Blue Boy Page 28

  All the while, my father remains standing, dressed in his tan jacket. No tears, no words, just looking at the floor where my mother was. He has combed his hair, and his forehead shines in the light. He looks handsome and put together, however solemn his mood. Then, as if penitently, he takes a step forward, places a hand on my forehead, and smoothes back my hair, which is still sweaty and matted down from the wig.

  No great conversation ensues. I eventually slink away from the hospital wrapped in my mother’s winter coat, with a white paper bag of sleeping pills clutched in one hand. Our drive home almost mirrors our usual drive home from temple.

  Except for a palpable feeling of tenderness. It’s not what people usually think of as tenderness—kindness mixed with affection—but a literal feeling of fragility, a tendency to bruise easily. It is as if by having one of us tumble weakly to the ground, we now understand that in our own unique ways, we are each the person in the hospital bed, alone if not for the loyal soul clutching our hand.

  Epilogue: Cymbalism

  It’s been a whole month since my parents and I last came to the temple. Not that a month is really all that long. It’s really just four visits, one per week, and the proceedings are generally the same. The pundit is still curled up at the front of the room, speaking in his singsong voice. The men and women are still divided as they always are, and they still have those reverent smiles on their faces. In the kitchen, a few women—Rashmi Govind among them—are preparing the prasad. The faint aroma of fruit wafts from the counter to our noses due to the sweet but slimy cocktail of bananas, apples, mandarin oranges, and grapes that is the centerpiece of their preparation. I hear a laugh escape from the women before they realize how loud they’re being and go back to whispering. Those whispers give away the thing that is different about their otherwise ordinary procedure: my family has returned, especially the problematic Kiran, and the game of who will welcome my parents back into the fold openly—versus who will do so cautiously—begins.

  My mother and father have seated themselves toward the front of the room, probably so that they don’t have to see all the people looking at them. Or perhaps they are simply pious. Indeed, my mother seems to have the same solemnity about her that she usually has when burning incense: she has her orange dupatta wrapped around her head and sits even more rigidly than my father does. Ever since that night just over a week ago when we came home from the hospital, my mother has been moving with a sort of peaceful grace. She has accepted some new truth, however small, and it is quietly strengthening her.

  A similar aura has taken over my father, except that there is still a hard edge to him. After the hospital incident, he returned to being aloof toward me, and the tension that I thought was gone has returned a little bit. Things are obviously smoother between us, but that doesn’t mean that they are without rough edges. I did my ballet exercises in the basement on Thursday because I didn’t want him to see me. I feared that one look at me prancing about might make him regret the quiet evasion he’s been trying out. His behavior remains the way it was in the hospital room: it is as if he thinks that, by emotional telepathy, his affection will wend its way from his body to mine across a room or through a wall.

  Yet, the other night while I was falling asleep—the blue, diamond-shaped pills the doctor gave me casting their sandman spell—he came into my bedroom and hovered in the doorway. He stood there for a few moments, just watching me, then quietly came over to my bed and leaned very close to me. His breath was so heavy that it would have woken me up had I been asleep. Perhaps he knew that I was only pretending to be asleep. But I got the feeling that he was staring not to find me out but to figure me out. For him, I was no longer a shameful thing but a ship in a bottle, something to be examined and appreciated and solved. Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, “I love—” and then faltered, fading slowly into the house again.

  At school, Mrs. Goldberg acts the same way, although I can sense an extra dose of pride coming from her. After all, due to my sudden fainting spell, neither Mrs. Nevins nor Mrs. Buchanann nor Principal Taylor could bust me for my religious display onstage, and when Mrs. Goldberg places a different kind of star sticker on my next spelling test—a blue one made of two triangles on top of each other—I understand that she is acknowledging my achievement with a religious display of her own.

  The kids at school are more aloof than that. Sarah’s and Melissa’s parents famously decided last week to pull the girls out of the school and send them to Immaculate Souls, the conservative Catholic school fifteen miles from here. I remember Cody telling me a while back that it’s a terrifying school and that there’s a myth that all the nuns there are completely bald and wear necklaces made of baby skulls under their robes. The kids there also wear uniforms, stiff plaid and white garments that are probably itchy. I love the idea of Sarah and Melissa, once adorned in myriad accessories and colors, reduced to clothing as fashionable as a neck brace. Their faces are probably as grave and frowning as Mrs. Buchanan’s. I’ve taught them all what happens when you cross my path.

