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COPYRIGHT 2004 Harvard Review
It is a point of discipline that Manmohan and I meet always on Thursday afternoons to take luncheon together. This is our routine now and it began soon after my arrival in the U.S. five months back: every Thursday without fail I walk from my son-in-law's home and Manu comes from his son's house and we meet in front of the old church in Copley Square. Of course for me the walking is not so hard as it is for Manu--daily I walk at least forty-five minutes for my exercise. Since I was a young man in law college in India I have been doing that and see, even fifty years later I am still hale and hearty, whereas Manu is a bit lazy, has a slight paunch and experiences some difficulty climbing steps. Always he was like that even when we were small boys. I try to tell him but he will not listen. What to do if others do not know what is good for them?
You must know that on Christmas day, when my story begins, I had been living in the U.S. for three months. Already I had opened my own bank account, obtained a law library card, and successfully settled the living arrangements with my daughter and her American son-in-law. He is a good fellow, despite having only superficial knowledge of our language and traditions; it was my poor wife, who is no more, who had trouble with the marriage initially. Also I had contacted Manu, with whom I had kept in touch all these years, and we began our present custom of taking luncheon together at an Indian establishment on Boylston Street in the Back Bay area.
That Christmas day, Manu and I were to meet as usual, and every bit of the city was covered with snow and ice. I had seen snow once before, in Darjeeling in 1968, but I had forgotten how one's foot will slide on it. By the luncheon hour the snow was no longer falling--still, I was surprised to see Manu wearing just a sweater and gloves waiting for me on the park bench. Even now he does that sometimes. He thinks that he is sitting on Abid Road in Hyderabad as we did when we were youngsters, watching the crowd during the hot season.
"Judge sahib, you are using a cane now, eh?" Manu called to me as I approached. Still he addresses me with the old Urdu term. Of course he tries to intimidate me by speaking English only--but it does not work. I am very comfortable with English. All of the courts in India are operated in that language only.
"I am required to use the cane, Manu. Not out of necessity, mind you. My grandchildren gave it to me as a present for their Christmas holiday. Their feelings would be very much hurt if I left it behind."
He is a short man, much shorter than I am, so I have to look down at him when we speak. But then I leaned the cane on the bench and remained standing while he sat, just so he would know I was speaking the truth.
"Are you not cold?" I asked.
"Not at all," he said, looking casually at the old Trinity Church, making no move to get up even though snow was blowing straight in our faces. "So you are celebrating Christmas these days, is it?"
"Are you teasing me or what, Manmohan? You know I do not like to follow these Western customs. But what else can one do when one is a foreigner in America and one's daughter has insisted on marrying a local fellow?" I picked up the cane again. "Challo. Are you not feeling hungry?"
"Okay, okay, Judge sahib." He got up from the bench and swung his arms back and forth like a monkey getting ready for exercise.
I looked at him but said nothing. Sometimes he likes to irritate me for no reason. We have many differences, Manu and I. He has lived in the U.S. since he was fifty-nine years; I did not move here until I was seventy. I am very well-traveled, having visited all over India, north south east west. He has been only to Bombay and Madras. I have my head full of hair, he is almost bald. I am a lawyer by training, he is only an engineer. Perhaps that is why I have a slightly more developed moral sense, I do not know.
I am not finding fault with Manu. We have many things in common, or we should not be friendly at all. We are the same age, we are both Murthys of the Brahmin caste, and grew up in the same neighborhood of Mozamjahi Market in the old days, when it was still a very nice neighborhood of Hyderabad. We have the misfortune to be widowers and now we both live with our respective children. We are even closely related; my father's own brother married to Manu's mother's cousin-sister. We both came from orthodox families. As boys we learned the slokas everyday and did not take food in non-Brahmin houses and were strict vegetarians. That is why we always like to eat our own Indian food.
"Raga Restaurant won't be open today," Manu said. "We must find somewhere else to eat."
"Why? It is a Hindu establishment."
"It is an Indian establishment, Judge sahib," Manu said. "It will be closed."
"We'll see, we'll see, Manu. You are not an expert on everything in America."
But when we reached the restaurant, no light was there in the building, and the chairs were turned upside down on the tables.
"As I thought," Manu said.
"Most unusual," I said, and bent forward to see if anyone was there inside. I did not want him to realize how disappointed I was. A Christmas tree was placed just beside the hostess stand, decorated with Kashmiri ornaments. A wooden statue of Lord Ganesha stood in the window, looking back at us, as if he too were remembering the April sun and palm trees and mango fruits of his motherland.
"Challo, what is there?" Manu slapped me on the back. "We will go and look for some other place."
"But why would any other hotel be open?"
"If you can walk just a little in this snow, we will find another restaurant--unless you're feeling uncomfortable in the cold?"
"What are you talking? I can...
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