Creative_4

Creative 4 Every Saturday Papa and I would venture out to garage sales from Fremont to Sunnyvale. We’d set up camp bright and early on a Sunday morning at the San Jose Flea Market, to sell the Junk we brought. Including one-eyed Barbie dolls, loose legged mahogany tables and sewing machines; for a small, desirable profit. Entire sections of Flea market were filled with Indian families. The aisles would be filled with loudspeakers playing Indian music, the banging of tabla’s (Indian drum thing), and the constant chirping of small talk. There was an unspoken code of behaviour among Indians at the flea market, you greeted the guy across the aisle, you invited him for a bit of your potato curry, or a cup of chai, and you chatted. Men would banter about their childhood, corruption & politics, the Indian cricket team and alike. Mothers would chirp about the prospects of their ‘gifted’ children, scandalous Bollywood news, and make endearing friendships by gossiping about the other ladies down the aisle. Papa was a well-spoken man; he’d saunter down the aisles, clasping both his hands around the people he greeted. There were many times where Papa would be seen re-kindling friendships with people he knew from his home town Madras; mechanics and tailors alongside educated MBA’s, MBBS’s and out of work surgeons, lecturers and accountants, all of them selling substandard goods such as ‘hand me down’ wool coats and half melted candles, all for a bit of extra cash. One Sunday morning, I went to grab two cups of coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Papa talking to an older, distinguished-looking man, wearing a bright red Sherwani, with a white scarf draping around his neck till his knees. “Son!” Papa said, motioning me over, “This is Professor Khan, I knew him when he was doing his PHD in literature in Chennai. He ended up working in the university; he was a first class professor- you should ask him to clear any doubts in your college studies.” I sighed, “Papa, I do Cosmology”, I replied, remembering to complacently smile at Mr Khan. The Professor laughed like a man attending formal parties, where he’d laugh on cue at minor jokes of important people. He made small talk about my studies and continually praised my dad on how hard he’s been through to bring me here. He started to tell me a story of him and Papa; back when they were kids but thankfully he was cut off. “Daddy, you forgot your tea.” A beautiful young female voice said, sounded as if it came from a modulated Disney character. She was standing behind us; slim hipped in a silk, opal blue sari, velvety, plaited black hair with a Styrofoam cup in one hand a book in the other. My heart quickened as I looked in to her walnut brown eyes. I watched her turn and leave after the professor received the cup. She sat on a box two aisles, amid old records and paperbacks and a yellow van, as she began to read. “My daughter; Shreya,” The Professor said. “She seems lovely,” Papa replied. “Yes, yes she is” he replied with a slight sigh. He checked his gold pocket watch, “Well time to go back, before the wife gets angry.” He gave me a firm pat on the shoulder, “Good luck son”, and he left. For hours I resisted the urge to look over at the blue van. I invented excuses to stroll down the aisle, and pass Mr Khan’s stand. I would wave at the Professor, perpetually dressed in his red Sherwani and he’d wave back cheerfully. Sometimes he’d even come up to me and make some small talk about my cosmological studies, a small sacrifice I’d made, as I tried to peer my eyes away from Shreya reading her paperback. At one point I saw her sitting alone, the Professor off to some other row to socialize. I casually asked Papa if he wanted a coke, he accepted. This time I told myself that I have to talk to her. I walked to the kiosk, but I turned away and walked towards the Khans van. She was alone still, reading, I was about to cop-out and keep walking but then suddenly I saw myself standing amid the boxes in front of her. She looked up. “Hello”, I said, “I didn’t mean to disturb you, is the Professor here today'” I asked innocuously. She smiled and replied, “He went that way”, and pointed to her right, her golden bangles slipping down her arm. “Will you tell him I stopped by'” I asked “I will” “Thank you, Oh and my name is Sharukh.” She smile again and, I hesitated a moment and blurted out;” Can I ask what you’re reading'” She blinked, and I held my breath, I felt the collective eyes of the flea market Indians shift towards me. Up to this point, our encounter would have been interpreted as just a respectful enquiry, asking for Mr Khan’s whereabouts. But no we were now a young man and woman chatting; I’d asked her a personal question. This was teetering dangerously on Indian gossip material. She was the one that’d feel the full force of it though-I was aware of the Indian double standard that favoured my gender. I’d put her in grave danger, would she fall into this trap' She did. She tilted her book towards me. Perfume a story of a murderer. “Have you read it'” she asked. “Yes!” I replied sounding too excited. “I study Cosmology at Stanford” I said nervously. “Yes, Daddy told me! I do to, at Berkeley!” she responded ecstatically. Was this the connection I was looking for' I wondered why the Professor had told her about my studies. Did she ask him' But no Indian girl of her age questions her father of a young man' I dismissed the notions altogether. “Maybe I should transfer” I said with nervous grin, before I could stop myself. Thankfully she chuckled. The sun was setting now, and people started closing their businesses. “I’ll go help my Papa pack up now I said.” Worried the Professor will return. She smiled back and gave and awkward wave I walked away with an amusingly large grin, desperately trying not to look back. I returned to my Papa with no coke, and sighed, it’d be six laborious, interminable nights before I saw her again.