The Golden Son Read online

  Despite the pain, Anil could not remember ever running faster in his life, and still Leena was ahead of him all the way to the riverbank. In the morning, the banks of the river were filled with women collecting water, in the late afternoon with men washing themselves after a day in the fields. But now, at dusk, there was no one. Leena waded into the water in her clothes and immersed herself completely, plunging beneath the surface, while Anil sat on the edge of the bank, pulling handfuls of mud from the bottom of the riverbed to pack onto his foot. Afterward, they sat atop a broad, flat boulder on the riverbank while Leena slowly dried in the warm air and the cooling mud drew the sting from Anil’s wounds.

  They did not speak about what they had seen, or about their narrow escape. They did not acknowledge the moments before: the cigarettes, their intoxication, their intertwined hands, or the near kiss. All of it—the tender, the illicit, the innocent, and the brutal—had become entangled, and thus unspeakable.

  That evening, Anil stopped to scrub his hands of the scent of tobacco at the outdoor pump before entering the Big House. When his mother caught him limping on his way upstairs to bed, Anil admitted he’d stepped on a beehive and allowed her to apply an ointment to his foot.

  Soon after that day, as Anil entered adolescence, his life changed in many ways. He became more serious about his schoolwork, and gave up spending his free time outside. Most weekends, he sat in on his father’s arbitration sessions rather than playing cricket with his friends. The divide between boys and girls that began in the classroom became greater as time went on, spreading to their social realm. Anil saw Leena occasionally when she walked to school with Piya, but Ma’s disapproval of their friendship, coupled with his own disappointment at his cowardice, made him reticent around her.

  After Anil left for medical college at age seventeen, he lost track of Leena, along with many other childhood friends. For the past six years in Ahmadabad, he’d been working to overcome the deficiency with which the small village of Panchanagar had burdened him. Although he hadn’t seen Leena in many years, the time they had shared in childhood, those memories and his feelings for her, had lain dormant but not forgotten.

  2

  ANIL STEPPED OUTSIDE THROUGH THE SLIDING DOORS OF DALLAS/Fort Worth airport, meeting an embrace of warm air. “Ah, just like home.”

  Baldev Kapoor, his new roommate, laughed and threw an arm around his shoulder. “My friend, you’re in America now—nothing is like home.” He grinned through his manicured goatee.

  Anil had to admit there was some truth in this statement. The weather here reminded him of India, but little else was familiar. The airport had been a marvel of order and cleanliness. Passengers stood in straight lines and stepped politely forward. There was no jostling to get to the front, no elbowing fellow travelers out of the way, no spitting on the floors. Although Anil had come prepared with a roll of cash in his pocket, neither the customs nor immigration officers suggested a bribe to let him pass; they simply looked at his foreign-student papers and stamped his passport.

  As Baldev drove, Anil stared out the windshield at the ribbon of winding highway stretched before them, the vast expanses of empty land on either side. The roads were free of bumps and debris, with clean white lines that echoed the sense of possibility in a fresh notebook page. Where were the belching cargo trucks, the scooters weaving through traffic, the ambling goats and cows?

  “Where is everybody? Is it a holiday or something?” he asked Baldev, who’d been in America for several years already, having moved with his parents from Delhi to Houston as a teenager.

  “The cities are another thing, but most of Texas is still wide open frontier,” Baldev chuckled. “You don’t want to get caught in the wrong place, if you know what I mean.”

  Anil had found the apartment through an advertisement posted by their other roommate, Mahesh Shah, whose Gujarati name gave Ma some reassurance. IIT-trained computer engineer, read the ad, male, mid-20s, good job, financially secure, seeks two similar roommates to share luxurious apartment in Irving, Texas. Nondrinking, nonsmoking, vegetarian. It sounded too good to be true and Anil was certain the spots would be filled, but God had been smiling on him, just as on every step of this journey. The monthly rent of six hundred dollars would be a stretch, but the apartment was only twenty minutes from the hospital and the notion of having roommates from back home was comforting.

