Will She Be Mine (17 page)

“We have so much to talk about,” she continued, speeding ahead. “We need to plan where we want to honeymoon- here or abroad? What milestones to cover before the marriage, plan a good time for it.” She looked up brightly. “RK, let’s sit somewhere outside, in a park or a restaurant, and discuss everything while we’re together. Don’t lose your opportunity, now that you have me in front of you,” she added, slipping back into her bantering tone. “These opportunities come seldom- as you might have realized by now, Romeo. Before you know, I might vanish on a tour again, without knowing when I’d be back.”

I smiled. It all sounded too good to be true. I surreptitiously pinched myself. Honeymoon? But the marriage would have to come first. The damn processes. We spoke sweet nothings for a while more, before I left her sitting in the reception and sped upstairs to get my bag. Pads, my new MSITian boss looked up in surprise as I passed the open door of his office room on my way out with my bag slung across my shoulder. I’d never left office so early.

“I've to go to the airport to see off a friend,” I said as he cocked an eyebrow. “So I’d be on half day's leave today. Hope that’s okay.”

First I took her to a mall to do some shopping, where we exchanged gifts. She bought me an expensive shirt along with an aftershave lotion kit while I gifted her a fairly expensive coat and a skin care set. In the food court, we discussed our plans for matrimony over coffee and an assortment of snacks since she didn’t want a regular lunch, before I took her to the airport in the evening. Her visit was short and dashing, but purposeful- and very satisfying for me. It had given a new direction to my life. I’d always remember and cherish this day.

USA was a refreshing experience after the clutter, traffic mess, water logged roads and neighborhoods during rains and the perennial power outages back home. With gaping eyes I absorbed the sights. Clean and big, they had planned everything with space in mind. My own country looked cramped in comparison. In the US, the departmental stores were enormous and well lit, the highways broader, cleaner and better maintained, the huge car parking spaces often bigger than multiple football fields put together, residential areas designed systematically, without power outages, and taps gushed with water.

The town planning had obviously not been done overnight. Elected politicians or officials lower down the rung entrusted with tasks apparently didn’t shirk their responsibilities or pocket the funds meant for the nation’s development. At least, the governance in this land didn’t seem to have been entirely hijacked by shirkers, criminals and the mafia who extorted citizens, frightened and framed them wrongly with dire consequences if they protested and blatantly robbed the taxpayer’s money, comfortable in the knowledge that courts and judges were subservient to the government, under their draconian control and hence wouldn’t dare touch them. For a change, it was good to see a country whose political bosses were obviously not thieves and cheats with dictatorial tendencies who promoted the mafia in the guise of rogues and hooligans.

Most of the cleanliness and orderliness I saw in USA had been in existence for decades, so it might be easy for its own citizens to miss the streamlined orderliness since they were used to it. But to an outsider or casual visitor these things stood out. Tremendous foresight and vision these people must have had right from the onset! At least their basics were clear, of what citizens needed in their day-to-day lives and the government worked to provide such basic necessities like water, electricity and I heard even a maintenance allowance for those out of work. For a moment I didn’t blame my college mates for dashing to the US for higher studies and settling down there eventually. The place seemed worth it and for a moment I too felt tempted to relocate to this place.

Those entrusted with essential maintenance duties like clearing the snow off roads and parking places in the apartment complexes during winter, or those attending chance complaints of fallen electric poles in residential areas during storms and other such day-to-day activities essential for the smooth running of life, or rescuing lives and salvaging properties during emergencies precipitated by hurricanes and other calamities, did their duty instead of asking bribes from citizens to do the very things they were paid salaries to do.

I wondered though if they addressed the sufferings of the rich and the poor, or the whites and the colored, on an equal basis or the balance was loaded more in favor of the haves- the rich and the influential in society- while neglecting or attending to the others with lower priority.

However it was, I never heard of kids dying because of falling into manholes or pits dug by the Municipal Corporation or telecom companies or builders, as one got accustomed to reading in the newspapers back home or watching news bulletins on TV. In this country, human life seemed more valuable.

