“Asif-bhaiya, why didn’t you go to the police?” one girl asked. “I mean, if you have these rights, you should go and tell them what’s happening.”
“If I go, bahin-ji, then I will not only be putting myself at risk, but also the other workers. The manager said that if any of us go to the authorities, our wages will be withheld and he will deny that we ever worked there.” He trembled. “How will I feed my son and daughter?” He folded his head into his arm.
How could brown folks shapeshift into terrible beasts akin to overlords on the sugar plantations? How could brown folks do this to brown folks? Something about it made sense in my own family history—the arkotiya, or recruiters, for the British were Indians themselves. They made money for every person who stamped their thumbprints onto contracts that bound them to torment in five-year terms. My ancestors were brought to Guyana like this. This current immigrant struggle was related but different. All these oppressions felt resonant with one another.
We listened. I went to stand next to Prahlad and grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Ryan looked over at me and raised his eyebrows. Anger swelled in my stomach. Of the forty of us gathered, we all wanted to take down Karachi Delight—how could someone from our community of South Asian immigrants exploit one of our own?
“How do you say justice in Urdu?” I asked, clutching a marker in my hand.
“Insaaf,” replied Zahir.
“It sounds like insaan, or human.” I gritted my teeth and thought nainsaan—nonhuman, antihuman, antiman. I gripped the marker tighter until my hands were pale with rage.
On a piece of poster board I wrote: Insaaf Zindabaad! Long live justice!
Morning in Jackson Heights, the adhan is the only thing missing. Otherwise there are vegetable sellers spraying water on the cement, chai stalls frying jalebis, and even the bhangra music shops playing their songs. The city outside the city awoke to chai and chaat.
There’s no street food like that in India and there is no India like that found in Jackson Heights.
At eleven, aunties gathered to buy their food for the day and young men began distributing their leaflets in their tight jeans and paan-stained teeth: Palm Readers/Jyotish by Karan. On Roosevelt Ave: above, the 7 train rumbled along; below, samosas fried to a golden brown. Sweets shone, begging a tongue to lick them.
That afternoon we marched on the Jackson Heights streets from the corner of 73rd Street and 37th Ave to Karachi Delight chanting, The people united will never be defeated! picketing with our handmade trilingual signs. Onlookers gathered around us.
Young men with budding beards. The people united will never be defeated! Old Bangladeshi men with beards reddened with henna. Aunties in hijab, aunties in saris. The people united will never be defeated! Dominican high school kids in backpacks and braces. The people united will never be defeated! Young Colombian fags and their queeny friends. Arab and Iranian women, men. The people united will never be defeated! From the Filipinos, femmes, and hipsters. Prahlad and I picketed together. He was in front of me. His dancer’s frame pranced his indignation in furious stamping. Ryan and Farida also stomped and shouted.
Confused, the manager exited Karachi Delight and looked at us in the face. He asked Prahlad, “What do you mean, coming here? Have you no shame?” He threw up his hand with a flick of the wrist.
The people united will never be defeated!
Prahlad’s hand clasped mine in prayer. Being in this crowd of people fighting for ethical treatment of others, my heart beat its dhol as though I was in a wedding processional. My voice was raw from screaming, The people united will never be defeated! But I didn’t care. I screamed louder. My body was exhausted, my knees trembled. I believed in this because I had to. I had to believe that others were willing to raise their voices to stop dehumanization.
Prahlad shouted in return to the manager, “Do you have any shame, riding these people as though they are donkeys?” He furrowed his brows and pointed at the critical mass of brown bodies. I could feel his words echo in my chest.
The manager picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. He paced back and forth speaking with the person on the other end. His Punjabi was fast and his swearing was guttural. I only caught some of what he was saying. Beneath the “mother/sister/goat/pig fuckers” was something about being afraid of the police. The person on the other end must have been the owner, who encouraged the manager to shut down for the day.
With that, Karachi Heights closed its metal grate. The people united will never be defeated!
We left with this simple satisfaction.
