Audubon Ballroom
“Instantly, his heart clenched. His entire body grew rigid like he’d been suddenly aware of a bear next to him.”
By Sudip Bhattacharya
It was initially a bright and reasonably calm day when Hsi had finally mustered up the courage to “inform” his older sister, Yiyun, about having been spending more time with his ex, Dipa. To expel his body of the residual stress that haunts us all, Hsi had escaped to the gym, drowning his mind in heavy metal music he didn’t really appreciate or enjoy, all the while lifting weights until his arms fell to his sides, dangling. By the time he returned to his apartment, his four other roommates, plus the random women he’d spotted rushing down the hallway to the bathroom, were all missing from sight.
“Why??” Yiyun shrieked once Hsi dropped the news.
Instantly, his heart clenched. His entire body grew rigid like he’d been suddenly aware of a bear next to him. Nature wasn’t even his “thing,” and yet, here he was, abiding by metaphors that were miles away from his experiences of growing up in the suburban sprawl of East Brunswick, or E.B. for short. The same town he’d been born and raised in. The same town where he’d met Dipa all those years ago, before they would actually be more than friends at college, just a few miles away from everything they’d grown to know.
“Don’t you remember what happened to you?” Yiyun’s voice traveled up and down his spine. What could he have said? “It took you so long to get the stability you deserve,” Yiyun added as if that would convince him of something when all it did was highlight the fact that all he really had was work and possibly the local gym.
Since Rutgers, his muscles had felt loose on his body, flabby almost. A course correction was necessary, so he watched YouTube videos on what protein shakes to concoct in the shared living room⸺his roommates rolling their eyes, smirking at each other⸺and pushed himself to get a membership ASAP. That was two years ago, and now, his roommates had stopped with their commentary behind his back. He’d always been taller than them, but now, finally, his body showed far more cohesiveness and mass.
But something was always missing, clearly. Although he insisted to his sister that nothing was really happening between him and Dipa. Of course, he did leave out other rather insignificant details, too, such as him helping Dipa with her latest campaign as part of her service workers labor union that she’d been hired to build and develop over time. One of the regional supermarket chains in and around Edison and Iselin had refused to either raise wages or pay their current employees what they were owed, insisting that someday, they’d all receive their just rewards.
“Please don’t tell Ma,” Yiyun said, “Don’t. She’s gonna have a heart attack hearing this.”
“Why? Dipa’s always been good with her. She liked her.”
“What are you talking about? Are you high right now?”
“That’s such an old person thing to say. Am I high? Seriously?”
“Ma only pretended,” said Yiyun, causing Hsi to want to run through a wall.
When Hsi and Dipa reconnected, it was through an online book club set up by a friend of a friend of a friend of someone they barely liked, but followed on Facebook, the hub for all things irrelevant. Barely anyone kept up anymore with Facebook or Meta, or whatever it wanted to brand itself next to evade questions concerning the intensity of half-truths and lies allowed to fester in its domain, but for the circles they were still connected to, sometimes useful anecdotes or opportunities like a group organizing to read the Autobiography of Malcolm X, surfaced every several weeks, catching his and Dipa’s eyes.
“In 1857, some of the desperate people of India finally mutinied — and, excepting the African slave trade, nowhere has history recorded any more unnecessary bestial and ruthless human carnage than the British suppression of the non-white Indian people,” Malcolm X explained to Alex Haley, a man who would help popularize Malcolm X for generations to come, but also twist some of his words, in unknown and unverifiable ways. Nevertheless, re-reading the text reminded Hsi of a world beyond his desk, his spreadsheets, and his emails.
Soon after, Dipa and Hsi started to message one another through Instagram messages. He could tell she’d been checking out some of the pictures that he posted at the gym, sometimes flexing, sometimes just him in the middle of a rep that another gym rat agreed to take a snap of for him. Quite honestly, there were indeed times when Hsi didn’t comprehend why he wanted pictures of himself surrounded by usually empty benches and dumbbells at his feet. Often, the pictures lacked soul. The women he’d sleep with would always leave heart emojis beneath them, but whenever he’d peer into his own eyes, he’d see a version of himself that was hollow or still scrambling for a personality to believe in. Maybe he was overthinking it? That was what Dipa suggested when he confided to her again one night while lying in bed, as he once did when younger, just texting someone for hours and hours, not caring how worn down he’d be at work the next day.
“Don’t overthink, she said, You’re a solid dude.”
