American Born Indian

I've just realised how inconvenient it is to give release dates.

Or even some time period of release. Because the antsy me will put up those chapters like 5 minutes after giving a date. Fortunately I held back for a day or two, but I just can't wait.

Yes, the end is here, the last few chapters to a story you guys have given love. Hopefully it's a novel later this year. So now I say goodbye to American Born Indian, but not without a quick foreshadow of these chapters: the aftermath of Nani's attack leads Jay to questions about his father and his identity, which transcends into Aravind's joyous birthday celebrations.

Chapter 42

Turning Time Around

As soon as we enter the reception, I ask the lady there to call my mom. She definitely has questions, but I can’t explain, so she reluctantly dials the number into the telephone and hands me the receiver. Three rings, and Mom picks up.

“Jay.” She sounds so tired.

“Mom. Where are you?” I ask.

“At the hospital. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

“I should go see her too.”

“No, Jay. The hospital is no place for you to go.”

“Mom, there’s no COVID anymore—“

“Jay. I am not taking you to the hospital with me.”

I inhale sharply. She isn’t going to budge.

“I’ve made arrangements. You’re staying with Ruchi’s family tonight,” she continues.

“You’re there overnight?”

“Jay, I have to. You’ve done this before, and I need you to do it again. Please, hon.”

I swallow hard, then nod. “Okay.”

“I love you, beta.”

“I love you too.”

“It’ll be okay. Trust me.”

I put the phone down and turn to Ruchi and Aravind. Ruchi straightens the pleats of her skirt, shifts from one foot to the other.

“Maybe you both should go to the healthcare,” she says. “You look pretty beat up, and Aravind has that wound…”

“What are you doing here?”

We turn to see Ishita standing in the doorway. She gasps.

“Aravind! Is that blood on your hands? And Jay, the entire side of your face is red. What’s going on?”

“I slapped Jay,” Ruchi murmurs quietly.

“I pushed Aravind, and the edge of the bulletin board scraped him,” I say.

Ishita’s eyes widen with every word, but she shakes her head and jabs a thumb towards the stairs.

“Second period’s started already. Shalini Ma’am is furious, but also concerned. She sent me to take you all back up to class. But…” she adds, staring at us with apprehension.

“We’ll come later. Don’t worry,” Ruchi says.

Ishita leaves, and the three of us sit in the healthcare centre. The nurse soaks a wet cloth for me to dab on my face and applies a makeshift bandage to Aravind’s head.

While we wait, I glance at both of them. They look so tired, and hurt. My fingers shake from everything that’s happened. I feel like crying again, but I know I have to be strong.

Someone’s hand covers mine. I look up to see Aravind’s brown eyes radiating concern.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

He shakes his head. “Don’t lie.”

I sigh. The tears start. I lay my head on his shoulder.

“Then I guess I’m not fine,” I whisper.

He puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. “You need to be honest. It always helps.”

I close my eyes. “I don’t think being honest helps this time.” My mind replays Nani’s picture over and over again. “I just hope reality can turn time around and everything will be okay.”

Chapter 43

Screaming Colour

My eyes crack open, and I reach for my phone to shut the alarm off when I realise—there is no alarm. Because I’m in Ruchi and Charu’s room, in my sleeping bag on the floor.

Yesterday, I packed my go-bag and headed upstairs to the Singhs. Chanchal Aunty said that she could spread a mattress and blanket for Ruchi and Charu to use, and I could take the bed, but I politely refused. It was how I used to do it at Trace’s back in New York. Mom had called saying there was an improvement in Nani’s condition, but like she had anticipated, Nani would have to be kept under monitoring for a night.

I stretch and get up, and realise with a start that Ruchi and Charu aren’t there anymore. And then I glance at the clock: it’s 8:15 in the morning, and I’ve definitely overslept and missed the bus—and in turn am late for school.

Chanchal Aunty comes in, holding some bedding to put away. “Nice to see you’re up. Your mom called and said that you can stay home. I let you sleep in for a while.”

I rub my eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you waiting.”

“Arey, not a problem. Iss ghar mein no formality.” She motions to the kitchen. “I’ve kept some cereal in cold milk—Nitara says you like having it for breakfast.”

