Chapter 16
Cold Blood
I walk out of the apartment gates as usual, but not in my uniform this time. Instead, I’m in a green kurta and a white pajama. I heft my small travel bag higher on my shoulders, breathe in the scent of pride, patriotism, and freedom. Guess celebrating your first Independence Day in India gives you that kind of feeling.
Pavan Uncle, one of the older residents living in the first block, is sitting outside near the plants. “Why, they didn’t let you off school even today?” He asks me.
I shake my head. “I’m participating in the school celebration.”
He nods curtly. As usual, his face doesn’t match the tone in his voice. He’s one of those folks who’s got complaints about everything. But today he seems different. His eyes scream… disgusted. Even hostile. I feel my throat tighten in warning.
Just then Ruchi joins me, wearing a white kurti and jeans, a blue dupatta elegantly sheathed around her neck like a scarf. She hands me a badge of the Indian flag and another dupatta, this one off-white with faded grey stripes.
“You’re supposed to wear one,” she says.
I wrap the soft fabric around my neck, letting the frilly ends hang below my waist. I pin the badge on my kurta, the gold edging glimmering in the morning sun.
Ruchi nods approvingly. “Nice. Green looks good on you.”
“It shows our relation to our soil and our homeland, doesn’t it? I didn’t know what the flag symbolised, so I looked it up. I guess it’s true for me.” I grin.
A scoffing chuckle comes from behind us. We turn to look at Pavan Uncle.
“The flag’s symbolism isn’t something you look up on the Internet, ladke. It’s what you feel since the day you are born, what being on this land means. But how would you know that?”
He gets up, snarls menacingly, “You are not Indian. You may be brown on the outside, but inside, you are all white. You, an American, do not know of our values. So today is just another average day for you. No idea of its significance. You have just celebrated at school as some sort of favour in return, isn’t it? For everything’s all the same to you.”
My stomach churns. Bile fills in my mouth. A lump the size of a bowling ball blocks my throat. And there it is: the old, sickening feeling in my gut, the feeling of being a victim of racism in cold blood. But this is a kind of racism I never knew could exist.
“Uncle, that’s enough!” Ruchi cries suddenly.
Uncle’s face flashes red in anger. “Ruchi Singh, mind your manners and be respectful to your elders! Stay out of this conversation.”
“How can I when you’re hurting my best friend? Jay may not have been here as long as us, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t any less Indian at all. Even if the American flag hangs on his school bag, or his Hindi is broken, he belongs in this country every bit as much as any other soul celebrating today!”
She takes a step towards him, her tone so low I can barely hear what she’s saying. “Uncle, you and your friends may enjoy. I’m dealing with losing someone I loved. I will not tolerate such racist and jingoistic remarks. Don’t make this day harder for people to get through.”
The bus comes to a stop in front of us. Ruchi grabs my hand, pulls me away from Pavan Uncle.
“Come on, Jay. We don’t need to talk to a bigot who doesn’t know how to respect other people and understand the true meaning of patriotism.”
We’re travelling on a different bus on account of the half-day today. Usually, Ruchi and I go in K4, but today we’re in K3, which also happens to be Aravind’s bus. And when I get in… he’s not there.
Ruchi and I sit in the back with the other middle-schoolers: Rahil Rajeshwari and Gautam Adigaman, our classmates; Vikram Rajeshwari, Rahil’s younger brother, and Manav Manawa, a seventh grader. They, like usual, were already involved in some weird debate, but they turn real quiet on seeing Ruchi. Maybe it’s because of Rahil’s secret crush on her (and vice versa), but something about the silence feels heavy, like an elephant—a sad, grieving elephant, I guessed—in the small bus.
Rahil leans over and begins to say something to Ruchi, perhaps comforting or romantic—or both, but the words are drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears.
It’s not like I haven’t been a victim of racism before. Back in New York, older, white, one hundred percent American kids used to push me up against the wall, calling me stuff like ‘brownie’ and ‘curry’ before making off with my lunch money. I was used to that. But whatever Pavan Uncle said to me today… I can’t erase that from my brain. Who woulda thought the nation screaming ‘unity in diversity’ harbours so much discrimination?
And the hard part? I feel Uncle’s right. If I’m too Indian for America, then of course I’m too American for India. No matter how much I feel welcome by my friends and family, I’ll always be a stranger in this country. There’s no way around it.
