,
if only she would be rewarded by a piece of similar table cloth.
Gopal mumbled about India, shuffled his feet and darted back to his peanuts.
He stood there recovering his breath. It can be an unnerving experience, for
those unaccustomed, to have a roomful of faculty wives orgasming at you in
chorus.
Gopal was content in the shadows, watching the room fill. He didn't feel
intimidated, since most of the faces were familiar. They occasionally appeared
unfamiliar since they were in an unaccustomed setting and at their most relaxed,
but he felt comforted at knowing them and feeling accepted by them. He was
happy to be a watcher. He was still puzzled by the women. There seemed
absolutely no relation between the high school girls he had met and these women
who were presumably the grown-up version of those girls. It appeared as though
at some stage the high school girls had been lifted away from America and then
replaced by the completely different species that was the older American
woman.
No one seemed to think it odd. But clearly they were totally different people.
There was no sign of the gradual transformation from girl to woman and
apparently an entire generation was regularly wiped out. On reflection Gopal felt
this wasn't such a bad thing. He wondered what actually became of the girls.
Maybe, he thought sadistically, remembering his experience with the high school
girl at the drive-in at Springfield during Thanksgiving, they are all taken
somewhere and drowned. He chuckled in satisfaction.
And while he was thus preoccupied with such pleasant thoughts, the most
momentous year of Gopal's young life came to an end amidst laughter, cheers,
kisses and tenured professors in funny hats.
10

It was summer, at last. And as the trees sprouted new clothes, the people shed
theirs. Something or the other is always naked here, thought a bemused Gopal.
Just as he had adjusted to a warmly attired America, elegantly clothed,
fashionably woollen, and sartorially conservative, they suddenly and casually
took their clothes off and unselfconsciously began walking down the streets
stark naked, almost.
Gopal again relapsed into a daze he thought he could never again fall into
given his hard-won sophistication. But it seemed as though the entire nation was
suddenly flaunting their legs at him. He suspected that they had all waited
patiently to lull him into a sense of security before suddenly taking their pants
off. Gopal felt as though everything he had learned about them had been locked
away in closets along with their decent garments. He found it extremely difficult
to be courteous and respectful to women who wore shorts that displayed half
their bottom. And all winter he had been civil to them, he thought in confusion,
without once suspecting them of such legs, much less such bottoms.
Bottoms! he thought in amazement. They had blossomed everywhere, like
sunflowers. As though they had been lying dormant somewhere all winter,
before leaping out in the sunshine. And if the legs and bottoms weren't enough,
Gopal happened to pass behind the girl's dormitory one afternoon and was
transfixed.
He beheld acres of female flesh, glistening and undulating like a vast water
bed. They lay there so naked and purposeless, that it looked like a giant
invitation card. No one looked at him, no one acknowledged him, they just lay
there quietly, motionlessly, as though the whole lot of them had been waiting for
him all winter and now couldn't wait any longer and were therefore offering
themselves, letting him make his choice among them.
When Gopal's brain jerked again into wheezy motion, of course it told him
that this couldn't possibly be the case, and any impulse he had felt for tearing off
his clothes and dashing into them stark naked, like a swimmer into the endless
surf, thrashing his arms and legs, powering and churning his way through,
should be sternly resisted. This was doubtlessly some insane American rite and
he should withhold all action until discreet enquiries revealed its significance.
Leaping among those shimmering bodies like a shark, biting and gouging, a
predator feeding in these troughs of flesh, might be looked at askance.
 If on the other hand this communal uncovering, this mass baring of the
unbareable, signalled the start of some Dionysian revel, some orgiastic greeting
to spring, then, thought Gopal sighing deeply and breathing even more deeply
and unable to think any further. He began trudging back home. Water, water
everywhere he thought, and not any drop and such a lovely day. Surely, he felt
keenly, a nation that converted its parking lots into platters on which they
offered the unclad bodies of their women, thereby arousing among visitors
certain ardent emotions, had a duty to satisfy those emotions.
Randy, thought Gopal viciously. Where is damn fool Randy. He will know
what to do .
He walked in discomfort to his apartment and phoned Randy.
'Yellow,' rang out the cheerful voice.
'You are coming here or I am murdering you?'
'Wow. What's up, doc?'
'Damn country.'
'Ah, that-a-way. I'm on my way.'
Randy walked in and found that Gopal was not in the mood for subtleties.
'Naked women,' ranted Gopal. 'Bloody damn fool naked women are lying
everywhere. Wherever I am going there are damn fool naked women lying
everywhere. Why?'
'Yes,' said Randy, 'I agree completely. Ain't it grand?'
Gopal glared at him. 'For you maybe. What about me?'
Randy began to understand. 'No luck still?'
Gopal snarled.
'Wow,' admired Randy. 'Years and years of celibacy. Like Gandhi, huh?'
'Gandhi is not having bloody damn fool naked women lying for miles and
miles all around,' Gopal groused bitterly.
'Right. Probably the poor guy didn't know what he was missing, did he? And
even if he did, what would he have done about it? Nothing, that's what he would
have done, nothing. Zilch. And you know why?' Randy asked. 'Because he didn't
have Randy Wolff to guide him. That's why.'
Gopal didn't appear impressed.
'But if he did have the services of the great Wolff, do you know what I'd
have done to help score with the chicks? I'd have first got him out of that ratty
old towel he wore. Strictly a no no. Then I'd have put him into some cool
threads, know what I mean? Maybe some designer jeans and a Lacoste tee-shirt.