“Thank you.” I go to the bathroom, freshen up, and eat the cereal. I realise that now I have nothing to do and Aunty definitely isn’t going to send me downstairs to my house to do stuff. So I sit at the edge of Ruchi’s bed and look at the variety of books on her shelves, wondering which one I should read.

“Jay.”

I turn. Aunty’s holding a photo album, with the word ‘Youth’ inscribed on the cover.

“I thought you might want to see this.” She hands it to me and I open it. There are pictures of many girls and boys who don’t look much older than twenty, and they all look… somehow familiar.

She notices my surprised expression and chuckles. “Yes, they’re pictures of me, Nitara and Rushil. Nitara made it for me before they left for America. I don’t know if you’ve seen any of these from her, but…” She smiles hopefully. “I thought you would like it.”

Just then, the pressure cooker’s whistle goes off, and Aunty pats my knee and hurries to the kitchen. I glance at the album again, and slowly begin turning each page one by one.

Mom looks so much younger than she is now, and seeing her in casual wear having fun is so much different from how I've known her. And my dad… I mean, I’ve seen photos of him before. But this version of him—the real, before-everything-happened version—is so new. He seems cool and happy. And yeah, not gonna lie—I look exactly like him.

I flip through picture after picture. Along with Mom, my dad, and Chanchal Aunty, there are a few other friends, too. The little gang is many places at once—at some restaurant, an Aerosmith concert, out on the streets just vibing, goofy snaps, everything snaps, really. Seeing them reminded me of a song I heard:

You took a Polaroid of us

Then discovered

The rest of the world was black and white

But we were in screaming color…

Aunty comes back later. “Do you like them?”

My throat tightens. “Yeah.” I pause. “Can I go down for a sec?”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you, beta…”

“It’s just for a few minutes. I’ll come right up later.”

She relents and hands me the spare keys to our apartment. I head downstairs to our flat and inside, and straight to my mom’s room. I know where she keeps her other photo albums.

I grab the small but heavy stack and head upstairs, go back to Ruchi’s room and curl up in a corner of the bed. Again, flipping through pages of Mom and my dad. Their wedding, with Mom in a beautiful red lehenga and my dad in a shimmery white kurta, their faces radiating the biggest smiles of their lives. On a beach somewhere back in America, their linen clothing and big straw hats, with sunglasses, frame every sun-soaked picture. And then… me. My dad holding me with a proud smile, like he’s saying, “This is my son!”

And I am his son, without ever getting to know him. Without ever remembering his presence, the dad-shaped gaping hole in the middle of my life. I’ll be honest—having no dad has never really bothered me all that much, until today. Today? The hole glares back at me when I realise that of all the people in my life right now, I really, really need him the most.

Chapter 44

Dad, Part 1

I toss and turn, my body fighting the urge for sleep. But I need it. The soft sound of Ruchi and Charu’s breathing does nothing to help me. In a final effort, I close my eyes and will them to stay that way for the next eight hours.

“Bit of trouble getting a snooze, huh?”

I groan. So much for getting sleep. I blink open my eyes. There’s a face quite close to mine. The image comes into focus, and… it’s a familiar face. I jerk back in surprise. The taller, older version of me stares back, but he has an impressive beard and wearing a button-down checkered shirt.

“D—Dad?” I ask, bewildered.

He chuckles. “Guess I frightened you completely, and now you can probably never go to sleep.”

I sit up. “You’re not real.”

“No, I’m not.” He straightens. “I’m a ghost. And I’ve come at the worst time.”

“I’m pretty sure if you’re a ghost appearing right now, then I’m probably dreaming. So, good news: it’s perfect timing,” I say.

He nods, satisfied. “Alright. Why don’t you join me? I know I sound rather abrupt, but I think it’s time to talk.”

I get up and follow him down the hall, and he opens the door, but instead of the hall, we’re directly on 19th Main. Even if it’s a dream, I’m still surprised. I walk outside, and I expect another magical portal opening, but I guess it’s only a one-time act.

“Finally meeting my fourteen-year-old son is quite different, eh?” He nudges me and chuckles.