Some of that didn’t make total sense, but how much of living did? In an era of melting icecaps and homes with car garages stuffed into them, must everything said or done feel linear or complete? A version of himself wandered each day, but Dipa knew how to adjust, how to find ways for him to plant his ten toes firmly on the ground.
The conversation, if one could define it as such, with Yiyun ended abruptly, with Hsi saying he needed to use the bathroom and would call her back. Instead, he returned to his X text, excavating meaning in a timeline where liberation was now more so about being included in the C-suite rather than thumbing one’s nose at the U.S. empire, especially by someone with political clout. What would Malcolm X think of someone like him, someone who believed in much the same things but felt there was no option other than living to work, working to live, clasping hands in the middle of the night, feeling sweat pouring down his back, already thinking about the shower he’d have to take with everyone else pretending to sleep. Malcolm X was devout. He was determined. The stakes were clear to him as to why he did what he did. Again, such ideas and concepts he could finally discuss with someone, in this case, Dipa, the woman who certainly could also cause the veins in his neck to throb and for his hands to clench into tight fists. It’d been exactly three years since he had alcohol pumping through him.
Malcolm X was assassinated, though, cut down at the early age of 39, leaving behind family and friends, some of whom cradled his head as blood soaked his shirt and the floor beneath. The men responsible were arrested, and yet, what about the broader participants in the industry of death and killing? What about the FBI? The CIA? The politicians who pretended to care. The local leaders who would learn to use Malcolm’s imagery for their own short-term and narrow purposes.
“I don’t see it that way, entirely,” Dipa challenged Hsi when they finally met at the 24-hour Dunkin on the border of town, right across the Walmart with all of the campers parked late into the night, the random truckers plodding inside, dragging heavy feet, eager for some coffee to split their minds. Some of them were Asian too, with circles around their eyes, either staring at the TV sets propped against the ceiling, on a loop of crime in the “city” late at night, or sometimes, staring from across the space, right at Hsi, as if recognizing him, or waiting for him to say something.
Stumbling over his residual thoughts, Hsi did finally arrive at a point, saying, “But nothing’s really changed, you know. The same people are doing fine. Others aren’t.”
“Sure, but Malcolm taught us to care about others and to keep fighting. Right?”
His mouth felt parched, but his heart was pounding against his chest. The blood rushed below his waist. He suddenly remembered Min, the person he’d been “seeing.” She had called him earlier that day to figure out plans. His phone was now buzzing with life. A part of him wanted to answer, and to see her, and to lay his body against hers. There was a simplicity he suddenly desired, although faintly, almost like someone heading too far into the ocean, the waves clearly rising ahead of them. An impact was on its way.
“Is someone calling you?” Dipa asked, smiling but with an eyebrow raised. “Did you leave someone behind?”
Veins pushed blood into his neck. His toes wanted to curl. He exuded a smile, a sense of dead space.
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe,” she said and took a sip of her coffee.
“It’s a roommate,” he said. “I’m trying to move out soon.”
“Really? That’s good. Where do you want to go?”
“Probably somewhere in Hudson. Maybe Jersey City.”
“And do what?”
“Just my usual work. I just want to save what I can. Do what I can to help out in the community but also just keep things reasonable, you know?”
Another sip. He decided to take one, too, although he could spot the smile slowly emerging on her face.
A smile was attached to his own skin, too, as he asked what she was thinking. What was so funny?
“I’m a bit confused, that’s all,” she said, finally. Another trucker wandered through. The people at the register were watching a video on their phones. They yawned and sported a smile once the man appeared before them like a specter.
This was when Hsi retreated internally. Lost but still trying to keep himself engaged, and his mind clear.
“Why are you reading Malcolm?” she finally asked. It was dark outside, the moon hidden behind the clouds, and yet the avenue was filled with light from the surrounding businesses, the Walmart, and the Starbucks that had been newly built to appeal to all the refugees from New York, their aspirations spilling into the Garden State.
No answer was available apart from a mess of words and thoughts. But Dipa pursued. “You act also like the life you want, the balance, is less stressful or something. But can you really have a balanced life in a time like this?”
“What are you even saying?” he finally said.
“I don’t know, forget it,” she said, now staring into her coffee.
His phone mumbled in his pocket. Dipa told him to answer it and left for the bathroom. He didn’t, and instead, sat there, gazing at the emptying street, with a few cars still buzzing past the strip mall. His fists were clenched. Eventually, all he could think about was the next action, which was slated to be at the Hindu temple that one of the restaurant owners loved to donate to, and appear at on certain religious days. The plan was for him to be there, holding up signs with everyone else, demanding wages be paid.
