The Leaving of Things (25 page)

* *

January 7, 1989

Dear Vik,

Happy New Year. Madison’s in its January deep freeze. I spent Winter break watching a ton of films—Fellini, Godard, Polanski mostly. Otherwise, I’ve been tooling around campus with Nate, at the Union mostly where it’s warm while the students are all gone and the place is still deserted.

So, here’s the scoop. Before break, Bridget told me she was having doubts about us. Says she’s not ready for a serious relationship. Go figure. And she’s the one who got us started down this road in the first place. I didn’t know what to tell her except that she should use the break to figure out her feelings. But I still care for her, and I’m not sure how I’d handle it if she killed the relationship. So I’ve been slumming a bit. How’s the woman situation at your end? You mentioned a girl that you sorta had the hots for (Nate wants to see a picture).

Hope you enjoyed your trip out to Delhi. Can’t wait to see the pics. Speaking of pics, I loved what you sent a couple of months back. You say it’s not much of a camera, but if that’s true, I think your eye more than makes up for it. Keep ’em coming.

Your last couple of letters have sounded a bit, I don’t know, aloof. I do think there’s a lot for you here if you do decide to come back. Though I know there are hurdles to jump through, right? Admissions, finances, etc. Let me know what I can do, and I’ll do it.

I’m sending a mix of Warren Zevon, Kate Bush and Camper van Beethoven. You’ll dig it.

Write soon,

Karl

* *

I filled out the application in a rush. What did it matter? At the very least, it would give me fleeting hope, something to break the dismal routine of the next few months leading up to the finals in April. I figured I could seal the application up and mail it out quietly, and no one would be the wiser. It was a long shot, so why bring my parents into it? But as I signed it, I noticed in fine print a note below the dotted line reminding me of an application fee: $15.
Shit.

My parents sat in the living room, watching episodes that they had recorded of
The Mahabharata
TV serial. Me, I couldn’t stand the show. All loud acting and in-your-face theatrics. I groaned and considered backing out of the room, but my purpose held. The application in my hand, I took a seat.

On TV, armies on chariots massed on a chroma-keyed battlefield, the orange banners snapping in the studio’s fan-driven wind. Foot soldiers stamped their spears on the sand-strewn studio floor, and the blowing of conch shells rang across the soundtrack.

“I need to borrow some money,” I began. “Er, would you mind if …?”

“Not now, Vikram.” My father’s gaze was fixed on the TV screen.

I left the application on the coffee table and walked back to my room. I decided to write Karl a letter. I pulled out a sheet of airmail paper—crinkly-thin, as translucent as onionskin—and started writing. But my thoughts kept pulling me to Priya. I’d said nothing about her to anyone since we last met, in the deep dark of the library, but all through Christmas Break, I couldn’t escape her.

I looked out my room’s open doors to the balcony as the afternoon light mellowed to evening. Priya was probably married by now. She may not even be in Ahmedabad. Maybe she was in New York. Or maybe she and her new husband were honeymooning somewhere.

She was not in my world anymore. She’d passed through it and was gone. The thought worked its way like a splinter in my chest. Perhaps, I thought, she would stay on in college till we graduated. Maybe merely hearing her voice would be enough—that lovely accent that brought me home—even if she never spoke to me again. Shannon too. She was even farther. I couldn’t believe we were even on the same planet. And I realized I would have to suffice with the memory of lying together on her bed and the memory of what we did but now regretting what we did
not
do. She had wanted to do it, but I couldn’t. Fine work, Vik. What are you? A monk? Why don’t you go join a monastery like your friend Devasia? You would be a perfect little monk. Couldn’t bring yourself to have sex with Shannon when you knew, she told you, she wanted it. What’s the matter with you? Shame, wasn’t it? The thought of your parents so devastated, bottomed-out, at the police station to pick up their delinquent son. I was spared jail time that night, but wasn’t shame another kind of jail time? Jail time you imposed on yourself? Nothing to be done about it now.
College would be starting tomorrow, and three months to follow of boredom and drift. Then the finals. Then the goddamn April-May-June of summer. Then the monsoon again. Another year of Xavier’s. Repeat twice over.