“So’s finally meeting my dad.” I grin.

We both stroll along the sidewalk, and I don’t even know where we’re going. But it feels like one of those big conversation moments, and it’s exactly what I needed all these days.

“How’s India?” He asks.

I shrug. “Pretty okay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay? You’ve had some pretty memorable experiences. Met some memorable people. Made some memorable friends.”

“That’s true.” I think of Ruchi and Aravind. No way would I have met them, or people like them, anyway, in America.

“So, then, let’s answer the question again: how did you find India?”

I take a deep breath. “Honestly? India’s awesome. Bangalore’s awesome. If my childhood was in America, then I’ve experienced my teenage life in India. I’ve enjoyed it all. And yet…”

He leans in. “Yet?”

I sigh. “India still doesn’t feel like home.”

“Ah.” He nods to himself. “And America?”

I pause, and I’m instantly puzzled. If one place isn’t home, the other should be, right?

“America… doesn’t feel like home, either,” I voice my thoughts out loud.

He continues walking.

“That’s not possible,” I say.

He presses his lips together as he turns to me. “I’m no mind-reader, but I bet you have more to say.”

I feel something building up inside of me. “I do.”

“Go on.”

“India is the land of my ancestors. America was where I was born, and where I grew up. And in either, I feel like an outsider. In America, I was considered Indian, even if I was a citizen of the US. In India, I’m American, a kid from the West.”

For the first time, it all comes pouring out. Everything that has nagged at me since we arrived in Bangalore is now out in the open, falling into place.

“So you have an identity crisis,” Dad concludes.

“Not just any identity crisis!” I cry, realising more, so much more. I pace back and forth, and the words cascade like dominoes toppling in a line.

“It’s impossible! I’m not completely American, because I don’t look the part. And I’m not wholly Indian, because of my accent and behaviour and thoughts. So who am I supposed to be? I can’t be in between forever!”

Dad’s nodding with every word, but I don’t notice.
“It’s a lose-lose situation!” I exclaim. “Who am I if not truly one thing?”

I exhale heavily, feeling like an enormous weight has been lifted off my chest. The question is out. And for the first time, I care about the answer.

“You don’t need to be either.”

I whip my head to face him. “What?”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Being neither one nor the other isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“But how am I supposed to think of myself, my culture? My identity?”

“Jay.” He looks me steadily in the eye. “Do you know what identity is?”

I open my mouth, then realise I really don’t know what it actually means, because it’s many things in many contexts. I shake my head.

“Identity’s a negotiation. A negotiation between heritage and homeland. If you look at it this way, you are aware of your heritage. You’ve never doubted that part of yourself. But your homeland? That’s your dilemma,” he says.

I feel bleak. He’s right, no doubt about it. But how can you choose between both countries? When you do, doesn’t it feel like you’re degrading the other at the same time?

Dad notices the downcast expression on my face. “Arey, beta…”

“It’s hopeless.” I wish I didn’t believe it, but it’s true. “I’ll never be sure of who I really am.”

He sighs. “Jay, there will be something you can call yourself. And even if there isn’t, that’s okay. Labels—they’re never the real deal. They’re just a front.”

I feel like I’m on the verge of tears. “But I still want to know,” I say, voice cracking. “Even if people live their whole lives not caring about labels, well… I care.”

He comes forward, places a hand on my shoulder. “Beta… I’ve spent part of my life figuring out who I’m supposed to be. And I was still figuring it out when…” He takes a deep breath and looks away. When he looks back at me, his eyes are shiny. “How can I tell you the answer if I haven’t found it myself?”

Tears stream down my face. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The one person who could’ve answered it all… he doesn’t know either.

Dad’s hands cups my cheeks and wipes them, but he starts to silently weep, too. “I’m so sorry, beta.”

I lean forward and hug him, crying more and more into his shirt. I was so close. Now my identity will always be a big question mark. I’m unfinished, hanging in the balance.

He squeezes me tightly. “If only I was there with you and Nitara… if only…”

I sniffle. “You’re here now. In this dream. With me.”

“It’s not the same.”

I shake my head. “I miss you so much, Dad.”

