The Inheritance of Loss

Forty-eight

After Delhi, the Gulf Air flight landed in Calcutta’s Dum Dum airport. Biju smelled again, the distinctive smell of a floor being disinfected with phenyl by a sweeper woman both destitute and with a talent for being exceedingly irritating. Eyes lowered and swatting bare feet with a filthy rag, she introduced some visitors for the first time to that potent mixture of intense sympathy and intense annoyance.

There was an unruly crowd around the luggage conveyer belts because several planes were in at the same time and even more varieties of Indians than the ones showcased on Gulf Air were on display, back in the common soup after deliberate evolution into available niches abroad. There was the yuppie who had taken lessons on wine, those who were still maintaining their culture and going to the temple in Bern, or wherever. The funky Bhangra boy with earring and baggy pants. The hippie who had hit on the fact that you could escape from being a drab immigrant and have a fantastic time as an Indian among the tie-dyed, spout all kinds of Hindu-mantra-Tantra-Mother-Earth-native-peoples-single-energy-organic-Shakti-ganja-crystal-shaman-intuition stuff. There were computer boys who’d made a million. Taxi drivers, toilet cleaners, and young straight-laced businessmen who tried to be cool by having friends over for "some really hot curry, man, how spicy can you take it?"

Indians who lived abroad, Indians who traveled abroad, richest and poorest, the back-and-forth ones maintaining green cards. The Indian student bringing back a bright blonde, pretending it was nothing, trying to be easy, but every molecule tense and self-conscious: "Come on, yaar, love has no color…" He had just happened to stumble into the stereotype; he was the genuine thing that just happened to be the cliché…

Behind him a pair of Indian girls made vomity faces.

"Must have got off the plane and run for an American dame so he could get his green card and didn’t care if she looked like a horse or no. Which she does!!!!"

"Our ladies are the most beautiful in the world," said one man earnestly to the Indian girls, perhaps worried they would feel hurt, but it sounded as if he were trying to console himself.

"Yes, our women are the best in the world," said another woman, and our men are the absolute worst gadhas in the whole wide world."

"Dadi Amma!" everyone shouting. "Dadi Amma!" A granny, sari hitched high for action, showing limp, flesh-colored socks and hairy legs, was racing about with the luggage trolley, whacking into ankles, clambering over the luggage belt.

Two men with disdain on their faces, off the Air France flight, had sought each other out, "Where are you from, man?" hanging aloof.

"Ohio."

"Columbus?"

"No, a little outside."

"Where?"

"Small town, you wouldn’t know."

"Paris, Ohio." He said this a little defensively. "You?"

"South Dakota."

He brightened. "Just look at this," he said, gesturing outward, relieving them both of pressure, "each time you come back you think something must have changed, but it’s always the same."

"That’s right," said the other man. "You don’t like to say it, but you have to. Some countries don’t get ahead for a reason…"

They were waiting for their suitcases, but they didn’t arrive.

Many bags didn’t arrive and Biju overheard a fight at the Air France counter where the passengers had to fill out lost-luggage forms:

"They are only giving compensation to nonresident Indians and foreigners, not to Indian nationals, WHY?" All the Indian nationals were screaming, "Unfair unfair UNFAIR UNFAIR!"

"This is Air France airline policy sir," said the official, trying to calm them, "Foreigners need money for hotel/toothbrush – "

"So, our family is in Jalpaiguri, we are traveling on" said one woman, "and now we have to stay overnight and wait for our suitcases… What kind of argument are you giving us? We are paying as much as the other fellow. Foreigners get more and Indians get less. Treating people from a rich country well and people from a poor country badly. It’s a disgrace. Why this lopsided policy against your own people??"

"It IS Air France policy, madam," he repeated. As if throwing out the words Paris or Europe would immediately intimidate, assure non-corruption, and silence opposition.

"How am I supposed to travel to Jalpaiguri in my dirty underwear? As it is I am smelling so badly, I am ashamed even to go near anyone," the same lady said, holding her own nose with an anguished expression to show how she was ashamed even to be near herself.