Nothing too heavy. The chicks don't dig that. Maybe a little of the old gold chain
to show that here's a man of substance, right? And those glasses, oh my God,
those glasses just have to go. I'd put him behind some reflecting shades. Real
cool. How does that grab you, huh? And he's ready to hit Xenon on Friday night.
Right on.'
Gopal was not diverted by this nonsense.
'And me?' he asked belligerently.
'Whee,' whistled Randy, enjoying himself thoroughly. 'We're getting
demanding here now, aren't we? Oh all right,' he placated, as Gopal began to
look homicidal, 'leave it all to Uncle Randy, righter of wrongs, doer of deeds.
What're you doing tonight?'
'Having dinner with Brooke Shields.'
'Well she can't come to the party and that's final and I don't care how much
she begs. But you are cordially invited to a lake party where I hope you will join
us in a genteel evening of chamber music, bonfires, opera and getting into the
pants of this bunch of girls that're coming along. They,' and Randy's eyes
clouded as he remembered visions, 'got the morals of an alley cat.'
'No morals?' Gopal was cheering up but trying to make sure, not being clear
on the social lives of cats.
'Not a one.'
'Let us go.'
'At nine, my eager young beaver, if you'll pardon the expression.'
Gopal would have gladly pardoned him matricide.
When they left that night, Gopal was carrying a little bundle containing his
night clothes, his toilet kit and a change of clothes because Randy had warned
him they wouldn't be returning till the next day. Sitting in the car Gopal felt
feathers of excitement flutter over him. He had but one thought in his head. He
cleared his throat .
'Cats,' he reminded Randy.
'What? Cats. What cats?'
Gopal began to worry. 'Cats in alley,' he reminded, anxious in case this
whole thing was one of Randy's jokes.
'Oh alley cats,' Randy recollected. 'Sure, lots of those.'
Gopal breathed in relief. 'That is why they are called vegetarian cats?'
'Well that's a new one on me. But if you say so.'
They drove along, Gopal staring sightlessly in front, his brain crawling with
cats. After nearly an hour they turned off the highway and drove along a road
that got bumpier. The branches became darker overhead and they went into a
gap between the trees. They went down a dirt track and stopped among a jumble
of cars.
Gopal was out of the car first. The moment he opened the door, he could
hear the music and faintly see a fire appearing and disappearing like fireflies
through the trees as he walked forward. The trees ended abruptly and he saw a
beach with the night resting on it and a lake like liquid dark spilled beyond. A
bonfire rose like a hill of flame and a ghetto-blaster stood near, fanning it with
its volume.
Several figures lay or sat like careless blobs around the fire. One female
form danced in front and Gopal's heart leapt like the flames. He heard Randy
scrunch beside him and they walked down to the beach. There seemed fewer
people than Gopal had expected, but he decided not to behave like an uncouth
yokel peering excitedly at the girls, trying to pick one for himself. There was
plenty of time for that, he rebuked himself. The night was young, the girls were
willing and strategy was of the essence. Coolness was what was needed, he told
himself. He slowed the pace of his eager prowl to a cool saunter.
But his eagerness was severely tested when he heard Randy ask in surprise .
'Where're the girls?'
Gopal's determination to not look around fled into the night. He gazed
anxiously around, the anxiety changing first to panic, then to despair. Aside from
the dancing girl, he couldn't see a single other female.
Randy went to question one of the boys moping beside the fire.
'Where're they?' he asked and even his coolness had disappeared.
'Couldn't make it,' the boy responded moodily.
'None of them?'
'Well they were all from one sorority. It turns out some big shot from their
national headquarters is coming in early tomorrow so they've all got to be there.
Sam just came in with the news.'
Randy cursed and Gopal looked at the stars beseechingly. This was truly
some cosmic conspiracy. Here he was in America, the acknowledged
international home of fornication and still untouched by human hand. It was all
too much, particularly in summer. He felt weepy.
'Well,' said the boy trying to cheer them up, 'but Samantha's here.'
Gopal looked with renewed eagerness at the dancing girl. He would clearly
have to make a superhuman effort to woo and win her favours given that the
competition looked severe, quantitatively at least. He kicked himself for not
bringing his certificate. Maybe he could somehow manipulate Randy into going
back to get it while he entranced the girl.
All these thoughts hardly took a moment while he absorbed the image of the
girl. She danced well, was his first thought. His next was to wonder if she was
related to Gloria because she was even larger. He started feeling depressed
again. Her face, he noted, seemed to have pieces of fat stuck on it instead of
features.
 He wandered off to slump on the sand in despair, still looking at the girl in
burning reproach. Her arms and hands moved like snakes and Gopal wished one
of her fingers would leap up and bite her. He sat quietly, helplessly, awash with
a despair as vast as the lake. Randy settled beside him with a six pack of beer
and Gopal silently took a can. They watched the moon send a rippling slab of
silver through the water. The wind brushed them with a pleasant moistness and it
was too lovely to stay depressed.
Gopal couldn't tell how long he had sat there, watching the moon come alive
in the water like a mischievous, glowing face. Randy had drifted away and
returned many times but had been gone a particularly long time now. Gopal
heard him come up again and instead of sitting down he bent over Gopal.
'Let's go,' he whispered.
Gopal looked at him. 'What?'
'Come on, I'll show you. I promised you a good time, didn't I?'
Curious, Gopal staggered up awkwardly and followed Randy. They headed
back towards the trees and Gopal noticed that the bonfire was still blazing, the
music still blasting but Samantha was nowhere in sight. They walked into the
treeline and Randy stopped.
'Samantha's just behind that clump,' he whispered, pointing to a rock. 'The
moment you see a guy walk past, go for it.'
