An Indian in America

The man looks up from his meal, nervously glancing at the small group of students that has just stepped inside.

He should be over it at this point in his life.

But he’s not.

At this rate, he probably never will be.

He takes another bite, this time noticing the back of his aging hands.

Darker than usual.

The summer sun does it every year. His mother used to warn him about that. She would get surprisingly concerned about the jump in melanin production.

The cheerful group makes its way to the counter, intently examining the menu and comparing their notes.

The accent. It’s thick. The man feels a pang of shame. He can’t help it. Years of torment will do that. He used to ask his parents to whisper in public. In front of his friends, at least. Why give them more material? he used to think.

Now, in middle age, he knows he’s the outlier. Why else would someone with those hands speak with that accent?

The first student places his order. He’s a healthy thin. Must have just gotten here—the calories will catch up. He looks almost like a child.

Except for the mustache. Not exactly hipster material. It reminds the man of the one his father had in all those old pictures. Always a source of entertainment. Apparently never out of style.

“One veggie burger,” the student orders. Not surprising.

The next one in the group orders the same thing. She’s pretty.

The man can’t help but think dot head. It was his nickname, after all. He obviously never wore one, but his mother did. He begged her to take it off. She finally did, but the nickname stuck.

The rest of the students order. Seems like a nice bunch. Their kids will have it easy here.

The man thinks back to his school. The 1980s. He was a one-percenter back then. Ninety-nine percent of his classmates were paler. He wonders what the number is now. He knows it’s lower. Much lower. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

The group gets its order and heads for an empty oval table. The man makes brief eye contact. He might even nod. A few seem to nod back.

That used to turn into a conversation a couple decades ago. The curiosity used to be overwhelming. Now, the occasions are too frequent to acknowledge. Beyond the slight nod, that is.

He probably would have already known the students from the temple. But he hadn’t been there in years. Never clicked really. And now it would be awkward. English was fine. But a sprinkle of Hindi never hurt. And his skills were getting worse every year, ever since his grandparents died.

He looks down again, briefly wondering what life would have been like if he were like them. Milwaukee seems a long way off. Probably why I married someone from West Virginia. His wife is not like them either. Aside from the hands. Her hands show the sun too.

The man gets up. All the different bins make him pause, but he quickly figures it out.

And then he picks up the pace. Better not be late to pick up Asha again.

It’s Tuesday.

Hip hop dance day.

His daughter’s favorite.

The cheeseburger wasn’t all that good today, the man decides.

He’ll go with the veggie burger the next time.