The Leaving of Things (31 page)

From the jetty along the sea-facing side of the Gateway, we boarded a boat along with a handful of Indian tourists for a ride far out into the bay. Anand and I stood on the top deck. Not a sound out there in the still and heavy air but the boat’s ripsawing motor as we plied the dense, gray-blue water. I saw warships anchored farther out past Bombay’s promontory, and out where the water became glassy white, merchant-marine freighters floated like phantoms against the horizon. I wondered where they were headed and about the lives of all the people aboard all those ships. People I would never know. People whose futures, out there in the shimmering and silvery expanse, along all the shipping
lanes of the world, seemed the most adventurous and exotic of escapes.

* *

On the morning before our appointment at the consulate, I was anxious, couldn’t relax. After a couple of hours of attempting to study, I finally put away my books, got dressed. My father and I got our papers together, and we walked to the consulate, past the Breach Candy Hospital, past a glimpse of the sea. We didn’t say much. There was nothing left to do now but to see this through.

The consulate was a high-security fortress. Marines stood guard at the front gate, flanked by palm trees, while the American flag hung from its rooftop pole in the breeze-less air. Metal detectors scanned us as we passed through the entrance.

While it all gave an intimidating impression, I tried to think of it as a brief return home. I filed in with a steady stream of visa hopefuls through the security area. To the Americans dressed in navy-blue blazers, walkie-talkies clipped to their belts, I was no more and no less than anyone else in that crowd of would-be immigrants.

We took numbers that told us our place in the queue, and we were ushered into a gray-carpeted waiting room filled with rows of chairs where everyone gathered: families with infants, the newly married, old women who could scarcely speak a word of English, and students like me applying for their own visas. Artificial plants in decorative pots stood in the corners of this strangely antiseptic space, and a portrait of President George Bush, in his square metal glasses, stared back at us from the wall.

Seated behind thick glass windows along the far side of the room, like tellers at a bank, were the consulate’s staffers calling up and interviewing the applicants one by one. The applicants being interviewed leaned toward narrow slots at the base of the windows—the only channel of communication—through which they spoke in low, anxious tones and pushed files back and forth. The air hummed with nervous anticipation punctuated now and again by a tinny, two-note chime that summoned the next applicant in the queue. My father and I waited for our queue number to flash up on one of the displays above the windows.

I don’t know how long we waited—an hour, two hours—before we heard the chime and saw our number come up. We got up and approached our window where a youthful-looking American who could’ve passed for a high-school guidance counselor greeted us with an officious smile. Hunched forward, his fingers intertwined, the interviewer began asking for our passports, case number, and the “nature of our visit.” The doors of the landing boat had finally dropped, and I felt myself charging from the boat and up the choppy strand under a hail of interrogation.

To be fair, the interviewer was friendly and welcoming. He spoke admiringly of Wisconsin and of the university. He looked over my visa application, the admission letter, and the loan papers—everything we had in our small arsenal. Then he told me that he was placing my file on hold, saying he wasn’t convinced that the loan amount, plus whatever money my parents would be putting up, would be enough to meet my board and tuition costs. My father countered by showing him proof of his employment as director at the Institute and his balance at the State Bank. With his income, he assured him, he could
easily supplement the loan and the money already in our Wisconsin account. But the interviewer stayed fast and told us the consulate would communicate with the university about my case. “Sorry,” he said, “but that’s the best I can do.” He smiled, his mouth a thin comma, and sat with his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped, as if he’d just finished reprimanding a student about poor grades. “Good luck,” he said as we gathered up our things.

22

March 12, 1989

Dear Vik,

Sorry to hear the news is so mixed. I’m glad to hear your mother’s doing much better, and the doc in Bombay gave her the all-clear. But on the “coming back” front, we’re still in the dark, I guess.

Nate and I were kicking around ideas for a bunch of ten or fifteen minute shorts we could shoot this summer. We’re thinking a James Bond-meets-Woody Allen spy spoof, like we tried to do a couple of summers ago, remember? But with real dialogue and editing this time. What do you think? Over spring break, we’re going to start roughing out ideas. Feel free to jump in.

