Read Online Good Indian Girls: Stories by Ranbir Singh Sidhu - Free Book Online
Authors: Ranbir Singh Sidhu
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things. I’m not a saint.”
He placed the camera on the table and turned to Lovedeep and without warning, violently yanked at the free end of the belt and pulled it tight. Her head flew forward and she let out a strangled cry.
“I’ve never done an Indian before,” he said. His face was pressed up against hers. “I think I like it.” He grinned. “I lied. There are some things I like.” He pulled the belt tighter. “People always told me Indian girls were good. What did I know? I don’t go in for spiritual bullshit. Maybe I’m finally seeing the light.”
As Lovedeep crumpled to the floor, the last thing she saw was Ian’s arm. It had stopped shaking.
Sanskrit
IT IS PAST SEVEN WHEN ANU HEARS THE KEY IN THE DOOR and a moment later, Hari’s voice calling from the hall.
“Don’t move,” she shouts. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I need to piss. I’m desperate.”
She appears, holding a camera in one hand and a silver cone party hat in the other. The camera is disposable. She picked it up in the city, when she left work early, afraid she wouldn’t find their camera at home. It makes no difference that she is the one who puts everything away, she can never find anything.
“Put this on,” she says.
Hari waves the hat away with an arm draped with a black overcoat. He drops his briefcase against the wall.
“I need to piss.”
“Darling.”
“Okay, make it quick.”
She straps the hat onto Hari’s head and kisses him on the cheek.
“Happy birthday.”
She steps back and snaps a photo.
“Did the flash go?”
“Yes,” Hari says. “Now . . .”
“It didn’t.”
“Fine, it didn’t. You had your chance.”
Hari walks past her, leaving the coat in her arms.
“What happened?” she calls after him.
“Bomb at Grand Central.”
“An explosion?”
“No, just a scare. A bomb scare. The place was evacuated.”
The downstairs bathroom door opens but doesn’t close. Hari enjoys taking a piss with the door open. It’s more intimate, more married somehow. Anu thinks it gross. She can hear him pissing.
“Whisky soda?” she asks.
“Sure.”
He is leaning against the doorjamb leading to the kitchen, his fly undone, the party hat still on his head.
“I needed that.”
“Here,” handing him the whisky.
“Kiss me,” he says.
“I have to change.”
“Change?”
“You didn’t think I’d dress like this.”
“How do you dress?”
“You’ll see.”
Hari takes a long drink and nods to the bottle. Anu refills his glass.
“And?” he asks.
“It’s a surprise.”
He winks theatrically. “I picked up something too.”
“What?”
Hari reaches into his inside jacket pocket and produces a rolled-up Ziploc bag. Raising it over his head, he unfurls it with a snap of his wrist.
“Pot,” Anu says, bringing her face up to the bag. “That’s cool.”
“Bolinas razorback. This is serious shit. Organic, hydroponic, the works.”
“Roll one, will you? I’m going to change. There’s a couple burgers in the bag.”
Hari spots the Wendy’s bag on the counter.
“Birthday dinner?”
“Go ahead, stuff your face. I’ll be in the bedroom. No peeking.”
He takes a framed photograph down from the wall, an enlarged black and white showing his father as a young man standing in a lush Ludhiana garden, wearing a suit and tie and holding an umbrella, both hands on the handle, tip pressed into the ground, like Steed in The Avengers . He sets the photograph on the coffee table, taps out a portion of pot onto the glass, and begins to press it through his fingers, sorting out the stems. He pulls a packet of papers from his pocket, Big Bambi, purchased at the corner store on West 40th, where he picks up his coffee mornings.
The phone rings as he finishes rolling the joint. He checks the caller ID before answering.
“Jack,” he says.
“I don’t feel motion, Harry, I don’t feel anything moving. Are things in motion? Are we moving?”
“There is motion, Jack. There is
He placed the camera on the table and turned to Lovedeep and without warning, violently yanked at the free end of the belt and pulled it tight. Her head flew forward and she let out a strangled cry.
“I’ve never done an Indian before,” he said. His face was pressed up against hers. “I think I like it.” He grinned. “I lied. There are some things I like.” He pulled the belt tighter. “People always told me Indian girls were good. What did I know? I don’t go in for spiritual bullshit. Maybe I’m finally seeing the light.”
As Lovedeep crumpled to the floor, the last thing she saw was Ian’s arm. It had stopped shaking.
Sanskrit
IT IS PAST SEVEN WHEN ANU HEARS THE KEY IN THE DOOR and a moment later, Hari’s voice calling from the hall.
“Don’t move,” she shouts. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I need to piss. I’m desperate.”
She appears, holding a camera in one hand and a silver cone party hat in the other. The camera is disposable. She picked it up in the city, when she left work early, afraid she wouldn’t find their camera at home. It makes no difference that she is the one who puts everything away, she can never find anything.
“Put this on,” she says.
Hari waves the hat away with an arm draped with a black overcoat. He drops his briefcase against the wall.
“I need to piss.”
“Darling.”
“Okay, make it quick.”
She straps the hat onto Hari’s head and kisses him on the cheek.
“Happy birthday.”
She steps back and snaps a photo.
“Did the flash go?”
“Yes,” Hari says. “Now . . .”
“It didn’t.”
“Fine, it didn’t. You had your chance.”
Hari walks past her, leaving the coat in her arms.
“What happened?” she calls after him.
“Bomb at Grand Central.”
“An explosion?”
“No, just a scare. A bomb scare. The place was evacuated.”
The downstairs bathroom door opens but doesn’t close. Hari enjoys taking a piss with the door open. It’s more intimate, more married somehow. Anu thinks it gross. She can hear him pissing.
“Whisky soda?” she asks.
“Sure.”
He is leaning against the doorjamb leading to the kitchen, his fly undone, the party hat still on his head.
“I needed that.”
“Here,” handing him the whisky.
“Kiss me,” he says.
“I have to change.”
“Change?”
“You didn’t think I’d dress like this.”
“How do you dress?”
“You’ll see.”
Hari takes a long drink and nods to the bottle. Anu refills his glass.
“And?” he asks.
“It’s a surprise.”
He winks theatrically. “I picked up something too.”
“What?”
Hari reaches into his inside jacket pocket and produces a rolled-up Ziploc bag. Raising it over his head, he unfurls it with a snap of his wrist.
“Pot,” Anu says, bringing her face up to the bag. “That’s cool.”
“Bolinas razorback. This is serious shit. Organic, hydroponic, the works.”
“Roll one, will you? I’m going to change. There’s a couple burgers in the bag.”
Hari spots the Wendy’s bag on the counter.
“Birthday dinner?”
“Go ahead, stuff your face. I’ll be in the bedroom. No peeking.”
He takes a framed photograph down from the wall, an enlarged black and white showing his father as a young man standing in a lush Ludhiana garden, wearing a suit and tie and holding an umbrella, both hands on the handle, tip pressed into the ground, like Steed in The Avengers . He sets the photograph on the coffee table, taps out a portion of pot onto the glass, and begins to press it through his fingers, sorting out the stems. He pulls a packet of papers from his pocket, Big Bambi, purchased at the corner store on West 40th, where he picks up his coffee mornings.
The phone rings as he finishes rolling the joint. He checks the caller ID before answering.
“Jack,” he says.
“I don’t feel motion, Harry, I don’t feel anything moving. Are things in motion? Are we moving?”
“There is motion, Jack. There is
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