Blue Boy by Rakesh Satyal Read Free Book Online Page A

instead of just leaving them. So he’s getting everything in order before he goes.”
    “Oh, that makes sense, I guess. When does he plan on moving here?”
    “In about two, three years.”
    Indian logic. It’s an oxymoron.
    “Wait—if she’s here and he’s there, how did they meet in the first place?” I ask.
    “Her parents put out an ad. In India Abroad .”
    “That’s the most revolting thing I’ve ever heard.” I love saying the word “revolting.” Roald Dahl uses it all the time in his books, and it’s such a catty, British word. Catty, British words are the best kind of words.
    “ Beta , it’s not such a bad idea these days,” my mom says. “You know, the more complicated things get over here, the more important it is to find someone vith good Indian morals.” She says this with a jab of her finger in the air, and I think back to the master bathroom, when she flailed her flour-dusted arms about. Arre?
    “Yeah, and I’m sure their lunches in Detroit are some real quality time,” I say.
    “It’s not a bad idea,” my father echoes from the wheel, taking a breather from his cat-and-mouse game of weaving through lanes on the highway and tailgating people. “Besides, ve might do that vhen finding your vife!” The silence on my mother’s side of the car means she’s considered it, too.
    I imagine a headline in India Abroad , all right:
     
    OHIOAN INDIAN CHILD JUMPS TO DEATH FROM PARENTS’ CAR
     
     
    Two miles from our house, we stop at a gas station to fill up the car. Stopping at a gas station is an epic event for my father. He watches gas prices as avidly as he watches cricket scores—that is to say, insanely. At any given point in time, he knows every gas price in town to the hundredth of a cent. Ever since the bombs fell in Iraq, the prices have been quavering madly. Which has made my father even more intent in his efforts.
    When he gets back into the car from filling the gas, the air is filled with the delicious scent of unleaded. I try hard not to breathe it in; when I was four, I remember him leaning in the front window, pump in hand, and saying, “ Beta , make sure you never inhale this gas. It vill kill you.” Now, several years and countless trips to gas stations later, I sit in the backseat with tension holding my torso hostage, as if invisible marionette strings are attached from my shoulders to the top of my head. As my father starts the car, I think, “This is ridiculous. Breathe, Kiran,” and I take one deep breath. But it’s useless; the tension returns, stronger than before, and not until we reach home five minutes later and I hop out of the backseat and onto the cement of our serpentine driveway do I breathe freely.
    My parents get out of the car, my mother taking a little longer than my father. She has tiny legs and feet and is plump, so every one of her moves has a certain waddle to it. This is particularly endearing when she is shopping; she passes through malls with a waddle-sweep that is both graceful and determined.
    There they are, Shashi and Ramesh Sharma: solidly side by side like a salt and pepper shaker set. My mother’s hair, which has remained the same length for as long as I can remember, is pulled back in a ponytail and cinched in a white scrunchie to match her white salwaar kameez . Her hands are still clasped in front of her, like prayer residue. It resembles the way she stands when greeting guests at our house, just before she tells them to take their shoes off.
    My father is wearing his trusty old jacket. It’s tan, vinyl, almost Members Only but no cigar. His hair is cut in the most traditional way possible, the way gents have their hair on the Just For Men boxes that my father stashes below the master bathroom sink. His eyes are very round and have maintained their intensity after his forty years on Earth. They suddenly disappear behind a Sony camera. Before I can even register comprehension on my face, my father has taken a picture of me.
    If I