He pulls back and kisses my forehead. How I wish this were real, how I want to remember him, any memory, anything. And all I have is this dream.

We wipe our faces. Then, Dad kneels and holds my gaze steady.

“Jay.”

I nod. “I’m listening.” I have to. It might be the first and last time I ever will.

He grabs my shoulders. “I want you to find that answer. Not just for yourself. But for me, too. Find it. And I can be satisfied, forever. Do you promise?”

I inhale deeply. “I promise, Dad.”

He smiles, and his apparition fades away slowly. “Then go home, Jay. Go like the wind.”

“I love you, Dad,” I say. His spirit is dissipating into the clear night sky.

“I love you too, son.”

And he’s gone, and so am I.

Chapter 45

Dad, Part 2

The next week, Nani comes back from the hospital. I give her a long, long hug, and she clutches me back just as tight.

“I missed you so much,” I say into the folds of her sari. She ruffles my hair and acknowledges the same.

Up until the attack, Nani had maintained her health quite well, but the doctor has advised her to be a bit extra-careful from now on. It’s unlikely she’ll suffer another episode like that, but Mom and I aren’t holding our breath.

Ruchi visits, and she starts crying on seeing Nani, hugging her and saying that she didn’t want to lose her because she loved her so much, as if Nani were her grandmother too.

“Nani will be here, all the time. You don’t have to worry. We’ll take good care of her,” I say.

She sniffles. “Touchwood.”

It was definitely a close call, and hopefully, there aren’t any more coming for us. I start going to school again—the finals are approaching, and Mom doesn’t want me to miss any more classes for revision.

One Saturday morning, Mom is called to an emergency meeting, and she rushes to her office. It’s just me and Nani in the house, and I’m conjugating French verbs as a practice for the third language exam. But that dream with Dad nags at me. I need to ask someone about him, but Mom’s not here.

“Nani?” I put down my pen and push my books aside. She’s sorting through jewellery—hers and Mom’s—but looks up.

“Was Dad ever sure of who he was?”

She goes quiet, then answers, “I believe so.”

“I mean, of his identity.” I fiddle with the pen cap.

“Why do you ask?”

I pause. “Sometimes… I get the feeling he was searching for the same thing as me.”

She leans in. “Acceptance?”

I shake my head. “Sort of. But not from others—from himself.”

Nani sighs. This seems painful for her, yet here she is, telling me.

“Rushil hadn’t had the best of lives. His father died before he was born, and his working mother brought him up for most of his life. He did not have a very balanced childhood, and only started to flourish when he met Nitara in college. Those times were his prime.”

“Isn’t everyone’s?” I ask.

“Yes, but more so for him. Even with all that fun and energy, he still wanted more: a chance to settle down, have something stable. So shortly after their undergraduate, he married Nitara and off they went to America. And they did settle—both secured quite admirable jobs, bought an apartment. Rushil had made plans for further studies in New York. And you came.”

She smiles wistfully. “I still remember the day he called me when you were born. ‘I’m going to be a dad, Naina Ji!’ So excited about fatherhood. If only the crash…”

Here we both fall silent, a moment of remembrance. After some time, Nani composes herself, yet I hear a small crack in her voice.

“He was not sure of one thing: if he was American or Indian.”

“But that’s obvious,” I say. “He’s Indian-American. He would’ve known that, right?”

“Back then, those terms did not exist, Jay. Many immigrants, not just Indians—they had a hard time figuring out their cultural identities. They became so Americanised they could never find the difference.”

So that’s what happened to Dad. He spoke in an American accent in my dream, but when he said arey or beta, I heard the subtle Indianness in his voice.

Nani touches my hand. “Why all these questions, Jay?”

I look up at her. “I’m sorry I asked, Nani. It must be difficult to talk about him.”

She grows wistful. “I raised him as if he were my own son. He never really stayed in touch with his mother after he and Nitara were engaged, and before you could have the chance to finally contact her, she had died from COVID.” She sighs again, but turns to me, concerned. “You’ve never asked about him so much before.”

My voice is small and low. “I wish he was here to help me.”

She places a hand under my chin, tilts my face to hers.

“He wants me to find the answer for me, and in a way, for him, too,” I say.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and she gives me a small smile.