  The apartment was larger than Anil had expected, and everything appeared brand-new. The floors were covered in plush carpet the color of sand, with walls painted to a perfect match. The kitchen had gleaming tile counters and pristine electric appliances. If only his mother could see this place—but, of course, she never would. The cost of Anil’s plane fare alone had required Papa to sell six head of cattle. It would be up to Anil to earn the money from his paltry resident salary for his return visits.

  Baldev pointed out Mahesh’s room, with its neatly made bed and adjoining bathroom; then his own disheveled room, its walls covered with posters of Bollywood starlets, a weight bench in the corner. He showed Anil the bathroom they would share in the hallway, apologizing for the arrangement. But Anil preferred it this way: after growing up with a latrine under the stars, the idea of a toilet too close to his bedroom was distasteful.

  As he unpacked, Anil was surprised to find that his belongings, having occupied so much space on top of the Maruti back home, virtually disappeared into this vast room. The turmeric Ma had packed into his trunk had spilled out and stained half his clothes, which had to be thrown away. The greatest portion of his room was occupied by medical textbooks: two dozen volumes, representing all the information he’d memorized over the past six years. Unlike his classmates who’d been eager to sell their books after graduation, Anil had kept his, certain they’d be a lifeline during residency.

  When he was finished, Anil stepped back to survey his new room. The sense of order pleased him; it boded well for a new beginning. He was struck by the feeling of abundance that seemed to define America. The open airport, sparse roads, this half-empty bedroom—everywhere there was more than was necessary, more than he could reasonably expect. Anil pushed away a pang of loneliness at the thought of sleeping alone for the first time in his life, having always shared his room with a brother or classmate. He focused instead on the freedom of being in this space that belonged to him—away from medical college, where he’d been saddled with his origins in the village; away from the village, where he’d been saddled with the expectations of his family.

  Baldev ducked into Anil’s room. “Hey, man, let’s go. Mahesh is waiting outside. We’re going to introduce you to the best cuisine in America.” He perched his sunglasses atop his coiffed hair and raised an eyebrow. “Tex-Mex. You’ll love it, one hundred percent guaranteed.”

  They stepped outside, and just as Baldev was locking their front door, a woman emerged from the next apartment. She wore an aqua-blue exercise outfit, and sandy-brown hair fell to her shoulders in waves. Anil thought he caught a blank, almost sad, look on her face, but when she turned around she gave them a wide smile. “Oh, hey there. Y’all must be my new neighbors.” She hoisted a gym bag onto her shoulder. “I’m Amber. I live right here.” She pointed over her shoulder at the doorway behind her. Her voice reminded Anil of the scent that wafted out of the kitchen back home when the cook made sweets: ghee simmering with flour was an aroma he associated with the anticipation of good things.

  “I’m Dave,” Baldev said in an unusually deep voice. “And this is . . . Neil.” Baldev grabbed both of Anil’s shoulders and shook them a little. “My friend here is a doctor recruited all the way from India. That’s how good he is. Best in the country.”

  A flush of heat rose to Anil’s face. “Well . . . that’s not exactly true. I—”

  “Really?” Amber turned to him. “You look so young. I can’t believe you’re already a doctor.” She smiled and shifted her gym bag to the other shoulder.

  “Not that young. Twenty-three,” Anil said. “In India, we go
to medical college after two years of postsecondary, so we get through school a little earlier. But we make up for it in our training years, which is why I’m here.”

  “I’d love to hear more about it some time,” Amber said. “I think medicine is fascinating.” She dropped her gym bag to the ground and leaned against the wall.

  Anil was acutely aware that Baldev was eager to leave, having drifted toward the parking lot where Mahesh was waiting. But Anil wanted to stay right where he was. Most of his encounters since coming to America—at the airport, the immigration counter—had been transactional and cold. Here, finally, was a hint of warmth. He smiled back at Amber, unable to come up with anything interesting or witty to say.

