The Two Krishnas (13 page)

She poured him a cup of steaming chai and glanced at the screen. “He’s so talented. Can’t believe it’s the same boy from
Company
,” she said.

“Put the volume up. I don’t mind,” he said and took his seat at the head of the table.

She returned to the kitchen. “Yesterday you worked very late.”

He unfolded the
Los Angeles Times
, which she had also placed on the table before him, and tried to occupy himself with the collapse of the tenuous Middle East peace. Hundreds tortured, displaced, killed. And though he cared, he could not bring himself this morning to empathize with anything; he could only think of the war within him. “You know how it is,” he said simply as if this explained everything and mitigated all that upset the equilibrium of a marriage.

She reappeared with a jar of spicy pickled mangos, stirring the pungent, swampy concoction with a teaspoon and placed it next to his untouched plate. “Eat first. It will go cold. The war will still be going on after you’ve eaten your eggs.”

“Hmm.” He looked up at her, smiled, conceded. At least Ajay wouldn’t be up for another hour and he wouldn’t have to pretend. If she sensed something different about him that morning, he would be the last to know. She fed him, fussed over him, gabbed about Sonali’s latest antic, touched him on the shoulder as she hovered over him, and life continued as if nothing had happened.

There was so much he could do, so many possibilities. He could grab her by the wrist, sit her down next to him, tell her, “Pooja, listen, I was with someone yesterday. I was with another man.” He could tell her that it wouldn’t happen again. Or that he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the boy. He could just get up, the food she had so lovingly prepared untouched, say nothing, leave her wondering, flummoxed.

Despite himself, Rahul felt resentful that she was making this so easy for him. He dug his fork into the cumin-speckled pillows of egg and vegetables and she settled next to him, wedging fist under chin, watching him partake of her love adoringly.

It was so easy to just continue as if nothing had happened.

As the clouds scatter, her tears flow

as night deepens, her sighs increase

Like a bird in flight, her laughter vanishes

Lightning strikes and robs her of her sleep

Like a bird, she cries “Piu! Piu!”

Waves of fierce heat rise up within her.

Listen, says Kesav, this is her condition:

There is no fire, but her limbs are burning.

Radha’s lament for Krishna

Granthavali

I must go

in spite of my kisses,

my passionate embraces,

he keeps repeating

that he must go.

He goes half a step

and then he turns back

with anguished eyes,

gazing at my face.

Chandidasa

14
^th
century

IT WAS DARK by the time Atif got home. Becca had pulled a no-show but Atif had been grateful for the extra work that kept him from his solitude, the thoughts of Rahul.

He entered the quiet, warm apartment, illuminated only by the powdery light of the security lamp filtering in through the sheer curtains. He had forgotten to turn the thermostat off in the morning and the heater thundered back on, its roar never failing to surprise him. Having slept restlessly the night before, he felt drained today.

In the dark, he walked over to the answering machine, checking it out of habit, expecting no messages. Nobody called anymore. Telemarketers and occasionally Nuru, trying to rope him into another drug-fuelled circuit party at The Mayan or some renovated hip spot.

Many of Atif’s close friends had disappeared altogether. As they had grown into their late twenties, the loves of their lives had miraculously materialized out of nowhere, rescuing them from a future of crippling solitude and unreasonably high expectations; like his friend Enrique, whom the Gods of the Internet had rewarded by materializing Steven from the void. Within mere weeks they had all but moved in—baking cookies, catching up on entire seasons of
Sex and the City
, planning international trips to the Amazon and Europe, spending time with other couples, fantasizing about home purchases.

“But seriously, Enrique. Are you in love with this guy?” Atif asked and he got, “Well, I do love him.” Or there was that incredulous look, as if Atif had refused to grow up. As time went by, Enrique called less and calls were returned less punctually until one day, not at all. Some months later, Atif had run into the blissful couple in the Halloween throngs on Santa Monica Boulevard. Enrique’s awkwardness and Steven’s coldness confirmed to Atif that he’d been sold out as the friend who once seeded doubts in Enrique’s mind, daring to question their love.

Atif refused to make the compromises that would allow him to accept just any man who came along.
I’m not picky, just specific.
The model boyfriend may look good on paper, armor buffed and strapping, but if he didn’t make your heart sing, weaken your knees with a feverish jolt of desire, set off butterflies in the stomach, then what good was it? Just a lot of tin and clangor. Atif was convinced that friends like Enrique had eventually settled, capitulated. Now they had no time for friends, especially the ones they had known when they were single. They were required to be home—to cook dinner, look after the dog, play house, invite other couples over—and even having dinner or catching a movie with an old friend was suddenly a betrayal to the relationship.

Atif had always hoped that if love didn’t come, at least the friendships would endure, that in the end they would grow old together so that they could look each other in the eyes and say, “It’s okay that we didn’t find ‘the one.’ I know you at least. Over all these years we’ve remained. We’ve seen so many things happen. I still love you.” That’s what he searched for in friendships, the common thread running through them all. They would age together, watch each other become wiser, stronger, and when they saw each other’s frailties, they would prop each other up. But ultimately, most had been too terrified of being alone.

The answering machine came alive with Nuru. “Girlfriend, where you are these days? You get kidnap by UFO or what?” he said in his thick accent, laughing delightedly at his own humor. “You know, I not calling anymore, okay, bitch, because you don’t call back no more. So what is this, your problem? Listen, you have to come to Red Eye this weekend. And no to worry, I treat. Okay,
habibi
, call me,” and he rattled off his number three times just in case.

