Biju at the Baby Bistro.
Above, the restaurant was French, but below in the kitchen it was Mexican and Indian. And, when a Paki was hired, it was Mexican, Indian, Pakistani.
Biju at Le Colonial for the authentic colonial experience.
On top, rich colonial, and down below, poor native. Colombian, Tunisian, Ecuadorian, Gambian.
On to the Stars and Stripes Diner. All American flag on top, all Guatemalan flag below.
Plus one Indian flag when Biju arrived.
"Where is Guatemala?" he had to ask.
"Where is Guam?"
"Where is Madagascar?"
"Where is Guyana?"
"Don't you know?" the Guyanese man said. "Indians everywhere in Guyana, man."
"Indians in Guam. Everywhere you look, practically, Indians."
"Trinidad?"
"Trinidad full of Indians!! Saying—can you believe it?—Open a caan of saalmon, maaan.'"
Madagascar—Indians Indians.
Chile—in the Zona Rosa duty-free of Tierra del Fuego, Indians, whiskey, electronics. Bitterness at the thought of Pakistanis up in the Areca used-car business. "Ah … forget it… let those bhenchoots make their quarter percent… ."
Kenya. South Africa. Saudi Arabia. Fiji. New Zealand. Surinam.
In Canada, a group of Sikhs came long ago; they went to remote areas and the women took off their salwars and wore their kurtas like dresses.
Indians, yes, in Alaska; a desi owned the last general store in the last town before the North Pole, canned foods mostly, fishing tackle, bags of salt, and shovels; his wife stayed back in Karnal with the children, where they could, on account of the husband's sacrifice, afford Little Angels Kindergarten.
On the Black Sea, yes, Indians, running a spice business.
Hong Kong. Singapore.
How had he learned nothing growing up? England he knew, and America, Dubai, Kuwait, but not much else.
There was a whole world in the basement kitchens of New York, but Biju was ill-equipped for it and almost relieved when the Pakistani arrived. At least he knew what to do. He wrote and told his father.
The cook was alarmed. What kind of place was he working in? He knew it was a country where people from everywhere journeyed to work, but oh, surely not Pakistanis! Surely they would not be hired. Surely Indians were better liked—
"Beware," the cook wrote to his son. "Beware. Beware. Keep away. Distrust."
His son had already done him proud. He found he could not talk straight to the man; every molecule of him felt fake, every hair on him went on alert.
Desis against Pakis.
Ah, old war, best war—
Where else did the words flow with an ease that came from centuries of practice? How else would the spirit of your father, your grandfather, rise from the dead?
Here in America, where every nationality confirmed its stereo-type—
Biju felt he was entering a warm amniotic bath.
But then it grew cold. This war was not, after all, satisfying; it could never go deep enough, the crick was never cracked, the itch was never scratched; the irritation built on itself, and the combatants itched all the more.
"Pigs pigs, sons of pigs, sooar ka baccha," Biju shouted.
"Uloo ka patha, son of an owl, low-down son-of-a-bitch Indian."
They drew the lines at crucial junctures. They threw cannonball cabbages at each other.
"***!!!!" said the Frenchman.
It sounded to their ears like an angry dandelion puff, but what he said was that they were a troublesome pair. The sound of their fight had traveled up the flight of steps and struck a clunky note, and they might upset the balance, perfectly first-world on top, perfectly third-world twenty-two steps below. Mix it up in a heap and then who would patronize his restaurant, hm? With its coquilles Saint-Jacques à la vapeur for $27.50 and the blanquette de veau for $23, and a duck that made an overture to the colonies, sitting like a pasha on a cushion of its own fat, exuding the scent of saffron.
What were they thinking? Do restaurants in Paris have cellars full of Mexicans, desis, and Pakis?
No, they do not. What are you thinking?
They have cellars full of Algerians, Senegalese, Moroccans… .
Good-bye, Baby Bistro. "Use the time off to take a bath," said the owner. He had been kind enough to hire Biju although he found him smelly.
Paki one way, Biju the other way. Rounding the corner, meeting each other again, turning away again.