Prahlad turned to me then and said, “I’m so tired, I will need to take a nap before we go to the party tonight. If not, I’m likely to fall asleep.”
Was Prahlad saying that he wanted to go home without me and take a nap or meet up again? I thought of the time we spent together throughout the west and east sides—huddling in corners of the avenues, behind the large subway maps installed as art that divided the subway platforms. I imagined him saying he wanted to suck someone else’s dick before we hooked up for the final time that night. Were we over before the conference was?
“Come with me,” he whispered and licked his lips.
I cleared my throat.
We slept on the couch of his friend’s Financial District apartment after taking a hurried shower to wash the city’s grit from the folds of our skin, between the legs and asses. We lay on that couch, naked, hair matting with hair, his left cheek on my right.
Darkness. Insert a surrealist dreamscape of some grand, meaningful connection: a ferry ride to the statue, or perhaps some Delhi or Chennai in New York cityscape of swirling colors, perfumes of incense and potent curry spices, the heart-thrum of bhangra, bass turned up and blasting.
“Fuck! Rajiv, wake up!”
I opened my eyes.
“We’re late!” We needed to get ready at seven so that we could be at the party by eight.
“There’s no way I can make it on time. You should leave without me and I will go back, get ready, and meet you there.” I jumped to my feet, dazzled by the fog of an afternoon nap.
“No. I want to go together—who gives a fuck if we’re late?” Prahlad had a point. It was a brown party. I don’t think I’ve ever known a brown party to start at the time written on the invite.
“Okay, maybe you shouldn’t shower here. Come with me to my aunt’s house to get ready and then we can cab it back to the Brecht Forum.”
Prahlad stuffed his deodorant and his pants in a sack. Since both of us were university students, every last dime was necessary in our weekly budgets. We took the A train from Chambers Street to Lefferts Blvd.
We sat silently in the train car. It rattled and shivered its skin, as Shesha shuffles and slithers across a sea of milk bearing Lord Vishnu. From his navel, a lotus blossom. In that lotus blossom, creation. Creation doomed to the destruction of Lord Shiva’s dance. All around, the faint odor of something burning—the ghost of engine fuel, building dust. I closed my eyes. Prahlad held my hand and rested his head on my shoulder.
“Faggot terrorists!” someone shouted. I didn’t want to move or respond. What could I have said? Prahlad was sleeping on me. I didn’t want to think of anything else.
I was about a foot taller than him, fuller in the stomach and hips. Our nipples were the same chocolate—his lips darker than mine. With his head on my shoulder, I was comfortable. The party didn’t matter. All that mattered was that we were snaking through Queens in the summer.
I could already smell the curry before opening the door. Pua, Pupha, and Jake were in Toronto—somewhere with Aji or Auntie Rani. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bring Prahlad home to shower. Maybe I should have insisted on meeting him at the party. Maybe I should have called Pua in Toronto to ask if it was all right. I opened the door. Clarice, my cousin, sat on the couch and turned off the television.
“Hey, Raimie. How are you?” Clarice’s eyes widened, then faded into a smile.
“Hey, Clarice, this is Pr
ahlad. He’s at the same conference. We’re going to get ready real quick and head back out into the city,” I said, wringing my hands. I had not told my aunt or anyone that Prahlad and I would be getting ready—in fact, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the house as I opened the door.
“That’s okay, I’m just doing some laundry while Mom is away and I thought I’d come by and say hello. I haven’t seen you in so long!” she said, throwing up her hands for a hug. She didn’t get up from the couch.
I pointed Prahlad to the bathroom so he could begin his dressing ritual.
“How’s your mom and dad?” Her saccharine tone turned my stomach. I watched her eye the bathroom.
“They’re good! They’re excited for your wedding!”
Clarice was engaged to a Belizean man. “Yeah, I can’t believe that the day is finally approaching! We’ve been together for three years.”
“I can’t wait for the party tonight,” I replied.
“Well, go get ready and have a great time!”