(By the way, when you see Nate again, if you ever do, you won’t recognize him: his hair’s down to his shoulders, and he’s
grown a goatee. The man thinks it makes him look sexy. But I don’t see the girls exactly flocking to his dorm room.)

Let me say, though, that it’s not his hairdo that bothered me recently but his attitude. After winter break, Nate called up and invited me over to his dorm to hang out. We hadn’t seen each other in a couple of months because of classes and work and so on, but I was eager to see him. Then I get to his room and realize he’s throwing a kegger with all his floor mates. He’s halfway to hammered when I show up, and after an hour, it’s like I’m not even there. I tried to catch up with him, find out how his semester went, but the whole night he pretty much blew me off. It was very strange. All he’s doing is getting shitfaced with all his smarmy dorm friends, passing the bong around. After a couple of hours, I just left. Something felt very wrong. He didn’t seem like the same Nate.

The next day, I called him up and confronted him about his dick attitude, and he, of course, got defensive and called me a wuss or whatever. The whole thing got ugly. Anyway, we didn’t talk again till last week. I ran into him at the Union after class, and we actually sat and talked. Really talked this time. He apologized and said he had cut down on the partying—guess the day after his kegger, he got into some major trouble with his RA. We talked about our spring semesters, about working on some creative projects again, and little by little, it began to feel strangely like old times again. Minus you of course.

Speaking of the spring semester, I’m a busy bee these days. The job at WHA is going great—I’m actually running the switcher during the Badger basketball games now, and they got me working a couple more shifts. It gets pretty intense over there. In fact, I may be able to get you work at the station if you’re interested. You know, work study or something.

Vik, if you want my two cents—not that it matters—I would say to let things take their course and don’t let them bum you out just yet. Let’s see how this visa thing shakes down, take it from there. Write as soon as you can.

Karl

p. s. What’s up with Priya? Nate’s still waiting for a picture.

* *

No information came from the consulate for weeks following our Bombay trip. My afternoons were abandoned caves in which I hunkered and studied while outside the April heat reared its angry head. By midafternoon, the streets were blinding white.

Anand spent more time with his new tutor, cramming for his own finals in Sanskrit, Hindi, Gujarati. He grumbled because the Nintendo was off limits for the time being.

I continued to wonder about Priya: where she was and whether, as Manju alleged, I had anything to do with whatever had become of her.

One day after French lecture, Madame Varma asked if I’d had any news of Priya. I told her no, I hadn’t, but perhaps Manju or Hannah might have news. Madame Varma shook her head, bundling her notes and textbook in her arm. “They say they haven’t heard anything,” she said in a tone both concerned and disappointed. “Her family simply says she’s gone away on holiday or some such.” A corner of her mouth turned down, and she shrugged. “Wherever
she is, I do hope she keeps up with her studies. She would do well to continue in her French.” I was still mulling over Madame Varma’s mysterious bit of information—or lack thereof—when she stopped at the door to say, “Tell me, will you Vikram, if you find out anything?” I told her of course I would.

As I crossed the college courtyard, I wondered why Madame Varma thought to ask me about Priya. How could she have known that Priya and I knew each other? Had we been so obvious? Ah, well, I thought, what does it matter now anyway? She was gone. Safely away from this place.

I arrived in Pradeep’s room to find Devasia seated at the desk, recording his notes into the tape recorder. Pradeep sat at the edge of his cot, his back straight, head bowed, listening attentively. After a few more minutes of dictation, Devasia hit “stop” on the recorder. That was it, he said, that was all the notes he had. Between Devasia and me, Pradeep now had on cassette all the notes he would need ahead of the exams.

The three of us spent the rest of the afternoon going over notes, quizzing each other, making sure every last scrap of information was stuffed into our heads. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I shut my notebook and lay back on Pradeep’s cot. I had a headache. I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A sour feeling found its way into my stomach.

Pradeep said he had medicines that might help. “I always keep stomach pills handy here,” he announced, feeling his way from the cot to the metal cabinet on the opposite wall.

“Is the hostel food that bad?” I joked.

Devasia chuckled knowingly, patting his stomach. “You need guts of steel here.”

