"It never rains in California
But girl don't they warn ya
It pours, man it pours"
- *Albert Hammond (1972)*
These days I wake up to an
unmistakable drum roll. It must be 5 AM, for that is exactly when the sump
announces its utility, welcoming the morning ration, only to be briefly
interrupted by a tap left open overnight sputtering to life. Vented, they make
their peace, and the increasingly muffled beat picks up from where it left off.
I don’t need to be up and about yet; this brass band aficionado has some more
time remaining prone, appreciating the upcoming finer movements of the
ensemble.
This third-floor two-room tenement,
overlooking a wide expanse of greenish lake bed devoid of water and forsaken by
Bangalore’s infamous land sharks, is shared among 3 of us old batch mates. The
only employed ‘bread-winner’, and occasional generous benefactor, has
justifiably hogged the main bedroom while we make do with the living. My
immediate roommate maintains owl hours, sleeping during the day, and most
important, leaving the “water-watch” to me. The sole duty being to be aware
enough to close the valve once full; our landlord decided that installing a
float valve was being too lenient on the serfs.
It’s hot, muggy and the rains have
not been kind. We might be onto a drought, or so they say on TV. The arthritic
ceiling fan, burdened with dust and grime, barely manages to push around its
own shadow. I feel empty and tired. It seems like the dread that envelops you
when you know you are forgetting something, something too frightening to
recollect.
My elder sister had called me
yesterday. It was very unlike her to dial, for from me she expects the right
and privilege of a call incoming. She was at her in-laws, and sounded worried,
mostly that I might be worrying too much, a circular logic that plays out even
when my mother calls. I agree it is tough on her, always rooting for a
‘never-do-well’ sibling, in the shadow of an over-achieving duo that is her
elder brother and her husband. “Try getting in somewhere. You can still give
GRE. Wait, you gave GRE. What happened? Did they call?” and so on.
My mother, on the other hand, finds
joy in being oblivious. I had made a passing mention, in hindsight avoidable,
about a University in Southern California that I may apply to. The selection
process to their School of Engineering was somehow lost on ‘simple village
people’, as she liked to describe herself and her ilk. As a result perhaps, now
everyone and her aunt have been appraised on her pride and joy moving to a
place in the US, apparently named after a Mumbai suburb. Yes it’s in Santa Cruz, CA, but she finds my
correction beside the point. I am the cautionary tale, sheep gone astray, last
on the boat, all rolled into one, whose mention in family circles used to
attract a sigh and a change in topic. At long last, this one’s got onto
something good, just like his brother, something that she might secretly hope
would not involve discussing marks or grades, at least for now. She was
relieved; I could be the next Santa Claus for all she cared.
Father stayed out of all this. His
first two offspring had given him enough to take pride over. The eldest was
“Stateside”, as in “hey, Bro, give me a ring once you're Stateside”. In his
book, it only reads as, don’t call me while still a loser. The girl, my sister,
a doctor, wasn’t doing too badly either. Until I’d say she married another,
that Gold Medalist of Psycho, whose idea of small talk was always regurgitating
a humble-brag as Fate had him cruelly torn between choosing Engineering or
Medicine. The nut wisely chose the path to asylum sciences.
Not once did my Dad care to ask
where I was headed, or why. He might have felt he had done his part. Most
commonly summarized in “Do you need any more money?” a pleasantry he shared on
every occasion he spoke to his youngest. It was not that my folks were
comfortable. My father was very much retired, too proud to ask for help, and a
poor judge of his own limitations. A combination that led to, among others, his
recent ill-advised venture into organic farming, apparently to supplement his
pension. The rains failed him, much like me, his crops wilting between a
parched earth and a clear Nellore sky. But I suspect he saved the bulk of his
disappointment over his bad loans and wasted crop.
On my part, I took the
middle-ground in all I ventured. Especially in most fields academic, I gave a
net return meeting the median GPA from a middling engineering college. The GRE
score too stayed true to style. To complete the picture I aimed high enough to
hit one of ‘US News & World Report’s “Top 3 Very Average Engineering
Schools”, if there were one such category. For some reason I saw this as
another shot at redemption, to prove to the naysayers that I too could make it.
Not that many would say 'nay', that judgement was passed long ago. A Post Grad
from the US, a Green Card, who knew. To be in the august company of those who
got to dial their brother, this time local; only dial, for hell would need to
be much cooler before I go visit that pompous schmuck.
The outlook might have been
average, but a fortune was spent on classes, my present lodging and such, when
it might have been much more prudent to look for a real job, any job. My sister
had made that into a pointless crusade, only for me to play the 'Higher
Education’ card. All this was not easy on my folks, though my mother did
mention the troubles in passing. Like I said, he is too proud to ask, or tell.
I am not that proud. Not enough to
lie to own sister. I did tell her of the red bordered envelope dropped off late
yesterday. Post marked Santa Cruz, premium air, the University Seal large and
mighty to the top-right corner. The document felt like smooth cardboard,
triple-bond. The words seemed to float up, as the ground beneath gave way like
a mountain of gravel.
They regret to inform my
application has been rejected, the number of applicants being high, and so on.
The ringing from the tank had by
now receded into a conspiratorial blubbering. Time to get up and about, for the
Lord of the house had mentioned a series of walk-in interviews on the other
side of town.
Headed for the exit, I glimpsed the
small print on the envelope left face-down on the teapoy.
