The Two Krishnas (22 page)

Neither of them had fixed a time for their rendezvous—Rahul still unsure as to how he was going to explain his absence to Pooja, and Atif, too grateful to negotiate such mundane details. Rahul was coming to spend the day with him, had assured him that he would work it out somehow, and this had been enough for Atif. But when he didn’t hear anything by midday, Atif grew despondent. At first he resisted, wanting desperately to show more confidence in Rahul, but later he acquiesced and called his mobile number, his heart fluttering like a caged bird. But the call went straight into voice mail, depriving him of even the hope that could be extracted from a single ring.

Two o’clock. He consoled himself:
Rahul’s getting a late start. It’s the weekend. Surely he has to spend some time with them before making his escape. He can’t simply run out and come here the moment he wakes up. Arrangements have to be made, excuses offered; delays were inevitable. Why didn’t I ask him what time? God, we should have set a time. Fuck.

His mobile in tow, Atif made a dash for the neighborhood supermarket to keep occupied while keeping his spirits high.
Something about immigrants and supermarkets,
he thought. He could never get enough of the sheer variety, or get over the abundance. He could stock up on weekly groceries, treat himself to a butter pound cake, obtain quarters for the laundry waiting in the closet hamper, grab bottles of Gewurztraminer now that Rahul allowed himself to drink when they were together. Sooner or later the phone would ring. He would feel foolish for tormenting himself so needlessly.

He walked the three blocks to a Pavilions market, the phone gripped his hand, not willing to compromise the reception by pocketing it. All six bars were essential to his survival now. The florist outside the supermarket, where he customarily stopped to select flowers or just admire the artistic bouquets, did nothing for him this time. The effusive colors, even the thought of their fragrance, made his anticipation surge, his stomach turn. So this is how beauty turns ugly, how balm becomes poison.

He walked through the aisles in a daze, throwing items into his cart mechanically, able to think of nothing else but the call that wouldn’t come. When he checked out, he forgot to ask for the quarters and almost left groceries behind until the bagger ran after him. In his mind, there was only the beseeching for divine intervention: God, please make him call. Make him pick up the phone. Please. Please. Please. Where is he? He heard the chatter of shoppers, the wailing of an infant, the blare of horns, the babel of life, but the skies didn’t open, the phone didn’t ring.

Back at the apartment, Atif opened up a can of chunk tuna and searched for Anaïs. He stood in the alley facing up to her second story home and made silly tutting noises, risking the owner’s irritation, but nothing appeared at the grilled window, so he left the open can by the dumpster, expecting that she would find it.

Rahul’s absence assumed menacing power over him. Flopping on his couch, powerless, his mind raced through darker, morbid routes while the groceries, still unpacked, lay scattered around him. Could something have happened to him? An accident? How would he know? Who would tell him? They shared no one in common. Days could go by without him finding out. Weeks. Longer. As all plausible possibilities exhausted themselves, his unlikely imaginings assumed a credibility of their own. Would he have to go into Rahul’s office only to be met with a grief-stricken bank teller who would look around nervously before revealing the tragedy to him? Or would it be broken to him over the morning news by Jillian, who would make a departure from her lighthearted prater about fashion trends and pet adoptions to drive the freeway fatalities that Angelenos had grown jaded to nearer to home? Must make sure to discuss this with Rahul the next time, he noted mentally. There has to be some way, a contingency plan to ensure they were both informed if something were to happen.

Then he began to doubt his sanity, wondering if perhaps something had gone wrong between them, if some kind of quarrel had been expunged from his mind as he had slept in the night. But the memories of the night before filled his heart with only a heavy joy, one which, in Rahul’s failure to show, was slowly beginning to crush him under the burden of the hopes it had inspired.

Hesitantly, he dialed Rahul’s mobile phone again.

Nothing.

The walls moved inwards, choking the air out of the room. Atif fled towards the beach, wishing for the smell of home—of sun-dried duck and fish—that he knew he wouldn’t find at the edge of the Pacific and the man he knew wouldn’t be there.

* * *

“Maybe the silly boy’s finally run off.”

Pooja packed the little plastic containers filled with savories neatly in the large delivery box on her kitchen counter. Arrows of sunlight streamed in through the window above the sink and fell upon her glinting gold bangles as her hands shifted around. The day had emerged impossibly beautiful, somewhere in the lower seventies, the kind of day that Los Angeles was envied for. She was thankful that it wasn’t too hot because she knew how Rahul, unlike her, had such low tolerance for heat.

“Tch,
what must have happened?” she said to Ajay, glancing at the circled date on the wall-mounted calendar of scenic photos from around the country.

Miffed, she looked now at the box waiting to be delivered. Each of the little cartons had been carefully sealed and labeled with details on the ingredients and approximate weight. As of her last few deliveries, she had included the latest item—cashew marzipan squares lined with silver foil, which, while not too popular with the calorie-conscious patrons of The Banyan, had become a big hit with the rest of the locals who now came in just to purchase the milky dessert. Of course she had eased up on the sugar to suit their taste.

“Oh, this isn’t like Greg at all. I don’t know where he is. Maybe he forgot. You know, now I’ll have to deliver these to the store before we do anything,” she said, a bit irritated that this would have to happen on this day of all days.

“So why do you keep calling him that when he wants to be called something else?”

She looked at her son, sitting at the dining room table, ravenously spooning milk-drenched cereal into his mouth. “Look at you. Like a raccoon you look!”

He winked at her with his black eye.

“What are you smiling at,
junglee?
I’m not giving you a compliment.” She looked at the covered plates sitting next to Ajay. “
O-pho!
You’re father’s food is getting all cold. Is he still showering?”