Along with the good things there were also some idiosyncrasies which appeared odd since I came from a different culture, but overall I found USA acceptable in terms of the basic standards of life and day-to-day ethics.

The buddy assigned to me at the parent US office took me out for a pizza during the first week of my stay. Very courteous folks. That was the first time I noticed the big waiting clock at a restaurant. I had to tell Shalini about it, though she might have already seen it during her visit to this country. The big clock showed the current time as your order time and another clock next to it, ahead by twenty minutes, showed the delivery time. Fanciful thinking. Later I noticed the trend catching up in some restaurants in India as well. The copycats. If it was done, worn or spoken in the US, it must be alright. You had to do it too.

At the end of a delightful pizza, I sat back figuring if I should offer to pay first. Or would he pay? After all, he’d suggested the pizza. In India, the one who took you out to eat paid up traditionally, not the guest. I decided to wait a few more moments before offering to pay up for both of us, when with a sudden burp he fished out a few one dollar bills and placed them on the tray. "My part," he grunted.

I speedily counted the notes he’d placed on the tray. Exactly half the price of our pizza cost plus a little extra to cover a part of the tip. This brazen businesslike behavior was both new as well as surprising to me. I struggled with my wallet to disengage the other half of the payment and we left the restaurant as if nothing had happened.

Fool, I told myself. The miserly fool never suspected that I’d have paid the full price had he only held back a little more, and besides paying up, I’d have also given him the benefit of doubt for being a generous, thoughtful host who took me out instead of thinking of him as a hasty fool. It was one of those cultural things. His upbringing had made him smart enough to pay half the cost, but hadn't made him smarter to wait a little more and eat the whole hog free.

“But the American way is better,” PS told me over phone that evening when he called, after hearing about my pizza experience. He was living in the bay region off the West Coast, while I was touring the East Coast. We’d kept in touch over email through which I’d sent him my hotel phone number. “You don't have to fidget around wondering who'll pay. No obligations.”

“And no love lost,” I commented. “Anyway, any news of Pankaj?” I asked about a common batch mate we both knew.

“No idea.”

Social networking sites were almost non-existent at that time and looking up a guy wasn’t as easy as it is today. PS and I would remain in touch as long as we didn’t change our email ids. After that it would be difficult to get back in touch, unless advancement in technology created other ways of perennially remaining in touch.

Pankaj was a drama enthusiast back at MSITK in our batch. He’d been fond of writing stories and often behaved dramatically even while discussing mundane topics. His eyes would fly apart or he’d roll them or issue an exaggerated laugh throwing back his neck, or look at you with brows drawn together as he tilted his head to a side, as if acting in a movie. We’d snicker behind his back at his antics; otherwise he belonged to our regular circle, closer to PS than to me.

“But Jitesh recently landed a job in the US,” he informed, referring to another common friend from MSIT Kanpur.

From what I remembered of Jitesh, he’d graduated in electrical engineering in our batch with excellent marks but preferred to stay back in India after getting employed in a high end EDA company in Noida. Like me, he never tried seeking a scholarship to the US after graduation for higher studies, so it was a surprise to hear he had arrived here to work after so many years of graduation.

“What happened suddenly? I thought he was a diehard patriot who'd never venture out of India,” I said. “What changed his mind?”

“You haven't heard him in recent times,” he replied with a snigger. “I talked to him recently. He sounded quite different- very bitter, actually. You wouldn’t believe it till you heard him yourself.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he'd never again set foot in that horrible, corrupt part of the world if he could,” PS said in a neutral tone, managing to keep any emotion out of his voice. “He wants to set fire to everything in his past.”

I was shocked. “What's he so frustrated about?”

“He was pissed off on many counts, starting with regularly encountering lousy public offices which harass citizens over just about any service related issue year after year, with no end in sight- whether in electricity, phone, gas, water- you name it and they’re waiting to trouble you.”

“Maybe, he lacked the patience to deal with them. Otherwise, one doesn’t leave one’s country simply on these grounds.”