Gopal was mystified. 'Go for what?' his voice rose.
'Shh, shh,' Randy hushed him. 'She's taking us all on. Most of the guys are
done already. The next guy that leaves, make sure it's your turn.'
Gopal's guts turned to water. 'No, no, no,' he protested weakly, scared yet
thrilled, 'how I can? '
'She'll tell you how,' urged Randy. 'There he goes,' he gestured to a figure
walking out tucking in his shirt. 'Go on,' he pushed Gopal. 'Git there before
someone else arrives.'
Gopal stumbled as he went towards the rock. He felt sick with excitement
and fear. He felt himself begin to sweat. He reached the rock and peered around
it. Samantha lay naked, facing the lake, almost at his feet. He could see every
detail. The snowy legs, the black thatch, the rolls of fat on her stomach, the large
breasts drooping sideways. The moon painted her ivory. In the night, alone and
still, Gopal thought she looked beautiful. But did he dare? What about all those
men before and disease. But she looked so lovely and like a night goddess of the
forest awaiting her lover. Gopal took a deep breath and got ready to fling himself
on her.
Suddenly feet trampled warningly and a figure appeared from the beach,
already unbuckling his belt. Gopal ducked behind the rock. He heard the feet
stop and the sound of clothes rustling and he fled wildly through the trees.
He stopped a safe distance away and paused for breath. He looked around
and a little distance away could make out Randy's figure poking a stick into the
bonfire. Gopal waited a while longer and then walked out. His walk changed to a
strut and the strut to a swagger the closer he got to the fire. He scooped up a beer
can with a certain style.
'So,' asked Randy with a quick glance and a small smile, 'how'd we do?'
Gopal gargled his beer in answer.
'Great,' said Randy, who apparently could decipher the sounds of beer being
gargled, 'at least that's one problem out of the way.'
Gopal found a spot just beyond the arc cast by the fire and curled himself.
He could still go back, but he knew he didn't have the guts. He knew he was a
fool, but he somehow felt he was right. He fell asleep, relieved.
The next morning as they drove back with Randy giving him meaningful
looks all the way, Gopal maintained an external attitude of becoming modesty.
Inside, he was kicking himself as though he was made of footballs. Fool, he
cursed. You should have leapt on her. You should have thumped your chest like
Tarzan. If he had been given to rending his garments, he would have done so,
instead he had to be content with rending his soul.
He sulked all day. Visions of his possible performance and tigerish leaps
bounded through his mind. Hoarse and loud cries tragically never uttered the
previous night, filled his ears. Dialogues, unsuitable for those sensitively reared,
arranged themselves on his tongue. But most of all, an overwhelming sense of
having been a total idiot suffused him. He felt that when historic opportunity had
knocked at his door, he had told her sternly to leave, informing her that he
preferred a good night's sleep. How, he anguished, how I could do this so stupid
thing? He wondered for a moment if he could arrive at Samantha's doorstep,
apologise for being late for last night's distribution of favours and ask nicely if it
wasn't too late for him to get his share. Of course he rejected this idea too. And
worst of all he couldn't again look to Randy for help, having almost explicitly
told him that the deed was done.
Gopal returned to his books like an orphan seeking vengeance for his
murdered parents. He wondered briefly if the nearly mythical Indian capacity for
achieving high grades in America wasn't due in part to nearly all of them seeking
solace from the heartbreaks inflicted by American women. In India itself, away
from America and American women, Indians didn't perform half as well. He
wondered further if that too wasn't another national conspiracy by the Yanks to
urge on their women to devastate foreign students in order to send them fleeing
like boat people to their books, with consequences that could only benefit
America. Foolishness, he rebuked himself. You are damn fool foolish boy who
is always thinking and doing foolish things. He dived into his books like he was
Greg Louganis hitting a pool.
He didn't re-emerge for several months. He found the American educational
process so exhilarating, so encouraging, so immediate in its rewards, that he
found he didn't really need more than academics to keep him content. The
classroom, the library, the cafeteria, were the three points of the triangle that
comprised his life. The only outside intrusion was an invitation to attend Gloria's
marriage to the boyfriend who had moved in with her. Gopal attended and
discovered that the other guests included Gloria's children, all of whom were not
only older than him, but considerably exceeded Troy, the bridegroom, in age.
This young man was apparently still in college and had a part-time job cleaning
windows. During one of his jobs in the complex, he had spotted Gloria through
the window panes writing. She had shown him her poems and the rest, as the
books say, was history. Gopal discovered to his incredulity not unmixed with
horror, that Troy was a literature student. It shook his faith in the American
education system that the duo should announce their shared love of Gloria's
poetry to be one of the pillars of their marriage. But he consoled himself with the
thought that Troy was unlikely to graduate with high grades, if at all. At the
lunch after the wedding, Gloria informed the guests that she intended to write a
poem every single day for the rest of her life to her beloved Troy. The assembled
men applauded, the women swooned and Gopal ached for the groom. He feared
for the poor man's sanity .
However, he soon had cause to fear for his own, when for some reason he
never quite understood, he decided to visit an art gallery where an apparently
much-hailed artist was displaying and selling his wares. Perhaps he went out of a
sense that there wasn't much time remaining for him in America and a gift of
representative art might be an interesting present to take back home.
He badgered a girl he met in the cafeteria into driving him to the gallery and
they arrived at the house where it was located. They walked in and entered a vast
gallery painted white and devoid of a single canvas. But as they entered, lights
began to flash, and he saw projectors, ranged in the middle of the hall, beam
images on the wall. He examined them one by one and they were fairly ordinary
collages of various kinds.
