Tania James - Aerogrammes - and Other Stories

Mr. Panicker was far more at ease when they were alone. She had consulted him for her response to the first aerogramme, and on his recommendation, she had asked Satyanand what he thought of the cricket star Sachin Tendulkar. When Satyanand’s second aerogramme arrived, she brought it directly to Mr. Panicker.

Dear Miss Daly,

Thank you so much for your twenty dollar donation. With this money, I was able to buy chappals for school and plenty of rice for my family to last the month.

“What’s a chappal ?” May asked.

“A kind of sandal. Or flip-flops.”

In response to your question, though I like to play cricket, I am not familiar with players as I do not have a television or a radio.

“Maybe you should stop this Street Angel business,” said Mr. Panicker. “It could be a trick.”

She held the letter to her chest. “Where did you get that idea?”

“What kind of Indian boy doesn’t know Tendulkar?”

Her eyes flitted over the letter with affection. “My boy.”

Watching her, Mr. Panicker remained silent. It didn’t seem so wrong at the time, the way her fingers were breezing back and forth across the writing. She deserved that moment of peace, and he wanted to preserve it for her, if he could, in return for all the small ways she had thus far preserved him.

By the end of the month, Sunit began calling Mr. Panicker again, bearing better, if not good, news. Mr. Panicker could hear the fraying hope in Sunit’s voice as he explained how his manager was passing the script to someone else and then someone else; it was widely described as “hot.”

“Sounds like a game of Hot Potato,” said Mr. Panicker.

Sunit paused, then forced a chuckle. “Yeah, it’s good to keep a sense of humor about these things in case, well …” He paused. “So anyway, if you really can’t handle it at Renaissance Gardens, then we’ll move you up to New York, I guess. Once I get this thing sold.”

“But don’t sign a lease or anything, not until I get there. It should be a place big enough for both of us. I have my savings, so we can manage it.”

“We, like you and me? Roommates?”

“Who else would I mean?”

“I was thinking of two separate apartments. Maybe in the same neighborhood or something. I need some space, Dad.”

“Space is overrated in this country.”

“We’ll see, okay? Let’s just cross that bridge later.”

“Oh, whatever,” Mr. Panicker said, angry that he could not say what plagued him: that he would die soon. This he knew, just as he’d known it at the top of the basement stairs with that one light-headed step, the ground he had walked for seventy-six years disappearing from under his feet.

May read aloud the next two aerogrammes as Mr. Panicker sat in the rocking chair, poised like a director with his hands in steepled prayer, his ankle perched on his knee. Each letter contained a troubling inconsistency. Satyanand Satyanarayana had no opinions on Bollywood stars; twice he referred to Shah Rukh Khan as a “she.”

Despite his doubts, Mr. Panicker delighted in elaborating upon every letter May received. He described Satyanand’s possible route to school, how he and his friends would have to wend through the crush of taxis and rickshaws and fling themselves onto the train — the older boys hanging out the doorway if they were so bold — and how the rushing wind would dry his washed hair cold and crisp.

He spoke of his own son only when she asked him how Sunit was doing. “Sunit is Sunit,” Mr. Panicker said, before changing the subject. Eventually she learned to stop asking.

He would have been happy to limit his social circle to her alone, but May begged him to attend the Fall Sock Hop. It was held in the dreaded rec room, site of Wii Wednesdays and Film Noir Fridays, by a troop of local Boy Scouts. A news crew arrived to tape the event; one lady told the camera, “It’s just so lovely to have young people with us. The girls never have enough partners to go around.”

Mr. Panicker hid behind the punch bowl until May hooked her arm through his and steered him onto the floor. The Boy Scouts held their ladies at arm’s length, shifting their gazes around the room, avoiding one another’s eyes. None of the ladies seemed to care. They rocked and swayed to the crooning music, chins raised, eyes cloudy with pleasure and memory.

Mr. Panicker held May’s hands in front of him, as if gripping the reins of a horse. Instead of risking any leg movement, he stayed in place, bending his knees according to his own erratic rhythm. Eventually he was lulled by the scent of baby powder on her skin, the rise and fall of the music. He twirled her under his arm. Later, May got him to admit that he was enjoying himself, even if he had abstained from the conga line.

A breeze swept through Mr. Panicker’s lungs while he walked around the courtyard. It was early in the day, the clouds pink-bellied and young; dry leaves swirled in midair like shoaling fish. Today was Mercy’s birthday.

His wife had never wanted any fuss made on her behalf. Mercy was tidy, brisk, uncomplaining, always the first to finish her meal before urging Sunit to eat up, eat fast, as if talking were a waste of time. She rarely disclosed her own preferences to Mr. Panicker, whether they were discussing a school for Sunit or a television program to watch. She always deferred to Mr. Panicker with “Whatever you like.” After a while, he stopped asking her opinion.

Once, for her birthday, he surprised her with a gift delivered to their home: a double-mattressed DreamSupreme, as wide as twice his wingspan, with pillows fat and sugar white. It filled their bedroom, and for once, Mercy smiled and said, yes, she liked it. For two more years, he and his wife slept soundly, a whole wingspan of space between them, until she fled the DreamSupreme for Sunit’s math teacher, and whatever banana peel of a cot a math teacher might have to offer.

Sunit was only seven when they moved to America. Back then, Mr. Panicker told the boy to sleep in his own bed, and though the darkness seemed smothering, the hallways choked with shadow, Sunit agreed to sleep alone. But on some mornings, fresh from another drowning dream, Mr. Panicker would roll over to see his son, a snoring resolute curl on the other side of the bed. Always Sunit avoided his father on those days, ashamed perhaps, though Mr. Panicker never mentioned it. Nor did he mention how every morning was a trial, and sometimes it was simply the weight of Sunit’s presence that gave Mr. Panicker the strength to rise.

When Mr. Panicker returned to his room, he found a pink slip on his door with the heading WHILE YOU WERE OUT. Sunit’s name was scribbled below this, and a check mark was leaping out of the small box next to URGENT.

Mr. Panicker dialed the numbers, gripped the phone with both hands.

“Dad?” Sunit answered.

“What happened? Tell me.”

“No, it’s good news — I got an offer! I got an offer from Two Tigers, the company I was telling you about, the guys who produced the road-trip movie with the lesbian and the arranged marriage? The woman who played the lesbian read it and she wants to costar.”

“Is there a lesbian in your story?”

“What? No. I just got the call from my manager, so I don’t know much yet, but I think like thirty thousand. It’s called an option. I’m optioning my script.”

“Now what? What does this mean?”

“It means,” Sunit said, with the enthusiasm of a game-show host, “you should come to New York!”

Mr. Panicker was sure that Sunit had no idea when or how this grand prize would be awarded.

“I already spoke to Preeti Auntie,” Sunit said. “She wants you to come live with her in Queens.”

“You called Preeti?”