Tania James - Atlas of Unknowns

The waiter slides out a chair; Mrs. Solanki slides into it. She orders a Bombay Sapphire martini and then says to Anju, “I’ll need it to get through this evening.”

In mutters, the Solankis try to negotiate who should break the news to Rohit, but before anything is resolved, Rohit strides through the revolving doors. Mr. Solanki says quickly, “You talk, you talk.”

Perhaps as an unsubtle show of defiance, Rohit wears a red T-shirt riddled with purposefully torn holes as opposed to the slacks and suits of everyone around him. When he reaches the table, he gives his parents a sullen nod. “Anju,” he says tautly, and sits down. Under the table, Anju rubs her clammy hands on her knees.

A basket arrives, carrying a cloth-covered bundle roughly the size of an infant. They spread their napkins on their laps while a waiter peels back the cloth to reveal a pile of rolls. Anju wishes, for a moment, that the waiter might prolong his stay by repeating his sonnet of entrées.

“So.” Rohit looks at his mother, then his father, and lastly Anju. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

Before anyone can reply, Rohit shakes his head as if to reject a silly thought. “Listen, Anju, it’s not like I care if you want to have a reunion with my parents. In fact, I think that’s great, especially for the film. I’m all about reunions. They’re poignant, they’re cyclical, they’re redemptive. But what’s the use if you’re going to do something like that behind my back? How am I supposed to incorporate it into the story? With a title card that says: Anju decides to reunite with her host family? No, we’ll have to stage it again, but it’s going to look stagy, that’s all I’m saying. And I know what I said about manipulating reality, but staginess is obvious.”

Anju stares at the basket, her cheeks growing as warm as the swaddled rolls. “I am not doing your movie anymore,” she says.

It seems as though her words are slowly lowering onto his shoulders, causing them to sag. “I thought we talked about this.”

“We did, but I did more thinking and I think I am right.”

“So what, you went to my parents so they could buy you a ticket back?” Rohit raises a finger at the waiter and orders a vodka and Red Bull, a cocktail that makes Mr. Solanki wince. “Is that it? Because if so, this film is really going to tank. What’s the point? Money bails you out. The end. Who’s going to care?”

“Rohit, if I may.” Mrs. Solanki takes a sip from her martini to create an authoritarian beat of silence. “What it all comes down to is Anju’s decision. She told us everything that happened over these past few months, how she was living in Queens, how you found her and started making this film. It’s an extraordinary story.”

“Yeah. I know. I discovered it.”

“But now Anju is taking the reins. With my help.” Mrs. Solanki presses her fingertips to the base of the martini glass, as if to keep it in place. “As you know, I’ve been trying to get this episode off the ground for months now, and Jeff is finally on board—”

“Episode of what?” Rohit asks warily.

“An episode of Four Corners dedicated to immigration. It’s a very hot topic right now. And Anju’s will be one of the featured stories.” Mrs. Solanki squeezes Anju’s shoulder. “She came to us with the idea actually.”

Slowly, Rohit’s face slackens. The irritability slides off his face, leaving his features blank as a dish.

“Now we know you probably think that this is unfair,” his father says gently. “But you have to think of it from Anju’s perspective.”

“My show will give her more visibility,” Mrs. Solanki says. “Think of how her story will spread. I’m sure there will be agents interested in representing her for life rights.”

“Life rights?” Rohit says.

“You don’t know what life rights are?” Mrs. Solanki seems to take pleasure in educating her son. “It’s when a production company purchases the story of someone’s life in order to make it into a movie. Probably a TV movie in this case, but it could go for quite a sum, a bildungsroman like this, about immigration no less. Anyway, we’ll go to India, shoot the reunion, and air the episode next month. Excellent timing!”

“And my documentary? What about my documentary?”

“Well, you said yourself it would take years for that to happen, and it’s so rare to get a wide audience for documentary. Even a theatrical release would be like winning the lottery. I mean, darling, you must think of what is in Anju’s best interest.” Mrs. Solanki fishes an olive from her martini and sets it on the corner of Rohit’s saucer. “There. You like olives.”

All this time, Rohit has not moved. His expression reminds Anju of a time in Jackson Heights when she watched a child’s newly scooped ice cream go tragically splat onto the gum-splotched sidewalk, the utter disillusionment with the world before a deluge of tears. “You mean your best interest,” he says.

“And mine,” Anju says. “Your mother’s people are paying me also.”

“Three thousand dollars,” Mrs. Solanki says, “plus the return fare home and per diem.”

Anju turns to Rohit. “I thought you said that the subject is not receiving payment?”

Rohit slams his hands down on the table. “They aren’t! Not in documentary! It’s unethical. But this is reality TV crap, all packaged and prettied up, no ethics at all, and if that’s what you want, then fine, go and get it.”

“Rohit,” Mr. Solanki says. “Your voice.”

Mrs. Solanki slices open a roll and spreads a sliver of butter on each half. “I know you’ve never wanted my help, but this could lead to better opportunities for you too, better than this film would anyway. So what I want to ask you, Rohit, is this: Would you like to be an associate producer for this episode?”

“Yeah, right. So I can bring you coffee?” Rohit studies the olive for a moment. “Make me first camera.”

Mrs. Solanki rolls her eyes. “Rohit, I’ve seen your films.”

“First camera.”

“Second camera. And you release your documentary footage to us.”

Rohit chews on the inside of his cheek.

“I am letting you shoot second camera,” Mrs. Solanki says, “and you haven’t even seen the inside of a classroom in a year.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He disembowels a roll and plows the soft stuffing through a pool of olive oil. Rohit looks at Anju. “So it was all for the money, huh? No devotion to the art of the thing.”

Anju stares at the remains of his roll. Of course, the money was only part, though a large part. She could tell him of the night in the subway with her pungent neighbor, how she decided that working with Rohit disturbed her, the way he nudged her into doing this and that, the way he tried, time and again, to force her life into a palatable time line and shape. The Anju in his film would be a cracked reflection or, at best, a broken shard of herself. And maybe Mrs. Solanki would distort her life just the same, but so would the local newspaper, and so would the local rumors. At least, by then, Anju would be home.

IRD SITS ON the plastic-covered couch, watching an episode of Four Corners . She has closed the blinds. She has set her heels on the coffee table. It is 11:05 on Tuesday morning, and for the second time in her employ at the Apsara Salon, she has taken the day off. Two weeks have passed since Anju left her side, and though Bird never elaborated the details to Ghafoor, he has been careful with her, more lenient than before.

On television, the four cohosts huddle around their cozy table, each of them holding their mugs, the Young Creationist hiding behind her glossy hair, the Still-Sexy Elder crossing her legs. Sonia Solanki has just announced that she will be taking tomorrow off, in order to tape a segment in India that will air in two weeks, about a fascinating young woman named Anju Melvin and her travails upon emigrating from India to the United States. The conversation slides into the topic of immigration, then illegal immigration. “Call me crazy,” says the Young Creationist, “but I think people who enter illegally are breaking the law, and people who break the law should be sent back. Period.” The Creationist receives a few claps and a rallying “Yeah!” egging her on. “We’ve got to address this problem at the root.”