All the NRIs holding their green cards and passports, looked complacent and civilized. That’s just how it was, wasn’t it? Fortune piled on more good fortune. They had more money and because they had more money, they would get more money. It was easy for them to stand in line, and they stood patiently, displaying how they didn’t have to fight anymore; their manners proved just how well taken care of they were. And they couldn’t wait for the shopping – "Shopping ke liye jaenge, bhel puri khaenge… dollars me kamaenge, pum pum pum. "Only eight rupees to the tailor, only twenty-two cents!" they would say, triumphantly translating everything into American currency; and while the shopping was converted into dollars, tips to the servants could be calculated in local currency: "Fifteen hundred rupees, is he mad? Give him one hundred, even that’s too much."

A Calcutta sister accompanying a Chicago sister "getting value for her daaller, getting value for her daaller," discovering the first germ of leprous, all-consuming hatred that would in time rot the families irreversibly from within.

American, British, and Indian passports were all navy-blue, and the NRIs tried to make sure the right sides were turned up, so airline officials could see the name of the country and know right away whom to treat with respect.

There was a drawback, though, in this, for though the staff of Air France might be instructed differently, somewhere along the line – immigration, luggage check, security – you might get the resentful or nationalist kind of employee who would take pains to slow-torture you under any excuse. "Ah jealousy, jealousy" – they inoculated themselves in advance so no criticism would get through during the visit – "ah just jealous, jealous, jealous of our daallars."

"Well, hope you make it out alive, man," said the Ohio man to the South Dakota man after they had filled out their claims, feeling double happy, once for the Air France money, twice to have it all reconfirmed: "Oh ho ho, incompetent India, you’ve got to be expecting this, typical, typical!"

They passed by Biju who was inspecting his luggage that had finally arrived, and had arrived intact.

"But the problem occurred in France," said someone, "not here. They didn’t load the suitcases there."

But the men were too gratified to pay attention.

"Good luck," they said to each other with a slap on the back, and the Ohio man left, glad to be bolstered by the story of the lost bag – ammunition against his father, because he knew his father was not proud of him. How could he not be? But he wasn’t.

He knew what his father thought: that immigration, so often presented as a heroic act, could just as easily be the opposite; that it was cowardice that led many to America; fear marked the journey, not bravery; a cockroachy desire to scuttle to where you never saw poverty, not really, never had to suffer a tug to your conscience; where you never heard the demands of servants, beggars, bankrupt relatives, and where your generosity would never be openly claimed; where by merely looking after your own wife-child-dog-yard you could feel virtuous. Experience the relief of being an unknown transplant to the locals and hide the perspective granted by journey. Ohio was the first place he loved, for there he had at last been able to acquire a poise -

But then his father looked at him, sitting in his pajama kurta working away at his teeth with his toothpick, and he knew that his father thought it was the sureness that comes from putting yourself in a small place. And the son wouldn’t be able to contain his anger: Jealous, jealous, even of your own son, he would think, jealousy, third-world chip on the shoulder -

Once, his father came to the States, and he had not been impressed, even by the size of the house:

"What is the point? All that space lying there useless, waste of water, waste of electricity, waste of heating, air-conditioning, not very intelligent is it? And you have to drive half an hour to the market! They call this the first world??? Ekdum bekaar!"

The father on the hot dog: "The sausage is bad, the bun is bad, the ketchup is bad, even the mustard is bad. And this an American institution! You can get a better sausage in Calcutta!"

Now the son had the lost-luggage story.

Biju stepped out of the airport into the Calcutta night, warm, mammalian. His feet sank into dust winnowed to softness at his feet, and he felt an unbearable feeling, sad and tender, old and sweet like the memory of falling asleep, a baby on his mother’s lap. Thousands of people were out though it was almost eleven. He saw a pair of elegant bearded goats in a rickshaw, riding to slaughter. A conference of old men with elegant goat faces, smoking bidis. A mosque and minarets lit magic green in the night with a group of women rushing by in burkas, bangles clinking under the black and a big psychedelic mess of color from a sweet shop. Rotis flew through the air as in a juggling act, polka-dotting the sky high over a restaurant that bore the slogan "Good food makes good mood." Biju stood there in that dusty tepid soft sari night. Sweet drabness of home – he felt everything shifting and clicking into place around him, felt himself slowly shrink back to size, the enormous anxiety of being a foreigner ebbing – that unbearable arrogance and shame of the immigrant. Nobody paid attention to him here, and if they said anything at all, their words were easy, unconcerned. He looked about and for the first time in God knows how long, his vision unblurred and he found that he could see clearly.