“I think he may already have it. He’s just waiting for you, now, mera baccha.”

Chapter 46

Birthday Cake

Ruchi quickly gets into our car, and Mom speeds away from Caldera. We’re not late, but we’ve made plans to come early on this special day.

I glance at her outfit. “Immaculate, yet bold as always.” This time it’s simple: a nicely designed graphic tee, jeans, and her sneakers. Her hair isn’t tied up; it falls in graceful waves just below her back. For my part, I’m wearing the usual checkered dress shirt.

Ruchi groans. “You could compliment girls better, you know.”

I laugh. “Can’t help the fact that Aravind’s parents told us to keep it simple.”

It’s all supposed to be a simple affair anyway. Aravind’s birthday isn’t usually all done up on a big scale, but this year is a cause for slightly grander celebration. Ishani Aunty told my mom that after a long time he has had friends over for his special day. The celebration’s at a restaurant not too far away from our homes: Café Pascucci.

When we arrive, I see Aisha waving at us from the entrance. We catch up to her.

“Is the surprise ready? And the keyboard?” Ruchi asks hurriedly.

She chuckles. “Haan, haan. You don’t worry, Ruchi.” She turns to me. “And is the video…?”

“I have the pen drive, and Manjeet has the spare in his phone, just in case.” I nod.

We step inside and we see the birthday boy putting up streamers with his parents and some waiters. Aravind turns to see us and beams.

Ruchi is the first to slam him with a bear hug and a loud ‘Happy Birthday!’, and Aisha follows suit. Manjeet, just a few minutes late, slips inside and gives him some dap and a bro hug. Then Aravind turns to me.

I smile. “Happy birthday.”

He takes my hand and pulls me into a tight hug. I squeeze back as he whispers a small ‘thank you’ in my ear.

We sit in high stools around a table and start talking about the past year, the final exams and how much of a pain they were, and just shooting the bull about everything we can think of. Soon, Rahil and Vikram, Gautam and Ishita arrive too, and then Aravind cuts the cake and blows the candles. I’m next to him during the song, singing for him, and he squeezes my hand under the table. We’re smiling because we know that even if Aravind’s birthdays always felt alone, this year, and the years to come, will never be the same case.

After we eat, Ruchi taps the table to signal us to face the giant screen mounted in front, facing a small projector on the table. Aisha’s piano and the mics are all set up, too.

“We have a small surprise planned for Aravind. We know that this birthday is incomplete without the presence of someone we all miss, and this is a little something that hopefully makes today feel a little less alone.”

One of the waiters turns the projector on and Aisha plays some chords on the keyboard, slowly ascending into a melody. Ruchi, Manjeet and I hold up our mics as she begins:

“You called with the news, I thought you were kidding

You were always joking all the time…”

Manjeet:

“You kept breathing but stopped living, held it like poison inside…”

Ruchi:

“They say, everything happens for a reason, but it only makes you mad

’Cause how in the hell can you believe them, when nothing brings him back?”

Pictures of a young man in camouflage flood the screen. Aravind’s expression turns somber, and he glances at me. I expect him to be upset, but he gives me a small smile, almost nostalgic.

Yes, it’s Gagan. And yes, it was my idea.

And now it’s my turn:

“It's hard to know what he would say

But I think he’d—“

We all sing the chorus together. We’re remembering Gagan, but not with pain or grief. We’re remembering his heart, his values, his love to those close to him.

“Want you to live like the world's on fire

Want you to love like hearts don't break

Nevеr look down when you walk the wire

Likе he made it to thirty-eight

Still made your birthday cake…”

The final picture on the video is of Gagan with Aravind. Just the two of them on Aravind’s seventh birthday. True to form, Gagan is trying to bake the birthday cake, and Aravind is cheerfully handing him ingredients and stirring the mixture, wearing a party hat. The newly-fourteen-year-old Aravind in the present is tearing up a little, seeing the picture.

Aisha flourishes in the song with a masterful solo, her fingers gracefully dancing on the keys, and we all feel the music and Gagan in our soul. She brings ‘Birthday Cake’ to a crescendo and ends it, and we look at Aravind.

