If you want to read the story from the beginning, click here.(https://wp.me/p2b25R-fw)

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November 2006

Fall is when the annual Indian festival season starts. Just like for Christian Americans, the festivities begin to take momentum at Thanksgiving and culminate in Christmas, for Indians it is Dussehra and Diwali. Dussehra in October followed by Diwali in November. Most immigrant families from India, like us, get the benefit of celebrating both. Lucky us.

It wasn’t always like that. At first, Dad was hesitant to take part in the American holidays. He wanted to keep the Indian traditions. That slowly changed. It was Mom who convinced Dad that we should take part in celebrating the Christian holidays.

“We should do it for our children who are growing up in America,” she said.

She was concerned about how not celebrating the American holidays would affect us, children, when we interact with our friends. It was Mom who convinced Dad. Thanks, Mom. Dad may have his opinions but, in most cases, he goes along with mom’s wishes.

We don’t celebrate Christmas as a religious holiday, but we put up an artificial Christmas tree in the house and adorn two small bushes in the front of our house with string lights. It started with us having a small two-foot-tall tree that we kept on a coffee table. Now we have a big six-foot artificial tree that we decorate with ornaments. We exchange gifts and party with friends. I think Dad enjoys it now.

We do the same for the Hindu festival of light, Diwali. Unlike in India where Diwali is celebrated for four or sometimes five days, here in America, we compress it into one day by having a big party. Every year our parents decide who among their friends will host the Diwali party. This year Mom volunteers to host the party in our house.

It’s early in the morning a week before Diwali. I’m still in bed. I smell the aroma of something cooking in the kitchen. I get ready and head downstairs.

“What’s going on, Mom?” I ask as I enter the kitchen and see her cooking. She has a deep cast-iron wok with two handles, the size of half a watermelon, on the gas range. This isn’t her morning routine. I see her kneading the dough and occasionally filling the cylinder of a T-shaped device. She makes spiral motions while pressing the two handles to drop the dough slowly into the sizzling oil.   

“I’m making Chakali. Got to get ready for the Diwali party,” she says, not even looking up.

I sit facing her on the barstool in front of the gas range.

“Wow, it’s a lot of work, isn’t it Mom? I mean to get ready.” I speak.

“Tell me about it,” she says taking a breather from her frying.

Dad is still upstairs getting ready to go to college. I don’t know where Lakshmi is—probably sleeping late. Krishna is at the university.

“Who’s coming to the party?” I ask.

“Oh, most of our friends. You know many of them. Raj, Soman, and some new friends we met at the temple.”

“Uncle Raj?” I say loudly. “I hope Aunty Mohini brings her Gulab jamun. I love the way she makes them. I’m not sure about Uncle Raj.”

“No?” Mom looks surprised.

“Well. He’s a nice guy. But he asks too many questions. When Dad tells him about Krishna I am just guessing how that’s going to go.”

“Well, Arjun. Don’t worry about it. Just be yourself and say what’s on your mind.”

“I don’t know what’s on my mind yet Mom.”

I’m sure Dad is going to brag about Krishna having decided to be a doctor. What about you, Arjun? They will ask. I could give an answer that they anticipate to shut them up or be honest and say what’s on my mind like Mom recommended. It’s a no-win situation. I’ll play it by ear and see how it turns out.

I hear Dad coming down. He walks straight to the cabinet, takes a bowl, and pours himself cornflakes. That’s his favorite breakfast —Cornflakes, banana, and tea.

“Good morning, everyone. Something smells good.” He walks close to the wok and inhales deeply. He turns to me and sees me eating a doughnut.

“That’s not good for you, Arjun. So much sugar?”

It looks like he hasn’t heard me talking about Uncle Raj, his best friend.

“Leave him alone,” Mom interjects. “He’s a growing boy. Besides, he’ll burn all that sugar during his game.”

“What game are you playing now?”

I am surprised. Dad has forgotten that I practice basketball after school. I’m not on the team, but I like to shoot baskets with my friends.

“Basketball, Dad. My friends and I shoot baskets.”