  “Well, this is a great place to live,” Amber said into the silence that should have been filled by him. “I’ve only been here six months, so I haven’t met too many friends yet, but there seem to be lots of young people like us. And the swimming pool is a real godsend in this heat.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” Anil said. He held on to the phrase like us, on to the idea of being grouped together with her. He had never swum in a pool before; he’d never swum anywhere other than in the river and waterfall pools surrounding Panchanagar, in his regular clothes or none at all. He made a mental note to purchase a bathing suit before next weekend. Anil was reluctant for the conversation to end, but he heard a car horn honking behind him.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you, Neil.”

  “It’s A-nil, actually.”

  “Ah-neel?” She looked at him for confirmation and he nodded.

  “See you around.” He wanted to kick himself for the meaningless words, but Amber’s face brightened into a wide smile. At that moment, he decided she was more beautiful than any of Baldev’s poster girls, or anyone else he could recall. Amber gathered her lustrous hair in a sweeping gesture and tied it in a ponytail as she walked toward the parking lot.

  Anil climbed into the passenger seat of the blue Honda Civic and introduced himself to Mahesh, who looked just as he had in his online profile: a wiry man with eyeglasses and a mobile phone clipped to his belt. He might even have been wearing the same blue checked shirt as in that photo. As they drove out of the parking lot, Anil turned back to Baldev. “Hey, what was that nonsense with the names?”

  “Bhai, you’ve got to learn to fit in here. You’ll never get a girl over here if you go around acting like you’re still in India, believe me.”

  “You’re talking about that girl who lives next door, the American girl?” Mahesh said. “Why would you be interested in her?”

  Baldev clucked his tongue and wagged a finger at Anil. “Don’t you go over there and get any ideas about American girls, son,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “We’ll fix your marriage here when it’s time.” He laughed and reverted to his normal tone. “True?”

  Anil and Mahesh joined in, laughing. “True, very true,” they parroted, wobbling their heads as their mothers would.

  ANIL HAD never tasted a margarita before, and the first frozen sip led to a searing pain in his head. “What’s wrong? I ordered you a virgin,” Baldev said. Seeing Anil’s expression, he added, “A virgin margarita, you idiot. Without the alcohol.”

  “Oh.” Anil nodded slowly. “I was thinking you really can get anything you want in this country.” He reached for the basket of tortilla chips on the patio table. “Virgin, very good.”

  Baldev threw his head back and laughed. “I’ve already been lectured by Mr. Uptight over here how you Gujus won’t touch a drop of liquor.”

  “I didn’t say all Gujaratis,” Mahesh started, “but my family doesn’t—”

  “Right, and you don’t think all Punjabis are heathens, just those of us who drink.” Baldev raised his frosty glass and took a slurp. “And eat meat,” he added as the waiter placed a sizzling platter of fajitas on their table. As the odor of meat wafted upward, Anil averted his nose. “Oh, don’t look so offended. It’s only chicken. I knew you’d have a heart attack if I got the beef, and we can’t have our doctor having a heart attack.”

  “Look, I’m not really a doctor yet,” Anil said, “just a resident.”

  “Details, my friend.” Baldev piled a tortilla high with grilled meat. “In America, you have to sell yourself. Doctor sounds better than just a resident, okay? Amber liked it, didn’t she?” He took a bite of his fajita and jabbed his thumb into his chest. “Look at me, I’m a digital networking consultant.”

  Mahesh spoke through a forkful of rice and beans. “Which means he works for an electronics store, helping people plug in their computers.”

  “Better than sitting in your cubicle all day, writing code.”

  Mahesh leaned in. “Hey, you’re talking to a senior software development expert.”

  “Now you’re catching on, my friend.” Baldev raised his glass. “To America, where you can be anything you want. Only limit is the sky.”

  Exactly. Anil clinked the others’ glasses. Anything I want. Regardless of what my mother-siblings-aunties-uncles-cousins-family-neighbors-clan-village want.

  Draining his margarita glass, Baldev motioned the waiter over to order another.

  “Another for me too,” Anil said, adding, “but no virgin this time.”