A bearded man materialized, smiling benignly. Gopal tensed. He had
become wary of bearded men.
'Where is art?' Gopal demanded.
The man smiled even more broadly. 'This is it,' he said gesturing modestly.
Gopal examined the projectors.
 'This is Sony,' he complained.
'No, no,' indulgently refused the artist. 'The images are the art.'
Gopal began to understand. 'But how someone is to take image back?'
The man tittered. 'You get the projector too.'
'Free?' Gopal was interested.
'Well,' the artist laughed gently, 'almost,'
'How much for this one?'
'9000 dollars.'
Gopal was shocked. He considered this. 'How much if I take projector and
leave behind image? '
The artist's eyes narrowed. He began to look less artistic.
'They go together,' he snapped.
'Any concession?' Gopal thought the projector was worth bargaining for.
'What for?' the artist was curtly nasty.
'Well in India they are having many power cuts and electricity failures. Then
no one is seeing image, so I must be getting discount in advance for times when
no one can see it.' Gopal thought this was one of his better bargaining ploys.
The artist didn't seem to think so. 'Well I can't help it if you got power cuts.
And even if you do, you can, you can — tell you what. You buy the whole thing
as it is and if you have any problems with it in India, you just write to me and I'll
refund part of your payment. How 'bout that?'
Gopal appreciated the attempt thoroughly. 'Wonderful,' he applauded. 'You
are please keeping this one only for me. I am going to apartment to get money
and collecting from you soon.'
'Great,' assured the artist lying transparently. 'Nobody but you gets this.'
Understanding each other perfectly, they shook hands amicably and Gopal
left. He could recognise and respect another businessman when he met one.
The girl who had given him the ride drove him back.
'What d'you think of it?' she asked.
'Junk.'
'Yeah, I thought so too. But he's the new hot shit.'
'Americans,' Gopal sighed. He reflected that most foreigners, after they spent
some time in America, began to sigh and say 'Americans', in the same tone.
The girl giggled. 'Say, you do remember me, don't you? I'm Sally. '
Gopal examined her. 'Of course, of course,' he assured her.
'Aw shit,' the girl sighed. 'I've passed you every day and said 'Hi'. I thought
you'd recognise me.'
'Americans,' Gopal explained apologetically. 'You are all looking alike.'
Sally laughed and frowned at the same time. 'Sure.' She gave him an amused
glance.
They arrived at the cafeteria parking lot.
'Well,' said Sally, 'that was my good deed for the day. And I hope you'll
thank all of America for it, considering you can't tell one American from
another. And the next time you see me,' she waggled an admonishing finger,
'you better recognise me. You hear?'
'Oh yes, yes,' Gopal assured her, getting out.
A few days later he met her again as she was walking to the library. She was
carrying a stack of books.
'Guess,' she urged him as they both stopped. 'Guess which American this is
you're talking to? But first,' she stopped him from speaking, 'first let's get the
basics clear. Is this a female American or is it a male American or what? I mean
can you at least tell the genders apart in this vast melting pot called America?'
Gopal heh-heh-heh'd in embarrassment.
'All right then, movin right along. We've got a good start here. So let's move
to specifics. Is this Raquel Welch here, or is it Meryl Streep or, most famous of
all, is it Sally Armbruster?'
'Raquel Welch?' hazarded Gopal.
'Right, first time. And the prize for perspicacity is the honour of helping me
return these books.'
'Oh yes, certainly. '
'I hope you realise,' Sally carried on as they went in, 'that I've been
rehearsing words like "perspicacity" in case I bumped into you again.'
Gopal smiled admiringly, wondering if 'perspicacity' had anything to do with
'perspiration'.
As they dumped the books on the counter, Gopal noticed with interest that
one of them was the Kama Sutra.
'You are,' Gopal cleared his throat, 'having interest in Indian - ah - literature?'
he pointed to the legendary and world's oldest sex manual.
Sally was unfazed. 'You're not the only Indian I know.' She winked
suggestively.
Gopal picked up the book and flipped through it. A thought began to form in
his mind. He thought it might be worth pursuing alone. Waving goodbye to
Sally, he took the elevator to the fifth floor where he normally sat. He wondered
if any other country had elevators instead of stairs in libraries. There was no
reason why they should not, but it just seemed odd. He got down to studying, but
his mind wouldn't concentrate. It kept returning to what he was starting to think
of as Operation Kama Sutra.
With great impatience he waited for about two hours to pass and then went
down to the lobby to the card index. He checked the location of the shelf where
the Kama Sutra would be available and went there to find if it had been returned
to its place. It had. He opened it with excitement, took out a pen and some paper
he had brought with him for this purpose and began writing urgently.
A few minutes later, his mission accomplished, he put the book back in its
shelf and began to hasten home. Randy spotted him and let out a yell.
'Hey Gopal, c'mere.'
Gopal merely waved at him and galloped away .
Randy looked at his receding back. I must be losing my charm, he thought.
Gopal raced up the stairs to his apartment and nearly collided with Gloria.
Even in his fevered state he could see she was glowing.
'Hi there,' she trilled, wiggling her fingers.
Gopal was desperate to get inside his apartment, but he felt a certain courtesy
was obligatory.
'How are you? Congratulations and things like that,' he managed a strained
cordiality.
Gloria was too thrilled to notice the strain.
'Guess where we spent our honeymoon?' Gopal could have sworn she
blushed.
'Florida?'
'In my bedroom.' This time she was definitely blushing, but there was an
element of triumph in it. 'And that Troy —'
Gopal felt an appalled sense of panic in case he was going to have to listen to
the explicit details of her honeymoon.