“What kind of language is that? Shoot baskets. You should be paying more attention to your studies. You need to get good grades if you want to go into top engineering schools. It’s very competitive, you know.”

He starts telling the story of how In India students commit suicide, but I cut him short reminding him that we have heard the story before. Why does Dad has to keep reminding me of this all the time? I’m not a bad student. I keep telling him that being a B student isn’t that bad.  

“Do you want me to pick up anything at the store on my way back from college?” Dad asks Mom.

Mom says she has everything she needs and will call him if she remembers something later.

“I tell you; you should get everything from Bombay Foods. Why spend your energy on all these preparations?” he says as he is about to leave.

“It’s not the same daddy. As long as I have God’s blessings and don’t fall, I’ll keep doing it.”

“Oookayh,” Dad says in a helpless tone as if it is beyond his control. He enters the garage by the door next to the kitchen, and he’s gone.

That afternoon I return from school and see Mom lying on the living room sofa with her left arm on her forehead and a throw pillow under her head.

“You look tired Mom. I told you I could help. I could have helped you squeeze the dough into the skillet. Are your shoulders hurting?”

“That’s okay, Beta. It’s much easier to get the thing done. Besides, you’re busy with your school and everything.” 

I see two big trays of snacks on the kitchen counter. Both with aluminum foil wrapped around the top. One of the wrappers had come off in one end and was slightly protruding up. I guess one of them has something that looks like pretzels with spikes and the other the thin yellow angel-hair pasta look alike. Chakali and Shev they are called.

“Can I taste one of the chaklis Mom?” I ask walking towards the wrapped trays.

“I’ve saved some in the small plastic container with the red lid. It’s near the toaster. Don’t open the tray with the aluminum foil.”

I can’t resist picking one chakli. Half of it crunches in my mouth and the other half crumbles and slips out of my hand. I try to balance the pieces to prevent them from falling on the floor. I like the salty taste.

I don’t realize it but Mom is up and standing near me. She slaps my arm lightly and scolds me. “Save some for Dad and Lakshmi.”

“Mom, why don’t you cater the food from Bombay Foods as Dad recommended?” I suggest.

“Let me think about it Beta. But, thanks.”

We are ready for the party on Saturday. I help Dad decorate our house with string lights that we use for Christmas. In India, houses are decorated with clay Aladdin lamps. But, because of the safety regulations, we cannot do that in America.

Guests start arriving at five in the afternoon. We have set up a table with snacks in the family room, and we will serve the food in the dining room. Another table of snacks is also set up in the basement where all the men are expected to gather.

By six in the evening, our house is one busy place. Some men are wearing kurta pajamas, the traditional Indian attire of a below-the-knee shirt and pants, loose at the waist and narrow at the ankles. Women display a kaleidoscope of bright colors with their elegant saris and jewelry they want to show off. Young girls wear the Salwar Kameez, the feminine version of the kurta pajama with a Dupatta, a long scarf draped around their neck. We have a note on the front door instructing people to come in through the garage. We have moved the cars out. As the guests arrive they remove their footwear before entering the house. Our Garage looks like a sea of shoes and sandals.

Since Krishna is attending college, it is just Lakshmi and me to help Mom and Dad. The ladies gather in the kitchen. They are talking about something in Marathi with Mom and placing the goodies they have brought with them wherever they can find space on the counter. Mom finally decided that it would be a potluck dinner. Getting everyone involved in the celebration is what she said. Mom is busy greeting, hugging, and exchanging pleasantries with the women. It’s just Namaskar to the men. The ladies admire the color of each other’s saris as they meet, and the designs of the necklaces and earrings they are wearing. Men don’t pay attention to such things. I escort them to the basement. 

Some festivals are sacred, and no alcohol is allowed. But Diwali is not such an occasion. I know all Indian men prefer scotch. Dad has set up a table with a gallon of Johnnie Walker Black Label, a bottle of Glenlivet single malt, soda, some beer, and wines.

