Yes, My Accent Is Real Page 3

  My opponent? Addy, of course. Everyone had expected to see Addy and me in the finals; this is what the crowd had paid to watch. (Well, no one actually paid anything.) Nadal versus Federer. Foreman versus Ali. Skywalker versus Vader. It was the biggest match of my life, and, I suppose, this was my first real moment on a stage. The crowd whispered in anticipation, nervous, and I imagined them on the edge of their seats, almost afraid of the match they were about to witness, a duel between two friends that would make one a legend, the other a shell of his former self.II

  We knew each other’s games very well. I won the coin toss and chose to serve first. Badminton is the best of three games, and each game goes to fifteen points. Everyone in that stadium (yes, in my mind, we were in a stadium) knew that I had one killer weapon: my drop shot. Instead of sending the birdie deep I could flick it just slightly over the net, making it damn near impossible to return. With Addy, though, I had to change my strategy. A drop shot is a double-edged sword: yes, it might win you a point if your opponent is too far away to get to it, but if they do reach the birdie in time, you’ve just made the mistake of inviting them to the net, and once they’re at the net, they’re in prime position to smash the next point. And Addy, of course, was the ultimate smasher. The drop shot was too risky—I had to put it on ice.

  I served first. I had a flamboyant style of serving, dropping the shuttlecock from high above my head with an absurdly long windup. When I served I tried to push him back as far as I could, which, theoretically, would neutralize his smashing advantage.

  The first point was a thirty-seven-shot rally, and it set the tone for the entire match. Neither of us gave an inch. Since I pushed him back he did the same to me, which led to exceptionally long rallies. We both played toward the back of the court. Addy was better at targeting my backhand, which is weaker, so my shots came dangerously close to sailing out of bounds. My plan backfired. I was pushing too hard, aiming too close to the back of the court, and it cost me several points.

  I lost the first game 15–11.

  We had a quick break and I sipped a family concoction of lemonade spiked with electrolyte powder, given to me by my mother in a beautiful steel flask. I felt exhausted and low and beaten. While I guzzled the juice, someone tapped my shoulder.

  The drunkard Marker, who managed the courts.

  He whispered his whiskey breath into my ear, “Why aren’t you using your drop shot?”

  “I can’t. He’ll smash it,” I said.

  “That’s your game. Play your game. Play your strength,” the Marker said, then quietly slipped away. (Wait, he knew my game? Maybe all his napping was just a ruse, and he was secretly a badminton Yoda.)

  I had new fire in my eyes. I decided, Fuck it, he’s right. I’m going to play my game.

  On the first point of the second game I unleashed my drop shot . . . and it caught him off guard. One to zero, Kunal. I could suddenly smell the fear. He had been lulled into staying too far to the back, and once I had the drop shot working he was slow to recover. Drop shot after drop shot, each one a perfect little arc that dribbled over the net. I won the second game 15–9. (I saw Gap and Guess Girl in the crowd and gave her a wink.)

  Game three. Easily the biggest moment in the history of Friends Club, and perhaps the biggest moment in the history of Indian sport competition.

  At this point we are too exhausted to really be thinking strategy. It is just flat-out war. The crowd gasps after each and every point, and I am too tired to do my usual showman’s trick of diving for birdies that are easily within reach. Just point after point after point, back and forth, drop shots and smashes, deep shots, long rallies, short rallies, and we’re both dripping with sweat. You have to understand that badminton is a sport that’s fast. You’re running all the time. Yes, the court is smaller than a tennis court, but the difference is that as soon as you hit the shuttlecock it comes right back to you, meaning that you’re sprinting left, right, backward, forward, every three seconds. Go watch some badminton on YouTube—you’ll see.

  Finally, at the end of this marathon game, the score is tied 14–14 (because of course it is).

  When the game is tied, to win the match you have to win by a difference of two points. I win the next point, so it’s 15–14.

  Match point.

  If I win this I become the champion. So, I fake a serve that looks like it will go toward the back of the court . . . and then I drop it in front. Drop shot.

  Addy sees it. He gets to it. He got there. Then he hits this beautiful drop shot of his own, right in front of the net, and flicks his wrist to put a spin on the shuttlecock so that it wobbles as it falls, making it nearly impossible to return.

  My only option at this point is to desperately scoop the birdie into the air, with no control or power, which would lob back to him in the easiest shot he had seen all day. My. Only. Option. So I do it. I watch as the shuttlecock rises slowly, slowly, slooooooowwwwwwly setting him up for the perfect smash. I have just given him a Christmas gift.

  He has all the time in the world. He pulls the racket back for a smash, whooshes it forward . . . and smashes the birdie into the net.

  Sixteen to fourteen, Kunal.

  I have won.

  I am the Badminton Champion of the World.

  The next day I got out of bed and it felt like there wasn’t any fluid in my body. Every muscle was in so much pain. I was a little embarrassed at the way I celebrated the victory—double-fist pumping as if I had just won Wimbledon—but glad that at least I shook Addy’s hand and congratulated him on a hard-fought game. Oddly, though, the victory didn’t come with elation. It brought me a dose of guilt. I won that final point on Addy’s unforced error, and it felt like a lousy way to triumph. I flipped on the TV to catch the U.S. Open Final between Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi, and I couldn’t even watch them play, as the sight of them running made my own legs tired. I called Addy to see how he was doing.

