Free The Leaving of Things by Jay Antani Page A

hornet-like buzzing of the rickshaw motor, and the washing-over of the rain. From inside my shirt, I pulled out the folder with my transcripts and grade reports—all drenched now.
    The driver kept his gaze fixed on the road, hands gripping the handlebars tightly, revving the engine as we tore through the final stretch back to the guesthouse. Maybe he was pissed off, maybe he was ashamed by what had happened. Maybe both.
    My mother, Anand, and Anjali were seated on the couch, and Hemant Uncle was at the dining table when I got in. The laugh track of a Gujarati sitcom blared from the TV.
Dal
and incense wafted in from the kitchen. I sloshed into the living room, feeling every bit like I was invading this quaint domesticity.
    “I need cash for the rickshaw,” I blubbered.
    My mother got up from the couch, looked me up and down, and asked what had happened. I told the story, and that got Hemant Uncle chuckling as he sipped from a cup of chai. My mother tsked and shook her head before asking if I was all right.
    I nodded and jerked my head toward the door. “Rickshaw’s waiting downstairs.”
    “After what happened, he still expects to get paid?” my mother said, putting on her slippers and grabbing the umbrella leaning next to the door. “Anand, get him a towel.” But before he even got to his feet, Anjali had darted off the couch and, in seconds, had a towel in my hands.
    “It’s okay, bhabhi, I will go,” Hemant Uncle said. He took the umbrella from my mother and went down the steps to speak with the rickshaw wallah.
    “Go, Vikram,” my mother said, her tone calming down. “Go upstairs, change your clothes.”
    * *
    As I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed and began picking out clothes, I thought over the events of the past few hours, beginning with my trip to St. Xavier’s up to now in those drenched clothes in rain-sodden Ghatlodiya. And I realized that I didn’t feel depressed or resentful orangry or ashamed or anything—none of the feelings I’d gotten so used to over these past many months. In that moment I felt like the man I wanted to be for Shannon, for Nate, for Karl—a man on an adventure thousands of miles from home—and here was something I could share with them,
wanted
to share. An adventure I’d had.
    I felt oddly energized, at peace with and proud of myself. Maybe it was just my ego or maybe it was my truest self calling out to me. A man of action! What a rare feeling. I knew it wouldn’t last—what does?—but I was happy to know I could be that man, if I wanted to be.

6
    “V ikram, good morning,” Hemant Uncle boomed as I shambled down the steps the following morning. “There’s chai and food waiting.”
    A Hindi jingle played on the radio sitting next to the TV.
    Everybody had gathered around snacks and cups of chai at the table. At the center of the table were opened wrappers seeped in grease and piled with savory bhajiyas—battered and crispy fritters topped with cilantro, chilies, and diced onions. Judging from the Hindi-language newspapers the bhajiyas came wrapped in, they had to be from one of the snack stalls up the road. Next to the bhajiyas, I saw an opened wrapper of
fafadas
—savory fritters shaped like flutes and accompanied with the same condiments.
    “College food,” Hemant Uncle joked, chewing, wiping his hands. “You’re in college, now, no? So sit down.”
    The radio advertisement switched to the deadpan monotone of a sports announcer calling the play-by-play at a cricket match.
    “You’re not looking so much wet this morning.” Hemant Uncle laughed, sipping his chai.
    “Luckily, you didn’t get hurt,” my father said. “Stay away from street fights.”
    “Did you get cut on anything?” Anand asked, looking up from a book in his hands, its covers freshly bound with laminated brown paper. “Because you could get tetanus.”
    “No one has tetanus,” my mother said, irritably, then to me, “Did you take your malaria pill?”
    “No cuts,” I