Yes, My Accent Is Real Read online

“That’s a really cute story,” she said, much to my relief.

  Look, all these years later, I’m still in love with Winnie Cooper. I think every guy born between 1974 and 1985 is still in love with her. But it got me thinking. More than just Winnie, and Danica, and the stage kiss we shared, more than the beanie and the coffee and the seventeen Altoids, I just can’t stop thinking about how life comes full circle. There are forces in this universe that are beyond our control; they’re nonlinear, and they can’t be explained by science or mathematics. You see, just as I thought about Winnie Cooper when I kissed Ishani, I thought about Ishani when I kissed Winnie Cooper. It brought back that memory of us sitting side by side on the bed, of the lights flickering on and off, of that twelve-year-old boy who knew so little of the world.

  I hadn’t thought of Ishani—my first crush, the first girl who broke my heart—in years. So after the Winnie Kiss I wondered what had become of her. I searched for her on Facebook, I googled, I asked my cousin about her. It turns out that she married one of the seniors from my high school, a kid who wore Doc Martens and smoked cigarettes out the window of our school bus. I wonder if she’s happy. I wonder if she’ll read this. I wonder if she ever thinks about our kiss.

  And as for Danica? She was recently on Dancing with the Stars, and to the surprise of no one, she still looks incredible. She was partnered with the dancing coach Valentin Chmerkovskiy. I can’t help but wonder if perhaps, twenty years ago, Valentin Chmerkovskiy saw an episode of The Wonder Years in which Kevin danced with Winnie for the first time, and if when twelve-year-old Valentin danced with a girl for the very first time, he closed his eyes and thought of Winnie Cooper. Maybe life came full circle for him, too.

  * * *

  I. Many houses in New Delhi worked that way: my mom, dad, brother, and I lived on the ground floor, and my aunt, uncle, and cousin lived in a separate residence on the first floor.

  II. I vomited the first time I smoked. It didn’t stop me.

  III. Though on occasion you can probably get away with 10 percent tongue.

  My A-to-Z Guide to Getting Nookie in New Delhi During High School

  MY CHILDHOOD WAS SPENT IN an all-boys school. Nothing about that is cool. We basically stood around and scratched our balls and thought about girls and giggled. Girls were never around. And what happens when girls aren’t around? Boys begin to act like maniacal hooligans. We were so full of pent-up sexual aggression that we took it out on each other by playing a game called “India and Pakistan,” which, I suppose, is sort of like “Cowboys and Indians,” except instead of make-believe whooping and yelling, we threw actual stones at each other. My face was hit by many rocks. (Which is probably why today I play an astrophysicist and not Romeo.)

  Just as in America we also had science fair projects, but in our school we had to actually present our work in front of the entire student body, giving a speech about hydropowered generators or whatever. In theory, the rest of the students would listen to the presentation, admire the hard work, and ask insightful follow-up questions to further our understanding. In reality, we used this as an opportunity to ask questions to screw up the presenter. We took notes, looked for weaknesses, and tried to figure out the trickiest question that would stump them. One year this kid gave a presentation on, well, hydropowered generators. I scribbled notes and worked on a good Gotcha! question. After forty-five minutes I raised my hand and asked, “So, what exactly is a ‘hydropowered generator’?”

  The kid didn’t blink. Calmly he said, “If you had listened to the presentation, then you would know what it was, so obviously you weren’t paying attention.”

  The crowd let out a collective “ooooooooooooh.” I had just gotten a smackdown. At least there weren’t any girls around. Because we didn’t have any interaction with women, our only hope was to organize PG-rated parties at each other’s houses, invite the one girl we knew (she had a mustache and helped out with cricket practice), and then ask her to bring her friends from the adjoining all-girls school. This often resulted in a ratio of forty-five guys to two girls. And one of them was almost a dude. All we did was dance in one big awkward circle. Everyone was too scared to talk to the girls, really, so we tried to win their affections with superhuman feats of endurance and strength.

  “Who can drink this Coca-Cola the fastest?”

  “I can!”

  “No, I can!”

  “I can!”

  “One, two, three, go!”