As the men arrive and settle down Dad asks about their preference for a drink. They unanimously ask for scotch, some with water and others with ice. Dad carefully pours a jigger into each glass with whatever mix they have asked. I have to make sure that the ice bucket is always full.

After preliminary greetings, men scatter in groups all over the basement. Some are loudly discussing Indian politics, whether Prime Minister Modi has been a success or not. Some are discussing the latest Indian movies they have seen and the cricket scores. I don’t understand anything. Come on, guys, I say to myself. You are in America. Why don’t you talk about local events? How about whether the Wizards will have a good season this year or prospects of The Nationals acquiring a great relief pitcher or whether they will ever win a World Series?

I move away to where Uncle Soman is sitting on the floor surrounded by four boys and two girls, all ten years old or younger. Soman is a dentist. He’s teaching the children how to make a paper lantern from scratch. I watch them for a while and don’t say anything. Uncle Soman looks at me and smiles, and I smile back.

A while later I notice Uncle Raj approach Dad. Oh, Oh. I am curious about what happens next.

“Vijay,” Uncle Raj asks Dad as he shakes the whisky glass. “How’s everything? It’s been a while since we got together. You told me Krishna is at UVA. Does he like it there?”

“Oh yes. He likes it there. He visited us on a weekend in September. I was about to tell you that he has decided to go for Medical.”

“Great. It’s a good school for Medicine. I wish him luck.”

Dad thanks him as Uncle Raj moves away to join another group. Dad walks over to the corner where we have a cassette tape recorder and turns on Indian music. The music is smooth and melodic. I wish I could understand the lyrics. I hear some men humming to the tunes. At least they are having a good time.

I fill a tray with snacks and walk around to offer them to whoever wants them. I find myself facing Uncle Raj. He tries to balance his scotch in one hand and reach for a chakli with the other.

“Arjun Beta, what are you up to?” he asks, trying to gulp down a sip and eat a chakli at the same time. “When are you graduating?”

Oh, oh. I knew it. It’s happening. Keep your cool Arjun

“I’m a junior at Fairfax High, Uncle Raj. I graduate next year.” I reply.

“Great. Are you going to join your brother at UVA and be a doctor?”

“I don’t know Uncle Raj. I am considering several options.”

I don’t tell him about my interest in sports and music. 

“That’s Okay. You have plenty of time. A smart boy like you could be an engineer or an IT professional. There’s a lot of demand for IT people also, you know. You can join Google or Microsoft and drive a BMW in the first year. I guarantee.”

I thank him and move away.  I’m glad we didn’t get into a controversial discussion.

He walks away to talk to new arrivals. A thin man with horn-rimmed glasses is descending the staircase. Dad introduces Uncle Avi, who is an architect. Men approach him and start presenting themselves, shaking hands, and adding Happy Diwali.

I notice a boy, my age, standing behind me.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello, Arjun,” he says and extends his hand. “I was at the game when you hit that home run last year. It was awesome, man.” 

I recognize him now. He’s Suresh, Uncle Raj’s son. I have seen him in high school but never got to know him well. I learn he is a sophomore.

“Oh, thanks, Suresh.”

“I heard what my dad was saying to you. Don’t pay attention to him.”

“Oh well,” I say. “All Indian dads want the same thing. That their kids become a doctor or an engineer.”

“Why can’t they, you know, accept that there are many good Indians who are making their name in arts, music, and even in Hollywood and TV series?”

“You mean like Kal Penn or Mindy Kaling? Yeah, but it’s not prestigious,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, you want something to drink?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I cannot offer him liquor, but I can bring him a cup of the fruit punch.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you into music?” I ask.

“I don’t play anything if that’s what you are asking. But I heard about your band in the Pulse Newspaper.”

“Yes. We play at birthday parties and school events.”

“Who’s in it?”

“Well, it’s Dan, you may know our catcher. He’s the percussion player, I play the guitar, and Naomi is the vocalist. That’s why we call it DAN the Band. Get it? Dan, Arjun. Naomi.”

“That sounds great. I want to come and hear you sometime.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know when we play next.”

“Super,” he says. After a pause, he adds. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you play something here? They will know how good you are on your guitar.”