I narrowed my eyes. Something was up. Her voice was syrup. Was she being two-faced? Aji used to say, All skin teet na laugh. She was smiling but definitely not laughing. I went to my bedroom and opened my suitcase to decide what to wear.
We danced and drank. We danced with Ryan and Farida. Farida brought her cousin Sef to the party. He stood tall for a sixteen-year-old and wasn’t drinking. We shook hands and Prahlad and I clung to each other. The music played mixes of Bollywood and EDM while lights pulsed in the hall. We drank some more and ran out into the streets of the Financial District. Prahlad’s friend’s house was closer than Richmond Hill so I decided to sleep there with him. This was the last night that I would see Prahlad like this—peeling off his clothes as he stared into my eyes. With each garment he tossed to the floor he dared me to wrap myself around him.
At night the manholes breathed smoke. Underground the city’s Kundalini wound its way into the pockets of immigrants, both recent and established. K-Town, Chinatown, Little Mexico, Italy, Manila, Bangladesh, Guyana, Jamaica, Armenia, et cetera. It was a wonder that I would meet some queer like Prahlad. An artist, a dancer, a great cocksucker.
We rubbed our bodies together until it hurt.
The morning after the party Prahlad and I woke slowly to the sunrise pounding on the glass like an angry neighbor. This was our last morning before he returned to San Francisco. Even if I did see him again, I couldn’t be certain of when or if we would still feel the same way for each other at the same time.
He stunk of booze—sweet and personal, of orange juice and morning breath. I would later try to recall this morning’s every detail. Two cups of water on the coffee table. His shirt, buttons ripped completely off. The hair sprouting from his chest. His lips. I traced them with my fingers. He smiled and kissed me. I didn’t want him to put on his socks, hide his cock in his boxers, and zip up his suitcase. He pressed himself close. I held him closer. The sunlight showed the dust dancing in shafts. Prahlad’s skin was gold.
After showering together I waited with him while his cab came to take him to JFK. He was flying out of Queens, close to where Pua lived. I slid my hand into his. He leaned his head onto my shoulder. This felt natural. His attar filled the street as myrrh.
“Write me an email when you get home,” I asked, pursing my lips. Prahlad had a tear streaking his cheek. He got into the cab. He shut the door and opened the window.
“It’s funny how in Hindi the word for goodbye also means hello.” His voice, full and throaty.
“Yeah, funny,” I said, looking up at the stoplight that had just changed from red to green.
I was sitting back in Pua’s Queens apartment when the door opened. In the July heat, an unexpected cold gust frisked me. In walked Pua and Pupha, followed by Jake. He hid behind his mother’s skirt mostly.
“Hey guys, how was Toronto?”
“Good.”
“How was Aji? Did she make barah?” For some reason Pua and Pupha were not looking at me. They answered my questions in single-word answers.
“Yes. Please stop talking now. It’s been a long day and I’m going upstairs.” Pua climbed the stairs.
Something was obviously up. “You guys must be tired. Jake, want to come with me to get some milk?” We took a walk. I had to leave the house.
“You’re in trouble with my parents,” Jake said, his straight dark lips stretched thin. “It’s not like I have never been in trouble with yours,” he leaned in.
We sat on the street, where Lefferts met Liberty Avenue in Richmond Hill.
“But why? What did I do?” I asked, my palms flat on the cement. The nearby shops packed up all their sugarcane and juicers. The only music that we heard was from the tires on the asphalt, from the chutney soca music blaring from passing cars.
“When we were away you used the house like a brothel. You brought that whore here and Clarice saw. Come on, Raimie, you know that’s disgusting. How would you like it? This isn’t Florida.” His eyes narrowed.
“You don’t even know him—why do you call him a whore?”
“He probably has … diseases. You said yourself he’s a little slutty.” He folded his arms across his chest.
Had I mentioned that Prahlad was no prude to Jake? Diseases?
“It’s not homophobia, Raimie,” Jake insisted. “It’s like you shouldn’t have invited anyone into our house when we were not there.”