  We jumped onto a table and guzzled a bottle of Coke, somehow convinced that if we drank it the fastest, the girls would melt with desire. Watch me. Want me. Chug, chug, chug . . . I chugged that damn Coke so fast that it exploded through my nose, sending saliva, snot, and blood everywhere. Ever had a nosebleed from Coca-Cola? I did. I think it was even coming out of my eyes. The two girls were grossed out and I never saw them again. Who cares? They were probably weirdos anyway.

  “How many cartwheels can you do?!” someone asked at another party.

  “Let’s see who can jump the highest!”

  “Who can do the most push-ups?!”

  It was sort of like medieval times, or what I know of medieval times from Disney cartoons, where you hope to woo the village maiden through manly acts of valor. It never worked, though, because I can’t imagine any girl ever thinking, I wonder which boy can jump the highest? I wanna get with HIM tonight.

  The camaraderie in an all-boys school is epic. We really felt a sense of brotherhood. So when the seniors graduated each year, it was a very emotional moment. The juniors would throw the seniors a good-bye party. In my junior year, about four girls came to this party, which made us very proud, and I gave a speech to honor the graduates.

  “We’ll always love you, we’ll miss you, and we have a special song for you,” I said, wiping back tears. Then I motioned for the DJ to play Diddy’s “I’ll Be Missing You.” Diddy had just played that song at the MTV Movie Awards, and in the video he does this dance where he looks like a penguin who opens his wings to flap out the excess water. We all did that slow Penguin Dance together in unison, and then some of the junior boys took the senior boys on their shoulders, swaying back and forth in an emotional ballad. I’ll be missing you. . . . I looked around and saw all four of the girls shaking their heads at us, thinking, What the shit did I get myself into? It was basically this massive room of guys crying, dancing like penguins, and bro-ing out to P. Diddy. End. Of. Scene.

  On the off chance that we met girls, I had an A-to-Z Guide to Getting Nookie in New Delhi:

  A. I see a pretty girl (or any girl) dancing in a group at a party.

  B. I begin to dance closer to her group of friends, inching my way to the center.

  C. I reach the center of the group and take steps dancing toward said girl, and then back away while still dancing. If she is interested, she dances toward me as I back away. We go back and forth like this.

  D. After song I introduce myself and meet her friends.

  E. My other friends approach and we all set a movie date for both groups of friends to go out together.

  F. During group movie date, said girl and I magically find ourselves sitting together.

  G. Elbows touch.

  H. Reach for popcorn at same time girl does.

  I. Hold hands inside popcorn.

  J. During the movie, maneuver thigh until it touches girl’s resting hand.

  K. Close eyes and dream.

  L. After thigh touch we are now dating.

  M. Endless phone chatting ensues.

  N. More group movie dates.

  O. Bunk school (play hooky) and end up at friend’s empty house.

  P. Go into a guest bedroom and lock door.

  Q. Fill bathtub with soap and hot water.

  R. Take bath together with all clothes on.

  S. Kiss on cheek.

  T. Move to neck.

  U. Move to lips.

  V. Rub hands on body (over clothes).

  W. Friend’s parents come home, bath time ends.
>
  X. Parents find out about bunking, no more baths.

  Y. More group movie dates.

  Z. Break up. . . . It has been three years. Return immediately to Step A.

  Made in England

  HAVE I MENTIONED THAT I was actually born in England? I was two weeks premature and a C-section (sorry about that, Mom).I It was April 30, 1981, a Thursday, I believe. Rainy probably, because it was Hounslow, which is in London, close to Heathrow Airport. The Indian ghetto, if you will.

  I was just four years old when my parents decided it was time to go back to India and take care of their parents. So, my memories of England are quite limited. I’m not one of those eidetic memory people like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory. But I do specifically remember waiting by the window for Dad to come home from work. I had this blue onesie that was softer than a baby’s bottom, and I wore it all the time. It was so soft that it even doubled as a blanket. We had this big window that overlooked the street. I remember crawling up onto the sofa and standing just tall enough to peek over the windowsill. I’m not sure babies can tell time, but in my memory I could feel when it was getting close. I guess my brain was the size of dog’s brain, and they can tell when it’s time for their master to come home, so surely there is some correlation. When I spotted Dad from a distance I would begin to make all sorts of sounds and noises, probably saying things like “Dad’s comingggg hommmeeeee yeeeeaaaaahhhhhhh,” but what really came out was “googoo gaga.”