In a week’s time, he would appear at the temple, as planned, following the instructions that Dipa gave everyone right outside, as some of the congregants glared while heading into the temple space, eager to hear unintelligible Sanskrit, a dead language that held no meaning, as Dipa once liked to say when they were still getting to know each other. When they share tidbits of their family’s background with one another while at the Rutgers library, intending to study for exams, but instead, wasting hours laughing, spinning corny jokes, and sharing lines from books they actually enjoyed.
But when the action started, and the protestors poured in, just as the store owner was pontificating about the importance of faith and family and “culture” in a land of such Western “decadence,” Hsi stood apart. One of the men inside stormed out. In pure reaction, Hsi punched that man, landing a blow right below his right eye, causing him to scream and spiral, acting as if the world ended. Hsi rolled his eyes as the man squirmed on the pavement, still covered in ice and black snow.
Cops arrived on the scene, and the protestors defended Hsi, despite being mostly older women only armed with their yelling and signs, which they kept waving at them like pitchforks. Dipa ran outside, too, promising she would find a way to pay for his bail. “We have funds,” she said as they took him away to one of the squad cars. Terror and joy were mixing in his gut, lungs, and liver. A sharp pain shot up his left side. Yet, when he was finally in the car, the cops grumbling and looming over him, he had a clear view still of the protests, and of the signs being waved around, and one of the cops slipping on his ass and being whacked on the head.
Hsi chuckled, but made a note to himself, once he’d be booked and afforded his one call, to notify Yiyun of what happened.
When Malcolm was murdered, he was surrounded by those who loved him the most. Yuri Kochiyama, who shared the same birthday as him and had become one of his closest comrades in the struggle for civil and human rights, was the one who propped up his head as he lay dying, as people kept screaming and chasing after the men who shot their leader, their hero, their brother, their guide. The fact that one of the last people who saw him live was an Asian American was both heartbreaking and stunning to Nirmala, who had been told, time and again by others, including aunties and uncles, that Asians either had to look out for themselves or according to Asians closer to her age, that there was nothing really spectacular about them as a “community.” Numerous times, she was told by some of the loudest people in the room that Asians were often too docile, too meek, too self-righteous, and to themselves. It would literally be an uncle, with samosas stuffed into his mouth, the crumbs flying, who would repeat that Asians were too polite! Too committed to an ideal of themselves that was both ahistorical and delusional, and that the only way ahead was to plow through the hardship, head bowed like pushing against the wind on the side of a mountain, saving what they could, building a different kind of legacy that future generations could thrive from in terms of financial stability.
“Book after book showed me how the white man had brought upon the world’s black, brown, red, and yellow peoples every variety of the sufferings of exploitation,” Malcolm had stated before delving deeper into the history of the British impoverishing India and China, having millions of Chinese people addicted to opium to weaken the population against imperialist attack. It was one of Nirmala’s favorite sections to read, highlighting nearly every portion of every page, the yellow permeating through like blood through a white dress shirt.
She wanted to read more before Dipa and the others arrived, already conversations flowing on the front porch, as they waited for Nirmala to rush ahead and let them in. This time, the group was far less skeptical of her, willing to smile more, and even with some embracing her as they made their way past her and into the main living room, dropping their bulky purses by the sofa, stacking their shoes and sandals right before the carpet.
Dipa placed a hand on Nirmala’s shoulder before formally entering said space. “Thank you again for this,” she said, “My mom needs some space today, I feel like. Her cousins are still sick but should be okay soon unless they choose to eat more random shit that actually hurts them. Crazy right? I told my Ma that her cousin is probably lactose-intolerant, and she acted like I called her a serial killer! Kept denying it!”
It was the age old saga of Desis being in denial, Nirmala replied, causing Dipa to laugh, tears at the corner of her eyes. A sense of accomplishment gripped Nirmala. The anxiety gradually began to melt away like extra fat. Nirmala led Dipa to the living room, where the meeting commenced with an agenda drafted by Dipa and one of the employees, Radha, who had worked at the Desi Bazaar supermarket chain for now a decade and a half, her feet sometimes too swollen now for her to wear regular shoes, opting for loose sandals instead, looking like clown shoes instead.
The first ten minutes proceeded without much interruption. Some of the other women, all of them crammed against one another on the two couches, murmured, muttered, even groaned, but none had dared to raise their voices just yet as Radha read through some of their action items moving ahead, which included trailing after Mr. Mukhopadhyay from one event to the next. Coming up was an award show in the heart of Edison, where Mr. Mukhopadhyay (the employees still didn’t really know his first name) was to receive an award from the mayor regarding his “community” service to the local area.