'Expecting call from India,' he hastily interrupted her. 'We will talk later.
Bye.'
He shut the door behind him quickly.
He sat down at the table and took out that precious scrap of paper. It had
dawned on him in the library, that every book there had a card placed in a flap
stuck on the inside back cover. When a person took a book out, his identity tag
was pressed on the card under a carbon so that his name was stamped on it. This
card remained with the library till the book was returned, when the card was put
back in its slot in the book and the book replaced on the shelf.
This being so, the lending card in the Kama Sutra, it had occurred to Gopal,
would contain the names of borrowers who had the following characteristics.
One, they were interested in sex. Two, they were likely to be quite impressed by
the sexual knowledge and abilities of the ancient Indians, which, it stood to
reason, could only have been improved by centuries of practice. And, therefore,
three, the girls who had read it were likely to be not merely non-prejudiced about
Indians, but perhaps even actively interested.
Gopal had pursued this piece of disgraceful Machiavellian logic by taking
down all the female names on the card. The card was unfortunately somewhat
new, the old one obviously having become too full of names to be used, and he
now had seven female names. Gopal went through the telephone directory and
found four telephone numbers that seemed to match the names. The other three
were either married and had different surnames, or lived in the dormitory or
sororities and shared communal phones, or were unlisted for some other reasons.
He punched the buttons on his phone for the first name and a man's voice
answered. Gopal hung up.
An answering machine replied for the second woman.
The third one answered herself.
'Hello,' her voice was young, breathless, lovely.
'Heh, heh, heh,' sniggered Gopal, suddenly realizing that he had absolutely
no idea what to say.
What did one say to suggest athletic exoticisms to strangers? 'Heh, heh, heh,'
he giggled nervously again.
'Hello,' she repeated. 'Who's this?'
Her voice was so musical Gopal felt he was in love again. But clearly he had
to say something quickly, otherwise she would hang up. Something subtle.
'I am,' he burst out in inspiration, 'from India.'
'Hello,' she was shouting, 'from India. Could you speak louder please. The
lines are not very clear.' Obviously she thought he was calling all the way from
India.
'No, no, no,' Gopal tried to explain. 'Yes, yes, yes,' he contradicted himself,
thinking he might be able to keep the conversation going if she believed it was a
transcontinental one. 'How you are?' he asked lamely.
'I'm fine,' she yelled. 'Who is this?'
'Oh, actually,' he confessed, capitulating, 'it's only me.' He banged the phone
down in disgust.
'Stupid fool,' he cursed himself.
He walked around, trying to think up a suitable ploy for the next one.
He called the fourth number.
'Hello,' the voice was female and mature.
'Madam, I am calling from Students Welfare Office. I am helping foreign
students adjust here. Your name has been recommended as someone who might
be interested in meeting foreign students to give them introduction to life here.'
'Well, certainly,' said the voice unhesitatingly, 'I'd be pleased to.'
'Well, you can meet Mr Gopal. He's from India.'
 'All right. When and where?'
'Up to you, madam.'
'Well I take an evening class every Wednesday in the Arts Building, so he
could come by at around eight and ask for me any Wednesday.'
'Thank you, madam.'
'You are very welcome.'
The phone clicked.
Gopal was pleased but a bit guilty about his lies. I should have said this to
other girl, he thought. On impulse he called her again.
'Hello.' Her voice, Gopal could swear, had the fragrance of soap that he
somehow associated with lovely American girls.
'Oh, excuse me, madam,' Gopal launched glibly into his story .
There was a pause at the other end when he finished.
'You don't work at the Students Welfare Office,' she said with certainty.
'You're the guy who called just now pretending it was from India. Who is this?'
she asked in annoyance. Gopal put the phone down in fright.
On Wednesday evening he went to the Arts Building and found out the class
being attended by Mildred, for that, unhappily, was her name. He loitered around
the water fountain and wondered what so many people would do with arts
degrees when they graduated. Passing by the rooms, he saw through half-open
doors, platoons of women and bearded men (so this is where they are from, he
thought) chipping away at blocks of stone and scrawling on paper. Coming from
a business family that not only had never produced any artists, but didn't even
appear to know one, he felt it was all very exotic, but a bit non-essential. After
all art didn't generate employment nor did it create a cash flow, yet, he puzzled
idly, art and artists seemed to arouse great respect among perfectly sensible
people. Well, he concluded kindly, art probably certainly had its place, though of
course it couldn't be compared to selling hair oil in terms of the general good it
generated.
Mildred's class was getting over and Gopal bent down, pretending to drink
from the fountain, while he watched with one eye. He tried to fit the voice to one
of the faces. The young women could be ruled out. Then someone yelled, 'See
you next Wednesday, Mildred,' and Gopal fixed on the lady waving back. She
looked kind, was his first thought, like somebody's mother. He observed her
closely because Randy had once told him that several of the middle-aged
mothers provided unsuspected and indeed unimaginable opportunities for
endeavours of an intimate sort. But Mildred, Gopal reluctantly concluded, wasn't
one of them. Some of the mothers he knew had a way of dressing — expensive,
discreet, yet available — and a casual quick glance that left him feeling like
razor blades had cut his clothes away. But this one looked so jovial and kind,
that Gopal suspected if he tried to have an affair with her it wasn't that she would
necessarily refuse, but that she might agree out of pity for him. He slunk away.