  And that is all.

  That was England.

  * * *

  I. I would use the term Caesarean, but it makes me think too much of a certain salad.

  King of Shuttlecocks

  WHEN I TELL PEOPLE THAT I played badminton growing up they laugh at me and call me girly. Because, I guess, in America badminton is a sport played by girls in their grandmother’s backyard. I mean there is some merit in laughing at a sport in which the object you hit is called a “birdie,” or more correctly, a “shuttlecock.” Yes, the ball of badminton is called a shuttlecock. Shuttle-cock. But I still played it with fervor. And you may not believe me, but I even picked up chicks while showing off my badminton moves. I swear.

  My family had joined a private club, aptly called “Friends Club,” because it was located in an area called “Friends Colony,” which wasn’t really a colony of friends; it was just, I don’t know, a neighborhood. Anyway. This Friends Club had tennis courts, squash courts, a gym, a musty old English-type pub, a pool, and an indoor badminton court. At first I played tennis but the courts were too damn crowded, so I switched to badminton since it capitalized on my ninjalike agility and superior hand-eye coordination.I They kept the courts indoors, with basically no air-conditioning or ventilation. And have I mentioned that New Delhi is hot as balls? So what you think of as this “grandmother sport” was played in a 120-degree sauna with 95 percent humidity. You basically played the game in a sticky pool of sweat.

  Quickly I became good—they called me the Tiger Woods of badminton. Which is a lie. I had a flamboyant playing style where I dove for birdies that were easily within reach, and sometimes, just for kicks, I intentionally lost points so I could stage a dramatic comeback. Women love underdogs, after all, and the girls would come from the pool to watch our heroics. This gave me a jolt of self-confidence and boosted my social standing. I knew I was good when “Gap and Guess Girl,” a girl who earned her nickname by, well, always wearing shorts from the Gap and Guess, graced us with her lovely presence. (She later ended up stalking me; long story.)

  I should mention that this club also served food. And among the many delectable items was one very special dish called “cheeseballs.” Let’s examine this for a second. Cheese-balls. Balls of cheese. Fried. Served with spicy powder and ketchup. And Indian ketchup is already spicy. So fried balls of cheese, spicy masala, and spicy ketchup, all washed down with an ice-cold lemonade. One month I ate cheeseballs every day. Cheeseballs in my face, after shuttlecocks and chicks. I think when I die I want that on my tombstone. “RIP Kunal Nayyar: Shuttlecock-smashing Romeo, died for love of cheeseballs.”

  Another cheeseball was a guy who worked at the courts, a man we called “the Marker,” who was the laziest drunk I’ve ever seen. A slender guy with a big potbelly, he’d been an excellent badminton player years before, or so he said, but now he just coasted on his reputation and spent most of his afternoons sleeping on benches.

  “Kunal, my house burnt down,” he told me once.

  “Oh my God, that’s terrible.”

  “Do you think your family could help me out?” he asked.

  “But wait . . . Didn’t your house burn down last summer?”

  He told me forty-three times that his house burnt down. He also drank whiskey like it was Gatorade. During the afternoons he was supermean and grumpy to the kids, but at 7 p.m., when the adults entered the club, he suddenly perked up and became joyful and happy. (The adults, unlike us, had money and would tip.)

  But the Marker was a saint, I suppose, compared to this sixteen-year-old kid who was rumored to be doing drugs and sleeping with prostitutes. He was the court’s bully, sometimes smacking the younger kids in the face with his racket. Supposedly he was part of some gang. He was a handsome chap and had nice hair, except his thumb had an extra finger growing out of it. We called him Six Fingers.

  One day Six Fingers was picking on the younger kids, like always, but this time one of them, my friend Addy, talked back to him. Addy was in the middle of a match and Six Fingers basically stormed the court and told the youngsters to get lost so he could play. Addy had had enough of the bullying and decided not to leave.

  Six Fingers slapped him in the face. Hard. He drew blood and Addy had to go home.

