Of Nehru and Norwalk

The sweltering heat can shorten anyone’s temper. Ask Mr. Singh (a fictional name). His temper tantrums when people dared park longer than fifteen minutes in front of his Norwalk store were legendary, and vagrants decided that they were better off rummaging through the garbage of the Chinese restaurant next door. His attitude towards customers veered from cloyingly sweet, if you were a curvaceous young girl, to patronizing, if you were a homeless person trying to buy batteries for a CD-player you found in the dumpster next door. Yet once upon a time he had been a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed youngster fresh off the plane from India with his wife and young sons. America was the land of opportunity and, armed with stories of relatives who had struck it rich in Connecticut, he came searching for his dream. An Indian community would be waiting to welcome him and his family into their temples and homes.

The years passed in the blink of an eye and the vigor of youth faded. Mr. Singh invested in the stock market and paid the price. The tax man put a lien on his business and he had to figure out creative ways to pay for the college education of his sons. Mr. Singh kept going, in part because of his delusions.You see, dear reader, everyone else was always to blame for every calamity in his life. The fact that he did not fill out the proper paperwork to have a lottery ticket machine in his shop became the fault of the government. The fact that dear Mrs. Singh’s samoosas landed me in bed with a serious case of food poisoning was the fault of the dough he had purchased at Costco. For a second I found myself more annoyed at the fact that she had not made everything from scratch, before arguing with Mr. Singh about his irresponsibility.

However, Mr. Singh always managed to wiggle his ample girth out of tight corners. When his belligerent explanation that office workers who had purchased the same savory delicacies seemed just fine fell on deaf ears, he tried a different tactic. The heat outside was merciless and he swept away my defenses and a potential lawsuit with peace offerings of Haagen Dasz ice cream and the latest copy of the National Enquirer. Having honed in on my vices, Mr. Singh felt secure that he would not be losing a customer. I could not let him off that easily.

“So,” I interrupted sweetly (as he railed about the indiscretions of American stars discussed in the Enquirer),”Is it true that the first Indian prime minister (Jawaharlal Nehru), had been in love with the last British viceroy’s wife (Lady Edwina Mountbatten)?”

Mr. Singh was thunderstruck. He demanded to know if I had read it in the free copy of “that dirty rag” he had just handed me. No. My source was impeccable. I had googled the information and if anything appears on Google it has to be true. Mr. Singh was quick to set me straight. Nehru was revered in India and, according to Mr. Singh (who had it on good authority from an uncle who had been Nehru’s personal photographer), nothing happened. His opinion that revered men were obliged to have no flaws was not that far removed from our pre-Clinton (or was that pre-Kennedy?) view of charismatic leaders.

The conversation eventually drifted to more neutral terrain. One of his sons was getting married. The kid had been a straight A-student. Thanks to Mr. Singh’s sweat equity, or perhaps in spite of it, the younger Singh had graduated top of his class at Yale University and now held a prominent position at a local investment firm. Mr. Singh informed me that there would be two weddings. One would be held in India and then all the relatives would be shipped over here for a mega-festival that would last a couple of days. Mr. Singh had taken out a loan to foot the bill. I kept my opinion about a son allowing his parents to take on an added financial burden to myself. My ice cream was beginning to melt and there was no need to anger Mr. Singh again.

Summer means vacation time. So I did not see Mr. Singh for a few months. When I returned to Norwalk, I was surprised to see that Mr. Singh’s store had closed. I heard via the grapevine that he was broke and had decided to return to India with his wife. A part of me was sorry to see the old rascal leave and the other part felt happy. Hopefully he found that mythical retirement sanctuary that we all long for, aka the Marigold Hotel. Hopefully he will at long last feel at home.