  There are still all the other kids at my school, though, and they treat me with a new fascination when I walk down the halls and sit at my desk. I’m the kid who would have been laughed at had I not survived a little death onstage. Now there is a little bit of immortality added to my public persona, an ability to defy pain, and I giggle inside thinking that, in at least this respect, I have made myself a god.

  I don’t exactly have any friends, and there will always be the John Griffins of the world who twirl around and then pretend to faint in front of me as I walk down the halls, but I have realized just how much more I know than they do. What do these bullies know of lust, of sex, of the fine line between divinity and depravity? It would be one thing if they knew what I felt and could understand it and then made fun of it. But they do not have the ability to empathize with what I feel, and that makes them completely meaningless. I live in a kingdom of one.

  Cody and Donny are long gone from my life, but you would never guess that anything had changed from the way they keep at their basketball games. Whereas the time they spend on the playground bothered me so much in the past, I now look at it with a good-riddance type of relief. I know that I will never be like them, and now I don’t even want to be. I am not meant for basketball, just as they are not meant to dance and dress up. My imagination is for creating my own private world, and I’m wasting it if I try to be a part of theirs.

  Why have I felt it so necessary for us to be the same? What is it about that confining, brick fortress of a school that has made me believe it is the only place that exists? I only go to this school because my parents happened to come to America, to move to Ohio, just happened to build a particular house in a particular area of this town and send me to the closest school. If any one of those steps had not happened, I would be somewhere else. I could be living in a smoky, fragrant, lush area of India if it weren’t for one decision. Why should I let one decision prevent me from living the lush life I might otherwise have had?

  I sit in this temple and look around at the paintings of the deities on the walls. Lakshmi and Saraswati and Sita, Their eyes surrounded by khajol, Their cheeks and lipstick so red that they could be covered in Estée: They’re the pretty girls, the ones with good fashion sense and grace. They have their loyal servants and friends, the Hanumans and Ganeshes and so forth. But They also have their male equivalent, who makes music for Them and the other women, who mimics their beauty by painting His brilliantly blue face and clothing Himself in fabric as glimmering and glorious as Theirs. He was born different, but instead of lamenting his fate, He embraced it. He saw his peculiarities as unique treasures, and He saw love and admiration and luxurious, delicious grandeur come His way as a result.

  From where I stand at the back of the temple, I don’t expect anyone to approach me. But I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around. It’s the pundit. Our sweet, loving pundit. Regardless of everything that has happened with the Singhs, he gives me
a smile and offers me that pair of gold hand cymbals. I take them from him gently. An enormous sense of compassion comes over me, and there in the back of the temple, I drop down and touch his feet the way you are supposed to touch the feet of your elders when you want to be especially reverent. When I pull back up, I am already crying, the tears like silver chains from my eyes.

  He goes to the front of the room and finishes the service, inviting everyone to join in aarti. Everyone stands up as the music begins. Mrs. Jindal rushes—or waddles briskly—to her harmonium to join the melee, and soon everyone is singing. All of the other kids are at the front of the room, pushed forward by their parents, as usual—and led by Ashok and Neha—but I am back here, out of sight and out of mind for a moment. I am alone with my cymbals, which I push together again and again. I experiment with rhythms, make the peals fast and then slow, play them over my head, under my legs, spinning in a circle. I make fiery music and dedicate it to the Lord, to the strength He gives us when we think we are becoming weaker. Sometimes we are so consumed by the flame, burning so painfully in its heat, that we can’t see the utter gorgeousness of the fire.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank

  my parents, Vinay and Lalita, for being as surprising as they are supportive. You have taught me how to love along with how to laugh throughout every hardship. Your hard work and the sacrifices that you have made go far beyond any accomplishment of mine;

  my incredible brothers, Rajiv and Vikas, for always having my back and for giving me a childhood full of happy sibling moments;

  my extended family—especially my aunt Usha, for recognizing and fostering my artistic inclinations early on in my life;

  my incredible friends, without whom I would not survive;

  my phenomenal writing teachers—Edmund White, Joyce Carol Oates, A. J. Verdelle, Paul Muldoon, Lynne Tillman, and David Ebershoff—for being so encouraging. Also, the entire staff of the Creative Writing Program at Princeton for running the best writing program in the world;

  my agent, Maria Massie; my editor, John Scognamiglio; and point person, Peter Senftleben, for their strong faith in little Kiran—as well as everyone at Kensington;

  Mary Davison, my first music teacher, for her strong faith in little me. You are missed.

