The Malliks, our neighbors, were an affluent family and every year they went on a family vacation. Roy, their eldest son, was in my class and would tell me of the exotic places they visited. I must have evinced some interest – my family could only afford to visit relatives for vacation! – because one summer Roy startled me by inviting me to join him on his family jaunt. My parents were hesitant, but once they had spoken to Roy’s dad, a hearty sociable businessman, they felt reassured and let me go. I was thrilled, for I had never spent two full weeks on a beach, living in a five-star hotel.
Roy had some of his dad’s disposition and in no time made dozens of friends in the hotel and on the beach. It meant I too had a glorious time in the company of new and exciting friends. We ate delectable food, played games and went on excursions to local tourist spots in two large cars Roy’s family had rented. But I also enjoyed the quiet, lazy hours I spent with Roy in our double room overlooking the sea, chatting about our life and dreams. Roy said he didn’t want to be an engineer like his father; nor did he want to run a business. Rather he wanted to be a forest officer, like my uncle he had met, live in a quiet rural town, explore the woods every day and come home in the evening and listen to folk music. He loved the sea, he said, and would take every vacation on a beach. He said he liked the sea so much that he would one day like to die right next to it. We spent our days swimming long hours and then relaxing on the beach under a large umbrella and reading.
We went our different ways after school and I heard that Roy had joined his dad’s company, which surprised nobody. Within two years, however, he found a job with the government’s forest service and went to work in a remote corner of India. We exchanged an occasional letter and, five years later, we met up for a drink. Roy loved his work and lived the way he had dreamed, except that he had now a wife and baby. He said his pay wasn’t good enough for his family to vacation on the beach, but he expected shortly to save enough to be able to take his wife and child for a vacation on the beach we had been together.
Seven years later I had a letter on familiar hotel stationery: Roy had taken his wife and daughter to the beach where we had spent a summer together and was staying in the same hotel and, believe it or not, in the same room overlooking the sea. It had taken him some time, but he had fulfilled his project of a family vacation on the beach. I felt happy for him.
It was a shock to get a notice of a funeral service for Roy a few days later. I called his wife and expressed my sympathy, but could not bring myself to ask her how his end had come. She volunteered it was ‘sudden’ but did not explain whether it was an accident or an unexpected health problem. That left me free to imagine: Roy was swimming in the ocean, his body glistening in the late-afternoon sun, his arms moving rhythmically as his ears echoed the folk music he enjoyed, his eyes on the beach he so loved, his heart peaceful and jubilant.
Roy had some of his dad’s disposition and in no time made dozens of friends in the hotel and on the beach. It meant I too had a glorious time in the company of new and exciting friends. We ate delectable food, played games and went on excursions to local tourist spots in two large cars Roy’s family had rented. But I also enjoyed the quiet, lazy hours I spent with Roy in our double room overlooking the sea, chatting about our life and dreams. Roy said he didn’t want to be an engineer like his father; nor did he want to run a business. Rather he wanted to be a forest officer, like my uncle he had met, live in a quiet rural town, explore the woods every day and come home in the evening and listen to folk music. He loved the sea, he said, and would take every vacation on a beach. He said he liked the sea so much that he would one day like to die right next to it. We spent our days swimming long hours and then relaxing on the beach under a large umbrella and reading.
We went our different ways after school and I heard that Roy had joined his dad’s company, which surprised nobody. Within two years, however, he found a job with the government’s forest service and went to work in a remote corner of India. We exchanged an occasional letter and, five years later, we met up for a drink. Roy loved his work and lived the way he had dreamed, except that he had now a wife and baby. He said his pay wasn’t good enough for his family to vacation on the beach, but he expected shortly to save enough to be able to take his wife and child for a vacation on the beach we had been together.
Seven years later I had a letter on familiar hotel stationery: Roy had taken his wife and daughter to the beach where we had spent a summer together and was staying in the same hotel and, believe it or not, in the same room overlooking the sea. It had taken him some time, but he had fulfilled his project of a family vacation on the beach. I felt happy for him.
It was a shock to get a notice of a funeral service for Roy a few days later. I called his wife and expressed my sympathy, but could not bring myself to ask her how his end had come. She volunteered it was ‘sudden’ but did not explain whether it was an accident or an unexpected health problem. That left me free to imagine: Roy was swimming in the ocean, his body glistening in the late-afternoon sun, his arms moving rhythmically as his ears echoed the folk music he enjoyed, his eyes on the beach he so loved, his heart peaceful and jubilant.
I had just arrived in the United Arab Emirates for several months’ work and went for a long walk along the seaside in the capital city of Abu Dhabi. Hungry, I stopped for a meal at a large boat that had been converted into a charming seafood restaurant.
Hardly had I taken a seat when an elderly waiter came to the table with a check on his tray. Seeing me, he asked if I was with the Indian gentleman who had been sitting there earlier. I explained that, though I was from India, I did not know the previous Indian diner. Visibly perturbed, the waiter stated the obvious: that the man had left an unpaid bill. I suggested that he leave the bill on the table, explaining that the client might have gone to the restroom or left absent-mindedly and could come back.