Some of the women snickered at this. One of the workers, though, repeatedly got up and would meander into the corner of the kitchen, texting on her phone. Dipa was convinced, along with a few others, that this woman, whose name escaped her, was communicating with either management or with Mr. Mukhopadhyay directly. A war of words ensued once she got up for what was the seventh time in fifteen minutes.
“Idiot!” one of the other women yelled at her in Gujarati. Dipa had taught Nirmala some phrases, whose own family background was mainly rooted to parts of Kolkata prior to their pursuit of the American Dream of working until you pass out, crossing oceans in the process for that reality.
“He’s going to fire you once he’s done with you, you idiot monkey poop!” another woman chimed in, just as Radha was heading into the part of the agenda that had to do with contacting local newspapers and canvassing.
The shouting pulsated throughout the house, pummeling mind, body, and soul, as the woman with the phone refused to stop texting. Finally, the other women demanded she leave, and she, as expected, refused, complaining now they were being cruel to her and unfair, that they never liked her to begin with.
One of the women agreed, saying, “How can we like a dog fucker like you!”
Such poetry. Such directness, something Nirmala would’ve preferred compared to everyone else around her, including her parents, who usually wielded passive-aggressiveness as their weapon. “Can you do that, or do you need some more time?” her mother had a penchant for saying whenever the garbage was full, and Nirmala was resting on the couch after another five straight hours of Uber, Lyft, or Doordash, or selling pieces of her art projects to strangers who didn’t even know the difference between a modernist lens, or ultra-realism, or some post-modernist agenda that saw art in everything and anything to the point that art itself becomes meaningless.
When Dipa contacted Nirmala about the campaign, Nirmala had been living with her parents for almost five months, having been forced to move back after a year of living in Jersey City. At the time, Nirmala had been working at a local paper, writing daily reports on pipelines bursting in the middle of busy avenues, and attaining a quote or two from the local police about yet another burglar who’d been arrested or someone assaulting somebody else outside a pub. As a newer reporter, she had to work more seven-day weeks than anybody else, but she also had the right to write a feature-length piece every few weeks, something that truly allowed her the space to be literary and pretentious as he would joke with Dipa when they reconnected and learned about what the other had been preoccupied with doing since graduating.
You are perfect for this, Dipa had told her one afternoon as they sat on the porch of Nirmala’s parents’ house, watching the trees sway, the lush green grass illuminated by the remnants of the sun. As much as Nirmala desired distance between her and the life she grew up with, surrounded by cookie-cutter homes and everyone having the same type of cars parked on the driveway for everyone else to peek at, she had started to find some of it fascinating in its own right. Just a few blocks from where they were, a few blocks from the clean sidewalks and paved-over roads, were gas stations with their pumps malfunctioning and a row of strip malls featuring every single day some kind of buffet, the parking lots cut through with giant cracks in the asphalt.
Dipa had told Nirmala she’d been reading her articles and some of her other posts on Nirmala’s own personal blog and deeply enjoyed them, even if she didn’t quite understand all of the meaning or catch all of the symbolism that she knew had been lurking there. The writing and engagement with a range of ideas exemplified Nirmala’s passion for justice, for comprehending the world around her, and for being willing to express that with others. You’re authentic when you want to be, and that’s a huge strength, was Dipa’s final assessment, which Nirmala simply nodded to and pretended to be engrossed by the leaves of a tree on her parent’s front lawn. But later that night, she stayed up until she could see orange glowing through her window, jotting down notes and ideas for future stories, and poems. The first time she did that since moving back to her parent’s gaze.
The woman was ejected from the meeting, and some of the other women escorted her to her car, making sure she fully left. Surrounded by trees and mailboxes that stuck upright from the ground, there was more yelling and cursing, prompting one of the neighbors to poke their head out of their own front door, herself also Gujarati American and possibly understanding more of the insults that were being tossed around so cavalierly. The woman, who had recently moved, complained about Nirmala’s strolling around the neighborhood in shorts that apparently looked like panties to her. Nirmala’s mother argued with the woman on the front steps until their voice collapsed like in a black hole, and she couldn’t speak or murmur for the rest of the day. Nirmala’s father took over the duty that day to remind Nirmala that, yes, the garbage was full, and she could do this one small thing for them or choose not to. Her choice. They were just her elderly parents who had paid for everything she needed and never hesitated. Half-truths were still spilled that afternoon. Nirmala opted for another walk to stretch her legs out before another five straight hours of driving people around amidst traffic and random construction blocking entire lanes.