  Kim Dasher gave me the incredible gift of finishing my first draft within the comfy confines of her apartment. Ursula Cary, Kendra Harpster, Beth Haymaker, and Alex Lane all read early drafts of this novel and gave me helpful feedback.

  Last but never least, a million thanks go to Chris Henry, BFF extraordinaire, for finding the humor in everything. It’s so easy.

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  BLUE BOY

  Rakesh Satyal

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The suggested questions are included to enhance your group’s reading of Rakesh Satyal’s Blue Boy.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Kiran spends a large part of the novel being very studious. What role do his studies play in his general behavior? Why does he focus his attention on such things?

  Kiran uses specific words often and also highlights others that he likes particularly. How does language figure into Kiran’s intellectual life? His emotional life?

  Kiran’s relationships with his parents differ greatly. How would you describe his relationship with his mother? With his father? Does one parent love him more than the other, or are their manners of loving just different?

  The town in which Kiran lives, Crestview, is described in detail. What sort of town is it? What is the demographic of the inhabitants? And how does that demographic differ from Kiran’s family? From the other Indian families?

  Kiran has very strong reactions to both female figures and male figures. How are his reactions different? With women, in particular, how does their treatment of him affect his self-perception? For example, how are the teachers in his school and the other Indian mothers similar and different?

  How knowledgeable is Kiran about Hinduism? About other religions? Does he fully understand them, or does he view them differently depending on his mood?

  Kiran asserts that American life has more of an impact on him than Indian life, but is that really true? Which culture informs Kiran’s behavior more—American culture or Indian culture?

  How would you describe Kiran’s sexuality? Is he hyper-sexual, or does he simply feel that way because of his confining surroundings? Is he fully gay?

  What role do names play in this book? And furthermore, what role does name calling play in this book?

  Is Kiran a happy child? A sad child? How about at the beginning of the novel versus at the end of the novel?

  Please turn the page for a special

  Q&A with Rakesh Satyal!

  Why do you feel that your work is particularly relevant and timely?

  Indian American literature has remained relatively serious until now. There is plenty of wonderful, very moving work in the genre, but I do not feel that the genre has a fair share of playful literature, along the lines of what has happened with Hispanic American literature or even East Asian American literature. This book is a little more humorous and playful with the genre, and that is why I believe that it has something new to offer.

  How much of the main character, Kiran, is based on you?

  I would say that more of the events closer to the beginning of the novel resemble my own childhood. (The Abraham Lincoln story, for example, is one widely known by my friends.) Certainly, I share Kiran’s imagination and his urge to be creative and, like him, I engaged in many rather flamboyant activities as a child, including (but not limited to) singing, dancing, doing visual art, etc. But as a writer and especially as an editor familiar with the world of publishing and the specifics of real life-translated-to-fiction, I was very careful to make Kiran very much Kiran and to distance him from my own life. For example, I have two brothers, whereas Kiran is an only child; my parents are quite different from the parents in the book. That said, I wanted to make sure that the reader could see quite clearly how Kiran could be a product of those two parents but not necessarily be like them.

  Do you feel that you are “making fun” of Hinduism?

  Not at all. I believe in many of Hinduism’s rather wondrous elements. One of those elements, directly and indirectly, is a real sense of spectacle, and my aim in the novel is to show how a young child already prone to hyperbole and extravagance would interpret that magic in his own life. At no point in the novel could one say that Kiran approaches Hinduism with bad intentions or doubts Krishna’s power; he approaches the religion with the utmost reverence, as did I while writing the story, and at the end, we see him comforted by the religion because it is really his only true friend.

  How do you fit your writing life into your job as an editor?

  People ask me this a lot because they assume that I never sleep and that I am a total workaholic. This is definitely not the case. (I spend way too much time watching Lost and marathons of America’s Next Top Model that I’ve already seen a million times for that to be true.) I work hard at my job but try to get my work done at the office and somewhat at home during the weekdays. I try to be creative every day in some way, and I generally work in spurts, so I’ll do a lot of writing one weekend and then do a cabaret show another week and then pleasure read a lot another week; it’s all a give-and-take. I am either too scattered or too lazy to write every day (as 99 percent of writing instructors would suggest), so I have to figure out how to fit it in on my own creative time.

  What do you want people to take away from your book after having read it?

  Most importantly, I want them to have laughed good-heartedly. And I want them to have seen the world somewhat differently—to understand how hard childhood can be for the culturally and sexually marginalized but also how such isolation affords a child a very strong sense of self.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2009 by Rakesh Satyal

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  ISBN: 0-7582-4575-0