We that are young Read online

  Ma refused to take a job in an estate agency or Visitor Information Centre like the other brown moms. Nor would she become a Yoga instructor or Bollydancerxiser like the white ones. She worked instead as a receptionist for the local water board. After Vivek Uncle died (heart attack, too much golf laced with piña coladas) Ma was promoted to sample collector, pushing her implements deep into designated ground to test for contamination. Bad water causes breast cancer, she said.

  Jon can still feel her soft, lined hands in his. She always had perfect nails, painted a dark maroon. Five weeks ago, he stood in the Chapel of Peace (a box room attached to the crematorium’s oven), trying to recite the only line of prayer he could remember. Om bhur bhuvah svaha. The place was lit by a green exit sign, on which a white man was running for the door. He waited alone for the standard issue urn, then stored Ma in a bank vault in Boston: he did not know what else to do.

  A week later, he called Jeet.

  Thank God for Jeet, who, in the first year after Jon came to America, answered his Mickey Mouse-embossed letters with notes on Ranjit’s thick, Company-headed paper. After the Internet happened, there had been emails, sometimes texts, then Viber. In his final year of college, they began to use WhatsApp, with messages months apart. Sometimes, Jon thought about Skyping, but had not mentioned it; neither did Jeet.

  Gargi wrote three times in the first year, once in the second. Saying, look after Ma, don’t forget us! Nothing ever came from Radha. Once upon a time, Radha’s moods, her big feet, her way of kicking the ground to get what she wanted, were more familiar to him than he was to himself. He could not bring himself to ask Jeet about the girls.

  His contact with his half brother dwindled to birthdays. Sometimes a song lyric that brought childhood to mind appeared in a text. Selfies of nights out; sent when one was getting up, the other coming down. If they spoke, they stuck to movies and music, dating, financial news, Jon’s American life.

  Which is over. Ma is in the bank and the house has been sold, the money swallowed up in mortgage and fees. He is here because of Jeet, who promised to get him home.

  —What are big brothers for? Jeet said. How long will you stay?

  —I’ll see. It depends.

  —Fine, Jeet said. Wait for me to call you after I have talked to Dad. I’ll get Radha to persuade him. Then I’ll meet you at Indira Gandhi International with a flower garland, a box of suji ke ladoo and a big old Namaste. We’ll give you a traditional VIP Welcome Home.

  Jon doesn’t eat Indian sweets. He didn’t tell Jeet that. When the time came, he would eat whatever was offered, he would swallow it down.

  It took just three weeks to shut up America. Jon told Iris he loved her, ignoring any hints that she would come with him, if he asked. Iris, his blue-eyed girl. With her lawyer Pop, and stay-at-home Mom and just enough security to major in comp lit. Lithe, mocha-loving Iris, always trying to get him to read Orwell or Baldwin or Morrison or Lahiri, names she scattered like birdfeed in the park, talking about racial prosestyling and postpoetic realism while combing her fingers through her butter-blonde hair. Iris, who thinks Jon will be coming back to her soon. (He won’t, he has decided, even if India doesn’t work out. It’s not a question of her hair, her precious stack of Korla Pandit vinyls (a gift from her mother), or her preference for generic Nina Simone over the specificity of the Rolling Stones. Is it her land? No. It is her lack of appreciation for money.)

  Another week passed. No call from Jeet. Three more days. Jon had stood in Ma’s empty kitchen, barefoot in his shorts and vest, staring into the microwave as it went round and round. Heating up the last of the freezer meals Ma prepared for him before she went into hospital. All his favourites, labelled in capitals. His plan was to spoon up the KAALI DAAL straight from the carton, dredge the Black Label, then start writing his resumé for Pierce & Pierce – he had heard they were hiring in the Far East. Then his mobile rang. International call.

  It was Ranjit himself. His father’s unmistakable cigar-scarred voice, with no preamble, asked:

  —Who wants to be a crorepati? Jivan Singh, your number is up. Ticket booked. Time to come home.

  It was the first time they had spoken in ten years. Mothers, alive or dead, were not mentioned.

  The plane dips, the blinds are raised. Sunlight floods the cabin as the whole of Delhi rushes up to meet him. He is caught by the city below. His mantra is right: from the air there is no sight of earth. Instead, miles after miles of corrugated rooftops, unfinished brick buildings and a dump covering the ground as far as he can see.