After the failure of this attempt too, Gopal decided that the gods were clearly
opposed unanimously to introducing him to the world of carnality and he might
as well abandon his ambitions. Besides which, to his concern, he found himself
feeling a sense of brotherliness towards the American girls he now met. In part
this was out of a sense of defeat, but more because he had less than two months
left before the term ended and he returned to India.
He confessed this brotherly emotion to Randy who was alarmed.
'Dangerous,' he warned. 'Never felt nothing like it myself, except Tabby of
course, but she doesn't count. Not infectious, is it? I mean it could be the end of
civilisation as we know it.'
They parted, concerned at the latest threat posed to civilisation.
A few days later Randy grabbed Gopal coming out of a class.
'Feelin better?' He was genuinely concerned.
'Worse. More brotherly.'
'Shit. I was afraid of that. Well, I have the solution. Dr Randy's Cure All.
Come one, come all.'
'What now?'
'There's an ice show coming to town. We'll go see that. They'll have
hundreds of girls in their panties. Imagine that.'
Gopal did. He began to feel measurably less brotherly.
So they went to the show and as promised there was an army of
underdressed young ladies dancing, pirouetting, racing. There was music, gaiety,
colour. Gopal, Randy was pleased to note, was lost in thought.
'So,' Randy dug him in the ribs, 'what say?'
'What?'
'Did it work or what? What're you thinking?'
'I am wondering how they are having ice in summer.'
'Jesus! I don't believe this! And the brotherly stuff?'
'Still prevailing.'
You mean you're sitting there, in front of a hall full of half-naked women,
feeling brotherly towards them and wondering how they make ice in summer?'
Gopal had to shamefully agree.
'Let's get the hell outta here. You're a goddamn freak, Gopal. Know what I
mean?'
Guiltily, Gopal followed the fuming Randy.
Outside, Randy questioned him again.
 'You sure this isn't some sneaky Indian trick to give the girls brotherly
kisses? Know what I mean?'
Gopal denied it.
'All right, all right,' Randy tried to organise his thoughts. 'Let's get this clear.
Are these feelings towards all the girls or just some girls?'
'All.'
'Even the big fat ugly broads?'
'Yes.'
'Even Gloria.'
Gopal hesitated. 'Yes.'
'This is dangerous,' exclaimed Randy. 'I should put the Immigration Service
after you. Damn Commie pervert.'
Gopal wasn't sure if Randy was joking.
They drove back, Randy muttering. Gopal couldn't help himself. It was like a
dream ending. He felt that in a bare ten months he had gone from child to man.
More had happened to him in these few months here than had in his previous
two decades in India. Perhaps that was inevitable for any traveller, particularly if
he came to a society as open, fast moving and aggressive as this. Whatever
happened, good or bad, something always seemed to be happening. And the
Americans were like debris in the whirlwind. But no sooner did one tempest
deposit them, tattered and bloody, in one spot, than they dusted themselves, and
bounded off in eager search of another whirlwind to conquer. He ached
sometimes just looking at them.
He had for instance given up trying to keep track of Randy's different
girlfriends. One day he would find him entangled with a girl in the most public
place, like two amorous boa constrictors unable to disengage themselves and
later Randy would wax lyrical on her charms and the arrival at last, of true love.
A few days later Gopal would barge into his room and find Randy involved in
what he once described to Gopal as 'swapping spit'. But this time the spit
swopper would have auburn hair while the last one was blonde.
'What happened to blonde girl?' he had asked. 'She was true love you said.'
Randy had searched his memory for the specific true love. 'Oh you mean
Sandra. Hey, she was last week. I mean c'mon Gopal, you can't stay in love with
the same girl for longer than a week. Ain't natural.'
'You are swapping so much spit,' Gopal had told him venomously, stalking
out, 'that you are losing all your own and are having only people's.'
Even the diverse 'other people', Gopal had come to differentiate only with
great difficulty. He had not been joking when he told Sally who had driven him
to the art show that all Americans looked alike to him. Aside from being white,
with light hair and overweight bodies, they insisted on wearing a regulation
uniform of blue jeans. Gopal wondered if this was also intended to madden
foreigners.
Initially he used to warmly greet Randy's girlfriends as though they were the
same person. But comradely continuations of a conversation that had been
previously interrupted, caused looks of such bafflement, that Gopal seriously
wondered if Randy selected his girlfriend on the basis of her mental retardation.
It was a sad thing of course, but it was awkward to have someone so young and
pretty stand and gape at you.
Randy, characteristically, once he realised Gopal's predicament, didn't help
matters by sincerely insisting that it was indeed the same girl. It was only when a
new girl arrived who had red hair, and Gopal realised that whenever Randy was
being so sincere it could only mean that he was being thoroughly insincere, that
the problem diminished.
Now of course he could laugh at it. But he felt it a pity that just when
America and Americans had begun to take on distinguishably individual
features, the time had nearly come for him to leave. He sensed that it was going
to be not just a farewell to America, but a farewell to childhood. He would go
back home to a gruelling work schedule, to a world of business that was ruthless,
endless, savage. He could visualize dry afternoons and cold-eyed buyers
negotiating deals. He knew it all of course, knew that the world he had been
trained for was the real one for people of his inheritance, and this one was
relatively a vacation. He knew he would stand for many days on the shopfloor of
the factory, amidst the black stains, the oil smells, the roar of men and
machinery, sweating in the heat, and the memories of this interlude would wash
over him, cooling yet arousing a longing.