“Are you sure? They are talking about Indian music. They wouldn’t be interested.”

“Try it.”

With that Suresh announces that I would be playing guitar for them and requested them to gather in one place. I fetch my guitar from upstairs and play a song I had practiced last week.

In the end, I hear applause, even from Dad. I can’t believe it.

“You have a multi-talented son, Vijay.” Uncle Raj is saying to Dad.

I hear loud noises and several footsteps upstairs and rush to see what’s going on. Uncle Soman and his helpers have finished constructing the lantern and are deciding where and how to hang it. Two girls, each dressed in hot pink skirts and green blouses are fiddling with packages of sparklers, trying to open them. Dad saved them from the Fourth of July, just for this occasion.

I help Uncle Soman hang the lantern from the living room ceiling.

“A natural-born Engineer,” he says clapping.

I wanted to roll my eyes but I just smile.

The girls have succeeded in opening the packages. Lakshmi escorts them to the backyard to light them. Lakshmi is wearing a sari for the first time and is careful walking lest it slips and she trips.

“How does it stay up?” she asked Mom.

“You tie a knot at your waist and then wrap around. You’ll get used to it,” Mom consoled her.

Some ladies and other children follow them onto the deck. It’s dark outside, and one can feel the November chill in the air.

“God, it’s cold out here.” One of the aunties says. Her daughter fetches her jacket from inside. The daughter starts taking pictures on her iPhone.

“I’ll post it to my Facebook page right now,” she says.

I want to go out and get away from this for a while, but Mom calls and wants me to meet Mrs. Gauri. She is eighty-five years old and in a wheelchair. She is draped in an all-white sari and wears faded round glasses.

I bend and touch her feet to show respect to the elders, as is the Indian custom. She touches my head lightly to offer her blessing.

“Arjun,” she says haltingly. “How you’ve grown. Last I saw you were up to here.” She raises her hands to show.

 “How’re you, Aajji?” I say, calling her by the generic Marathi name for Grandma—like saying, Nana.

“What are you? A doctor like your brother Krishna?”

How fast has the word got around? He’s “going” to be a doctor not “is” a doctor. But what does it matter?

“No, Aajji. I’m still in high school.”

“Come close to me so that I can hear you.”

I move closer to her and repeat what I said. She shakes her head. Dad calls from the stairs leading to the basement. I have to go down to help him bring the plates and cutlery upstairs.

“Take care,” I say to Aajji. She waves.

It’s dinner time. Mom wants to show off her collection of dinnerware. She often goes to the SRS store, the Fortessa Tableware Solutions Company, in Sterling to pick up the good stuff at a low price. She doesn’t like serving on paper plates.

“Wow,” says Uncle Raj. He’s the first one in line. “You know how to put on the show, Sharada.”

Mom says, “Oh. It’s nothing. I hope you enjoy the food. Everyone helped.”

Men fill up their plates first and sit at the formal table in the dining room. The buffet has the favorite gourmet dishes – Vegetable biryani, purees, potato bhaji, cucumber salad, shrikhand, and fresh pickles. Women wait until the men have finished serving themselves. They sit on the floor around the coffee table in the living room, because there’s no room at the dining table and it’s not the custom for men and women to sit together anyway. Some men and children move to the basement.

By eleven-thirty everyone is gone. I notice Uncle Raj having difficulty keeping his eyes open. All that scotch. I hope Aunty Mohini is the designated driver.

“We did it,” Dad says. “It was a great party. I wish we had Krishna here.”

What about me? I am here.

Mom looks around the kitchen at all the dirty plates and dinnerware still on the counter. Some women help in loading the dishwasher. There will be more loads.

“I’m tired. Goodnight everyone.” Dad goes upstairs.

“Need any help cleaning up, Mom?” I ask.

“No, Beta. It can wait till tomorrow. You all did a lot. Go, rest,” she says.

I say goodnight and go to my room. I know Mom is going to sit around and watch Saturday Night Live or HGTV to unwind.

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To read chapter 4, click here. https://wp.me/p2b25R-g3