“Not only that,” Pradeep said, “but the tension over these exams too can give indigestion or like that.” Pradeep ran his hands along the bottles and packets of toiletries on one of the cabinet shelves, feeling for the stomach pills. On the floor of the cabinet, I noticed Pradeep’s padlocked red velvet box in which he kept his Diwali money.

“You still have that money, Pradeep?” I asked. “I thought your cousin was taking it.”

Pradeep slapped his palms together, “
Hut-teriki!
You know my cousin’s visit was postponed so now he is coming after finals only. But about studio and all, he has arranged. He has spoken to his music contacts, and they are even interested to hear my recording, so it’s good news, I think so.”

“Next stop Bollywood?” Devasia smiled, turning the chair toward us.

Pradeep shut the cabinet door, and I took from him the antacids encased in a sheet of plastic and foil.

“What Bollywood?” Pradeep countered with mock outrage, a satisfied grin on his face, and he leaned on cupped hands on his walking stick, cutting the figure of an impresario. “I am aiming for Ravi Shankar, bhai, Zakir Hussain. Not Bollywood songs.”

“Wah!
Pandit
Pradeep Prabhakar,” Devasia said jovially, with a playful flourish of his hand. “Very good!” He rose from the chair, stretched, and yawned. “I’m going to take nap,” he said, “then I can continue.”

I stubbed out two pills from the sheet, turned them over in my mouth, letting the metallic grit dissolve. “No matter what, you guys are all set and on your way,” I said, lying back and staring up at the ceiling.

“But you are also, Vikram bhai,” Pradeep said. “You are also on your way.”

I swallowed the last gritty bits of the antacids.

“Because—” Pradeep tapped his stick on the floor, his head turning from side to side, searching for the words. “Because … where there is intention, there is action, and action means change.”

“Please,” I said, sitting up. “Intention means zilch. Now and then, you need a lot of luck. That action and change stuff. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t work. You need luck. And I’ve always, always come up short.” I stared at my shoes. “The more you fight life, the tighter it gets its grip on you.”

Pradeep and Devasia said not a word. What could they say? What could do they do?

“I admire you guys, I really do,” I said and got to my feet. “Pradeep, you’ll do great, and Devasia, you’re going to be an awesome priest.”

“But luck is the result of our actions, don’t you think so?” Pradeep offered.

“No,” I said and made for the door.

I didn’t want to drag them down with me, and I didn’t want empty words to cheer me up either. All I could think to do was walk out of there. There was nothing left to say. I needed to get home, eat something, and crash. And no, I wasn’t going to even look at the mailbox.

* *

Classes let out the last week of April to make way for study week after which the finals kicked off. I felt ill much of that time, time itself in suspension, a source of churning pain, and I studied till my eyes were bleary and my mind fogged. I slept. Awoke. Ate little. And I
studied with Pradeep and Devasia at the hostel in the afternoons.

One day, coming back from a study session, I discovered our cleaning girl in close conversation with a young man I had never seen before. They lingered downstairs as I dragged my Luna into the entrance hall to stand it up under the staircase. The man stood almost touching her, his elbow propped casually against the wall. He spoke in intimate murmurs to the girl, her back to the wall, her hands crossed behind her. They smiled surreptitiously at me. I got the feeling I’d interrupted something, smiled hello, and hurried up the two flights to our place.

“What’s going on down there?” I asked my mother.

“She is meeting her fiancé, that’s all,” she replied, serving Anand and me our rotis and vegetables. “She asked if they could meet downstairs.”

“Hmm,” I intoned suggestively. I was glad someone was having fun around here.

* *

The finals lasted a week. Six exams, one or two each day. I needed the marks. Without the marks, the future receded, like a mountain climber losing his grip and sliding helplessly. Climb. Just keep climbing.

For the finals, every student at the university got a seat number at various sites around the city, regardless of which college you happened to be attending. My seat assignment took me across Nehru Bridge into a huddle of low-slung office blocks and tea stalls, to C.U. Arts College, a whitewashed, moldering structure of many floors. Scooters lined up along an unpaved alleyway where students lingered
aimlessly, looking dazed, toting their notebooks and ballpoint pens, none of whom I recognized. I made my way through, climbed up several flights of stairs in a dusty stairwell, joined in with the drift of other test takers.