A California Story Read online

  A CALIFORNIA STORY

  A California Story

  A novel

  By

  NAMIT ARORA

  Adelaide Books

  New York/Lisbon

  2019

  A CALIFORNIA STORY

  A novel

  By Namit Arora

  Copyright © by Namit Arora

  Cover design © 2019 Adelaide Books

  Published by Adelaide Books, New York / Lisbon

  adelaidebooks.org

  Editor-in-Chief

  Stevan V. Nikolic

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

  manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in

  the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For any information, please address Adelaide Books

  at [email protected]

  or write to:

  Adelaide Books

  244 Fifth Ave. Suite D27

  New York, NY, 10001

  ISBN-10: 1-951214-69-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-951214-69-2

  “A moving and insightful portrayal of the immigrant’s exile from authenticity. Written in the language of human relationships, Arora’s novel will speak to anyone who’s been a stranger in a strange land.”

  —Anil Menon, novelist and editor

  “Arora’s narrative is structurally sound and capably written with a protagonist who is endearing. Ved [is] someone to cheer for as he navigates the precarious world of online dating, job dissatisfaction, and, perhaps most socially significant and politically relevant, the rampant discrimination and violent racism coursing through the streets of America. Indian culture is knowledgeably and effectively personified through Ved’s character as the story explores the nature of the immigrant journey in the United States ... A cleverly written tale with a social conscience featuring themes of family, inclusiveness, racial divides, and the theatrics of love.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A fiercely honest and insightful story, with richly painted characters I could empathize with readily. The female characters are strong and the author gets into their minds in a way that is refreshing and illuminating.”

  —Cherry Mosteshar, author and journalist

  To India and America,

  and the seven seas in between.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  One

  This is not the life he wants, Ved thinks once again, exiting the airport in Palm Springs. His heart is not in it. None of his role models ever did this sort of work for a living. When he was nudged on this path in his teens – with its unspoken promise of a secure job, social status, and a fair and lovely wife – he had no idea it would turn out this way.

  ‘Ved?’ A broad-hipped event coordinator greets him with all the enthusiasm of a young poodle. ‘Perfect, perfect. Good afternoon, I hope your trip was just great. It’s wonderful to meet you. Welcome to Palm Springs. We’re so excited you’re joining us for the Omnicon Sales Conference.’

  Ved wonders how some people manage to be so bright and breezy all day. He knows it is her job to make him feel like he has just flown into the most exciting experience anyone could imagine, but all he wants now is an evening of solitude in his hotel room. In the morning, he’ll be thrust into a sales conference to kick off 2003 for Omnicon. It’ll swarm with a thousand co-workers drawn from the company’s 60,000 employees in 130 countries.

  ‘It’s so exciting to have so many of you from around the world,’ she enthuses, leading him to a waiting minivan. ‘We’re excited, so very excited to hear all about, umm … what is it you’re going to talk about?’

  ‘A new line of network security products.’

  ‘That’s great! We’ve planned so many exciting things to fill your spare time, some great team-building activities,’ she chirps. ‘This is one of the biggest resorts here. Only the best for our geniuses. You’ll have access to a golf course, a horse ranch, hot air balloons, or you can spend some me-time on the artificial lake. Do you like boats, Ved?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘You’ll love the ones here,’ she says. Approaching the resort, he is impressed by the starkness of the California desert around it. ‘Though as a marketing manager at Omnicon you prolly don’t get time for all that,’ she rattles on. ‘No wonder you’re doing so well so young, and have risen up in your career …’

  ‘No, not really,’ he laughs, caressing the lapel of his grey jacket that he had picked up for $20 from a Goodwill Store. ‘At 36, I’m well into late-middle age in Silicon Valley terms, and I’ve only reached employee grade nine on our corporate ladder, eight rungs below the CEO. That’s with a recent promotion after three years at Omnicon.’

  ‘Oh, you’re too modest. I have no doubt your colleagues really appreciate your work.’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m actually quite dispensable. I just help our salespeople sell, with the right marketing tools and messages,’ he explains, ‘though I think I’m good at it, or at least good enough.’ But she’s already out of the minivan, doing her happy walk towards the hotel entrance.

  *

  The conference opens at 7:30 the next morning with a video recording of a high-energy rock band on four large screens. The band’s screechy cacophony annoys Ved, but he is amused by the sight of his Japanese colleagues in dark suits clapping earnestly.

  Ved finds a seat near the back. This too shall pass, he thinks, but then feels bad for being so out of it. In recent years, he has invested just enough in career development to survive without losing his pride. A software engineer by training, he began as a coder in Silicon Valley, but over time, unable and unwilling to compete with freshly-minted graduates, he has transitioned to his current role in marketing, which better utilizes his so-called soft skills.

  The auditorium walls are covered in multicultural posters of pretty business people: shaking hands, smiling at computer screens, peering lovingly at Omnicon’s boxy equipment –meant to convey the joy their products bring into this world. A gleaming red Ferrari stands outside the auditorium, awaiting the ‘2002 Salesman of the Year’.