He would remember the rust and gold trees, the mists in the winter, the
sounds of a bar-room, the rain on an early evening. Those first snowflakes
dancing like him, white trees, a white world, and exuberant faces everywhere. It
was such a fresh world. But at least he would have the memories, as he went
back to his ancient land, to an arranged life and an arranged marriage and
everything else so arranged as to be preordained. And as work and family took
more and more of his time and attention, the memory too would begin to feel
like an illusion. Of course he had promised himself that he would return, visit
old friends, meet the professors, but he knew how difficult it would be.
Responsibilities called, they would take their toll and who knew when, if ever,
he would return. Perhaps he would relive it all only when he sent his son here to
study, to learn in their superb systems, to grow and be hurt and yet feel so alive
in their strange world, amidst their alien and rude ways that somehow managed
to be affectionate. But it would be long time from now, Gopal knew that.
Over the next two months Randy, for all his thickheadedness, sensed some
of Gopal's emotions too. He became so alarmingly civil that Gopal had to throw
an empty beer can at him. He became somewhat normal then, but persisted in
being extremely polite about India. Instead of his normal snide theories about the
reasons for India's poverty, he began to express sympathy, going so far as to
cluck his tongue in sorrow on reading of the failure of the monsoon rains. Never
again did he urge that the solution to India's problems was for the lazy SOBs to
get off their butts and work.
Gopal had learned to enjoy Randy's views once he had overcome his fury at
the crass simplicity of it all. He had given up trying to make Randy even begin
to comprehend the vastness of India, its confounding complexity and the
enormity of its successes. It was simply more than Randy could understand or
indeed wanted to. His mind, his ambitions, his world view were contained within
the boundaries of the United States and anything beyond lay in the realm of
black mists where, as the ancient cartographers said, there be dragons.
Periodically someone reasonably civilised though unquestionably 'weird' would
emerge from that night and spend some time in the sunshine of these United
States before disappearing back into the suspicious blackness. Randy was almost
unique in that at least he took an extremely keen interest in the antics of the
strangers while they sunned themselves in the blessed land, considering that the
other Americans were politely but firmly simply not interested. Nothing of any
consequence, they seemed convinced, existed outside America.
But even Randy, with all his involvement with foreigners, just couldn't
accept the accounts of Indian life that Gopal gave him. It was as though that part
of his brain had been benumbed by some process and nothing could spark any
life in that portion of his mind. Though as Gopal's departure date began to come
near, he began his wholly synthetic sympathy for India.
'Randy, shut up,' ordered Gopal on one occasion.
'No, really, I think it's great the way India's managed to carry on. Really
terrific.'
Gopal realised then that the process of disengagement from him had begun.
While he was here, he was, for Randy, a temporary near American. He could be
joked with, laughed at, needled, set up for embarrassments, yelled at, made to
look foolish and have other rites performed on him that are part of the American
collegiate way of life. But now that he was leaving, he was becoming foreigner
again and more so with every passing day. His views were being listened to and
met with polite responses. Gopal knew, the more polite Americans were towards
you, the more they regarded you as a stranger. Normality and friendliness with
them usually implied some form of verbal assault .
Before Gopal could feel actually sick by Randy's politeness, he preoccupied
himself with exams and term papers. He was leaving before the results were
declared, because, another sign of the tentacles of India reaching out to reclaim
him, he had to reach in time for a wedding in the family.
It all passed in a blur. Exams, packing, the farewell to the staff that he rushed
through. He went to say goodbye to Sue but she wasn't home. He pounded fists
with the Peacock and promised to write if American football ever came to India.
He refused to call Anand. But he did phone his headwaiter friend in the
restaurant to thank him for his memorable visit to the church. Randy brought
Ann to his apartment and she gave him a long, lingering, regretful kiss.
You don't know what you've missed, honey,' she told and amazed Gopal.
As he packed the last of his toilet gear in the handbag, he felt like he was
putting in the final moments of his life in Eversville. He thought of going to the
mall to murmur a farewell to that neon temple and to pray to its gods for a safe
journey, but there was no time.
'Let's go, let's go,' Randy was shadow boxing, more upset than he would
dream of admitting.
Gopal presented the last of his hair oil to Randy, who accepted it with
apparent gratitude.
As they loaded the bag in the car and stowed away the hair oil, Gloria came
rushing.
'Here,' she thrust an envelope into Gopal's hand.
She gave him a tight hug. 'Go now.' She turned and ran back.
Gopal shoved the envelope into his pocket and they drove away.
'We're late, I just know we're late,' chanted Randy .
Significantly, thought Gopal, he hadn't said what a disaster it would be for
Eversville if I missed my flight and had to stay. I'm a complete foreigner again.
They pulled up outside the airport entrance and Randy helped Gopal lug the
bags and check in.
'You better hurry, sir,' the lady said.
She had red hair and something about that stirred in Gopal's memory. But he
was busy saying goodbye.
'Well, brother,' he shook Randy's hand, 'thank you for everything. Please
thank your mother and father and say sorry from me to Tabatha if I am being
rude to her and all that.'
Randy grinned awkwardly. 'No problem at all. I hope you had a good time.
Stay in touch now.'
They shook hands formally again.
 'I hope I am seeing you soon in India?'
'Absolutely. I'll write you first.'
Gopal thought, he hasn't mentioned a harem.
They shook hands some more.
'Right,' said Randy increasingly ill at ease. 'Be seeing you. Take care.' He
waved, walking backward.
Suddenly Gopal remembered. 'Randy,' his voice was loud.
'Are red-headed girls,' Gopal's voice was a loud whisper, 'red all over?'
Randy appeared to buckle. He hugged himself, waved a last time and turned
and ran. Gopal thought his eyes had looked wet.
