The Two Krishnas (10 page)

“Dr. Goldstein—Mark,” she said, feeling suddenly entitled. “You know, it would be an absolute pleasure for me to do this. Sonali can teach you all you need to know, even take you to temple.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Dr. Goldstein said, even more distressed, wringing his hands. “That really won’t be necessary. I’m concerned, Mrs. Patel–”

“Soni, please.”

“Yes, thank you, Sonali. I’m concerned about my son, you see. Greg calls himself Ramesh or something and well, he’s been utterly brainwashed, become obsessed with your culture. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I have the greatest respect for it. It’s just that he’s gotten it into his head to go to India and lead this life and…”

Sonali was deflated again. Now she was being made to feel responsible for his son’s affliction. As he droned on, she looked at the framed picture of the young boy on Dr. Goldstein’s desk, scanning the unexceptional face. To her, he looked no different than the average American kid, the kind she saw around her neighborhood, creating a ruckus with his skateboard.

“…And we’re wondering what can be done to break this spell. I mean, is this what your faith, what Hinduism teaches, Mrs. Patel? To resent privilege? Give up everything up and move to some ashram? I mean, I know you’re not like that.”

Suddenly she sat up, smiled catlike. “Maybe what Greg needs is to spend some time with real Hindus. Not those Hare Krishna types,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “People like myself who know the faith from within, for what it really is, Mark, not the export version, you know? Let him see it as being ordinary instead of exotic. You know, Mark, Sonali would be more than happy to talk to him. Knock some sense into his head.” And in return she envisioned herself waltzing in without appointments, getting higher dosages of the treatment-du-jour, maybe even being considered a part of the Goldstein family. Surely helping to avert such personal disasters afforded one the charter of kin.

Sonali had no recollection of Pooja’s involvement with The Banyan, that her golden goose actually drove up to their block at least once every week to pick up deliveries from her neighbor. She had actually hollered at him once for parking in her driveway. Instead, she made a mental note of the places where Dr. Goldstein mentioned his misled son spent time so that she could execute a seemingly accidental meeting—The Banyan on Montana Avenue, a Hare Krishna temple in Culver City and the spirituality section of some obscure bookstore called Elton’s.

“Now, Mark, about the IPL…” she started to say.

* * *

From where he stood behind the counter at closing time on Sunday, Atif could hear the roar of thunder. In his wing at Elton’s, now vacated of customers, he looked up at the impassive ceiling but could see the sky beyond it, a concrete slab of gray. His fingers played tentatively on his lips, touching the scar, a gesture he had seen his mother make so many times and which now, and what seemed like centuries later, had become a part of his trait. This, he had learned, was how we killed those who we were unable to possess. We absorbed them.

Unlike the spoiled Angelenos chafing at the slightest change of weather, Atif liked almost everything about winter and instead of growing depressed at the oncoming holidays, he welcomed the season’s inherent romance, when sun and shade gave way to rain and mist and prolonged days surrendered to early twilight. Every year he crowned a corner of his balcony with the plastic battery-operated jack-o’-lantern and stocked up on variety packets of miniature chocolates for the trick-or-treaters. When October went, he carried home a Lilliputian Christmas tree with colorful lights from the local supermarket and gorged on spiked eggnog while watching gospel TV specials. Over the years, he had taught himself to be self-sufficient, to live soulfully through his books and music and HBO so that his world had expanded into realms that didn’t require much human interaction.

What was changing in him now? Why, suddenly, was he craving the warmth of another body at the end of his monotonous days, for the memories of someone to keep him occupied in the spaces in between?

Rahul. Rahul. Rahul. The name played off his lips like warm, honeyed bread. How could anyone want someone this much, with so little justification? Where was sanity, commonsense, rationale—all the things that kept us from bounding off a cliff and crashing to the ground?

Have I learned nothing from the past—that the world of the imagination is dangerous territory, better left uncharted?

