Read Online The Two Krishnas by Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla
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strange country, surrounded by the biases of another culture, they had forged a convenient friendship. Equipped with the fake ID cards Hiten had secured for them, they even went to their first gay club in West Hollywood together.
Hiten burned quickly. Spending his entire tuition on partying, drugs and blonde, blue-eyed escorts, he eventually dropped out of college. His parents cut off his allowance and Hiten found it beneath him to find a regular job to support his lifestyle. So he returned to Mumbai to flaunt his sexuality and hang out with connected, closeted gays in Bollywood and the fashion industry. It was nothing new. Hiten’s parents blamed Atif for “making him gay.” Atif knew Hiten’s parents had to find a culprit because those who love us find it easier to impute our vices to others, preferably someone unrelated so that it doesn’t seem remotely atavistic.
Talk spread like wildfire. Everywhere the Khannas went they were either questioned about their scandalous son, now a staple of the “Page Three” culture, or found the need to proffer an explanation, and Atif became the culprit. “That Rahman boy, he’s the one! He’s responsible for infecting our poor little son,” Sheila Khanna dispensed promptly from the vault of tears she carried around. “He made him gay. But god is just and will take care of that wretched Muslim boy when the time is right. Pray for our Hiten, won’t you? Please pray for Hiten. Oh, those Muslims!”
Atif received a phone call in the middle of the night.
“Ask him! Ask him if this disgusting thing is the true!” his father hollered in the background. “Only Allah knows where your son got this from! Ask him!”
“Atif, beta , what is all this we are hearing? It’s all lies, nah? Kehdo yeh sab jhoot hai.”
At this point, it would have been easy for Atif to deny the whole thing. To sling the blame back at the Khannas and reassure his parents of his intention to marry, give them grandchildren. They were too far away to verify the truth. Even if they were suspicious, his vehement denial was expected and welcomed. The benefit of living at such a distance from your family, after all, was that you could maintain a lifestyle of choice while keeping their illusions alive. He already knew that he was never going back and in time, if he had not secured his rights, would join the millions of illegals who had become the fabric of California. By now he had tampered with his Social Security card, whiting out the ‘Not Permitted for Employment’ above the crested logo of the red bird in flight and making copies which he had used to get a job. Why break hearts only to unburden himself?
But when Atif opened his mouth to allay their fears, to accuse the Khannas of spreading malicious lies, the words got stuck in his throat. He realized in that moment, just like the time when he had fallen short of money and had been unable to ask them for more, that he had outgrown that phase. Something in him had evolved so that acquiescing to such things made him feel shameful, no matter what the consequences. Slowly, he was becoming a man.
“Beta? Are you there? Say something, please.”
“Ma,” he said slowly, “would it be so wrong if I was?”
She was silent and he could hear only her shaky breath. He could see her. Around his father, Atif’s mother had always looked extinguished, her eyes nervous, her color changed, her openness gone. Pretending she hadn’t heard him, she pressed on like before. “Allah help them,” she cried. “They are rich so they think they can treat us this way. But money doesn’t make them right. They are vicious, vicious liars. I know you are not like that, beta. You are not like that boy.”
“But Ma, I am,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I know they are lying. Leave them alone, who cares? Let them say whatever they want. Allah will show them. We don’t have to—”
“Ma, please. Listen to me. What difference does it make? I’m still me. I’m still the
Hiten burned quickly. Spending his entire tuition on partying, drugs and blonde, blue-eyed escorts, he eventually dropped out of college. His parents cut off his allowance and Hiten found it beneath him to find a regular job to support his lifestyle. So he returned to Mumbai to flaunt his sexuality and hang out with connected, closeted gays in Bollywood and the fashion industry. It was nothing new. Hiten’s parents blamed Atif for “making him gay.” Atif knew Hiten’s parents had to find a culprit because those who love us find it easier to impute our vices to others, preferably someone unrelated so that it doesn’t seem remotely atavistic.
Talk spread like wildfire. Everywhere the Khannas went they were either questioned about their scandalous son, now a staple of the “Page Three” culture, or found the need to proffer an explanation, and Atif became the culprit. “That Rahman boy, he’s the one! He’s responsible for infecting our poor little son,” Sheila Khanna dispensed promptly from the vault of tears she carried around. “He made him gay. But god is just and will take care of that wretched Muslim boy when the time is right. Pray for our Hiten, won’t you? Please pray for Hiten. Oh, those Muslims!”
Atif received a phone call in the middle of the night.
“Ask him! Ask him if this disgusting thing is the true!” his father hollered in the background. “Only Allah knows where your son got this from! Ask him!”
“Atif, beta , what is all this we are hearing? It’s all lies, nah? Kehdo yeh sab jhoot hai.”
At this point, it would have been easy for Atif to deny the whole thing. To sling the blame back at the Khannas and reassure his parents of his intention to marry, give them grandchildren. They were too far away to verify the truth. Even if they were suspicious, his vehement denial was expected and welcomed. The benefit of living at such a distance from your family, after all, was that you could maintain a lifestyle of choice while keeping their illusions alive. He already knew that he was never going back and in time, if he had not secured his rights, would join the millions of illegals who had become the fabric of California. By now he had tampered with his Social Security card, whiting out the ‘Not Permitted for Employment’ above the crested logo of the red bird in flight and making copies which he had used to get a job. Why break hearts only to unburden himself?
But when Atif opened his mouth to allay their fears, to accuse the Khannas of spreading malicious lies, the words got stuck in his throat. He realized in that moment, just like the time when he had fallen short of money and had been unable to ask them for more, that he had outgrown that phase. Something in him had evolved so that acquiescing to such things made him feel shameful, no matter what the consequences. Slowly, he was becoming a man.
“Beta? Are you there? Say something, please.”
“Ma,” he said slowly, “would it be so wrong if I was?”
She was silent and he could hear only her shaky breath. He could see her. Around his father, Atif’s mother had always looked extinguished, her eyes nervous, her color changed, her openness gone. Pretending she hadn’t heard him, she pressed on like before. “Allah help them,” she cried. “They are rich so they think they can treat us this way. But money doesn’t make them right. They are vicious, vicious liars. I know you are not like that, beta. You are not like that boy.”
“But Ma, I am,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I know they are lying. Leave them alone, who cares? Let them say whatever they want. Allah will show them. We don’t have to—”
“Ma, please. Listen to me. What difference does it make? I’m still me. I’m still the
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