  ‘Every morning I wake up and think, what can I do for my customers today?’ declares Omnicon’s CEO, Greg Dyer, opening the proceedings. ‘It’s all about the passion within. That’s what keeps my intense focus on the customer.’ His body language and voice project authority and confidence. ‘We’re not just another tech company in the Valley. Our mission is to empower people, to build the human network of tomorrow.’ His hour-long talk is laced with frequent references to excitement, power, speed, changing the world, and killing the competition.

  ‘We need greater teamwork,’ Greg adds. ‘As that great American hero Dr. Martin Luther King said, “We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.”’ Next to Ved, an older British colleague softly intones, ‘Oh, puhleeze!’ just as some people start clapping and others feel pressured to join in. Ved turns to him and smiles; there is hope yet.

  Next comes a talk by a motivational speaker. Another huckster, presumes Ved. The speaker soon unveils his big idea: ‘The true killer app is killing time.’ He has written a book on it, The Art of Killing Time, included in all attendee bags. A quote on its cover proclaims it a tour de force. No way he’s lugging this back home, thinks Ved. He discreetly leaves it on his chair and goes for lunch. Post-lunch sessions bring on ‘death by PowerPoint’ as new hardware, software, multimedia gadgets, and gaming consoles are launched. Jargon fills the air: synergy, paradigm, bleeding edge, leverage, disruption, value-proposition, mission-critical, solution ecosystem.

  *

  In his room that night, Ved gets an email from Liz, confirming their very first date on Friday evening. A nervous flutter of excitement courses through him. If only he could fast-forward his week and get to Friday.

  He ‘met’ Liz two weeks ago on a matchmaking website that came complete with expert advice, success stories, even tips on writing ‘great emails’. Its pages featured handsome men and women, smiling, staring into each other’s eyes.

  It has been a while since Ved had a formal ‘girlfriend’ – four years to be precise, since Pooja. He longs to wake up to the softness and warmth of a woman’s body, to languidly make love on foggy weekend mornings. What he seeks appears modest to him: a smart, open-minded woman of above-average beauty, independent means, pleasant disposition and a sexual appetite to match his own. He is not willing to settle for much less, at any rate not for long.

  But signing up for a matchmaking service with a credit card smelled of desperation and defeat. This is not how he wants to find a lover. As he paid for the subscription, a mild wave of bitterness coursed through him. Where are the chance meetings and spontaneous combustion of the movies and literature, he wondered, where passions rise unbidden and sweep one away?

  Why was he doing it then? What mysterious power compelled him? Another triumph of matter over mind? Avoid cynicism, he told himself, approach it with an open mind. What o
ther options did he really have? Being an introvert, going out and chatting up single women felt unnatural, nor did his lifestyle give him the opportunities for doing so.

  Still, in his fifteen years in the US, Ved has fallen in love with several women. He has had a few intense flings, especially in his twenties, mainly with women he met on his travels: a French teacher in Japan; a Canadian social worker in Holland; a Venezuelan architect in Guatemala. None lasted more than a few months. So bumbling and awkward those first encounters were too. He remembers all the headiness, the voluptuous agony and the ecstasy of discovering each new mind and body, the messy heartaches and breakups. He now thinks it was more infatuation than love – a young man’s lust and yearning fused with clumsiness and inexperience.

  He knows that even an ample combination of beauty and brains aren’t enough. His temperament, values, and goals also need to align with his companion’s – this is the hard part. Yet there is so much more: who can say what brings and keeps a man and woman together?

  After signing up, he had written his own profile, which, he concedes, had an element of marketing spin, but he wrote it sincerely. It is not far from how he sees himself. It reads:

  Had we but world enough, and time

  At home both in India and the US, I am a liberal Indian man with a belief that the unexamined life is not worth living. I like to read. While I’m increasingly drawn to non-fiction, much of that too, I’ve found, is not immune from fantasy and tricks of the imagination.

  I’ve lived on three continents, speak four languages, and have traveled widely. Part of my identity is being an outsider, but I do not make much of this: so many around me are outsiders too. Often, I feel like an outsider in every nation.

  Reliance on inner resources and seeking clarity of thought and purpose are worthy goals to me. I also enjoy cooking, good food, wine, and sunshine. I tend to recoil from too much domesticity. I’m definitely easy-going, not in any rat race, but I do believe that if something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well.

  I see a multiplicity of truths and values in the world and try to refrain from facile judgment. I’m often playful and spontaneous, and humor is an inescapable response when I look around. I prefer curious, thoughtful, free-spirited people who consciously try to understand others and to simplify their own lives.

  I grew up in north India, came to the US fifteen years ago for a post-graduate degree in computers and now work for a prominent multinational.

