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INDIAN IN COWBOY COUNTRY

THE INTERVIEW

Tom Holcombe was a jovial and jocular Texan who belonged to a prominent family that owned ranches that had turned into oilfields. He grew up in Fort Worth, but rather than joining the family ranks in managing ranches and production fields, he became an accountant at an American bank with worldwide operations. He had worked for over twenty years, and had recently taken a sabbatical to rethink his life. 

Satish and Priya had met him at a festival of Satyajit Ray films at Rice University. He, like them, saw every film in this festival. After the third film or so, they began to acknowledge each other in the lobby. After the fifth film, they had discussions on the master’s work during a break, and after the last film, he invited the two of them to join him for dinner at a great Ethiopian restaurant that he’d just discovered. 

 He regaled them with his stories and experiences, especially in Asia and India. He had gone on a tiger hunt with a maharaja of a small principality in Uttar Pradesh. He had seen most of Northern India, from New Delhi all the way to the Himalayas, and some of the south to Kerala and Madras. 

He had stayed for long stretches in Calcutta and loved the Bengalis’ artistic touch, finesse, and passion. He had strayed into Mumbai, Satish’s hometown, but did not like it too much. “It’s too American, not at all Indian in its character!” 

“The best Christmas I’ve ever had was in Goa,” he had once said, and went on to describe the beaches, churches, food and drink, and the party atmosphere of Panaji, its capital. “Goans are the only people in India who know how to have a good time. Must be the Portuguese influence; look at Brazil, another fun country. You Indians take life too seriously—too much focus on karma, destiny, and the meaning of life.” 

Both Satish and Priya enjoyed Tom’s company and his travel stories. His spacious condominium in the swanky, old money River Oaks area was full of artifacts and souvenirs from every place in the world that he had visited. 

His most prized piece lay in the middle of his living room—a twenty – foot tiger skin that he claimed he shot in India! Each souvenir had a story, a very human one, and contributed to his view that no society was lesser than another. Each had its own distinct strengths, foibles, and flaws; none was perfect. 

Tom was livid when Satish told him about his conversation with Pete. 

“How dare this Minnesotan think that Texans are racists?” he said, his face turning red with unusual displeasure. “How dare a man from an all-white state say this about Texas? I am a tenth generation Texan, and I can tell you that the only reason we’ve become a great state is by accepting people of all colors and religions.” 

He paused with disbelief as he took another sip of his beer. 

“Even before people came over on the Mayflower, Spanish people, including a Muslim Moor, came to Texas and lived here. Even the French were here before the Northern Europeans set foot on North America. We had diversity before the word was invented! And to say that Texans or the oil industry will not accept an Indian manager; that’s ridiculous. This man is prejudiced, a racist, and he is just projecting his bigotry on other people,” he said with finality, as the Tiger Cries arrived at the table. 

“Thank you,” said Satish to the waiter. Turning to Tom he asked, “So what should I do? Fight, flight, or do nothing?” 

“Flight is not the right answer,” he said. “You cannot retreat from this idiot. Nor can you do nothing. You have to take him head-on.” 

“What?” he asked in astonishment. This was not a response he had expected from Tom. 

“Yes, you have to fight, and you have to understand that this will turn ugly. It will be your word against his.” He paused for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. “I know a good attorney who can beat the jeepers out of Pete and Clark for doing this to you,” he said with a sly smile. 

“Tom, you don’t understand. They have sponsored me for a green card, and I am almost at the end of that process. If I take this to court, they’ll fire me and I’ll have to go back to India. On the next flight!” 

“Satish, that choice is the lesser of the two evils. Working for a company that tolerates this behavior is the pits. You will suffer every day. You will hate getting up in the morning because you have to go to work there, and you will hate every minute that you are there. Your performance will suffer, and Pete will be proven right. After that they’ll fire you, and worse, every Indian who applies for a job after your departure will carry the stigma of being from your country.” 

Satish was silent.

The waiter came back and asked if the duo was ready to order. It was a welcome break in the conversation. He sipped his beer and ordered Chicken Masaman Curry while Tom ordered Pad Thai. 

“Talk to Jeff Cohen. He is my attorney. He’ll guide you through this. We have to take out people like Pete. They are a cancer to our society, a blight, and should be removed,” Tom said with his characteristic smile. He raised his mug. “Take him out, Satish.” 