Ajay had not seen his mother this energized in a long time. She buzzed around, doing everything at once, undoubtedly due to her excitement over their long overdue outing together. He felt proud to think that he had made it happen. She wore a deep violet
salwar-kameez
bordered with golden peacocks and sprinkled with paisleys, quite overdressed, but he said nothing. He felt a warmth in his heart from seeing her this happy. He vowed to himself to never let her sink into depression again.

“You didn’t answer me, Mom. Why do you still call him Greg?”

“I don’t know!” she said, a bit defensively, running packing tape across the flaps of the box. “I don’t call him that to his face. I mean, why does he insist otherwise? It’s like calling a cat a dog. Do you look at a cat and call it a dog? It doesn’t matter what you believe or what you worship but, you know, he looks a certain way. I feel kind of ridiculous calling him Parmesh just because he’s garlanded himself with beads.”

“So you’re stuck on outer appearances.”

“
Oho-ho
, and who made you a
maharishi?
In your case, you look hundred percent like a
goonda!
” she said, shaking her finger at him, “and that’s exactly what you are.”

He waved his fist in the air and let out a couple of dog-calls, reveling in his mother’s mock-chiding.

“Maybe you should take me there,” she said. “What do you think? Save some time while your father’s getting ready.”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

Just then his cell phone rang and she threw him a disapproving look. Ajay looked at it, hit a button, and silenced it. She shook her head. “And I’m telling you, Ajay, if that cell phone of yours rings even one more time today, I’m warning you—”

“Okay, okay,” Ajay got up and held his phone out to her, its display still blinking urgently. “Keep it.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “As if I want to be your secretary.” She detected a strange, almost metallic smell coming from him and wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Ajay, you really must use some deodorant! You have taken your shower?”

“What’re you talking about? I don’t smell!” he said, sniffing under his armpits.

“What happened to my little boy? Smelling of talcum powder and baby lotion.”

He grabbed her in his Herculean arms. She struggled to release herself but he held on tightly, laughing aloud. She gave him a playful slap on his cheek, her nose still wrinkled. He kissed it, the display of affection as special as it was rare in her grown son.

Parking around Montana Avenue was always a challenge. The sidewalks were bustling with shoppers in casual attire, wearing sandals and holding the perennial Starbucks cup while others ambled down to the Pacific Ocean, which beckoned from a few blocks down.

Pooja and Ajay were about to turn onto a side street when a black SUV suddenly swerved in front of them, cutting them off. Ajay slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. She let out a cry as the two of them were jerked forward sharply and then yanked back by their seat belts. Only the box of food, wedged against the back of Ajay’s seat, sat snugly in its confinement.

“Motherfucker!” Ajay roared as the car raced away. He pulled over on the side of the street while Pooja stared at her son, astounded by his language.

“Are you okay,
beta?”
she asked, her concern overriding the need to reprimand.

But he was still shaking with rage and pounded his fist against the steering wheel so hard that she cringed, more frightened by his reaction than by what had caused it. She had only always seen the aftermath of his troublesome behavior, like the black eye he had come home with the night before, but had never witnessed his violent side.

“Ajay,
beta,
calm down! Calm down! We’re safe,
na?
”

He continued to glare into the distance, his eyes like burning coals, his face wrought menacingly at the speeding car. Upon feeling his mother’s gentle hand on his shoulder, he held up his hands and began to take deep calming breaths but something in him, unyielding and conflagrant, refused to dissipate and he broke out again. “Fuck!”

She shrank back, horrified. “This much anger, Ajay? What is happening to you?”

“What? Did you see that car?” he shouted.

“But it happens. Why get this excited over it?”

She looked away from him with that patented hurt look, one that spoke volumes without employing a single word. A car pulled out from a loading zone a few spaces in front of them and he promptly parked against the yellow curb, around the corner from The Banyan. When he turned off the car, she was still looking away from him dejectedly.

Ajay groaned.

“Why? Why pick such fights?” she asked.

“But Mom—”

“No ‘but Mom!’ How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of trouble? Yesterday you got beaten, tomorrow who knows what will happen? Maybe someone will have a gun.”

“I did not get beaten!”

“How much do you think your mother can endure? Last night, the same thing! Do you know what this is doing to me? Do you? Don’t you know that in this country you say one thing wrong to someone and God knows what they might do. Why pick
panga
with these people?”

“Okay, I already said it,
na?
I’m sorry, okay?”

“What ‘sorry, sorry?’ One of these days…” Her voice petered off and she became silent again, her head turned away from him. It was not just that he was growing up but that he was morphing into something she could no longer control or protect. It was this country. Yes, this country. If they had never come here, things might have been different, better. Every day this was becoming more and more apparent. Maybe Rahul would have cared to spend more time with them instead of at his bloody job. And Ajay would have had the love and nurturing of his maternal grandparents, too, a normal upbringing.

Her eyes welled up and suddenly the optimism she had felt before leaving home began to dissipate. A sigh escaped her lips and although she looked out of the window, she saw nothing, the cars melting into a mass of metal through the filter of her tears. Ajay laid his hand on hers. She pressed it and he came closer and put his head on her shoulder. She placed her lips on his thick black hair, kissed him, easily and affectionately, forgiving everything.

“You are my life. Don’t you know this? If something should happen to you, I –,” she couldn’t bear to think of it. “Promise me you’ll stop behaving this way, Ajay. For your Ma’s sake.”

He nodded his head, still resting on her shoulder and allayed by her familiar perfume. “Should I take it in for you?”

“No, no. You stay right here
chup-chap
and mind the car,” she said, disengaging. “God only knows what else you’ll get up to. This is a special day for us, for me, Ajay. Please, let’s not do anything to ruin it, okay? I’ll be right back.”