Chapter 16
At the pizza place, I decide to call my parents.
I haven’t spoken directly to them since before my arrest, and I know they need to hear my voice.
I know I can’t avoid their shame and worry forever.
I call them on Amaya’s phone. I can almost hear the release of fear and stress in their voices when they answer like air escaping an inflatable mattress.
I wasn’t able to communicate with them during my arrest and subsequent court appearance, despite my best efforts, and I want to apologize for the worry I’ve caused.
The worry neither of my parents should have to endure.
There should be a limit for the number of devastating things people have to deal with in their lives.
I try my best to fake my “I’m fine” voice to Ammi, who can usually detect something is wrong just based on a slight change in my tone.
I explain to them what Amaya and I have been doing and what is next, and try to calm their frayed nerves just as I saw my brother do so many times before.
I tell them I’ll come right home after the pizza.
Going home means I’ll have to hear them cry and wring their hands with fear.
They’ll wish my brother were here to fix my mistakes once again.
This time I have to fix my own problems.
NYC is home to over eight million people.
As a kid, I found that walking the streets anonymous and unnoticed gave me a sense of calm.
The city streets with their sights, sounds, and smells became my haven, and though I felt out of place, I could still blend in.
I take the subway back into Manhattan using the MetroCard Amaya gave me.
I walk out of the Twenty-Eighth Street subway stop, and as I do, I see the most beautiful view of the Empire State Building lit up in black and orange, presumably an ode to the upcoming Halloween holiday.
Even the rat scampering off with what appears to be an entire slice of pepperoni pizza doesn’t take away from the sight.
As I walk across the crowded Manhattan street, I am greeted with the familiar smell of garlic, onion, turmeric, and curry powder.
I look up and down at the two New York City blocks studded with numerous Indian restaurants and grocery stores, affectionately termed “Curry Hill,” a play on the name of the neighborhood, Murray Hill.
The smell alone tells me what kind of cuisine is served, even if I didn’t bother to read the signs.
I have been to every restaurant on the block multiple times, and each is special to me in its own way.
On occasion, when asked my favorite, I’d say it depends on what one wants.
Everyone thinks South Asian food is just butter chicken and greasy naan, but it is so much more than that.
It is a diverse cuisine with so many different flavor profiles and styles of food.
Curry Hill is the warm blanket of familiar comfort I desperately need now.
For the first time in days, I smile as I pass the restaurants, many teeming with people.
For so long, I thought I had to hide my food and culture, wary of all the kids at school who said I smelled because Ammi cooked curry.
Looking at these people now reminds me that times have changed, at least in some places.
I look behind me, and for a second, I feel like I’m being followed. But it’s just my exhaustion, which is apparently turning into paranoia. Next thing I know I’ll be telling people a group of elites who worship Satan are controlling our media…
I walk toward Curry in a Hurry, a fast-casual dining spot, as its name implies.
I can’t tell if I’m still hungry or just seeking comfort.
Curry in a Hurry is both cheap and delicious, a seemingly rare combination in this expensive part of Manhattan, where I am always astounded that a single bagel with cream cheese costs six dollars—a fact I found out the hard way when I once made the mistake of not opting to toast my own at home and wrap it in foil to eat in my car.
There was a time when I could get a bagel with cream cheese and a coffee for under two dollars, a thought that makes me feel like the Crypt Keeper even though I don’t feel that old.
Any day now, I’ll start to regale the youth with stories about “back in my day.” I yawn, as is appropriate for someone of my advanced age, I think.
Only one of the u’s and r’s still works in the neon Curry in a Hurry sign, shining out in the darkening sky.
I’d know this place and its blue awning anywhere, sign or not.
“Hello, Siri,” the man behind the counter says as soon as I walk in.
I hope my haggard appearance and ill-fitting clothes will not elicit any questions I’m not yet prepared to answer.
I tell myself I will not think about my case here, not wanting to taint the good memories I have on this block.
The man is wearing a white tank top despite the cooling temperature outside.
He has a large potbelly—always a good sign for a chef, Ammi says.
The man also has a wild mustache that makes up for the lack of hair on his head.
“Hello, Uncle,” I say.
The man behind the counter is not a blood relative, or even a particularly close friend, but in my culture, older people with whom you have some sort of relationship usually morph into “Uncle” or “Auntie.” Calling someone like that by their first name is a grave offense.
“How are your ammi and thathi?” Uncle asks. I’m touched that he remembers the Sinhalese terms: ammi for mother and thathi for father, despite the fact he is Indian and I am Sri Lankan.
“They’re good.” I smile, lying. “They say hello, they’re going to come out here again soon.
” As I say this, I realize how good most of us are at giving the polite answer.
How careful we are to hide our problems under shiny veneers.
Although, my veneer is pretty gross today.
I can’t help noticing the growing hole in one of my sleeves.
“Good, you let me know and I’ll make them something special to get them to come in. The usual for you?”
“Yes, and two more—one with lamb korma, and the other with just vegetarian biryani and a chicken kabob.”
“Good, good,” he mutters as he goes back into the kitchen.
I can almost taste the curry and mix of spices as they dance on my tongue.
Spicy, savory, and tangy—sometimes all at once.
This is my comfort food. This is my happy place.
My favorite is the crisp poori, especially excellent here, to soak up all the curries.
I tried to learn to make these dishes at home.
Other than dirtying up Ammi’s pristinely clean kitchen, I didn’t make much progress.
Even when I follow the recipe exactly, it tastes different from Ammi’s cooking.
It’s as if there is an intangible and unattainable ingredient, like a sprinkle of love, that I can’t find in the supermarket.
I take a seat at the counter of the restaurant as I wait for my food.
It is nearly empty, save for one man eating in the corner.
The man is a reading a newspaper, and the headline catches my eye.
New Frontier Partners with Catalyst Plastics CEO Shirley Lee.
I see a young woman with dark hair and a warm smile.
New Frontier is the company James worked at.
I try to get a closer look at the paper, when the man turns the page.
I make a mental note to look this up at some point.
Restaurants like this have been hit hard by rising rent prices and are barely able to stay in business.
So many good places have gone under, unable to continue to pay rent while taking in less money than their more expensive counterparts.
Thankfully, and despite the solitary customer here now, this place seems to be doing okay, buoyed by the number of people needing cheap and tasty food quickly.
It did seem to scare off fancier people, who took to the restaurants with modern interiors and food triple the price.
I look over at a mop in the corner and cracks in the ceiling.
Wallpaper is peeling in all four corners of the dining area, and the restaurant signage is certainly original to when it opened years ago.
In order for people to come to a place like this, the food has to be good.
I try not to think about the murder. The images of the blood and the dead man I now know as James have replayed constantly in my mind.
I’ve moved on to new worries about money and what will happen if I am sent back to jail.
My mother’s hours at the local corner store are being cut, it appears, on a monthly basis.
“Your food is ready,” Uncle calls from behind the counter. “I put extra samosas and pooris in there.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” I say, realizing too late that my wallet is with the police. I never leave home without it, but now it’s been taken from me. “Uncle, my wallet—”
“Don’t worry, you can pay me next time,” Uncle says, his eyes giving me a knowing understanding.
I’ve been the recipient of so many acts of kindness that I know I don’t deserve.
“Thank you so much, Uncle. I will be back with the money soon.”