“Okay, I’ll talk to Jeff. But wouldn’t asking for his advice lead to a lawsuit? It’s like going to a surgeon for medical advice—invariably, the solution is surgery!” Satish said. 

“You’re right. Jeff would love to take on Clark—they have deep pockets. But you have to fight. You cannot take this lying down. That’s how the Brits took over your country, one maharaja at a time rolling over, till they took over the entire country. You have to learn something from your own history,” Tom said. “You lose freedom in small, retreating steps.” 

“You’re right, Tom. I have to take a stand. I just don’t know what it should be. Give me Jeff’s number. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, first thing in the morning.” Tom scribbled a number on his business card and gave it to him.  

The waiter placed their food on the table, saying, “Enjoy.” He politely walked away without turning his back to his customers.

“Dig in, but watch out for those Thai peppers,” Tom cautioned. 

While savoring the aromas, Satish cautiously mixed a little chicken curry with a lot of rice and ate a forkful. Yes, it was hot and spicy, but delightfully different from any food he had ever eaten before. The sweet flavor of coconut milk was powerful and blended well with the spices; neither overcame to other. The chicken was done just right, and every bite oozed curried zest. 

“How’s your Pad Thai?” he asked Tom. 

“I tell you, I have eaten at the best Thai places in Thailand, and this Pad Thai is one of the best. Of course, our Texas shrimp makes all the difference!” Tom said, as he closed his eyes and savored a crustacean with great delight. 

The waiter came back and lightly placed a check on the table. Satish grabbed it and said, “This one’s on me.” 

“I’ll get the next one,” Tom said graciously. 

As the two of them were walking to their respective cars, Tom reiterated to his friend, “It’s fight, not flight. Remember that. Even Gandhi fought, though differently.” With that final word, he drove off in his car. 

Satish walked into his apartment to find four telephone messages, all from Priya, essentially saying, “It’s me. Where are you? I’m done with my project. Can I come over? Call me.” 

Just as he reset the machine, he heard the phone ring and picked it up. 

“Hi, it’s me. Where have you been?” asked Priya. 

“I tried to call you a little after six, but you were not there. I had dinner with Tom,” he said. 

“I am done for the day. Can I come over?” she asked. 

“Sure. Do you want me to pick you up?” 

“No. I’ll walk. It’s a nice day and I need the exercise. I think I am putting on some weight.” 

“Sure you are,” he said, with a laugh. 

Priya weighed only ninety-five pounds. She was a little over five feet four inches tall, and could pass for a Houston high school student. She too was from India. 

Her father was a brigadier in the Indian army and her family moved their home every three years or so. When she was fourteen, he sent her to a private school in Bangalore to give his daughter some constancy in companionship, curriculum, and teachers. Later, when she graduated, she went to a college in Bangalore, living in dorms on its campus. When she came to Rice, she slipped into the American campus life with ease. 

He had already graduated when Priya came to Rice. He just saw her at a campus event celebrating India’s Independence Day.

Every year, during the weekend closest to August 15, Indian students put on a cultural show that had songs and dances from different parts of India. It was the same fare, year after year: classical dances from Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, and Manipur, some Kathak, and folk dances from Gujarat, Maharashtra, Karnataka, Bengal, and the predictable finale, a raucous Bhangra from Punjab. Mingled with these dances were other dances based on songs from Bollywood films, and renditions of patriotic songs. 

The evening’s explosion of color’s movement, and music enthralled Houstonians, campus faculty, and students. It was as if Fourth of July fireworks were being done live on stage. 

To Satish, this was all ho-hum. He had seen the best performers of all these art forms, and these were just well-intentioned amateurs. He only came to the event to meet his friends, some of them still students, and others like him who had recently entered the local workforce. 

When he entered the auditorium, a harried organizer came to him and said, “Satish, I need your help. Can you take pictures of the show?” 

He agreed, and a camera was thrust into his hands. He took a favored place in the front row of the auditorium and took pictures of the participants, watching the performances and waiting for appropriate moments when the entire dance ensembles were on stage. 

Excerpts taken from the book "An Indian in a Cowboy Country" by  Pradeep Anand. Published by Jaico Publishing House.  - Editor

to be continued