I went out to the balcony. The air gritty and the breeze cool. On University Road, traffic droned and clattered. A bus roared past, a rusting obscenity, its horn honking like geese gone berserk. The tailpipe of a putt-putting rickshaw backfired. It pulled to the front of our gate, and the driver got out to inspect whatever had happened. Streetlights blinked on along the road and above the dusty shopping plaza. Bollywood pop music blared from speakers mounted on a truck plastered with Hindi movie posters, parked in the plaza lot directly below a streetlight. A man set up a canopy attached to the side of the truck and began piling music cassettes on a table. The evening crowds arrived.

“Here you go.” My father appeared on the balcony. He held out the check for $15 and the application to me. “Just let me know what you need, and we’ll take this one step at a time.” Then he stepped away, back through the door and to his
Mahabharata
program.

I stood there for a moment, grateful for this check. First thing in the morning, before college, I’d swing by the post office and send this on its merry way. I stayed out on the balcony, watching Navarangpura’s evening come to life. I stared at the check and noticed it was drawn on the University of Wisconsin Credit Union. I guess we hadn’t cut our ties to America completely.

* *

Back at college, I came across no sign of Priya. Each day, I kept expecting her to show up, to catch sight of her in Varma’s or Sridharan’s lectures or, if not there, then in the library. But she was gone and stayed gone.

I would see Manju and Hannah regularly—they were both in my French class—but something held me back from approaching either of them. I did notice that they stared at me coldly or made marked attempts to avoid me. I didn’t really care—Manju or Hannah didn’t matter much to me. I figured they knew what had happened between Priya and me, maybe Manju had seen us together that afternoon under the library. So I didn’t find their aloofness toward me surprising. What held me back was my fear that if I asked them about Priya, their sure-to-be snide replies would only confirm what I suspected—that she was never coming back.

One day, sitting in my customary spot in French class (a bench toward the back), I noticed Harish Rajkumar—old Ferret-face himself—saunter in with a slip of paper, dressed in the clerk’s garb of a short-sleeve shirt with a ballpoint pen tucked into the breast pocket. Madame Varma took the paper from him, set down her textbook, put on her half-glasses dangling from a chain. She inspected the note.

“Vikram Mistry,” she said, taking off her glasses. “Principal wanting to see you.”

What could the principal want with me? I braced myself, shoved my books back inside my bag, and went out, accompanied by Rajkumar.

We walked along the verandah, Rajkumar keeping a brisk pace. “You are Rahul bhai’s son, no?” He grinned at me, punishing me with the sight of his nubby brown teeth, his eyes becoming slits behind his enormous glasses. Whether his manner was malicious or ingratiating, I could not tell. Maybe both.

I told him I was and left it at that. Kept walking.

“How your father is doing?”

“Fine. Very busy.”

“Hmm … sure, sure.”

The air buzzed with the murmurs of students in the quad and the slap of Rajkumar’s heels against his sandals as he walked.

Rajkumar continued, “Rahul bhai was very studious, always like that. Are you like that also?” There was a petty, ironic tone to his question.

“No,” I said, “I’m the exact opposite.”

We arrived at the entrance to the foyer to the principal’s office. I walked on through when Rajkumar’s voice stopped me.-

“At Xavier’s, boys and girls must behave themselves,” he said. “Otherwise you are out.” He nodded, closing his eyes sagely, and continued back to the rat’s maze of the college office.

I didn’t bother pondering Rajkumar’s words. He wasn’t worth it. I knocked on the crackled-glass paneling on the door. A plate below the panel read, “FATHER D’SOUZA, PRINCIPAL.”

“Yes?” a muddy voice answered. I walked in.

“You wanted to see me?” I said. “Vikram Mistry, F.Y.B.A.?”

Seated at his desk, Father D’Souza looked exactly like the picture in the college office. His head was a firehouse plug with a pair of black spectacles and thick, silvery hair parted with military precision.

“Oh yes, oh yes.” He sounded as if his mouth were stuffed full of cotton. For a moment, D’Souza stared about the surface of his desk with an absentminded air before he folded his hands and assumed a stern, solemn expression.
His bulldog cheeks hung gloomily on either side of his tight, downturned mouth.