A hand on my shoulder brings me back to the present. I look into Ruchi’s tear-streaked eyes.
“Where’s Aravind?” I ask her.
She takes a shuddering breath. “He’s gone to school by parent drop. Jay, I’m sorry about what happened. Pavan Uncle is a jerk. Nobody likes him at all, not even my parents. You need to tell your mom and Ajji when we get home.”
I swallow hard. “I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t—“
“Ruchi,” I stop her. “I’ve handled it back in New York. And I can tell you aren’t crying because of me.”
Her mouth abruptly closes. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
What an unconvincing reassurance. For the rest of the ride, we sit in silence. I stare out the window at the decorations of saffron, white and green, at the hundreds of flags lining people’s shops and houses, for this year’s Har Ghar Tiranga initiative. My hand goes to the badge on my kurta, and I know it’s only been three months since Mom and I moved here. Will I really be able to be Indian enough to be here? Or will I just be that show-off American kid who thinks he’s too good for this country and the people?
A tear rolls down my cheek. I told myself, a lifetime ago, during the events of Black Lives Matter and Stop Asian Hate, that I won’t let racism get to me and ruin my life. So much for that now. Wherever I go, I’ll still be a target of discrimination and hate. For being Indian—and American.
Chapter 17
Teri Mitti
The program is already well underway. From the flag hoisting to the dance performance by the older kids to a couple speeches and a quiz, we were halfway done. Our singing performance is the last event, so we still had a while to go.
Raman and Nishita, the eleventh-grade hosts for the program, step onto the stage. The screen behind them changes to show a heading, ‘Honorary Performance’.
“On Independence Day, we remember the valiant freedom fighters of the past, as well as the courageous soldiers of the present, protecting our country through the day and night,” Nishita begins. “Today, EGPS Koramangala honours Captain Gagan Raichand, own of our own on the front lines. An EGPS alumnus, Gagan enlisted in the army shortly after graduation and was posted to Galwan Valley Patrol. On 15 June 2020, he was killed in action during the Galwan Valley clash, a skirmish between China and India in the same region.”
A picture of Gagan appears next to his details. Ruchi silently bursts into more tears, and I put an arm around her by me Q8 shoulders, my own eyes stinging. I stare at the young man in camouflage uniform, and something seems familiar about him, especially his smile. It almost looks like…
“With losing Gagan we lost an exceptional student, a son, a brother, a friend. But his legacy lives on through his family, who is present here today,” Raman continues. “And now, for a special performance of the very famous ‘Teri Mitti’, I invite Gagan’s younger brother, one of our own students… Aravind Raichand.”
My heart stops beating. Aravind.
No way. There’s no way… and yet, I see him step on stage taking his place. For his… his brother. I clap a hand to my mouth, the heat of tears forming behind my eyes.
Ruchi looks at the realisation dawning on my face, and then we’re both crying and hugging each other. Ruchi’s tears are for Gagan, and I… I’m crying for Aravind. Because I never paid attention. Never asked or knew why he’s so quiet. He’s been grieving all this while.
I look up to see Aravind walk on stage, in a shimmery saffron kurta, clutching his microphone tightly. As he stands in the centre, he locks eyes with me. My mouth opens, wanting to say something, anything, to make Aravind feel better. But nothing comes to mind as I see him, his steps echoing in the hushed auditorium. If I had known…
The music starts. He holds up the mic.
“Ae meri zameen afsoss nahi
Jo tere liye sau dard sahe
Mehfooz rahe teri aan sada
Chaahe jaan meri yeh rahe na rahe
Ae meri zameen mehboob meri
Meri nass nass mein tera ishq bahe
Pheeka na pade kabhi rang tera
Jismon se nikal ke khoon kahe…”
I look down at my hands as the music flows into my ears and runs through my blood. There was a time, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t understand Hindi songs. Now the words register the sadness and grief I feel in the air. There’s a hidden pain in my bones, and I swallow through a lump in my throat.
“He wasn’t just Aravind’s brother,” Ruchi whispers to me. “He was mine too. Our Raksha Bandhan was always the four of us: me, Charu, Aravind, Gagan Bhaiya.”