“I know, but it’s not like we were staying long—we had to get ready for the party. All my stuff is in your house and he really just wanted to go with me. Like, we’d show up together. It’s sweet,” I smiled, lost in a far-off look.
“It’s disgusting.” He sneered, “You’re bringing diseases into our house.”
“Diseases?” I raised my eyebrows. “Neither of us has any diseases. That’s so homophobic! I don’t think this would have been any kind of problem if I brought a girl home, and if Clarice saw her instead of Prahlad.”
“Don’t make this about homophobia, Raimie. You should not have done this antiman thing. This is not your house. This is not Florida,” Jake continued, “You can’t do whatever you please and not expect us to be mad.”
“But I’m not even sure what happened. All I know is that as soon as they came home your parents were acting like I killed someone.” I could hear my mantra invading my mind, praying these words again and again as if strung like prayer beads:
You are nothing.
No one will ever love you.
You are fat and hairy.
You are good for nothing.
“You brought that slut into our house, Raimie.” They went to Toronto and were having dinner around Auntie Sonia’s table—the one in her kitchen reserved for family. They ate roti and baigan. During dinner the phone screamed. It was Clarice. She said I was taking a shower with Prahlad.
“You really have no fucking shame, do you? She told Mom and Dad about what you were doing. You brought that slut into the house. Were you staying with him the whole time in my house?” He continued in his ire. His lips were dry, lined in a thin wisp of dry spit.
“No way!” I shook my head.
“Raimie, you’re caught.”
I looked down at my feet, now my ankles were properly textured by the cement they rested on. I pressed them deeper into the gray.
“Jake,” my voice shook, “why on Earth would I bring Prahlad into your mom’s house to stay? We were there to get ready for a party—we fell asleep in the Financial District and wanted to go together. We came to your house to shower and leave. I swear to god!”
“You were using our house as a gay brothel.” Jake could no longer look at me. He stared at the A train above the avenue as it coiled in the above-ground platform. This was its last stop.
“Did you tell Aji?” I clenched my fists. I wondered what word he used to tell her.
The only way Aji would have been able to understand what was going on was if they had explained to her what gay meant. They must have used that word. The A word:
antiman. How would they do that? If Aji knew this about me, would it change the way that she told me stories and sang me songs? I was afraid of that river drying up. I feared exile from her poetry.
I used to hear the uncles all talk about the West Village as a place to avoid because antiman does stay dat side. I know what they think of us—swishy fags who deserve damnation.
“What did you tell her?” My jaw clenched.
“Well, Clarice told Mom,” he said. Clarice told her mother that Prahlad swished about and was very effeminate. And that I was gay. Antiman.
A bus’s headlights stunned my eyes before the noise of its horn as it kicked down the street in the night streaked with cigarette smoke and humiliation.
“I never told her anything.” Clarice was so sweet to us when we came in. I didn’t understand where this was all coming from. I never would have told Clarice anything about who I have sex with.
“Yes, but you brought that fucking antiman into the house.” He furrowed his eyebrows.
“Stop. His name is Prahlad,” I spat, hands held out, palms facing my cousin in the mudra for inner peace.
“You brought Parminder into the house,” he tried to provoke me in his whiney screech. “Then my mom and Dad with Auntie Sonia, Auntie Rani, and Aji sat me down and asked, ‘Is Raimie gay?’ I can’t lie to my parents.”
A car blaring Babla & Kanchan’s “Na Manu” guffawed and choked its smoke down the street past where we sat. Na manu, na manu, na manu, dagabaj tori batiya na manu … I can’t believe you, I can’t believe your words of betrayal. … How many times have we danced to this song at family parties?
I rose to my feet, “Why didn’t you tell them to ask me if they had suspicions?” My voice trembled and cracked like a wooden beam burning. “I never would have done that to you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have brought that fucking Par-slut-jeet into the house. I told them you’re gay!” Jake screamed, pointing his finger in my face. The A train hissed on its platform before the automated conductor began in his cheery, mechanical croon, Please stand clear of the closing doors. …
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