Its dark, beguiling corners may fuel fantasies and art but left you stranded and lost in the end. To repeat mistakes, to fall for those that couldn’t—wouldn’t—reciprocate, to continue marching through roads that have previously misled you, is that testament to man’s capacity for hope or a sign of his inner despair?

Atif picked up the leather pouch containing the day’s cash deposit, threw it into the crinkled brown paper bag in which he had brought his sandwich, and, after arming the alarm, promptly turned off the lights and exited the bookstore
. This is a trip I can’t afford,
he thought, steeling himself. The entry ramp is always there, beckoning, beguiling, but the ride is unpredictable, always a gamble, likely to get you trapped.

In the courtyard, with key in hand, he paused for a moment so he would be unnoticed by the employees of the other shops who would insist he join them for a round of drinks at the English pub down the street. He could hear Becca telling the others that she was done with “him” and that this time she had summoned the courage to erase the bastard’s number off her cell phone so she wouldn’t be tempted to call him. He smiled to himself. He knew better. When you needed it badly enough, someone always had the number.

After they had ambled on, Atif walked out onto the street and coiled his red wool muffler snugly around his neck, the deposit bag safe in the pocket of his leather car-coat. It was then that Atif noticed someone standing across the street on the center divider, under the large fanning tree. He paused.

Rahul raised his hand, gave Atif a slow, abbreviated wave.

He could scarcely believe his eyes; he breathed in deeply. It was enough just to see Rahul—standing there in his dark wool overcoat, windblown hair, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, the evening stubble on his face—and to know that for once in his life, he hadn’t imagined the whole thing, that someone was reciprocating, that the countless hours of willing Rahul to appear may just have worked, to bring Atif to the verge of grateful tears.

For what seemed like a long time but perhaps was only seconds, they stood rooted.

When Atif finally went towards him, a huge flock of pigeons took sudden flight, screening them from each other momentarily, settling on the periphery of the bookstore’s roof like guards. He reached the curb and waited for the cars to grant him passage, his ears catching the medley of avian gurgles and swishing cars. He swayed back and forth lightly, his feet balancing on the edge of the curb. Beneath him could have been inches from concrete or the infinite plunge of a chasm. It made no difference.

He walked across, each step closing the gulf between them. And even though the ground beneath him must have been solid, he felt its plates shift and shuffle. When he stood against Rahul on the moist green grass, he felt as if his body was surrendering to vertigo, falling into him. He looked into Rahul’s eyes, determined not to let his nervousness and emotions undermine him.
I must look what I desire in the eye,
he told himself.
To appear deserving, worthy of what I want.

Rahul looked down at his feet, as if making sure that he was still subject to gravity. Something in him was untangling—something that he knew he would never be able to wind up again.

“I’m sorry,” Rahul said facetiously, reciprocating Atif’s deep, determined gaze. “I was nowhere in the neighborhood.”

* * *

From the outside, Blue was an inconspicuous jazz bar on Fourth Street in Santa Monica, flanked by a guitar shop specializing in acoustic and folk instruments on one side and a furniture upholsterer on the other. During the week it was frequented by happy-hour locals from surrounding retail stores and undiscovered musicians who, still eluded by mainstream recognition and record deals, took their art seriously and with a sense of tragedy.

Atif had noticed it many times on the way to the beach or the Promenade and imagined it as a smoky, sensual joint where the likes of Billie Holiday would have crooned or Raymond Chandler may have found his noir over gin martinis. It was the first place that came to his mind when Rahul suggested they go somewhere for a drink.

There was little conversation as Rahul drove them over. Neither felt the pressure for it. The lulls that made most people uncomfortable and which they tried so desperately to fill up with the clutter of words—perhaps because they knew that words were less dangerous than silence, much less telling—did not bother them.

