Fiction Fragment: He’s not really European

He’s not European. Which is why his system can take only so much wine. But he compensates for his weak stomach and liver, by knowing about wines. He knows the good years, the vineyard, the chateau with the incomprehensible French name and perhaps even the name of the vintner’s dog. He pores over the pronunciation of bull rings in Spain and sauces in Italy. He sleeps with the works of dead white European novelists on his bedside, hoping that their words will drill themselves into his dreamless head.

Some years back, he had flown out of his country for the first time to do his MS. He promised his mother that wouldn’t touch alcohol or smoke. She packed little packets of podis for him. They made him wear a two piece suit of the finest Raymond cut-piece. At the airport, he felt like he was the only person wearing a jacket. This acute embarrassment of not knowing how to be casual. Or that one didn’t tuck the shirt inside one’s jeans.

In Europe, he had the chance to reinvent himself. This boy, blessed with excellent memory. Women, yachts, speeches of Nobel Prize Winners, the failed love affairs of artists – they drip from his tongue. Merging into his self. He begins to believe that he is in exile. That he isn’t like the waiter in the Indian restaurant, here only to make money.

When his mother refuses to touch asparagus, or mushrooms, it drives him mad. A sudden shooting pain caused by self-pity and annoyance. Why did she have to be so ignorant? It’s not like all Indian mothers were like this. Why wasn’t his mother more like that Bengali boy’s mother? Someone who learned to play the piano when she was in convent school. That Mrs Chatterjee, she even made pasta in India. His mother, with her wavering belief in televised Godmen, her back issues of the Kumudam seemed so unimpressive.

It’s not that he doesn’t love his mother, it’s just that she embarrasses him. Like when she strikes up conversations with strangers or insists on asking cops for directions. When she fears escalators, or doesn’t know how to operate the travel card on the underground. Middle Class written all over her parched hands. Small deposits of turmeric under the edges of her fingernails. Why couldn’t she just wear those lovely starched cotton clothes from some place like FabIndia instead of wearing gaudy silk. Why couldn’t she be Indian in a stylish yet maternal way? Why did she have to smell of sambhar and curry? Why did she appear to shrink when they sat in a public place? Collapsing into her saree. She made India look so boring, robbing an entire nation of its exoticness.

When he came back home that day, he stood rooted at the door. She had cut her hair short because he complained about her long hair getting stuck in the drains. It made him furious. How dare she change herself? She’d made dinner for him. He refuses to eat. He tells her he ate squid. She squirms. “So what, I also ate beef. I am very full.”. She goes to sleep with a mild attack of tears in her eyes.

Around 2 AM, his hunger pangs lead him to the fridge. He eats what is left. With thayir saadam. He didn’t really eat the squid or the beef. His stomach vomits out all non vegetarian food. But he doesn’t want her to know that. He wants to shock her. To tell her that he is denying all that she has taught him, because it appears worthless. Curd drying on the plate and on his hand, he finds himself resting his head on the dining table and crying.