“Are you unwell?” the question was from Radha, who had stayed behind to help organize more of the canvassing sheets, which neighborhoods to hit, and when. The other women had already left, armed with a list of houses to knock on in their local areas, usually people who registered for the Democrat party and had more of an open mind on such issues of pay equity. Unless of course, they’d already been convinced that the best way to attain social justice was to simply vote, and pray everything works according to plan. More black and brown cops. More brown military men and women stabbing the earth of foreign lands with flags of red, white, and blue. Still, there was hope, as Radha explained earlier, having done her research earlier when interviewing some people around the area on what they thought about the campaign, her own form of ad hoc survey research. Unpaid, of course, but critical.
Radha pressed her hand against Dipa’s forehead. This was also the first time Nirmala actually looked directly at Dipa’s face as they stood around the kitchen counter, warming up some milk for tea. There were dark circles under each eye. Darker than last.
“You’re burning up,” Radha complained, demanding now that Dipa lie down. Dipa refused, as was expected. However, Nirmala, too, spoke, suggesting that Dipa at least sit down for a moment. Dipa sighed and gritted her teeth but relented and sat down on the couch.
“Did you eat anything?” Nirmala asked, having remembered Dipa’s stories of how she’d spend hours on the road, driving from one side of Middlesex to the other, knocking on doors. She’d started the canvassing a few weeks prior, having been spurred on by Nirmala’s initial survey observations concluding that the campaigning had at least brought the situation at the Desi Bazaar supermarkets to light. The iron was hot, as some would’ve said. Not them, because the saying made no sense. Nonetheless, Dipa profusely thanked Nirmala, and even requested she be paid for her services through the union. Some of the union leadership went so far as to contact Nirmala through email, requesting a future meeting.
“She didn’t eat anything,” Radha said and went to start preparing the tea, and gathering biscuits on a tray.
By this point, Dipa’s eyelids fluttered, and Nirmala carefully maneuvered her onto the couch, letting her legs stretch out.
“When they come back from the canvasses,” Dipa said, her voice faint now, “you have to…”
“Choop,” Radha interjected and sat by the end of the couch with a tray. She handed Dipa the cup, a biscuit snapped in half. For the following half hour, they sat and waited for Dipa to chew and swallow, ignoring Dipa insisting she was ok now, tossing around jokes about the woman who was thrown out of the meeting, making sly remarks about some of the men and women at the temple, the uncles with their beer belly guts, the woman who looked ten years older than what they really were.
Every so often, Nirmala would glance over at Radha, who after some time, got up to answer a call from one of the other women on the road. Some of the addresses had led them to vacant properties, so some confusion hung in the air.
While Radha spoke to some of the women while in the dining room, her voice causing the dust to rise, Nirmala stayed seated on the floor, her bony knees jutting out. Dipa was now talking about someone she’d been seeing, a man who believed class struggle was no longer “real.” She had met him over Tinder and knew they’d get into an argument, but she needed to get out of the house, and some debating was warranted. “I needed some bloodletting,” she said and smirked as she took another sip of her chai.
Usually, such stories would elicit more questioning. But Nirmala simply listened and paid more attention to the circles around Dipa’s eyes. To how Dipa’s lips cracked. To the way her fingernails, albeit slathered in bright orange, were chipped, as if chewed on for days.
Later that evening, the women returned, arguing over wrong turns, laughing. Radha implored them to lower their voices, of course in her own way, yelling at them to do so. There was an older man they recruited who’d also decided to come back with them. He, too, kept bellowing with laughter at something that Nirmala couldn’t quite ascertain as she was now in one of the upstairs bathrooms, staring at her face, noticing dark lines under her eyes. She flipped on her Uber app moments ago and received messages right away, most of them beyond the trees, either in the heart of Iselin or New Brunswick, peoples’ shadows converging. Part of her wanted to rush downstairs instead to join in the banter. That part was still there, trying to grow, squirming to get loose, like a bird stumbling through layers of mud, it sticking like cement.
