When Mahesh stepped off the plane from India at JFK, his first experience of the new world was a powerful static shock from the carpeting. It was so powerful that he vibrated in place for a moment, and then sailed forth into New York, humming with energy. Goddamn New York! Fast cars! Zoom!
He ran past immigration, past baggage claim, past customs, and leapt into a taxi, which carried him at great speed to his university. Mahesh’s subsequent career, at the university, in the business world, was marked most of all by this energy: he did everything slightly faster than others. Unfortunately, the static charge had also wiped out a small but vital part of his memory: his mother’s name.
This in itself would not be such a disaster; he always referred to his mother and thought of her as ‘Mummy’ but what was distressing was that since forgetting his mother’s name, he was gradually forgetting other things about his family too — such as his father’s occupation, where his grandparents lived, the correct term for his maternal uncle, his caste.
But as the years went by and Mahesh forgot more and more, he worried less and less about it — after all, he was well settled in American society; he was in a part of the country where there were few Indians, and nobody asked him more than a few cursory questions about his origins such as “Where’s your family?” “In India.” “Are you Hindu or Muslim?” “Hindu.” Gradually, this was all that was left in Mahesh’s memory, that his family was in India, and that he was Hindu. What was his family doing? Were they dead? Did they come to America and try to contact him? Did they write letters to his previous addresses, which were sent back? Were they angry with him, had they given him up for dead, had they also forgotten his name? Mahesh did not know the answers because he had not even asked the questions.
And all that remained with Mahesh of the things he had brought over when he came was something he had found in his pocket, whose purpose or significance he could not explain: a hairpin, an ordinary, black, woman’s hairpin. Just after he turned thirty, Mahesh found that he had to become a citizen of the United States of America. He had to do this because he had been given a promotion, a very big promotion, in his company. But to get this position, which involved matters of national security, he had to be a citizen.
He always referred to his mother and thought of her as ‘Mummy’ but what was distressing was that since forgetting his mother’s name, he was gradually forgetting other things about his family too – such as his father’s occupation, where his grandparents lived, the correct term for his maternal uncle, his caste.
On the application, he was asked, very clearly, to write his mother’s name. He put down his father’s name (because it was his middle name, written on his Green Card) but try as he might he could not remember his mother’s name. And so many other things depended on his remembering his mother’s name — he guessed that if he knew it, he would also be able to fill in a lot of other details in the application, such as his place of birth and his past addresses.
It was the first document he had seen that asked him about his past in such detail; it was the only interest this country had shown in his origins, and it was most inconvenient. To get ahead, he had to find out where he had come from. What Mahesh did remember was where exactly he had forgotten his mother’s name — at the JFK airport. He thought he would go back to JFK and walk around the place where he had lost his mother’s name — maybe he could find it again.
One day, Mahesh got up very early and drove to JFK. The International Arrivals Building. The morning Air India flight, during the holiday season known as “the dadadadi bus”. Bringing a vast army of grandparents come to remind their offspring about the values they had left behind: ‘It is not this, it is not that.’
Mahesh could see from the glass window above the customs hall the old people explaining the strange contents of their luggage to the American customs officials. They pulled out sarees and kurtas, thick winter clothes made in Kashmir, and bottles of perfumed hair oil. But mostly — for what else can a poor country offer the West? — their luggage was a larder, a storehouse of strong-smelling food.
Spices: asafoetida, turmeric, mustard seeds, wrinkled black pods with no name in any European language. Lentil wafers, sago cakes. Homemade brinjal pickles. Chachi’s tea masala. Betel nut and rose water. And always, in the hot season, mangoes. Mahesh could see the customs officers, sometimes with the help of dogs, anticipate the hoard of mangoes. “Sorry, ma’am, you can’t bring this in.’””But it is for my grandchildren!’”
Such astonishment, such pain, on the faces of the old people! These were the best Alphonso mangoes they could find, two thousand rupees a kilo, never before in their lives had they bought mangoes at two thousand rupees a kilo! Some would try the time-honoured ways. “Sir, you can take half. For your children,” they would offer the customs officer. No, Mahesh shook his head, didn’t they realize, they were in America now.
Mahesh walked around the building but could not remember his mother’s name. As he drove towards the airport exit, regretting the time wasted on this trip, some momentary and utterly unprecedented lapse in efficiency caused Mahesh to misread the signs and drive into the taxi lanes outside the International Arrivals Building. Mahesh cursed himself and figured that he’d screwed up as a result of being around too many damn Indians all at once. But now he was in the taxi lanes, and he found an entire Indian family in front of his car, swarming all around it. They opened his doors and poured in, ignoring his protests. One of them had opened his trunk and started to dump heavy objects in. Mahesh could hear the thud of the suitcases, feel the car sagging under their weight. The car was packed with Indians. He felt like he was being kidnapped by terrorists.
“Jackson Heights,” said the man who was now sitting next to him and shutting the door. “I’m not a cabbie,’”said Mahesh.
“Look, how much you want? My old parents are already sitting here with their luggage. You want them to go where? But,’”said the man, scrutinising Mahesh, “you are desi yourself! Gujarati, right? These could be your own parents! Half an hour we are waiting in the rain! How much you want?”
Mahesh was shocked that the man had recognised him so easily. He sat behind the wheel unable to speak a word. The family showed no signs of moving. Mahesh didn’t want to make a scene. Maybe this place was nearby. He could drop them off and go his way. He put the car into gear. “I don’t know where this place is…this…”Mahesh said to the man next to him.
‘Jackson Heights,’ said the man, his accent making it sound like ‘Jaikisan Heights’. He gave Mahesh directions.
Excerpted with permission from What is Remembered by Suketu Mehta, published by Juggernaut Books. The book is available exclusively on the Juggernaut app