“Teri mitti mein mill jawaan
Gul banke main khill jawaan
Itni si hai dil ki aarzoo
Teri nadiyon mein beh jawaan
Tere kheton mein lehrawaan
Itni si hai dil ki aarzoo
Oh, oh, oh, oh…”
“Why,” I find myself saying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ruchi shakes her head. “Jay… please understand… it was hard. We never doubted you, we—we trusted you, but… we couldn’t… really tell anyone. We knew you’d get to know today, so we just… waited.”
I stare at Aravind singing. “I… I…”
“Sarson se bhare khalihaan mere
Jahaan jhoom ke bhangra paa na saka
Aabad rahe woh gaaon mera
Jahaan laut ke wapas jaa na saka…”
What did a little racism seem in front of losing someone in a battle? I was pitying myself about nothing. Nothing.
“Ho watna ve, mere watna ve
Tera mera pyar nirala tha
Kurbaan hua teri asmat pe
Main kitna naseebon wala tha…”
Aravind sings in a higher pitch, and it’s like I can almost hear the crack of sorrow in his voice. The tears roll down my cheek, and it takes a lot of courage for me not to let out a loud sob. Ruchi has her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking. I look around and see people crying, some with a somber expression on their faces. Everyone loved Gagan. He was a truly special person. One who I never even got to meet.
“Teri mitti mein mill jawaan
Gul banke main khill jawaan
Itni si hai dil ki aarzoo
Teri nadiyon mein beh jawaan
Tere kheton mein lehrawaan
Itni si hai dil ki aarzoo
Kesari…”
When the music ends, there’s a collective intake of breath that I can hear in the room. A moment of silence, of remembrance and memory. Then, the clapping. I clap louder and longer, for Aravind, for Ruchi, for Gagan. For all the families who lost soldiers. For all the soldiers like Gagan who should have lived longer.
Aravind bows and walks across the stage and out of sight behind the side door. Usually, the performers come to watch through the auditorium entrance minutes later, but through the rest of the acts, Aravind doesn’t appear. When it’s nearly our turn to perform, I tell Ruchi I won’t be coming.
“Why not?” She asks.
“I’m not soloing, or near a mic, or playing any instrument. I—I’m sorry. But I need to go—“
“Aravind.” She nods, wiping tears from her face. “It’s okay. Go. Worst that can happen is Roopa Ma’am not letting you perform any Hindi songs on stage anymore.”
I almost smile, before rushing out the auditorium entrance into the hall. I look around, and see a flash of saffron by the stage entrance. I slowly walk down to see Aravind, knees drawn to his chest, sobbing. My sneakers squeak on the marble floor. He looks up. I kneel next to him, place a hand on his shoulder. His brown eyes are shiny with tears.
Without much thinking, I pull him into a tight hug. He cries. I cry. We sit there for who knows how long, missing the end, missing everything. But together. Leaving my performance is worth it, if I’m there for Aravind. Because he needs a friend. A friend who may not know anything about whatever he’s going through, but at least willing to drop everything to help. To join him.
And I’m glad I’m that friend. No one deserves to go through grief alone. Not once, not ever.
Chapter 18
Jai Hind
Aravind’s parents are waiting for us outside the school building. Ruchi’s with them too, already waving at me and Aravind coming out of the school entrance.
I touch Rishi Uncle and Ishani Aunty’s feet (but they pull me up), then stand as Aravind introduces me.
“Hello, Jay. We’ve heard so much about you. Aravind speaks of you often,” Aunty says, smiling.
I can’t stop the heat warming my ears. “Oh, he—he has?” I catch Ruchi shaking her head and smiling.
Aravind smiles and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Jay’s one of my best friends.”
“Yeah,” Ruchi chimes in. “Did you know, Aunty, that Jay left our singing act to make sure Aravind was okay?”
Aunty’s eyes widen in amazement. “Well! I did not know that.”
“Today is hard. It has been two years since we lost Gagan. Things were… never the same afterwards. I wish you could’ve met him, Jay, beta. He would’ve been very happy to,” Uncle says.
Aunty dabs at her eyes with the pad of her thumb. “Indeed.”
I nod, respectfully looking down at the artificial grass covering the ground, the rubber gravel crunching under my feet.
I look up as Aunty places a hand on my shoulder. “Tell your mother and grandmother that they must come over sometime. Naina Ji is a close friend of ours, and I spoke to Nitara over the phone a few days ago. It has been a long time since we’ve had guests—and friends of Aravind at that—at home.”
I smile back. “I will.”
