The Konkans Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART 1

  The Pig

  The Grand Canyon

  Gore Road

  “E Puri Kon Achi?”

  PART 2

  The Konkans

  The Second Son

  Kissing on the Moon

  The Country Club

  PART 3

  Sita-Devi

  The Peace Corps

  The Jews of India

  The Americans

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2008 by Tony D’Souza

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  An excerpt of this novel appeared originally in Playboy magazine.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  D’Souza, Tony.

  The Konkans/Tony D’Souza

  p. cm.

  1. Konkans (Indic people)—Fiction. 2. East Indians—United States—Fiction. 3. India—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.S66K66 2008

  813'.6—dc22 2007015303

  ISBN 978-0-15-101519-1

  eISBN 978-0-547-35059-2

  v2.0814

  For my uncle

  storyteller

  PART 1

  The Pig

  A long time ago, my uncles bought a pig. I was a few months old at the time. I’d like to say that my uncles bought the pig to herald my birth, but no, it was instead to celebrate the feast of St. Francis Xavier, my namesake and our family’s patron saint, the man who had brought Catholicism and the roots of Konkani, my uncles’ language, to the western coast of India, where they and my father were from, in the early sixteenth century. My uncles had been in America less than a year, my father, four years. My mother was born in Detroit, had spent three years in the Peace Corps in India, where she’d met and married my father.

  My uncles were rowdy, debonair young men in the Indian way, not like my father at all. My father was a replica of my grandfather, a police commissioner in Karnataka state, a man as hard as granite with the old Portuguese work ethic as sure in him as his tightly clipped mustache. There was a photo album in our house devoted just to pictures of him, and whether he was in his captain’s uniform with the sash and epaulets and his Lee-Enfield rifle on his shoulder, or whether he was in his rattan chair on the porch of his house in India in a white T-shirt and lungi wrap with one hand raised on his cane, he never cracked a smile. That’s what my father was like, too.

  But my uncles did not have the burdens on them that my father did as a firstborn Konkan son, and they liked to drink and dance and joke and chase women. My mother says that the transition to American life was hard for all of them, but the pictures of my uncles from that time don’t support that idea. In picture after picture, my uncles flank my father, smiling like boys up to something, while my father does his best impression of a senator. For two years, my uncles lived in the basement of our house on Nelson Street, and then my father got fed up with them and sold the house, and we left Chicago for the suburbs. My uncles were then on their own.

  The one uncle was named Samuel Erasmus, but my father renamed him Sam when he arrived, and the other was named Lesley Wenceslaus, but my father renamed him Les. This was to help them fit in to America. When they got off the plane at O’Hare in 1973, they were both sporting Fu Manchu mustaches that swept the edges of their chins, because an American kung fu film had been all the rage in India the year before, and knowing nothing of America other than that, they’d grown those mustaches to get ready for their immigration to it. No one else wore mustaches like that in their town in southern India, so everyone had known what they were up to and where they were going. According to my uncles, they became very popular with girls.

  The first thing my father said to his brothers at the airport, even before “Welcome,” which he never said, was, “Those mustaches have to go.” He stopped at a Walgreens on the way home to buy disposable razors, and before they could even sit down to their first American meal, meat loaf with ketchup and mashed potatoes, which my mother, newly pregnant with me, had prepared for them, they were in the basement bathroom shaving while my father looked on with his arms crossed.

  “You don’t know anything here. Do you understand me? You do not know one single thing.”

  “Fine, Babu, you are right,” they said together. “Tell us every small thing and we will do it.”

  “Be quiet and don’t make a lot of noise.”

  “Yes, Babu, that is what we will do.”

  The fact was, my father did not want his brothers in America, did not want anything from India following him into his new life here. My father was something of a prig, and though it wasn’t his fault, there it was. My grandfather had spent the family’s money on educating him, and while the rest of the children ran about the streets of Chikmagalur in their bare feet just like the Hindu and Muslim kids did, my father went to a Catholic college in Mangalore on the coast, and then worked for a number of years as a clerk at Standard Chartered Bank in Bombay. He always had the finest shirts and trousers, and had been a member of the British-organized Chikmagalur Boys’ Cricket Club in his youth. My father wanted to be a British gentleman above and beyond all else, and when the opportunity of my mother came along, he took that as a ticket to the United States, the ersatz Britain.

  But my uncles were the dust and chaos of real India, and when they wrote on my grandfather’s urging that they’d like to come, my mother snatched the letter from the trash where my father had tossed it, and she filled out the paperwork to sponsor them. This threw my father into a rage. His specialty those days was swearing through clenched teeth and thumping his chest.

  “Don’t you respect me, Denise? Didn’t you take a vow to support me in all I do?”