Gopal walked to the passage leading to the aircraft. His own throat felt
craggy. Nice boy, he thought to himself as he buckled himself in, but a bit
strange. He tasted the salt in his mouth and wept a little.
At New York he got off and was met by Sunil with great warmth.
'So, you're going back home, eh?' How was Eversville ?
Gopal struggled with himself, but he stayed cool. 'It is being kind of neat.'
'Great. Glad you liked it.'
Gopal's flight left late at night so they drove to Manhattan. Gopal had been
drinking throughout the flight from Eversville.
'So where d'you want to go to, Gopal?'
'Any bar.'
'Right.'
They parked and walked into a bar.
'What would you like to drink, Gopal?'
'Pitcher of beer?'
'A whole pitcher?'
'Two.'
'Right. A pitcher of beer,' Sunil ordered, 'and a bourbon for me.'
Gopal drank steadily, answering Sunil in monosyllables.
Finally Sunil asked, 'So tell me, Gopal, what were the girls like? You have a
lot of girlfriends?'
'No.'
'None?'
'No.'
'Shit. What happened?'
Gopal drank some more.
'You mean you're going back after a year in America without getting laid?'
'Yes.'
'Jesus, I hope the Tourist Office doesn't hear of this. It'll ruin business. I
mean we can't let that happen, can we?'
'Gods,' Gopal said thickly, 'against it.'
'Oh nonsense,' encouraged Sunil. 'This is America. American gods love it.'
Gopal shook his head groggily. 'No use. '
'Wait and watch. We can't let this happen. America would close down.'
Sunil got up and walked away. He returned in a while.
'There's a blonde sitting in that corner table. The bartender says 50 bucks is
what it takes. I've paid him. It's my farewell present to you. Go get'em boy.'
'No use,' intoned Gopal. 'Gods.'
'Go try it,' urged Sunil. 'It's all bought and paid for.'
He helped Gopal to his feet and pushed him in the right direction. Gopal
staggered forward and saw the blonde standing beside the rear door under an exit
sign. She stepped out and Gopal followed unsteadily. They were in an alley and
the blonde walked only a few steps before turning to go down into a basement.
Gopal painfully managed the steps. The door at the bottom was open and as he
walked in he saw her already taking her shoes off.
'Bathroom?' he asked.
She jerked a thumb. Gopal stumbled in and unzipped himself. Gods, he
thought to himself sadly, but he was starting to get interested. He relieved
himself and came out. Excitement began to stir in him and his head felt clearer.
The girl was half-lying on the bed. She had taken off her shoes, her blonde wig,
her clothes and she was quite obviously a man.
'C'mon honey,' the harsh masculine voice grated, 'I ain't got all night.'
Gopal felt weariness seep into him as though it was an intravenous
transfusion.
'Gods,' he said aloud. He walked to the door and opened it. 'Hey,' said the
rough voice, 'you paid for it. You want it or not?'
Gopal noticed he had black hair all over. Dispiritedly he closed the door
behind him and walked up.
Sunil looked at him in surprise. 'That was quick. '
Gopal smiled sadly.
'Well let's go.' Sunil put his glass down with a thud.
On the drive he asked, 'Everything okay.'
'Yes.'
'Did you like the girl?'
'Very nice girl.'
'Great.' Sunil was relieved. 'At least you haven't made history.'
Gopal sleepwalked through check in and walked up to the first class lounge.
He sat down heavily and began to drink again. After a while he noticed a woman
in a sari sitting opposite, matching him drink for drink. She smiled at him and
got up and walked around a bit before sitting next to him. She was in her early
forties, had fashionably short hair, expensive earrings, but a pleasant rather than
beautiful face.
Gopal warmed to her and almost as though he couldn't stop, related his
sorrow at leaving America, to her. He told her of his fears of a boring future, an
unknown wife, a strangling environment, and how the freedom of his American
experience now made him want to rebel against the way things were at home. He
found from her that she was married, had a son studying in America in college
who she had come to visit. As they drifted in their mutual alcoholic cloud into
the aircraft, they sat on adjacent seats in the first class section. As the great craft
rose towards the dew drop stars, they whispered their secrets.
Gopal told her of his disasters with women. She told him of how her
husband ignored her and tried to seduce every girl he met. They drank more.
Dinner was offered and refused, and now the lights were lowered. They
burrowed in the softness of the cushions they had been given. The cabin was
nearly empty and with the comforting hum of the engines around them, they
whispered and wept to each other. Neither knew how much they had drunk or
what they were saying. They clung to one another, afraid of the morrow but able
to ignore it in their contentment with each other.
At some point they had begun to kiss while talking. And then they stopped
talking. Gopal forgot this was a woman so much older. He felt absorbed by her.
He felt his cheeks wet with tears, his and theirs, and when he lurched into the
bathroom, she went with him. And there, crouched uncomfortably but heedless,
30,000 feet above the ocean, Gopal at last felt he had truly become a man.
He went back to his seat and fell instantly asleep. When he woke up, the
plane was taking off from London and the woman was gone, obviously having
disembarked there. Awake yet disoriented, refreshed yet disbelieving, Gopal
wondered if he had imagined it all. He stretched and felt something crinkle in his
pocket. He fished it out and it was Gloria's envelope. It had his recent
companion's name and address on it too, though he had no recollection of taking
it down. He opened the envelope and took out the letter. He carefully put the
envelope with its address in his wallet. He was determined to see her again. He
read Gloria's poem.
I wish we had got some time, So I could make you mine.
I know you'll find a love as fine, In some unexpected time.
Gopal laughed. He would write to Randy and tell him about last night. That
should get him on the next flight to India. He laughed all the way home.