During the day of the event he was visited by two contestants, and the fathers of two others. He drew a bit more than just attention from one of the two girls. Her breasts were round and firm and he enjoyed lingering there for a moment. The other, a young woman named Geeta, had kissed him and he’d put his hand on her thin waist when she leaned into him. The fathers left envelopes with cash. One $350, and one $500. Only the fifth contestant failed to visit him or send her father.
And, of course, she won.
It wasn’t just that Ritu didn’t visit: It was the dance. Ritu seemed to possess the characteristics of the Ideal Indian Woman. Her curves were generous, her movements minimal. She didn’t strive too hard, instead the music just swayed her. She smiled at him from the stage, which had excited him even more than the touching or the money. It was the warm smile of innocence untouched by the crass world. He avoided her after that, lest she disappoint him. Or perhaps he would disappoint her. But he thought of her often, alone in his bed.
She deserved abundance — and to be married to the rich only-son of one of India’s wealthiest families. That bastard Manny couldn’t appreciate a classy girl like Ritu. He represented all that was wrong with these situations: the brutish man keeping his son from happiness.
Of course, Raj knew that he, like all the other players, had a predestined role. He was to teach Manny Sharma some humility — and if that humility came with humiliation, so be it. He was to help Ritu in her life. First the contest, then the husband. And he was being rewarded for his good deeds. But it wasn’t just the money; it was knowing that he, not Manny, was in charge of the way this would end. When he was in charge, the good won out. Don’t rest on your laurels, he reminded himself. Destiny was calling.
He turned on his computer and started by changing his e-mail and PayPal accounts. Then he opened a file entitled Wealthiest Indian Bachelors and considered Davinder Shah, son of the pig-headed Minister of Defense, Terjinder Shah. Years of graft had left the family very well off. Davinder, the eldest son, was also enrolled in the Stern School at NYU. Raj had noted his presence among the young men hanging out with Neal Sharma. Raj plugged Davinder’s vital dates into his computer program and printed out his astrology chart. While anyone could run numbers to get a chart, an analysis of the planet positions, the lunar asterism, the ascendants — understanding their relationships with one another was a gift that few possessed. And clearly, Raj knew, he was one of the blessed.
His chart showed Davinder as a weak man, tending to be swayed easily. No great intellect. A bit lazy. Not a great person, petty really. Of course, Raj would find his match. There is, after all, a match for every person. Raj consulted his folder marked Eligible Indian Girls, studying the photo of Geeta. He studied her curves and her look, which was a tad cheap — though he had no regrets about enjoying her wet kiss. He had only chosen her as a runner-up, but he would make it up to her now.
He e-mailed her immediately.
My Dear Geeta,
Good news is coming your way. I have a perfect match for you. Please do visit my office tomorrow at noon. I will discuss specifics and plans with you then.
Then he e-mailed another:
Your Excellency, Minister Shah,
I write to offer my humble services to you. I believe your son may be in some entanglement that does not suit the son of the honorable Minister of Defense. Please advise if you seek my assistance to avoid the agony of such an embarrassment.
Later, as he watched India-Vision in his office, Raj was interrupted by a knock on his door.
Ritu and Neal walked in, arm in arm.
“How do you do, young man?”
“So nice to see you again, Mr. Raj,” Neal said.
“Yes, yes, we did meet at the Miss Little India pageant, right?”
“Yes. And thanks to you, I met Ritu that night.”
“Oh no, these are all events that fate has ordained,” Raj demurred.
“Mr. Kumar,” Ritu said, “Neal and I were married this morning at City Hall.”
“Congratulations, congratulations.”
“We need your advice. You see, Ritu and I, well, we...” Neal began.
“We got married...” Ritu added.
“Blessings, blessings.”
“. . without my father,” Neal continued. “Well, he doesn’t know yet and I want to seek your advice to smooth things over.”
“Oh, I see. But your wife is a blessing to your family.”
“Yes sir. But my father—”
“I will tell you, young man, that only a few get to be married to a girl as lovely, honest, and wise as your bride. Treasure her. Once you have children, I guarantee you all will be well.”
“Children?”
“Yes. I know Ritu’s chart. And all happiness unencumbered by obstructions will be yours in this union. Wait till you have good news of a grandchild and then go to India. All will be well.”
“I shouldn’t tell my father then?”
“No. Wait a few months. Then you will have two good things to tell him.”
Ritu looked at Neal and gave him that sweet smile that Raj knew so well.
“Go and enjoy each other,” Raj counseled. “Give it time. All will be well. All will be well.”
Neal reached for his wallet, “Can I give you something?”
“Oh, please. Please... it’s my pleasure.”
Neal shook Raj’s hand, and the happy newlyweds left his office.
Raj watched the couple from his second-floor window. As they walked away, arm in arm once again, Ritu turned to look up at his window. She met his gaze for a moment and held it. She nodded slightly and then turned her attention once more to her husband.
He was now alone in his office above 74th Street, with all the hustle and flow of life below. With his posters of Meena Kumari. With his foldout chairs. With his TV and DVD player on a stand. He flicked off the Open sign outside his window.
From his desk drawer he took out the DVD. He needed some pleasure too — life could not only be work. He dimmed the lights and sat on the floor cushion, as he always did to watch. Nothing could interrupt him for three hours. He put on the movie Pakeezah. The music stirred and then there she was. Looking for her love. Full of grace. Dancing her pain away. Her soul unappreciated by the wealthy patrons. She is a courtesan who doesn’t get to be with her love, the prince. The callous king forbids it. She has no one to help her. And Raj weeps for her once again as he hears his beloved sing:
Viernes loco
by K.J.A. Wishnia
Corona
It’s never good when you open your front door and the first thing you see is uniforms. Only this time, they were military dress green, not 110th Precinct blue, and lucky for us they wanted the house next door. Bad luck for the Mantilla family, whose oldest boy, Freddie, joined up seeking the fast track to citizenship. And now he’s going to get it — posthumously.