The deli had once served the area as a thriving Indian restaurant, but the neighborhood changed and a more corporate ethnic eatery opened nearby with cheaper prices. The Dhillons were smart, though. Instead of resigning to their fate, they simply changed the menu.
Now the restaurant sold deli sandwiches and, as it turned out, there was a high demand for such things in a city where people rated convenience on par with quality. The Dhillons still sold Indian fare, too, but it was the simple sandwiches that kept them in business. Mr. Dhillon often spoke of the great American dream and how he’d come to this country with very little. There was pride in his voice when he looked at Adesh, the non-verbal passing of the torch conveyed in the exchange.
Geet turned on the small stereo, slicing through Shyla’s thoughts. Bhangra music, a fusion of Punjabi folk and British rock, permeated the space, the fast-paced drums matching the girl’s enthusiasm. Adesh raised his eyebrows at Shyla. Music, in her opinion, was the greatest barrier breaker that existed. Her body moved to it, responding to his unasked question. He grabbed Shyla’s arm and spun her around while the Dhillon family clapped for them. She moved her hips and managed to shake her shoulders in the demure, feminine way that portrayed the subtle intricacies of Indian dance and the sexiness of Bollywood. For some reason, her shyness didn’t surface with the Dhillon family. It was easy to dance with Adesh. They had clear harmony, even though they lacked chemistry.
He moved her toward a quiet corner. “I can always marry you and then you can stay,” Adesh said as if the absurd idea added weight to his argument.
“You’re going to marry a Hindu village girl? And a Gujarati? What will your Punjabi parents say?” she joked, although such mixed marriages were now commonplace. Still, it seemed odd when considering he insisted his sister marry a fellow Sikh.
“They’ll ask the one question we Punjabis ask. Can she dance? And the answer is yes.”
Shyla laughed, spinning away from him. “I’m sorry, Adesh, but I have to decline. My family has plans for me.”
“You know, we can just run away together. Every happy ending begins with a good song and dance number,” he said with an impish grin.
The abrupt halt of the music drew their attention. A uniformed officer walked through the door, a frown on his face.
“Is there a problem, sir?” Mr. Dhillon asked.
“We’ve had a complaint about the music.”
The deli was empty of customers, and the radio wasn’t loud, but the neighboring businesses always had issues, even though the bar across the street blared music several octaves louder.
“Our most humble apologies, policeman sir. We will keep it down,” Adesh said, his voice in a high-pitched imitation of the stereotypical Indian accent. His handsome face transformed into a sour expression that bordered on a scowl. Mr. Dhillon winced.
“Be sure you do.” The officer walked away but stopped and turned back once more, his gaze lingering on Mr. Dhillon’s head covering.
“This is a turban,” Adesh said slowly, pointing to his father’s head. He held up his hands in a signal of surrender. “No need to freak, officer. We are Sikh. We come from Punjab, which is in India. India is not in Pakistan or the Middle East.”
“That’s enough,” Mr. Dhillon admonished his son.
“I am aware of that,” the officer replied. “Keep the music down and make it easier for all of us, please.”
Adesh went to open his mouth, but his father clasped a hand on his son’s shoulder in warning. Shyla gripped the edge of the stone countertop, silently praying for the officer’s swift departure.
“Why do you incite, son?” Mrs. Dhillon asked when the officer left.
“Because they have no right to judge us. There are two kinds of people in this country. The ones who think we’re lovable people because they’ve watched Slumdog Millionaire and those who believe we are terrorists because of our skin color and turbans.”
“I didn’t bring you here for a better life to watch you throw it away with your hostility. That’s not who we are. You insult our crowns with your disrespect,” Mr. Dhillon said.
Although Shyla was Hindu and not Sikh, she knew enough to understand the turban represented the Sikh identity and the commitment to their faith. It wasn’t a piece of cloth, but rather their own self-crowning and desire to live like their guru who fought for equality and peace. In recent years, the turban had falsely transformed into a symbol of terrorism. Funny how meanings could be misconstrued. The Hindus had considered the swastika a visual image for good luck long before Hitler shifted the design for his own purposes.
Shyla headed toward the kitchen. The previous jovial mood had dissolved into thin air. She organized the next day’s deli platter orders, trying to ignore Adesh’s hostile voice.
It wasn’t long before he found her. “My dad’s always on my ass,” he said, moving to stand beside her. “Can you believe that bullshit?”
“The officer was doing his job. He has to respond to every complaint.”
His frown turned to a glare. Clearly, he had sought her out in search of an ally, and she’d failed him yet again.
“I understand why—” she began, but his bitter laugh cut her sentence short.
“You understand nothing, gullible girl. I guess it’s true what they say. You can take the girl from the village, but you can never wash the village off the girl.”
The order slips fell from her shaking hand. She’d had it. Her anger required a great deal of fuel, but Adesh had sparked it like a lit match tossed into a keg of kerosene.
She lowered her voice, but her words came with clipped clarity. “You think because I wasn’t born here I can’t understand racism? You think it’s hard to live here because people judge you once in a while? That kind of thing exists everywhere, even at home. In fact, it’s worse there. You know why? Because there we all look the same, and yet we’re still judged on our language, religion, caste, and the money in our bank accounts, so don’t you tell me I don’t understand.”
His clenched jaw loosened. He placed his hand on her shoulder, his expression contrite. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking tired of explaining I’m not a Muslim. I feel like wearing a badge that says I am not a terrorist.”
“Most Muslims aren’t either, you idiot. I hope you take a few minutes to analyze the irony of your own statement.”
His lips pinched in a tight grimace, and the air thickened around them, making the ringing phone sound like a warning siren. She’d never spoken to him this way, but in the heat of the moment, she didn’t care. He was a good person…hotheaded and misguided, but good. She liked him, but sometimes she wanted to slap the unnatural scowl from his face. That expression didn’t fit him. He was the boy who took heavy groceries from her, made funny jokes, and spontaneously danced with her.
Luckily, Geet’s voice rang out, slicing through the tension. “Number five for 15C on The West Oracle Tower.”
“Excuse me, that’s my order,” Shyla said, marching past him.
He grasped her arm. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
“I have nothing else to say to you. Let go of me.”
He withdrew his hold. She rushed away, but his eyes continued to follow her while she made the sandwiches and bid goodnight to the Dhillons.
Gripping the handle of the umbrella tightly, she marched toward her destination, grounding out each step with determination. Even though the cold wind whipped around her, she burned hot. Still, she found a sweet vindication in the argument with Adesh. She’d bitten her tongue so many times that her voice was always thick around him.
Adrenaline coursed through her, creating a newfound courage