  “I don’t remember saying that I would be your slave, Lawrence,” my mother told him, “and besides that, I want mine to be a life of family. When I married you, I married your family. If they want to come over, then it’s our duty to help them. Why should you be the only one in the world who gets to live here?”

  My mother was headstrong and brave, with slender arms and long blond hair that she wore in a ponytail. She’d gone to India for a lot of reasons, primarily to get away from her family, and secondly because she had believed in John F. Kennedy’s vision of the world. While there, she had first fallen in love with the country and its people, and later, just before she was scheduled to leave, with my father. My father could read and write and had a salable education. My mother would probably have been happier married to an oxcart driver or laundry washer, but her poor roots had made her practical about the realities of the world, and in marrying my father, she’d brought home with her the one living-and-breathing souvenir of that place who could also get a job in America. Sponsoring over my uncles was done to spite him, a return to what she really loved. Many were the nights that my mother drank and sang and talked Konkani with them while my father glowered in his study, pretending to pore over paperwork for his position as a corporate insurance manager with the multinational Hinton & Thompson, but really grinding his teeth at all that noise, which reminded him in an uncomfortable way of where he was from and who he in fact was.

  My mother prepared the basement of the house on Ne
lson Street for my uncles’ arrival with happiness and cheer. The house had been cut up into rentals before my parents had bought it, and there wasn’t much for her to do, really, but wipe a wet sponge along the sink and toilet, and hang yellow curtains over the half windows to make that basement seem like a home. There was a cement-stairway entrance to the basement apartment from the garden, where my mother grew tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers in trellised rows, as well as a stairway inside that led to my parents’ kitchen. Just before they came, my father had a workman install a lock on the door at the top of the stairway to the kitchen, and all during their first weeks in the basement, my uncles had to go out through the garden and up onto the porch to ring the bell like visitors if they wanted to see my parents. Then one afternoon my mother opened the front door and saw my uncles shivering in their undershirts in the spring rain, and she made my father give her the key and unlocked the door in the kitchen for good. Whether it was a wise decision or not, from then on the door was open, and my uncles came and went through the house as they pleased.

  As men in India, my uncles weren’t used to cooking for themselves, had never really done it, but in their reluctance to let go of their birthplace in this new nation, they began to cook Indian food for themselves in their basement kitchenette. This involved sauteing onions and garlic in oil and browning curry powder and meat in frying pans. The odors soon pervaded the whole house through the opened door and drove my father crazy. The other thing my uncles did down there that pissed my father off was they played Indian music on the turntable my mother had bought for them, and sang and danced and drank to it in their underwear night after night. The noise filled the house, and as they’d lie in bed together with me gestating in my mother’s womb, my father would clench his teeth in the dark and say, “You see, Denise? What did I tell you? Why did we come here if everything will be as it was before? My clothes stink of it, I can feel them looking at me at the office. Why did I come here if everything I hated about it is dancing in my basement?”

  My mother would rub my father’s shoulder. She’d say, “It’s not forever, Lawrence. Besides, we need a little more life in our lives than we’ve been having.”

  “Who’s not living, Denise?”

  “You’re not, Lawrence. If it wasn’t for your brothers, you’d be nothing but work, always trying to fit in, never anything but worry and unhappiness.”

  “I was happy before they came.”

  “You could be happy that they are here.”

  “I would be happy if I was allowed to be a normal American.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this. A normal American is the one thing you’ll never be allowed to be.”

  What could my father do but grind his teeth, get up from the bed, and close himself up in his study? In there, he would sit in his leather armchair in a cloud of anger that he could only get a grip on by drinking scotch neat. Sometimes my mother would rise from bed in her nightgown to knock on the study door, enter it, kneel, and rub my father’s feet to soothe him, and other times she would lie where she was and not sleep and let the night play out as it would. My father was not a violent drunk, he managed himself best when left alone. No matter how much of the bottle he needed to salve himself, he would always be up in time to catch the train downtown for work, and though his resentments against my mother and his brothers were growing in him, he kept them to himself.

  “We love you, hey, our Babu.” My uncles would tromp up the stairs with beer bottles in their hands and rub his head and shoulders like masseurs as he sat to his dinner of steak and boiled potatoes. “Our big brother, we are grateful for all you’ve done, bringing us to America, making a place for us in your home.”

  “Go back downstairs and turn down that Hindu nonsense,” my father would patiently tell them and chomp his food, and after a little more laughter and a last singing of “E puri kon achi?” (Whose Daughter Is She?), the Konkan young man’s national anthem, my uncles would do that. Neither had jobs at that time, and my father was supporting everyone.

  But the last thing, the linchpin thing, that kept the household, and my father, together in those early days after my uncles’ arrival was my grandmother’s gold.