  Picking over it, inside it, giving it life, he imagines all those legs, arms, heads, eyes: with no idea how big the whole is, or care for how little they own of it. All crushed together breathing in, and out, and in. Bodies covering the land, children squatting in the mud: wanting and working to have enough money to survive and then to thrive. Not a patch of dirt left free.

  He can make out flyovers strewn like necklaces across the city, jewelled with billboards promising reincarnation in this life, and ways to afford it, because it must be achieved. There will be ads for new cars, mobiles, modified milk for bachchas’ bone strength and protein powder for abs; ads for Company hotels full of romance, for new detergents and washing machines. For flour to make perfect chapatis: pictures of fat young execs and good Indian girls promising hot married sex with their homemade bread.

  Now they are cruising over acres of flat white rooftops dotted with satellite dishes, hundreds of ears all listening for his arrival. The bride in the seat next to him puts on her pink lipstick, her mouth a silent O.

  —So we return, humare apne India, says Number 5, smiling.

  Is he for real? Right on, man. Then, Yaar, Jon corrects himself; he’s about to land: talking the talk is a key methodology to winning trust. He considers America where land is king, where everything works to make it pretty or make it yield. In America, the pundits talk about India Rising like they used to talk about the Russians Coming. Here, they talk about India Shining. Come visit Incredible Ind!a. Rising, shining, waking, sleeping. He knows the habits, he really does. In America he could star as a standard TV Asian in a supporting role: good schools, a sense of humour and a Ma fixation. Here, of course they will see his American smile, his suit and tie, first class, pure gold. The truth is: he is Jivan Singh, half brother to Jeet Singh, son of Ranjit Singh. He was born on this Indian earth, has waited all this time to return.

  —Hari Om, Number 5 mutters.

  The plane lands with force.

  A smile he cannot stop splits his face. Jon has left the building. It is time for Jivan to greet the hordes.

  He joins the other passengers swaying down the aisle. It is high noon and a hundred degrees fahrenheit or more. On the bridge, Jivan can smell his India: fuel, dust, the choking air. This day has waited for him like his mother used to after grade school, arms out to press his face into her damp breasts. He wants to shout (but doesn’t) where’s my milky-doodh?

  He is half expecting Jeet to have got past security. To be here, right at the plane. When they were boys, some nights they would be escorted to this point by armed police. They would clutch their bottles of Company Cola, playing with their bendy-straws (red for Jivan, yellow for Jeet) while they waited for the jet to land. Devraj and Ranjit would appear, wearing those dark glasses even at night, cradling their briefcases to their chests. He would trail Devraj, Ranjit and Jeet all the way through security and into the Arrivals Hall. Where groups of stick-thin men leaned on each other, eyeing up the white girls and the rich sons of Sahibs as if the girls were marrowbone, the boys were sauce. Through the hall the Company entourage progressed, dripping petals from their welcome-home garlands, bright orange tears on the dirty ground.

  No Jeet. Jivan must get through immigration. He might have to dodge the porters and the trolley-boys alone. If Jeet hasn’t come (but he will, of course he will), then Jivan will change the last of his dollars to a wad of rupees, go outside and find a black and yellow beetle cab with cle
an as possible seats. And then? To the house in Nizamuddin, for lunch.

  He is inside. Instead of the old, airless immigration hall tiled in speckled grey, a floor that belongs in a Maharaja’s palace stretches out for anyone, for everyone to walk on. Enormous bronze sculptures hang above each booth, blessing arrivals as they pass through. It is air-conditioned.

  Only the lines are the same. Emirates slaves hoist their bundles, middle-aged men carrying imitation Samsonites eye up the young bloods with leather weekend bags; there are the Juicy Couture wives, all don’t-touch-velour and overdone hair. Last come the whiteys, panicking politely as they try to keep some space between themselves and the natives without actually pushing anyone out of the way. He is none of them. He feels himself being checked out; he cannot tell whether it is with admiration, or something else. Is it his suit? Is it too much? He takes off his jacket. He loosens the Harvard tie. In America he had wanted to take off his skin, as he peeled onions in his step-dad’s friend’s restaurant for his first job. When he was young, in India, his illegitimate blood made him an outsider. His blood, which sometimes it seemed, everyone could see.