The son of wealthy Kuwaiti parents, Nuru spent his family fortune on circuit parties and designer drugs as freely as the free-flowing oil that had produced it. In many ways, he reminded Atif of Hiten Khanna. Nuru loved to wear dazzling Versace shirts unbuttoned down to his navel to reveal a forest of chest hair against which he always wore gold chains and pendants. The backlash of 9/11 had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for the country or curb his flamboyance. Whenever asked about his so-called marketing major, Nuru liked to flash a smile as bright as his conspicuous Dolce & Gabbana belt buckle, prop his buttocks out and say, “Yeah, baby, here is market. Come, you want juicy watermelon? I give you
halaal
meat too,
habibi.
”

Of all his friends, Nuru was the one Atif had the least in common with, and the only one who bothered to stay in touch. Nuru was always generous with his money, supplying rounds of ecstasy and an assortment of powdery bumps from brightly colored bullets to fuel the party. Atif, never a regular in this scene, had made it clear that he was not into it. But, perhaps owing to his privileged background, Nuru was never one to be discouraged or to take anything too seriously. He still called occasionally, sounding mildly wounded as if they had been in touch only last week, and hoping he could sway Atif into an eight-hour marathon of carousing. No chance.

Atif emptied his pockets of the loose change on the writing desk and stripped down to nothing, tossing his clothes carelessly around him. Naked, he went to the kitchen and from the freezer he retrieved a tin that used to contain rose-flavored pastilles but now held a thatch of marijuana, and from the cutlery drawer he took out some rolling paper. He placed everything on the coffee table, pressed some buttons on the remote control and let the honeyed voice of Abida Parvin pour into the room. He had a formidable collection of CDs and was especially fond of the
ghazals
of which the Sufi singer was a legend.

Abida deliquesced in Faiz’s poetry while Atif closed his eyes, swiveled his tired neck, hunched his aching shoulders and allowed her melody to soothe him. Even though he knew that Abida Parvin and his Zainab Aunty were two different people, when he listened to her
ghazals
, he liked to think that it was in fact his long lost aunt that was singing them, that she was also there somewhere, quietly validating his taste, savoring them with him from a corner of the room.

Sham-e-firaque ab na pooch

Aayee aur aa ke tal gayee

Pray don’t ask me of my evening of waiting

How it came and went and how.

He settled into an easy chair from across the entertainment center and rolled himself a tight, plump joint, working expertly in the dark. He heard his neighbor’s footsteps across the ceiling, the floorboards creaking. Abida soared –

Bazme khayal me tere husn ki shamma jal gayee

Dard ka chaand bujh gaya hijr ki raat dhal gayee

Enveloped by thoughts of your beauty, the evening passed

A night of pain ended, the hours of waiting passed.

He lit the joint and drew in its rich, aromatic fumes and as the smoke filled his lungs he felt the looseness of his body, pure emancipation, levitation. He sank back in the chair and emitted whorls of smoke, watching them dance up in arabesques in the shaft of light cutting through him, and felt the day with its taxing thoughts seep gently out of him and dissipate in the atmosphere.

Listening to the yearning in her voice and in the lyrics, he wondered how long had it been since someone had held him all night—bodies tossing and turning, adjusting but always staying in contact, an arm thrown over his waist, a head leaning against his back, hot breath against his skin. He thought of Rahul, wondered what it must be like to find him there in the morning.

He took a deep drag and decided it had been much too long. Too long since he had been held. Much too long since he had smoked. At times like this, the marijuana allowed him rein in his ricocheting thoughts. To quiet down the noise a little, prevent a mental collision. He could take one memory, one thought at a time, and after inspecting it momentarily, vaporize it.

Abida’s twisting
alaps
,
tablas
, lamenting
sarangi
and the cannabis fused together to help Atif escape in a way his expired visas never could. He drifted back to Mumbai: the throng of people, rickshaws, taxis and cattle locking and moving intermittently through the streets, barely a hair’s breadth from each other. God, he never thought he would miss it so much. He hadn’t even considered how he’d never be able to go back after overstaying his student visas.

Now he truly understood what it meant to be lost. In his new country, Atif technically didn’t exist. He was but one of a myriad of people in hiding; a fake social security number, pending eventual unearthing and castigation. Sure, he had learned to call this his home, but could someone truly be at home in a country that wasn’t his own? Where the color of his skin, for better or worse, automatically exacted questions about what exotic languages he spoke or whether he knew how to make good curry?

He knew other Indians, born and educated here, with American passports, the vernacular dripping off their tongues and limbs effortlessly like honey, and their only bond with the motherland being the cinema and nouvelle-cuisine Indian lounges that were all the vogue these days; they proudly dubbed themselves “desis,” but could even they truly feel at home here? Like they would there?

Maybe it was easier if you didn’t know any better. But once an Indian has lived in India, smelled its dung fires, been slapped by its pandemonium and assaulted by its colors, once you’ve seen that the maimed infant begging for coins and the rich gold-bedecked madam in the cool cab have the same caramel skin, could you ever truly blend in anywhere else? When you knew what it was like never having to hear someone tell you to go back where you came from, because that would be ludicrous, wouldn’t it —this is where your kind began and this is where, with the land, they would perish one day—could you still feel like anything but an outcast, temporarily sanctioned?