South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South

When my son Deepu rushes into the food mart, his face is swollen, and through his torn shirt I see bloody scratches on his body. His downturned gaze and the police officer accompanying him tell me he has done wrong.

I see his defiance rising like a shield that the world will, in time, smash as it has smashed mine, A liquid sourness burns my throat. I can barely pay heed to the police officer as I nod, yes, I am the father. With his pot belly, low-slung belt, and gum-chewing mouth, the officer reminds me of the gutka-chewing, squat-looking Pandu constables who stood at the corner stalls of the Mumbai streets where I grew up.

It’s a breezy evening out across North Texas, and we’ve been listening to the periodic tornado watch alerts on the television screen at the far end of the store. But the air inside here is humid, close, stale. After another long day that began with hauling boxes in the back room, I’m getting ready to close shop and head over to Amit’s place. I had not been expecting Deepu. Each time he storms out, he stays away longer. Who knows where he goes or sleeps. He comes back, eventually, like a dog with rabid eyes and loping strides. This police escort is a first. Still, they’ve let him come here, so it can’t be serious.

Pandu starts talking, fat face bobbing from side to side, one arm swinging about. His blue pants stay fastened tight below that belly, and his shirt is missing a button. Deepu had “aggressively touched” a teenage girl at the nearby community park. The girl and her friends had called the cops on him. His supervisor had wanted to lock the boy up. But he had intervened out of pity.

He whacks Deepu’s back with a meaty palm. “Same age as my son,” he says, raising his nasal tones like he’s giving a speech to the four-five people wandering about the aisles.

When Pandu stops to spit his gum into the trash can, I look again at Deepu, who has edged into the corner shadows—away from us and the mockfilled eyes of our customers. A buzzing fly has settled on the cut lip, where the blood is still not dry. I want him to deny the accusation, hit the man back, swat the insect away, do or say something, anything, that I can then put a stop to. He remains rocklike.