A blue neon sign beckoned them through a tiny wooden door. Inside it was so dark that it took them a moment to adjust their eyes to the room. Then, gradually, the room opened itself up and they saw a long wood bar that stretched back endlessly along the spine. On their right were deep, tooled, red leather booths and tables running parallel to the bar, illuminated by votive candles ensconced in red glass globes. Chet Baker, John Coltrane and Ella Fitzgerald lined the walls as if they had been there once. A stage at the end of the room, now visible, was set up with music equipment. Terrence Blanchard’s smoky rendition of “Detour Ahead” began playing on the jukebox.

From behind the bar gleaming with yards of bottles, an older bartender waved them in, indicating they could sit anywhere they liked. They took the second circular booth from the door and settled in across from each other. Atif got up again and took off his coat and muffler and Rahul, smiling, did the same. They threw their coats on the seat in a mound between them.

“Nice place,” said Rahul, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.

“Best dive bar in town.”

“You come here a lot?”

“Would ‘yes’ make me easy?”

Rahul stiffened up.

“My first time,” Atif said. “Wanted to try something new.”

Rahul managed half a smile. He clasped his hands together and began to look around the room, nodding his head in a kind of evasive way. Atif recognized the shift. He had seen it before in men who started having second thoughts, became suddenly uncomfortable with the possibilities. The band on Rahul’s finger glinted incontestably from the light of the candle and qualms raced through Atif.

The bartender appeared and set down a tray of peanuts. After some hesitation, Rahul ordered a Johnnie Walker Black Label with a single rock of ice. Atif asked for a dry vodka martini with three olives, causing Rahul to raise his eyebrows. “Not shaken,” Atif said to the waiter. “We’ll save that travesty for Bond.” He looked back at Rahul. “It’s been a hard one,” he said, not specifying whether he meant just the day or life itself.

Rahul felt sympathetic, guessing that Atif probably worked long hours and made little more than minimum wage. The furrows between his eyes and the dark circles around them, while not diminishing his handsomeness, gave Atif a weary look even in the dim light. Rahul wanted to ask so much—about where he came from, about his family, age, the scar on his lip, everything—as if this would somehow explain his attraction to the boy. But he knew that such inquiries elicited personal disclosure as well so he postponed them.

Atif found an easier way, sensing their acquaintance would have to begin with their initial point of contact, and asked about the cookbooks. Rahul smiled nervously, trying to keep Pooja out of the conversation for as long as it was possible. “I hope they paid you a commission on it. The last time I needed a bank loan to buy books, I was in college.”

“Graphic Arts,” he said, pointing to himself.

“Finance. Not as exciting.” Rahul talked about his MBA, how a close Persian friend who chain-smoked Marlboros and was addicted to Starbucks had gotten him his first banking job as a loan officer more than a decade ago. The years had fleeted by with escalating goals, tedious spreadsheets, interminable meetings and hustling clients away from the competition—all that between countering the threat of lay-offs and adjusting to a new corporate culture between bank mergers. Now Rahul was the branch manager of a hundred million dollar facility in Westchester, which was seeing a rebirth thanks to developers like Howard Drollinger.

It should have been a success story but Rahul sounded bored, bitter and lonely. It was as if he had been tricked into living someone else’s life.

The cocktails arrived. Atif lifted the martini off the table and his lips approached the meniscus without taking his eyes off Rahul. He took the first sip, felt almost immediately at ease, his body warming up, recognizing an old friend. Rahul sipped his Johnnie Walker, winced at the metallic bite, the golden strands of fire in his throat. He stirred his drink vigorously with the red plastic stirrer, hoping to dilute it, while the rock of ice clanged away. He looked at it with disdain, as if at an old foe. “I don’t drink anymore.”

And I haven’t felt more normal,
thought Atif.
A martini in my hand, jazz in my ears, you in my eyes.

Atif told him about his life. Of his family back in Mumbai with whom he hadn’t spoken in umpteen years, his job at Elton’s, his freelancing in journalism. What he didn’t say was how he had kept his job for over five years now, not just because he liked being surrounded by books, but also because he was petrified of applying for another job with his illegal status. By then he had finished his drink and only a solitary olive nestled in the valley of his glass.