Aunty and Uncle offer us a ride in their car, but Ruchi and I politely decline and head to the rows of buses lined up outside the school gate.
“At least his folks like you,” Ruchi says. “Rishta pukka.”
I punch her in the arm. “Shut up.”
She giggles. “Though, you two better make it to a date, first. Or something close to it.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, I won’t be rushing anything. And you don’t either!”
Ruchi laughs as we climb onto the bus. As we sit near the back, she touches my hand.
“I’m glad you and Aravind met. He needs someone, apart from me, to give him a fresh start. He’s too nice to admit it, but… I know I remind him of Gagan because I was his friend too. You let him start over, at least a little. So—“ she shrugs, smiling softly. “I’m happy you’re his best friend.”
Her eyes fill. “No one should be ever alone, anyway. Not when struggling after losing someone… and not when you’ve been a victim of hate.”
My throat tightens. I haven’t even thought about Pavan Uncle’s words since Aravind’s performance. I’ve told myself I’m not going to be scared, but my stomach churns at the thought of returning to Caldera.
Ruchi squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, Jay. We’ll face those racists together.”
My heart beats faster when Ruchi and I reach the apartment ground. The tiled area already housed the empty flagpole, the Indian flag limply hanging halfway up, ready to be hoisted. Mom and Nani are there, along with Ruchi’s parents and a few other adults, serving sweets and namkeen. Pavan Uncle is sitting with some of the old-timers—the really old-fashioned old timers.
Uncle spots me already. “You!” He points at me.
I tense. Ruchi sucks in a breath. He stands up.
“Go back to your country. You’re not welcome here.”
One of the most common racist remarks. Expected. I don’t flinch. Don’t even react.
But Mom and Nani do.
Mom is frozen to the spot, shocked. Nani marches over to Pavan Uncle and jabs a finger in his face.
“Pavan Shukla, take back those words immediately! How dare you insult my grandson?”
“I’m calling the police!” Mom cries, her stupor vanishing. “You have no right to disrespect Jay!”
Uncle laughs. “Your police will not listen to you. After all, there is no thing called racism in India.”
“But there’s something called discrimination,” Ruchi spits. “Even in India. Which is exactly what you’re doing—”
“Mom, Nani, Ruchi,” I say. All eyes turn to face me. The victim.
I step forward. “I don’t want to ruin today for anyone. But after hearing what Pavan Uncle said, I think I need to say something. About what happened before.
“I was a part of today’s Independence Day celebration in my school. I was waiting for my bus, when Pavan Uncle, who was sitting there, hurled racist remarks at me. Saying I don’t deserve to celebrate because I’ll never understand. I’ve been a victim of racism back in America, too. I’m used to it. But today was different.
“And guess what? I thought Uncle’s right. I’ll never understand. Even though I’m of Indian descent and I live here, I’ll probably never get some things. I never understood why girls can’t do the things boys do, why patriarchy runs like water here. I tried to help Ruchi out of a system like that. And it worked. But I—“ I choke up, thinking of Aravind’s tear-streaked face. “I can’t bring back someone who willingly sacrificed themselves to protect the country. Like my best friend Aravind’s brother, Major Gagan Raichand.”
Nani puts a hand to her mouth. She knows about Gagan.
“Yeah,” I say to the stunned crowd. “I never understood how grief can change people. Still don’t. But I know one thing: those soldiers, who died at the border, in battle, in an attack, they should’ve got to live longer. Especially men and women like Gagan. Who were young, who were willing to sacrifice themselves and the life they had with their loved ones, to protect the nation. I respect them. I respect our country’s armed forces. I respect their sacrifice, their bravery, even if I may not understand it. I respect ordinary people who did extraordinary things for India. Things that made even us Indian-Americans feel proud, that we belong to a desh called… called Bharat.”
I walk over to the flagpole. Untie the rope. Pull it. The Indian flag rises higher and higher, until at the very top, it unfurls, scattering flower petals and confetti onto the ground. The younger kids, as one, sing the national anthem, as we stand in attention. Then, Rachit Uncle stands in front of the flag and faces the crowd.
“Bharat mata ki!” he yells.
“Jai!” we chant.
“Bharat mata ki!”
“Jai!”
“Bharat mata ki!”
“Jai!”
Standing next to the flag, I salute.
“Jai Hind,” I whisper. “Jai Bharat.”
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