  To help my father and mother get started in America, my grandfather had told my grandmother to collect her gold jewelry, everything save for her wedding ring, and sew it into the lining of my mother’s suitcase, underneath where my mother would put her folded underwear. Even my grandfather knew that my mother’s white skin and blond hair would not raise a customs inspector’s suspicion, and so my mother returned to America after three years in India with my father on her arm and four and a half pounds of filigreed and finely worked bangles, earrings, nose rings, and necklaces wrapped in cloth and hidden in the lining of her suitcase. Both the Indian and American customs inspectors made my father dump all his shirts and socks out onto the steel counters, while my mother held her heart in her throat, and enough gold in the suitcase in her hand to make a down payment on a house. And once my father had sold the jewelry to a Sikh silk-and-dry goods trader on Devon Avenue, that’s exactly what they did.

  So though my father didn’t really want his rowdy brothers living in his American basement, in the end he was too beholden to his family not to let them. And though they never talked about it, my uncles knew my father was beholden as well. For the most part, when they first arrived, they followed his rules. They also soon had jobs, Sam as a washing machine salesman at Polk Brothers on Belmont, and Les at an industrial printing press in Elk Grove Village. Then I was born, and the winter of ’73 settled in with rain, and then they bought the pig.

  Sam was the planner, and Les was the one who went along. They were both in their midtwenties, Sam a year older, full of life the way young men are at that time. If they had stayed in India, their lives would have been resplendent with friendships and flirtations, the last before their marriages, which my grandfather would have arranged. But they were in my father’s basement in Chicago, and they both understood that their lives here would not be like that. With the money they’d begun to earn, they bought a secondhand Cutlass Supreme, blue with a burgundy interior, which they filled with smoke and music and Puerto Rican girls from the neighborhood, whom they drove about the city.

  There were not many Indians in America at that time, certainly not in Chicago, and people took my uncles for Mexicans, as they did my father. My father hated this and would shake his head and turn his back in his suit on the lost laborers and nannies on the “L” train home, who took him as sympathetic, one of them among all those white people, asking him, “Disculpe, caballero, donde está el Montrose?” but my uncles didn’t mind. Ours was a mixed Hispanic neighborhood near Wrigley, and drinking on the porch with the neighbors in the evenings, my uncles quickly learned enough Spanish to joke and fit in, and to have enough Ramons and Eduardos coming around looking for them to make my father slap his hand to his forehead in anguish. Aside from their jobs, my uncles learned how to sell stereos and speakers out of the trunk of their Cutlass, how to dance to mariachi music at neighborhood quinceañera parties, how to walk down the street with a lope, and they filled their closet with clothes. They’d sneak their girlfriends into the basement after my parents had gone to bed. The giggling that came up through the vents made my mother smile and long for her own youth, which she felt had passed, and sent my father to his study.

  Though they were in America and succeeding in their way, my uncles missed India as much as my father did not, and when it was time for the Feast of St. Francis Xavier, my uncle Sam hatched a plan. They would buy a pig. They would slaughter the pig in the laundry room in the basement and have fresh pork for a traditional dukrajemas curry. Everyone in the neighborhood would be invited, they would play “E puri kon achi” for them, and teach them how to dance to it. They would even invite the parish priest. Slaughtering a pig would honor the saint and be in keeping with the traditions of their people. There weren’t many things to distinguish the Catholic Konkans from the hordes of
Hindus and Muslims they lived among in India, certainly not their skin color, which was exactly the same. Their religion and the meat it allowed them to eat were the paramount things that identified them as a people in this world. The Americans ate turkey, the Mexicans hit piñatas. The Konkans cooked dukrajemas pork curry and sang “E puri kon achi.”

  But where to get a live pig? In India, they had grown up with chickens and cattle and buffalo and pigs all about them, but in America there seemed to be none of these things. So Sam went to his friend Javier, who supplied them with stereos to sell, and Javier told him to go to Maxwell Street. A black man, Walter Johnson, had a rib stand there, and that’s where Javier’s family got pork for their parties.

  “You tell him the day, Sam, he’ll kill the pig in the morning. Then you go and pick it up and it will still feel warm. So cheap, like half the price. You’d think everybody would do it that way. But no way. These white people, they like to think you can eat without having to kill anything. They want to think every dirty thing is clean, have everything packaged up.”

  “But we need a living pig,” my uncle said and shook his head, and Javier made a face down at him from his porch.

  “A live pig? What are you going to do with a live pig?”

  “Butcher it for the feast of our saint.”

  “You know how to butcher a pig?”

  “People butcher pigs in India,” my uncle said.

  “What saint is that that needs you to kill a pig?”

  “Francis Xavier.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He made us into Catholics.”

  “What were you before that?”

  “Hindus and Muslims.”

  “No shit? Sounds like he saved your life. You need a pig? I’ll call Walter. He’s got to have a live pig stashed somewhere. Anyway, this is America. Money’s the only thing that matters here, so if you’ve got the money, you’ll get your pig.”