  Baldev leaned over to slap him on the shoulder. “Good times, my friend. We’re in for some good times.”

  The next margarita tasted better than the first, so good that Anil drank most of it in the space of several minutes and began to feel light enough to float away. As he poured the rest of the hot salsa over his cheese enchiladas, which were spicy and delicious, his mother’s warnings about tasteless food and the evils of alcohol faded into irrelevance. So far, America seemed to encompass the best of India, without the aspects he’d rather leave behind. Anil sat back in his chair, swatted a mosquito on his arm, and drew in a deep breath of Texas summer night.

  THE DATE of the internship orientation had long been circled in red on Anil’s calendar. Despite rising early that morning, he was late when he arrived at the hospital after navigating the complex of adjoining buildings that resembled a major airport, through pathways marked by colors and alphanumeric codes. Anil had read a great deal about Parkview Hospital, so he thought he knew what to expect when he walked through the doors that first day, bristling with excitement. But actually seeing the place was different—the vastness of it, humming with activity like some enormous breathing giant.

  As Anil took his seat in the auditorium, a tall man tapped the microphone and introduced himself as the residency program director. Casper O’Brien’s signature had been on every piece of correspondence Anil had received from Parkview, and it was now paired with the man standing on stage, easily over six feet tall with a booming voice. “Welcome to Parkview,” he said, “one of the finest medical training programs in the country. You’ll give us three years, it’ll feel like six, but we’ll give you back nine in experience.” There were chuckles from the audience. Anil crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Our mission,” O’Brien said, “is to furnish medical aid and hospital care to indigent and needy persons. What that means, ladies and gentlemen, is you’re going to see it all here.”

  “And it won’t be pretty.” The low voice came from a tall blond guy in a tan blazer sitting in the row in front of Anil.

  O’Brien strode across the platform, long legs moving like scissor blades. “We see over a million patients a year. We deliver more babies at this hospital than anywhere else, not just in the country but in the world.” He stopped and held up a forefinger. “I believe there is no finer place to earn your stripes as a physician. Once we’re done training you here, you’ll be ready to go anywhere.”

  He unleashed a torrent of information—hospital procedures, staff roles, department rotations, team assignments. Anil couldn’t absorb it all, but he was struck by the fact that Parkview employed twelve thousand people, which amounted to the population of his village twenty times over. He would spend his internship year rotating through a different depart
ment of internal medicine every month. There was a collective shuffling of papers as the interns were directed to find their schedules for the year.

  “Well, I’m starting in Emergency,” said a man on Anil’s left. “Can’t get much worse than that.” Anil noticed he was dressed notably more casual than the others, in a shirt and cardigan rather than a suit.

  Anil glanced down at his schedule again and then held it up.

  “I’m Charlie Boyd.” His face broke into a broad smile and he extended his hand. “Good to meet you, mate.”

  THE EMERGENCY room, nicknamed the welcome mat of the hospital, saw over a hundred thousand patients a year. Anil’s supervisor was a stocky, muscular senior resident named Eric Stern. He had a strong New York accent and operated in a state of constant motion: walking quickly and issuing rapid instructions littered with unfamiliar terms. “Move it along, Patel.” Eric ducked into Anil’s examination area on his first day in the ER. “You can’t spend fifteen minutes taking a history. We’ve got a waiting room full of patients out there. Assess and stabilize. Discharge or admit. That’s your only job. What’s the chief complaint here?” He glanced at the patient’s chart. “Abdominal pain? Send him down to CT and go clear some more patients.” In Ahmadabad, Anil would have done a thorough examination to rule out all other options before sending a patient to the one CT scanner shared by three hospitals, where lines were long and results could take days.

  Within weeks, the daily rhythm of the ER became imprinted on Anil. Morning rounds began at seven o’clock sharp, after which the team dispersed to work at a frantic pace all day long—it was an incessant intake of new patients, medical histories, physical exams, admitting orders. By afternoon, the waiting room overflowed. A hundred thousand patients a year translated to a new patient every four minutes, every single day, around the clock.