Just as I sat down, D’Souza stood up. I debated in my mind whether to stand back up but decided to stay put and play it cool. Folding his hands behind his back, D’Souza turned his round-shouldered bulk around to the barred window that looked onto the trees and shrubbery fronting the college. The bleached-out afternoon light filled the window, angled sharply into the room, directly into my face.

“Mr. Mistry,” he said, “I’ve received complaints about you from a student. Saying your conduct here is not befitting the reputation of Xavier’s.”

“Complaint? Who complained—?”

“Name is not important, Mr. Mistry. What is important is that you understand that you are not in America now, you are in different culture, and you must respect the customs of our culture.” The syllables spilled from his mouth like marbles. “So when I hear that you and a certain female here are not conducting yourselves in a decent manner, I am forced to take action.”

“I am sorry,” was all I could muster.

D’Souza pivoted toward me. “Mr. Mistry, at Xavier’s”—he raised his downturned palms side by side—“we want to discourage boy-girl pairing.” The palms slid away from each other. “It is okay for boys and girls to mingle in groups, but when they pair up, it tends to interrupt the flow of college life and academic progress. I am not just saying this to reprimand you, Mr. Mistry. We have proof of this.” I wondered what proof. “This rule we enforce for the social and emotional health of Xavierites. It is also consistent with our Indian culture. You seem not to understand that.”

Just then Rajkumar strode in through a side door, from the college office.

“Just needing your stamp, sir,” he said obsequiously, laying a sheet of paper on the desk. He took a step back and waited, eyes lowered.

D’Souza grunted, reached for his inkpad and began thumping the document with the stamp. Then he picked up a fountain pen and signed in several places. As he did this, Rajkumar shot a quick glance at me, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

Rajkumar took the document from D’Souza and spun around with a “Thank you kindly, sir.” He threw me another look, and faintly so I could hear it, tsked a few times as he trotted out through the side door.

D’Souza sat back down, hatched his meaty fingers together, and trained his pig eyes at me. “So where does this leave us? Suspension. Probation. What choice do I have?”

Suspension, did he say? Probation? I sensed my life, my Wisconsin college application vanishing into the black depths. “Father D’Souza,” I began, my brain reeling, “I apologize for my conduct, and whatever distress my actions with another student may have caused a fellow Xavierite. My action was stupid, insensitive, thoughtless. I request humbly that you take into account this has been a jarring shift for me and to make an exception. You are right. This is not America. And for a brief moment, I lost sight of that. But I promise from here on in to keep the reputation of Xavier’s in mind and to be respectful …” I grasped for the words, felt I was losing steam, “… of our cultural … of our culture. I would be grateful if you would do that.” Did I
just use the word “Xavierite”? I felt like a cheap, spineless whore, but it had to be done.

D’Souza studied his thumbs. “Your records show you are doing well thus far.” Then with a sigh, he looked at me. “If I find you are back in this office again, for any reason, you will find your standing in grave jeopardy. The complaint lodged against you has put you on the dock. Is that understood, Mr. Mistry?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“You may go.”

I got up, gripped my book bag in my hand. “Thank you, sir.”

I walked out, my shoulders hunched contritely, keeping my gaze on the ground. As I walked back to French class, catching my breath, I felt numb, like I’d escaped the firing squad.

* *

After my French lecture, I followed Manju across the quad. She swayed along in her lime-green salwaar kameez, chattering with Hannah, taller than Manju with her European skin and chestnut hair cut short. They talked closely, chuckled together. Before they entered the canteen, I called out, “Manju.”

She turned and the grin dropped from her face. I stepped up to her, faced her. “Did you go to the principal and say something about me?”

Manju’s eyes flared up for an instant, her mouth parted in shock. “I did not say anything to the principal.” But something about the way she averted her eyes only added to my suspicion.

“If you want to ruin other people’s lives, find someone other than me.”

She sneered. “And look who ruined Priya’s life? Her future was all set, she liked the boy she was going to marry, and you had to start toying with her.”

Hannah stood to the side, glowering at me, an implacable statue.

“I wasn’t toying with anyone,” I said, lowering my voice. “Priya’s her own person. She does what she wants with her own damn life. Or is that too crazy an idea?” I wanted to get away from the stares I was drawing from the canteen when the implications of Manju’s words struck me.
The boy she was going to marry.
“Wait,” I tried, “did Priya not get married?”