Did Malcolm realize, prior to the gunshot, that it was either perish as a man of the revolution or simply perish as any other black man under capitalism and white supremacy? Was there ever a choice? Could there have been a way to evade fate so he could continue building a life with his family and friends? Nirmala rushed downstairs, questions lodged in her gut, and warmed up more chai as the women made more lists and sang to Urdu songs echoing like a garbled mess from their phones. Lying on the couch, Dipa somehow snored, deeply embedded in slumber, drool slipping down her chin. Every so often, Radha wiped it away, and Nirmala watched as the milk heated up, smelling sweet, the garbled singing conjuring spirits. Malcolm, beaming, as he sat on the other couch, one leg crossed over the other, his shirt and khakis creaseless. She wanted the music to be played louder, for it soaked up every ounce of her.
One of the protesters leaned on her sign, probably taking in deep breaths as one could imagine, with the sun fully exposed in the sky, yellow daggers shooting down at the ground. Another had come over and started flapping a tiny fan. Both wore bright red shirts with the logo of a brown fist. Both had black hair bunched up in tight buns, although at times, their hair would come undone, unfurled, falling below their hips. One woman, when Bobby had first rolled around, tinted windows up, in their rental for the evening’s festivities, had streaks of gray almost like silver, reminding him of his mother, who, at this point in his life, preferred playing cards at the retirement community than pay any mind to what was taking place in the heart of Edison. This woman, too, looked far more “rotund,” as his father would’ve described, plodding from one edge of the corner to the other, waving her signs at cars zooming by. Some, to Bobby’s incredulity, had slowed down to honk, causing the group of women to cheer and wave their signs even higher above their heads.
“To win at life, you need confidence, even if you’re not totally sure of what you’re doing,” Bobby said from the rear seat to Ranveer, who found them a spot to park just a block away from where the protestors had gathered.
“Yes, sir,” Ranveer responded, eyes ahead, occasionally peeking over, checking in perhaps.
At some point, Bobby scrolled through messages on his phone. Rekha, one of the women he’d met serving drinks at an entrepreneurial event in Hoboken, had finally agreed to meet him later, causing him to stir awake. They’d crossed paths a few more times until she let her fingers glide across his arm while at a table, listening to another “entrepreneur” droning on and on about Big Government on stage. That night, he expressed to her how silly and neurotic it was for so-called investors and men (and women) with so-called business acumen to position government intervention and free market ethics at two polar extremes. How could a business grow without tax incentives? How could any of them accrue investment without literally the men in blue standing between civilization and the horde of the politically hungry and confused?
Having taken over his parents’ business when it was just one store trapped in downtown Edison, he expertly “informed” his guest audience of one, he made it his goal to help it expand beyond what was expected of it, as a supermarket destined to serve the Desi community that’d been shopping there for decades, those who preferred a less crowded store compared to the behemoths nearby, from Patel Cash & Carry to Subzi Mandi. Instead, due to the investments he brought in with his newfound connections at business school⸺a healthy mix of white and nonwhite curiosity of the “exotic,” which he played up⸺and himself developing relationships with local suppliers, both in and around the county and even as far as the suburbs of Toronto or the flatlands of West Virginia, Desi Bazaar had become a far more regional force. Chasing after Desi communities spilling in from the larger cities surrounding them, refugees of high-end development, and the few who couldn’t quite survive the changes, the Bazaar supermarket chain had tapped into a market eager for their mango chutney, Basmati, and okra. The plan was to have a Desi Bazaar in every town, as ubiquitous as a Starbucks or a Wawa.
“Sir, should we call the manager and let them know the protestors are handing out flyers to customers?”
Still scrolling through Rekha’s Instagram page, the sense of anticipation intensifying after every bikini pic taken in a bathroom by the beach, Bobby allowed his thoughts to gel and float to the surface. Repeating his line regarding confidence, he told Ranveer that all the workers really needed was guidance.
“They’re lacking direction,” he said.
There was a pause.
“Do you want me to let the manager know you’re here?”
“Is there a back entrance?” Bobby asked as he now watched the signs being waved in the bright sunlight. More cars blared their horns.
It was puzzling how the protestors had persisted in the ensuing days, given the information that one of their leaders had fallen ill and there was only chaos within the group. Although the person providing that information was not exactly known for her truthfulness and engagement with reality. Back at his house, the moonlight trickled in between the palm trees that lined the driveway. The palm trees had been imported from somewhere in Mexico, and as he gazed upon them, he appreciated how they made him feel at that moment, somewhere remote, his muscles relinquishing their grip. The booth for the new security guard was a blip at the end of the driveway, it too surrounded by palm fronds and colored pink and green.