  The immigration guard has a full chest of medals and a deep-set frown. He looks exhausted by combat, bored of protecting the border from cut-price bandits and thieves; he flicks through every blank page of Jon’s passport until a lonely Indian tourist visa reveals itself. To picture, to visa, to picture.

  —Main Jivan hoon, says Jon (and does the guard smile?). Main bahut saal ke baad ghar aaya hoon.

  —Good job! Welcome back, Foreign Return, the guard says. He rolls his r’s, ‘foe-reign.’ Emphasises both syllables, equally.

  —Thank you, sir.

  Jivan is stamped, and can enter. In Arrivals, the visions duplicate, triplicate: on the walls, ads for HSBC mock him, they show the same stubble-faced guy, hands up and grinning. First in jeans, then a suit, jeans, then a suit. Leader, says the caption, follower, says the next. Leader/ follower/ leader/ follower: can you spot the difference between the two? Which one, Jivan are you? Everything has caught up, grown up, without him.

  He fixes on a crowd of men outside. Who can’t afford shoes, forget proper suits. They cup their faces to the windows, trying to see into the hall. No matter how much has changed, those poor bastards still hang out here. He catches the desire to bow.

  Where is Jeet? There are families spilling over Louis Vuittons to get to each other, drivers holding signs, people at coffee bars and kiosks like any other international airport in the world. No Jeet. Homecoming. Pah. He wants to spit (but doesn’t). His eyes follow a worker, uniform grey as a spent cigarette, using a machine to polish the floor. Standing still, rotating the brush over the same spot again and again and back again.

  Move, Jivan!

  A thin red carpet leads him out of the terminal, into the glaring day.

  For a freak moment, he wonders if he’s landed in the right city. The crowd is only one-deep. The honking, bleating black and yellow Ambassadors he remembers are gone, replaced by a line of shiny white sedans waiting politely for fares. A few people stand in quiet groups. And Jivan himself is nothing. Just a clean-shaven young man who was teased as a child because his skin was so light. Like a girl, his father used to joke. Before sending him to America, where pale enough cheeks and dark eyes helped him to navigate being the brown one through college and grad-school while working every service industry from door-man to tech. Back on demand, with his US accent, his dutiful bottle of black label in his Duty Free bag, how should he speak now? Barun would know. He takes a step, feels sweat bathe his sides under his jacket. The attention of the crowd has waned, as if he was the warm-up act and they are restless for the main event.

  Then it comes. Beyond the line of cabs, the 4×4s and bags and bodies, a powder blue Bentley is nosing everything out of its way. He wants to pretend he hasn’t seen it – but everyone can see it. The people in the planes circling the sky over the airport can probably see it, even through the smog.

  Jeet, he thinks. What are you playing at?

  Any boy can get a nice suit, a briefcase and a pair of good shoes. Such a boy might indeed ride in a taxi to a hotel in the city. But see the gleaming beauty of the rare, vintage car; see it pull up on the curbside near that tired looking Foreign Return! See the driver, sharp as if his wife irons him each morning, jump out and salute as he opens the doors. And the two passengers who climb from the back, each a mirror of the other – black linen Nehru collar suits, silverplated hair, like two handmade domino tiles. This you could only be born to, if your past lives decree it and God loves you. And look – one is carrying such a handsome bone-topped cane. What style! This is to be worshipped, and prayed for in the next life. Who are they?

  This is not Jeet, playing the fool. Here is his father, Ranjit Singh, Director of the Devraj Group. With a man Jivan has not seen for over twenty years. Kritik Sahib, Vice President, Intelligence and Research, shadow wolf from boyhood. The right hand and the left hand, come to meet Jivan, straight off the plane. Where, he thinks, is Barun when you need him? Where the fuck is Jeet?

  —Jivan. Welcome, Ranjit says.

  Before America, Jivan had a Kathputli puppet that looked a bit like Ranjit. Wooden face, oval eyes, curling smile. White beard painted close to its chin. He could make it move by putting an arm up its body; make it nod, or make it wave. Shake it and it would blink.