“Oh yes, one does! I don’t know how you’re still stuck there. You’ve great patience, otherwise a victim always feels frustrated, desperate to lash out and break free of the system that harassed him.”

“Victim?”

“I can’t recount all the things he said- it would take too long- but I’m convinced that so much frustration can drive any sane person to leave his country in desperation,” he explained. “He was a victim of road rage just before he left India- which proved to be the last nail in his coffin.”

“What happened?”

“At a toll plaza leading to Agra, a car standing in queue behind him honked to hurry up. Jitesh was waiting to collect his change at the window- not his fault. But the driver of the car behind him walked up and abused him. When Jitesh protested, a few of the driver’s cronies joined him and started kicking the car and windows, saying there was a political VIP in the car behind. Jitesh literally sped away from the place with his family, without collecting his change, otherwise…”

I nodded to myself. It was sad. Road rage incidents were on the rise, with no sign of abating. “That’s bad,” I offered.

“Horrible!” he corrected. “These hoodlums think they own the roads. Brush their car and they pounce on you, ready to kill you.”

“I know.”

“Even if they hit you from behind, it’s your fault, not theirs.”

I chuckled. “I heard there are road rage incidents in the US too.”

“Don’t laugh; they’re not as commonplace here.”

“Whatever happened was bad with Jitesh,” I admitted reluctantly. “Perhaps as a nation we’re adept at driving away all the good, capable people and retaining the bad ones.”

“The road rage was the icing on the top. Otherwise, he was already fed up of the frustrating life there. He said he developed blood pressure by just hearing and reading of scams and corruption on a daily basis, witnessing the general apathy of leaders which led to widespread shortfall of basic amenities like water, power, health all around, and everything else. The usual rot stemming from zero governance.”

“Scams are worrisome, I agree. They can lick any country hollow.”

“That’s not all. What about the rampant friction in day-to-day life in literally every other aspect- power outages, broken roads, traffic mess, pollution, food adulteration, medical rackets, organ trade, rapes, murders, abduction of children, bribery in education? As if that’s not enough- what about the feeling of insult and repression the common man is subjected to regularly? It gets suffocating after a while, Jitesh said, and I absolutely agree. We need better officials and politicians for the taxes we pay. Sometimes I feel we’re very filthy.”

“Not all the country’s officials and politicians are like that.”

“Maybe not everyone- otherwise you too would have fled the country by now. But don’t defend, we all know how things are,” he observed with a chuckle. “The number of corrupt people there is only increasing.”

“Would coming to the US solve Jitesh’s problems?” I asked, instead of reacting to his tirade or going on the defensive.

“Why not? Life is cool here. In this country the common man can be sure of frictionless transactions at public offices, government offices and other places for his daily needs. Criminals and mafia have not yet taken over politics and governance fully. Day-to-day corruption and bribery is almost absent. It’s not crippling like it is in our country, which people would soon start calling the scam capital of the world. And as I said before, the quality of life here is good for Indians like us- excellent roads, great shops, uninterrupted power, inexpensive gas, water, phone and above all, safety.”

I felt rankled by his words, though at heart I knew he was right.

“Safety?” I said with scorn. “Back in India we keep reading of shooting incidents in US schools, colleges and marketplaces.”

“Those are sporadic incidents- fewer than in our country.”

“I hardly hear of shootouts in schools in India,” I countered.

“Maybe there are no shootouts in schools, but what about serial bomb blasts in marketplaces and streets, murders of elderly couples, robberies in residential houses in broad daylight even if the owner steps out briefly, hospital neglect and police apathy?” he said with vengeance. “RK, try reading up the world political scene. How many countries will you find where criminals are dealt with leniently and let off? Where criminals run for elections while in prison, and there is a nexus between some of the country’s political bosses and the mafia, and one hardly knows who among them is a traitor, neither does anybody have a clue whether the person offering the condolences after a calamity is genuinely remorseful or set up the ambush in the first place. I read online newspapers and pick up tidbits from my father when I talk to him, so I’m not entirely wrong- and you know it. What I said was just the tip of the list. Don’t compare the two countries, RK. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”