“Surprise.” I shrug my shoulders. “I hope it’s…”

He’s up from his seat and wrapping me in a hug. “It… it’s the best,” he says, voice shaking.

My vision goes blurry, too, and I clutch him back. It’s always going to hurt. I know how that feels now.

We pull apart, and Ruchi touches his arm.

“We all miss him. We all loved him—still do. But I think—“ here she pauses to gaze at the frozen face of Gagan hovering behind us. “—he’s proud of you.”

“He always was.” My hand is still on Aravind’s shoulder. He looks at me and places his hand on mine. And he looks up at the ceiling and sighs softly.

“Wherever he is, I know he’s right here. Right here. In spirit, in air, but… yahin par. Always, right here.”

Chapter 47

Who Are You, Jay Sharma?

I walk outside to see Aravind leaning on his elbows on the railing, on the first floor’s outdoor seating area. The party’s still going strong, but if he’s here, he’s thinking about someone, and I’m sure despite everything he’s got a lump in his throat, and swallowing through is painful and hard.

“Hey.” I join him.

He turns to me and smiles.

“Sorry if it made you a little upset,” I say.

“Arey, it’s the best gift ever. You guys showed Bhaiya for who he was. It didn’t make me upset, only, I just began to remember things…”

“Still.” I stare out at the traffic weaving through 19th Main.

“Naina Aunty’s back. Must be a relief,” he says.

I nod. “If things turned out different…”

He bumps my shoulder with his. “Now, don’t say things like that and make me upset for real,” he jokes.

I smile. “She’ll be alright, touchwood.” I look up at the sky—clear, the brightest of stars shining today. I can see the spirits of people in them.

“I’m beginning to understand what loss is like,” I say, after a beat of silence.

“How so?” He asks.

I look down at my hands. “My dad.”

“Jay…”

I take a shaky breath, lean against him. We’re shoulder to shoulder now.

“I think… I still don’t know, Aravind.” I look up to face him. “I know who he is, his identity. But mine?” I sigh. “It’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You’ll find it. I know.”

I smile sadly, and lay my head on his shoulder.

“Hey, lovebirds, don’t leave your best friend hanging.”

We turn. Ruchi’s in the doorway, smirking.

“Figures.” I grin, and she comes next to me, her shoulder pressing against mine, too.

“Identity crisis, huh?” Her smile fades. “It sounds serious, Jay.”

I chuckle. “Not really.”

“It is, he’s not being honest about it,” Aravind chimes in.

I groan. “Great. Instead of celebrating your birthday, we’re gonna go on about my pathetic cultural clash.”

“Come on, dude.” Ruchi raises her eyebrows. “Not knowing who you are is a pain. Trust me, we’ve all been there.”

I shake my head. “It’s hopeless. That’s what I told him in my dream, too. Who has heard of an Indian-American kid living in India?”

“You aren’t just living here, Jay,” Ruchi says gently. “You’ve made it your home. And yes, before you say you consider America home, too, just think about it: can’t people have two homes? And two identities?”

I go quiet, thinking about it. Two homes. Two sides. Two worlds. Appreciating both. And knowing it’s exhausting to think about finding the one real thing. So why do I still want it so badly?

“Jay.”

Aravind takes my hand. I look at him.

“Don’t ask yourself: what are you? Instead, ask this: who are you?”

“That’s right.” Ruchi nods. “Who are you, Jay Sharma?”

I ask myself over and over.

Who am I?

I close my eyes.

Who am I?

I’m fourteen years old. I’m gay. I play the guitar. I have a family: Mom and Nani. I have the best of friends. I’ve made a life for myself wherever I am.

I’m American. I’m Indian. And I can be both.

I open my eyes.

“I have the answer.”

Ruchi and Aravind straighten, like they’ve been expecting this.

I step back from the railing, look at both of them. My entire life flashes before my eyes.

I want you to find that answer. Not just for yourself. But for me, too. Find it.

I have it, Dad. And I’m certain. If you’re an Indian-born American, then there is a second option. An alternate for the opposite.

It’s just a label, too. But a label can mean everything.

I stand tall, head held high, proud of it.

“I’m an American Born Indian.”

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