I then placed my order and, when it came, was pleased to find the food delicious. By the time I finished my meal, however, the earlier client hadn’t come back and the bill remained unpaid. When the waiter came with my tab, I paid it, tipped, and added another sixty dollars to cover the earlier customer’s meal. The waiter remonstrated, “But, sir, you didn’t even know him!”
“That is true,” I gently responded, “but I wouldn’t like you to think poorly of Indians.”
The waiter was very appreciative. I told him that I was staying at the nearest hotel and expected to visit the restaurant again to benefit from his excellent service.
The next day, my first day at work, I stayed late at the office, and when I returned to my hotel I was surprised to receive an envelope from the receptionist at the front desk. Inside were sixty dollars and a note in Arabic that I could not decipher. The receptionist translated the message for me:
“Thank you for your kindness. The Indian gentleman came back today and paid his check. I wouldn’t like you to think poorly of Arabs.”
Hardly had I taken a seat when an elderly waiter came to the table with a check on his tray. Seeing me, he asked if I was with the Indian gentleman who had been sitting there earlier. I explained that, though I was from India, I did not know the previous Indian diner. Visibly perturbed, the waiter stated the obvious: that the man had left an unpaid bill. I suggested that he leave the bill on the table, explaining that the client might have gone to the restroom or left absent-mindedly and could come back.
I then placed my order and, when it came, was pleased to find the food delicious. By the time I finished my meal, however, the earlier client hadn’t come back and the bill remained unpaid. When the waiter came with my tab, I paid it, tipped, and added another sixty dollars to cover the earlier customer’s meal. The waiter remonstrated, “But, sir, you didn’t even know him!”
“That is true,” I gently responded, “but I wouldn’t like you to think poorly of Indians.”
The waiter was very appreciative. I told him that I was staying at the nearest hotel and expected to visit the restaurant again to benefit from his excellent service.
The next day, my first day at work, I stayed late at the office, and when I returned to my hotel I was surprised to receive an envelope from the receptionist at the front desk. Inside were sixty dollars and a note in Arabic that I could not decipher. The receptionist translated the message for me:
“Thank you for your kindness. The Indian gentleman came back today and paid his check. I wouldn’t like you to think poorly of Arabs.”
Dan was grossly obese. From the moment he joined our school, he was the butt of many jokes. He tried to be friendly, but the other boys and I would have none of it. I did not particularly want to be unkind to him, but I considered it important to be one of the crowd. That Dan was from a wealthy family and came to school in a chauffeured car somehow made it easier to laugh at his expense.
One day I fractured an ankle on the school playground. The headmaster called my father, but it would be a long time before he could find a taxi and come fetch me. So Dan asked his driver to give me a lift home. After that Dan and I started spending time together, and I found him genuinely good-natured and amiable. To my surprise he ate very little; a thyroid problem accounted for his large size. Doctors continued to treat his condition, but he seemed placidly resigned to it.
I hid my friendship with Dan from our classmates, even going along with their cruel jokes, though it made me increasingly uncomfortable. Then Dan began coming to school less regularly. He told me he had begun to feel unwell, as a specialist had warned his parents he might.
Finally Dan stopped coming to school altogether. The teacher told us he had become quite sick. Without telling my classmates, I went to see him. When I sat down next to his bed, he smiled wanly. He was writing in a notebook — keeping a journal of his illness, he said, so that he could later tell our class what he had been through. He wanted his classmates to understand why he was so large.
I admired his beautiful fountain pen. I had never seen such a fancy writing instrument before. Dan promptly said I could borrow it and return it to him the next time I visited. Maybe it was his way of ensuring I would come back. I took the pen and showed it off to friends the next day, though I avoided mentioning where I’d gotten it.
I never visited Dan again. The following week the headmaster announced that Dan had died. I went home and looked at the beautiful pen and wished I had openly acknowledged his friendship.
ooo
One day I fractured an ankle on the school playground. The headmaster called my father, but it would be a long time before he could find a taxi and come fetch me. So Dan asked his driver to give me a lift home. After that Dan and I started spending time together, and I found him genuinely good-natured and amiable. To my surprise he ate very little; a thyroid problem accounted for his large size. Doctors continued to treat his condition, but he seemed placidly resigned to it.
I hid my friendship with Dan from our classmates, even going along with their cruel jokes, though it made me increasingly uncomfortable. Then Dan began coming to school less regularly. He told me he had begun to feel unwell, as a specialist had warned his parents he might.
Finally Dan stopped coming to school altogether. The teacher told us he had become quite sick. Without telling my classmates, I went to see him. When I sat down next to his bed, he smiled wanly. He was writing in a notebook — keeping a journal of his illness, he said, so that he could later tell our class what he had been through. He wanted his classmates to understand why he was so large.
I admired his beautiful fountain pen. I had never seen such a fancy writing instrument before. Dan promptly said I could borrow it and return it to him the next time I visited. Maybe it was his way of ensuring I would come back. I took the pen and showed it off to friends the next day, though I avoided mentioning where I’d gotten it.
I never visited Dan again. The following week the headmaster announced that Dan had died. I went home and looked at the beautiful pen and wished I had openly acknowledged his friendship.
ooo