Perched in front of the big windows that overlooked the driveway and the other houses shrouded in trees, Bobby popped open another IPA, letting it burn through the bile that was already building up from his gut. The sound of snoring echoed from down the hall. Taking another sip, he pictured Rekha’s body over his, finding its rhythm. The anticipation now loomed as he could hear the other woman’s breathing faintly in the distance, muffled against the pillows and linen, soaked in sweat and anxiety.
In the early orange glow, after throwing up in the bathroom in the far corner of the house, away from the sound of traffic that trailed after him every evening, he had more coffee, ate some pancakes and turkey bacon that was there for him on the kitchen counter, and deleted Rekha’s number and contact from his phone.
There was a thick layer of dust in his upstairs home office. Maybe it should’ve been kept unlocked, he wondered, as he nodded at the voices crashing into each other over the intercom. Two of his business associates vehemently disagreed about finding a new supplier for a particular type of mango that customers were now able to buy from another chain, this one owned by yet another Gujarati. The Gujus, as Bobby’s parents referred to them when growing up surrounded by mainly Punjabi-Americans and Patels and Shahs, had business sewn into their DNA. They were a strange breed, with most of the Hindus presenting themselves much in the same way as any modern business person would, wearing dress shirts and khakis, able to discuss the latest app conjured up in the labs of Silicon Valley, their language swimming in such terms as “liquidity” and mergers. And yet, lurking beneath the denim and adherence to business discipline were some of the most horrid views when it came to anyone other than their dense circles, with much of their ire targeting Muslims, speaking about them in much the same way as white segregationists would describe African Americans. The average Guju was a melding of Silicon Valley superficiality with the cunning of a white man draped in the Confederate flag. This was, in many ways, how one could describe modern U.S. society generally, with the trappings of so-called modern life, like having the world’s history at one’s fingertips through an iPhone, while white conservatives speak openly on the steps of Washington about IQ rates between the “races.”
It was a terrible time to be an investor, Bobby had realized, his mind dipping in and out of the various voices now flooding the room, causing him to hang up. A text soon followed, but he ignored that too, as he wandered into his kitchen, grabbing another bottle of liquid courage, as others would call it, not him, though. Not really needing it, but very much committed to a day that was a bit smoother than previous, he plopped himself at the dining room table, watched the silhouette inside his security booth, and sipped. As expected, there was an initial calming effect drifting over him, like white cumulus clouds. Like memories of the previous evening, legs and arms and lips on every inch.
Still, in a matter of moments, another text, another email. It was Ranveer explaining how their agent was no longer able to procure the information they needed, however precarious. She did want to see him, though, claiming she’d known Bobby’s parents when they were all living in town together, sharing the same row of attached homes. Another email was from one of the investors in Desi Bazaar. Bobby and him, Mr. Singh, a long-time collaborator with local businesses with big aspirations, had planned on turning Desi Bazaar into a version of Wawa instead, or at least some of them along the major freeways. A customer base seemed to exist for such a “dynamic” shift, as Mr. Singh initially said to Bobby at a bar after yet another Indian American business event where cards were exchanged, and most people were eager to compare cars outside, grinning through gritted teeth as speakers inside adorned the stage with euphemisms and phrases from books they never bothered to even crack open.
The last time Bobby and Mr. Singh exchanged words was around the time of Bobby’s award from the town for his community activism. At that point, Mr. Singh was convinced that it was best to slow down on the transition due to “external pressures,” especially as such pressures brought themselves to bear that evening, banging on the windows of the restaurant where the event was held. All the blinds were drawn, and all anyone could see were the shadows and silhouettes of bodies surrounding them, a garbled mass of rising voices causing some of the attendees to sneak out the back entrance instead, halfway through someone’s speech on financial sobriety, of which Bobby exemplified so well.
It didn’t matter. Since that time, Bobby had another five offers to work with him on the endeavor. None of them had the same level of cache that Mr. Singh had, but Bobby could picture himself working with two of them, both of whom had attended the same business school as Bobby once did. Adaptation was the pathway to survival, he mused, sharing this with one of the women in one of his rooms, who murmured and gently caressed his trimmed beard. They kissed, and he promised he’d return. But first, he needed more time to adjust himself for the impending clash with the politically confused and untrustworthy. There was so much unsteadiness in the world, he said, and the woman kissed his knuckle and drifted off to slumber.