  —Wah, Ranjitji, wah, says Kritik Sahib. What a man you have brought from America!

  Kritik Sahib has kept himself better than Ranjit over the years. He is bigger than Ranjit. Chest wider, arms thicker. At least five-nine to Ranjit’s five-six. His body is more toned, and while Ranjit wears splashes of colour Kritik Sahib has always cultivated a quiet, contained manner, as if he listens without judgement, as if he hears all sound. Looking at him one would think he had a comfortable life, loved his fellows, would do no harm to anyone. But what Jivan remembers clearly about Kritik Sahib is still there: tempered steel around his eyes and mouth. Strangely white teeth. If ever Ma admonished Jivan or even Jeet, Gargi, or Radha, Kritik Sahib was the threat. Now he is smiling. Waiting for Jivan or Ranjit to make the first move.

  Ranjit. Cane hooked over his fingers, holding out his arms at a precise forty-five degrees from his body. Not quite high enough for an embrace.

  —Jivan, beta. Come and greet your father.

  Kneel. He wants me to kneel. All of the curious eyes around Jivan focus into one ferocious gaze. The heat is fierce. His vision blurs, his upper lip turns to salt water; it is the hours in the plane, it is the lack of food. My God. No way. He is an American, he has been in America for fifteen years. Ranjit never came to see him. Or wrote to him. Or called. Or emailed. Or texted. Or thought of him, talked of him, dreamt of him.

  Ranjit waits, standing on the curb. Arms stretched, palms upward.

  We stay still; it is the world that turns.

  Jivan puts down his Duty Free. The driver watches at his window and Kritik Sahib says:

  —Yes, just right.

  Jivan bends towards the earth, hot as the punishing sun. He reaches, palm down, fingers straight, to touch his father’s feet.

  —Aré nahin, beta, nahin, says Ranjit. He laughs, cups his shoulders and guides him upright. Come. Car is here. Chalo.

  Jivan climbs into the back with Ranjit. Kritik Sahib in front. The doors shut, the driver revs. Without checking his rear-view or sides, he pulls into the traffic. The porters and the passengers and all of the families watch them disappear, then go back to their business. Inside the terminal, the floor man keeps shining the floor. Show is over, he thinks. He wants to spit (but doesn’t). Time to get back to work.

  The movement of the Bentley: its preserved hush. As if Jivan is back in the crematorium, watching the coffin glide towards the incinerator. He has to have a short, brutal battle with the lump in his throat. The cold air makes him sniff. Only girls get sick-sick. The last thing Ranjit said to him before waving him off to America. Jivan sniffs again. His father and Krit
ik Sahib do not look at him.

  The sounds from the road are muted, the car windows frame and colour everything sepia. Scenes from old India reel out before him, comforting after the airport, the things he wants to see. A sabzi wala shambles down the lane, his cart loaded with wrinkled root vegetables dug up from centuries ago, whole families stacked onto mopeds, eight legs dangling over the sides. There are women balancing bricks and bundles, walking barefoot on the broken sidewalks. Half-naked children grin to each other as they clean their teeth with dirty fingers, their hair in helmets of crazy around their heads. All of it seen as if from far, far away, punctuated by Mercedes and 4×4s, Toyota, Honda, all the big boys. Jivan takes in these shining beasts as visions from a future-possible; at the same time, he wants to shout freeze-frame! He’s thinking, How long has the party been going on? Why didn’t you invite me? There are even new buses with doors that fully close. But the trucks still say Horn Please! in fading yellows and pinks, and everyone still drives as if they don’t need sight. There are still a few white cows standing dumb as temple paintings, white against red walls – this, at least, has not changed.

  The brightness of July and August, so hot that you could not believe the monsoon once came, is coming, will come again; in summers like this, Jeet and he would wait through all the long days until their excitement broke the sky. The thrill as fat drops began to fall; the painful delight of playing ‘sink or swim’, racing paper boats when rain swallowed the horizon and turned the earth into muddy sea. Once, Ranjit even umpired a game – and for the first time, in that very game, his boat beat Jeet’s. The memory douses him like water from the too-hot-too-cold bucket-and-jug baths he has not had since then. He almost says – Papaji, remember – but swallows the words and breaths deeply in the conditioned car air.