Literary Fiction
Date Published: Sept.2023
Dayal Singh is brilliant, quirky, & has Asperger's. Son of parents
trafficked to East Africa from India just before independence, he knows he's
Sikh, African, and calculus is the evidence of God.
He becomes fascinated by a broken piano. and is offered a piano to sell,
buys it and learns to play.
Mentored by his older brothers, he follows them to Singapore to further his
education, then goes to Switzerland.
He falls in love with the granddaughter of the man who bought his father.
She tells him that the situation is impossible, and that he must stay in
school as long as his way is paid.
His youth is fraught, being an other. In Switzerland, he is constantly
proselytized to, which only defines for him how he wants to live. He's
studying physics and engineering, but finds peace in playing the piano. He
meets other students, they jam, and suddenly they are rock stars...which
Dayal never imagined could happen.
He agrees to meet Sita, the daughter of a Sikh man his father met, and
Dayal thinks they are both in agreement about how they will live and raise
children, but things gradually go downhill. When Dayal learns Sita hasn't
been truthful with him, he has to make a decision.
Excerpt
The song I wrote, “Is This OK?” was a hit. We got it out as a
single, and added it to shows. We started in Boston and zigzagged through
large cities in Canada, the USA, and Mexico, then to Spain and France. We
broadcasted live shows to theaters around the USA, San Jose, Lima, Buenos
Aires, Sydney, Perth, and Brasilia, and Japan. I wrote the Glazer girls, but
there was no way I could see them.
At the end of the tour in
August, I flew to Dubai for a week. We hadn’t seen each other since
December! I couldn’t imagine where Sita got the idea that there was so
much to do in Dubai. Was she comparing it to Mumbai? I noticed the town was
growing. There were triple the number of buildings, many quite tall. We got
out to the desert for camel races, where I saw my first Salukis. I thought
they looked like Mara’s dogs. They ran a few races, and were so
graceful. We went out to eat, saw movies, strolled the mall, the beach, met
her girlfriends (she knew no guys and did not socialize with the
girls’ brothers or husbands), had dinner with Baba Makkar’s
other family, and we talked more about our expectations. Again, I asked her
if she had explored birth control methods, and hit a road block.
“You know, a lot of
women use the rhythm method based on their cycles and it works,” she
said to me.
“Do you know how it
works? I will use condoms, but you need to know your options.”
We had no arguments, but
our conversations were never about anything controversial or deep. She
wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup anymore, at least not when I saw her.
She told me she had started saving her allowance, and was even going through
her wardrobe to decide what clothes she would really need, as the weather
would be different in Europe.
We weren’t sleeping
together in Dubai, but we could bring each other to orgasm, and I was happy
for that.
I asked Fatima about how
the wedding planning was going, and she told me she was thinking of next
March.
Seven months more?
“Why are you delaying this?”
“Your
horoscopes… .”
“This is nonsense.
We’ve known each other over a year. I have a school break in November.
Make it for then.” I found this irritating, but when I was stressed,
and back then, it was almost all the time, everything was irritating.
I really wanted to see my
parents. I was halfway there, being in Dubai, so I asked Fatima and Sita to
come with me. Mr. Makkar agreed to pay for their flights if I would pay for
a place for them to stay, which was at Mr. Curtis’s hotel. A few other
small hotels had been built, but Curtis’ place was still the
nicest.
I surprised my parents (I
did send a telegram). I sent Sita and Fatima on several safari runs,
suggested they have my tailor create some clothes for themselves, and took
them around in the truck to see Alfred. I brought him a solar lantern, a few
books on alternative energy, and a football and badminton set for his three
children, who were giddy about the gifts.
Fatima and Sita were
surprised at how far out from Arusha Alfred lived. When we pulled into their
compound, Fatima asked me, “They speak English?”
“Alfred was in
primary school with me, and he often guides safaris, so I know his English
is good. I’m not sure about the rest of his family.” I spoke to
his wife and children in Kiswahili.
Alfred and I discussed
putting in a rain catchment system on his house. He had managed to build a
burned brick house with a cement floor and tin roof, but still had his
rondoval. His wife and daughters still had to fetch water. I told him
I’d loan him the money if he agree to pay it forward.
Sita and Fatima seemed
uncomfortable with the goats, chickens and dogs approaching us in their
curiosity. Alfred’s mum offered us chai and mandaazi, which is a fried
pastry. I saw that Fatima and Sita were hesitant, but I whispered to them,
“Everything’s boiled or fried. You won’t get
sick.”
On the way back to town,
we stopped at a Maasai encampment. I just wanted to greet them, and I had
bought them a few plastic buckets. We didn’t stay long. The flies were
too annoying, and there was no place to sit.
On the drive back to my
folks, Sita and Fatima commented how remarkable it was that people could
live like they did and be so happy. Sita asked me, “How is it you have
a relationship with such primitive people?”
Her question shocked me.
“They aren’t primitive. They’re just poor. You know, they
haven’t had the advantages we’ve had.”
“What do you
mean?”
“The Maasai like
living the way they do. They are free. Their children do all the chores. As
for Alfred, I had my older brothers to help me learn. Alfred was the eldest
child. He had nobody to help him. Also, his father had two wives, so
resources for the children were spread thin.”
My parents were cordial
towards Sita and Fatima. However, I knew from the way they were acting, that
they weren’t comfortable. There was a real class difference between us
and them. Baba pulled me aside and asked, “They knew they were coming
to Africa. Why didn’t they dress more simply?”
I remembered the time Avi
and Sodhi came home after guiding safaris one day, and were counting their
tips in various foreign currencies. Sodhi remarked that most of the tourists
on his lorry were French, and Avi responded, laughing, “Today mine
were all Italian. They always dress like they’re going to a photo
shoot. The women, always silk shirts unbuttoned to show cleavage and gold
necklaces, tight silk pants that look painted on, and stiletto heels. Not
just high heels—pointy six inch heels. They tottered and had to be
boosted into the lorry. I can’t imagine what they were thinking. That
the ground would be hard so they wouldn’t sink in?”
My future wife and
mother-in-law were dressed as if going to a business luncheon, and I
wondered if they owned any clothes that didn’t need to be dry
cleaned.
“Baba, these people
live in a tall building. They don’t even have a garden. These are
their ‘simple’ clothes.” He understood this because he had
visited my brothers.
I had been living in
Europe as a European and just accepted that some people never did any real
work. This was also why I took time to address expectations with Sita.
Hassan had brought one of his wives to live with him, and she was helping
Ama with baking. Fatima expressed surprise that my mother could bake such
amazing things over a grill in a covered pot.
About the Author
I am retired dog groomer and have titled dogs in performance and
conformation. I didn't go to college until I was 30, and took CLEP exams to
avoid prerequisites. I have a degree in anthropology with concentrations in
African & Indian studies, and a master’s in urban planning. I was
a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malawi. I have had several short stories
published in literary journals, and the pet industry press.
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