  He found no good way to indicate his preference for good cooks. The idea of a lover baking for him or laboring over a multi-course dinner – and him reciprocating at other times or in other ways – is sensual to him; but he reckoned that saying so, especially as an Indian man, might send the wrong message. He attached a photo and checked the boxes indicating his atheism, his desire to not have children, and his preference for college-educated women within five years of his age. He browsed the profiles suggested by the matchmaking software and wrote to about twenty women, most of them white or Indian.

  The only replies came from two Indian women. He was disappointed but not surprised. He believes that in terms of sex appeal, Indian men in America rate near the bottom of the pile. Most white women instinctively regard his ilk as socially conservative; sexist; gawky in speech, manner, and style; reeking of pungent curries; with oily hair, greasy skin, and a fatalistic devotion to pot-bellied idols. All in all, not so flattering.

  The photo of the first Indian woman to respond suggested a calm and intelligent face, with a shapely body to boot. But she spelled badly, clobbered basic grammar, and used too many exclamation marks. When they spoke on the phone, he found her English accent distractingly unpolished. When she didn’t call or write back, he was silently relieved.

  The second was an attractive, Ivy League MBA, 32, on a fast-track career at eBay. After a few short emails, they met for dinner. At the very start of the evening, he fantasized about making love to her on his Moroccan carpet. She had had a love marriage in her early twenties before she came to America. She recounted the breakup, ‘I don’t know what I was thinking when we got hitched. He was sooo dull you cannot imagine!’ She leaned forward and revealed with a snicker, ‘The poor guy even got down on his knees and begged me to not leave.’

  Her work was intense, she said, but her life was too plain and boring. She wanted adventure, excitement, weekend escapes and concerts. She wanted a balance between work and play. Soon, his interest in her started to flag, as did the conversation. She seemed to him poorly read, a workaholic, driven by fads, not curious enough. Nor did she seem the type to hop into bed without igniting the expectation of the whole marital enchilada. He sensed tantrums and theater: more pain than gain. He stuck to polite conversation for the rest of the evening. No doubt she too had sensed a gap for she emailed a brief note the next day that effectively said: Thanks for meeting me, but we don’t seem to be each other’s type. Good luck with others.

  Then just as he was losing hope, Liz replied. He immediately went online to reexamine her photo, a distant shot at a bus stop: a redhead, plainly dressed, a little plump, 40 years old – four years his senior – a UC Berkeley graduate in literature. Her profile read:

  Seeking mind / body / soul connection

  I am caring, playful, passionate, a good listener, outgoing, and thoughtful. I enjoy hiking and walking, world music, and love to dance. Indeed, life would be dull without music and dance! I am an avid reader and love indie films and the performing arts. I consider myself spiritual but not religious and practice yoga regularly. Eastern thought enchants me. I was born in England and raised in Connecticut after my English parents moved to America.

  I make friends easily and I am generous and loyal to those close to me. In the past, I have liked socially conscious, liberal, and multicultural men. I melt before strong, original and confident types.

  I love international travel. I’ve also lived in England for four years. I work for a non-profit group, don’t take myself too seriously (well, most of the time) and know it’s important to laugh at myself. Write to me if you are honest, responsible, intelligent, communicative, reflective, affectionate, and not afraid of commitment or revealing your vulnerable side.

  He recalled why he wrote to her in the first place. Though wary of the vulnerability clause and her enchantment with ‘Eastern thought’, he found the pros more compelling: she reads and travels and pays attention to non-Western cultures. Passionate too, that holds some promise. And she’d indicated with a checkbox that she didn’t want children either.

  He wrote back to her the same day and they exchanged a few rapid-fire emails. Last weekend, they spoke on the phone. She mentioned a French film she saw with a friend the previous night in San Francisco. ‘I didn’t like it much, though I generally prefer French films over Hollywood. This was a bit too self-absorbed for my taste.’ After the film, she’d had dinner in the Tenderloin at Naan & Curry, which Ved also likes.

  ‘I taught high school literature for eight years,’ she told him. ‘Loved introducing my students to non-white authors – Achebe, Rushdie, Mahfouz – but I had a hard time with some terribly disrespectful, disruptive, and even violent students.’ The final straw was a gunfight that killed two of her students, after which she left to join an environmental NGO.

  ‘I really want to visit India,’ she said. ‘I should tell you that my Grandpa was a British colonial officer in India. From his surviving letters, it’s clear to me that he was a bloody racist, full of Churchillian disdain for you “wogs”.’ Her interest in India seemed genuine. She was articulate, had an appealing accent, a sonorous voice, and a pleasant laugh. They spoke for almost an hour. Near the end of the call, he asked her out.

  *

  A team-building event is scheduled for the final evening in Palm Springs. Ved dreads team-building events. They remind him of his place in the corporate machine: a puny gear that periodically needs a lube and conditioning. He knows that in this system their collective output and efficiency matter above all else, but who needs juvenile games to rub this in? He dreads the small talk, the fake enthusiasm, the pretense of interest.