In his office, fighting off another round of sneezing, he peered up at the latest award poking out from the wall by his window. Between the foliage outside, he could glimpse the specks of cars and trucks on the turnpike, floating past his view like dirt in his eye. The house he’d purchased for his Ma and Baba was even closer to one of the freeways, although it was still one of the best well-attended elderly communities in the state, with lawns cut every other week in the summer and games and celebrations held at the recreation center with sometimes, musical performances from artists in Lucknow or even Mumbai. A mental note was made to visit more often when Diwali was celebrated, a time of uplift, of darkness versus the light. Never one to enjoy his time at temple, as the priests chanted Old World languages to an audience of fools, Bobby began to recognize some of the utility in having a space where souls could congregate and where rituals could be practiced, bringing forth the familiar in such rocky times.
Ranveer finally chose to call Bobby, a week since Bobby had left his residence, leaning in his chair, sipping on his cup, gazing at his award. It was in vain, he knew, to spend so much time in a dark room, the sunlight sneaking in at such a peculiar angle, but he was in his house, away from judging hearts. Why not partake in some gloating now and then, he told himself, as he sipped and burped and remembered to put gel in his hair for the first time in days. The plan had been to go out, drive around, and check on some of his newer stores.
Picking up the line, he asked Ranveer how he’d been. At first, Ranveer responded with the usual banter, but then, there’d been dead air.
“Hello? Are you there Ranveer?” Bobby asked, massaging his knee. His doctor had come earlier that day, given him some much-needed relief, and some medications that could prove useful in the coming days. Top of the line, his doctor said, before rushing to another house a block away, the canopy of trees shielding his bald head from the sun.
There was an inkling of what this was about. Just as Bobby had been gathering resources for his idea for a Desi-oriented Wawa chain, Ranveer’s sister-in-law’s friend of a friend had allegedly collapsed during a rotation. One of her jobs had been to, of course, ring items up at the front. Another responsibility was to make sure the shelves were kept clean and items had been stocked. A manager insisted she stay on her feet, despite her being pregnant and showing, again, all this being alleged since it was through Ranveer that Bobby had heard about any of this happening. In the past, he had seen instances of cashiers, and sometimes, the men who worked in the warehouse, perched on crates in the middle of the store, wiping sweat off their brows. Some of this irked him, given that this was happening while customers were still milling around, squeezing past the employees to get the products they needed.
Regardless, this had disturbed Ranveer’s wife, and, subsequently, Ranveer, as would be expected. It is understandable for people to care about others fainting, although Bobby had explained that the manager had been severely reprimanded and given only some unpaid time off, until he could prove himself at another store. The manager himself was usually a good driver of enthusiasm and dedication to the job, himself having worked as a cashier and having worked herself up the chain.
At the end of the latest discussion, Bobby increased Ranveer’s pay even higher. Ranveer had been loyal since his father had been the main head. Sometimes, Ranveer seemed sentimental, but sentimentality itself was useful to have around, though with some limits.
Still, the conversation did feel draining, despite its successes. Wanting to go back to his bed and rest, Bobby stayed seated in his office, nibbling on his nails. Earlier that day, when he’d first woken up, the room was spinning, his insides burned. A full forty to forty-five minutes were spent in the bathroom, his insides gushing through, the differences between a black russian and a white one suddenly meaningless. So, instead of returning himself to his bed, for the remainder of the afternoon, he flipped on some of the lights in the dining space, the sunlight like tiny spears, needling his face through the main window, a plate of roasted potatoes and turkey leg in his right hand. Picking at the turkey skin, he lifted tiny bits to his mouth, his face lathered in sweat, him smiling, imagining all of the people celebrating his latest award, honoring his dedication to the community and him helping stave off chaos in this extremely unstable world.
Finally, the police chief reached out, and Bobby answered after the third ring, patting his lips with a wet napkin, the mustard stinging in the blisters and cracks.
First, the chief apologized for the “chaos” that had occurred at the latest event. Admitting that they’d been caught off guard by the “passions” unleashed that day, with some of his officers desperately pepper spraying women in the face and feeling hands pushing them onto the road, the chief told Bobby that another disturbance was set for the weekend.
“Do what you must,” Bobby reiterated, “And I thank you again for all your help.”
The chief acknowledged this and asked about Bobby’s latest car, and soon after, it was just the sunlight and Bobby again. It was just him and the Conway and Benny he played, letting it spread like perfume throughout the front of the house. It was just him and his cups, arranged across the dining room table, some having been percolating since last afternoon. It was just him and the distant hum of traffic. It was just him and his grand ideas stacked high. Joy spread through him, animating his limbs, as he lit a cigar, dragging in the smoke, his chest contracting. Adrenaline rushed through him like cars with their brake lines cut rolling down a hill.
The room spun.