  The next day, and I have no idea where this courage came from, I confronted Six Fingers.

  “Yesterday, when you slapped Addy, that wasn’t right.”

  Six Fingers gave me a hard look. His eyes were tinged with red. People didn’t talk to Six Fingers like this. He inched closer to me. I stood my ground. He moved a little closer and I could smell his rotten breath.

  Then he said something to me in Hindi that crudely translates to “Do you have an insect inside you?”

  Huh? I told him I did not.

  “Should I take it out?”

  “No, I don’t have an insect inside me, so no reason for you to take it out.”

  This was his way of telling me not to cross the line with him. My badminton skills, and the fact that some of the older guys liked having me on their team, were the only thing that prevented me from getting a racket shoved up my ass. This, however, was my last and only warning. Insect? I still don’t really get it.

  The episode strengthened my friendship with Addy, who quickly became my top rival, the Nadal to my Federer. And the dude could really play. He’s five five, a little shorter than me, but stocky and strong. Addy also happened to have an exceptionally square head, which made him look like a real-life bobblehead doll.

  Addy was a smasher. This was his great advantage. He was less nimble but he played with so much power—he could smash the shuttlecock to my feet. He played with force; I played with finesse. A classic case of the Irresistible Force versus the Immovable Object . . . I watch too many movies.

  One day the club hired a new swimming coach. He was Israeli, eighteen years old, this good-looking guy who wore tiny swim trunks and had the first six-pack I’d ever seen. He had no body hair. Every girl had a crush on him and maybe I did, too. We became friends and he showed me some moves from Krav Maga, the Israeli martial arts, and I learned a few punches and kicks. I told him about Hindi culture and he taught me about Israeli food. I idolized him. It was almost like a summer bromance.

  Leon was vague and mysterious about his past, and I sensed that he had been through some shit. One evening he called our home to say that he would not be coming back to Friends Club, ever.

  “Some problems with . . . the authorities,” he said cryptically.

  “Are you o
kay?” I could feel the panic in my voice.

  “I’m a little beat up,” he said, and then I learned that he was officially accused of stealing, though the charges were bullshit. It turns out that he had fallen in love with a seventeen-year-old girl, and when the girl’s father and brothers found out, they accused him of stealing and then broke his arm and gave him two black eyes. After he told me all this on the phone I turned to my parents, asking if they could take me to the club.

  “We’re in the middle of dinner, Kunal.”

  “But he’s been beaten up. I have to see him.”

  “We’re eating!”

  “He has two black eyes! I need to see him!” I began crying, and my parents were baffled. Why did I care so much that this guy had been beaten up?

  “You can see him tomorrow,” my mother said.

  They didn’t understand the depths of my feelings, and I’m not sure I did, either. My brother eventually drove me to the Friends Club after dinner, and I saw Leon and his black eyes. We took a quiet stroll around the club, reminiscing about how fun the summer had been. He told me he was being deported back to Israel. I think I kind of loved him. The pool never did seem quite the same after he left. I wonder where he is today. It’s funny how, as kids and teenagers, we have friendships and relationships that, at the time, feel like the most cherished bonds of our lives, and then, as the years go by, we find ways to replace the irreplaceable. And maybe, when my parents were confused by my tears, they actually weren’t that confused. Maybe they understood perfectly. Maybe they knew that, yes, I would be stung by the end of this friendship, but that this is part of life, and I would go through these kinds of breakups, like all of us, again and again and again.

  In 1996 we had the first inaugural Friends Club Badminton Tournament. I was fifteen and at the peak of my prowess on the court. The whole club community and neighborhood turned out for this grand championship. My parents were there. And all my cousins. And my grandparents, brother, and friends. Even Six Fingers was in the crowd and cheering us on. For a second I even wondered if Leon might be somewhere in the crowd. I cruised through my first few opponents—Federer in the openings rounds of Wimbledon—and faced my first real challenge in the semifinals, where I played a dude who looked like Scorpion from Mortal Kombat, like he always had a mask over his face even though he never wore a mask. You could only see his eyes and these eyes told you nothing. He tested me at first but I won the match in straight sets, sending me to the greatest showdown of my young career: the Badminton Championship Match.