  “Kunal, you won’t believe this, but I’m watching the U.S. Open and I’m too tired to even watch Agassi run.”

  We both laughed about the coincidence, took naps, and then somehow mustered enough energy for the afternoon’s trophy ceremony. Gracious as always, Addy suggested that I say a few words.

  A few words? Sure, you bet, I’ll say a few words. I wrote an entire speech that began, “In the year 1996 badminton was recorded as the fastest sport in the world. . . .” It was one of those. I literally spoke for twenty-six minutes—no joke. This is thirteen minutes longer than Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. It’s twenty-four minutes longer than the Gettysburg Address. I thanked Addy and my parents and the Marker and all my competitors and the girls in their swimsuits and the entire 17 billion people of India; there’s even a good chance I thanked you, dear reader.

  For some reason a year later, in the second annual tournament, they did not invite the winner to give a speech. Or, more technically, they did not allow me to give a speech, as I won the thing again. The tournament changed over time. You would think the tournament would get bigger and bigger, but for some reason, it was never quite the same. In future years they spent more money and bought a fancier trophy and installed an electronic leaderboard, but we never could recapture that original pixie dust.

  Or maybe the tournament stayed the same and I had changed. After I had won the championship, I entered an actual tournament that was held in an actual stadium used for the Olympic qualifiers. This wasn’t a “social club,” this was legit. Real players who trained with real coaches. In the first round I was matched up against the number-one player in New Delhi, a kid named Pinky, and I looked at this kid and realized he was poor. Dad had taken me to the game. I remember looking at Pinky’s shoes, which were falling apart; he wore a dirty T-shirt; and he didn’t have a fancy steel flask with lemonade and electrolytes. Pinky destroyed me in that first game 15–2. In the break before the second set I looked at Pinky in his dirty shoes, and Dad offered me the steel casket and I didn’t drink from it—I was so emb
arrassed by my beautiful thermos that I didn’t drink any fluids at all. In the second game I played as hard as I could, determined to win this scrappy kid’s respect . . . and lost the second game 15–9.

  “Who’s your coach?” Pinky asked afterward.

  I told him I didn’t have one.

  “Wait, then where do you take lessons?”

  “I’ve never taken a lesson.”

  Pinky looked at me a little differently, shook my hand, and that was enough. I had played with the best and lost. Maybe that was enough for me and badminton, period. My enthusiasm eventually waned. I still dove for the shuttlecocks to impress the Gap and Guess Girl, but by the time of the third annual tournament, as a senior my heart just wasn’t in it. Once again I reached the finals, this time to face Scorpion. I had a chance to win the tournament—which would give me a threepeat—but on match point, when I had an easy smash, I whiffed it into the net. (Somewhere Addy must have been laughing.) Karma’s a bitch. That’s okay, though—in a few months I would head to America to start college and begin a very different chapter in my life. I was almost thankful to lose that third finals. Looking back on it, I guess I felt sort of like LeBron in the 2014 NBA Finals, who, after being on top for so long, seemed worn down by the grind. Yup, me and LeBron—we’re basically the same person.

  Grandmother sport, my ass.

  Curling, on the other hand . . .

  * * *

  I. Translation: it’s the only sport where it didn’t matter that I was weak.

  II. I now realize that our parents were actually saying to each other, “Oh, what nice exercise these boys are getting! Such a healthy pastime.”

  Holiday Traditions Part 1: Rakhi

  Rakhi (RA-kee): n. annual Indian holiday honoring the bonds between siblings, close relatives, and friends.

  RAKHI IS AN ANNUAL INDIAN tradition that is meant to strengthen the bond between brothers and sisters. This is my favorite Indian festival because the ceremony is so beautiful: your sister, or your female cousin, or even just a girl who you think of as a sister—or who thinks of you as a brother—ties a little decorated thread, also known as a Rakhi, around your wrist. This symbolizes that she is praying for your long life, and once you accept this Rakhi, you have to protect her from all the evil in the world forever. It is a lifelong pledge of protection.

  There are, however, two problems with this lovely tradition. The first is that I have nineteen cousins in nineteen different homes. So when I was a kid this was a very stressful day, as I had to race from house to house and keep adding new threads. When your sister ties this ribbon on your hand it is also customary for her to feed you chocolate as a blessing, and in return, I have to give her an envelope with some cash. So after nineteen threads I’m not only broke as shit, I’m also ready to vomit from being force-fed too much chocolate. Still, though, I took pride in having so many cousins and quasi-sisters who needed my manly protection, and the next day at school I flashed my wrist full of threads, flaunting it like bling. Do you know the rapper 2 Chainz? I was like 19 Rakhiz.

  Then there’s the second problem: what if you want to hook up with a girl, and she asks you if she can tie you a Rakhi? It’s over. This is her ultimate way of saying “Oh, Kunal, I will always see you as my brother!” The Rakhi band is no joke—it’s not something you can undo. I took it very seriously. So, a few days before the holiday, I would hide from all these girls and pretend that I was sick and refuse to answer their calls.

  Rakhi (RA-kee):n. 1. annual Indian holiday honoring the bonds between siblings, close relatives, and friends. 2. The ultimate cock-block. See also Rakh-block.

  A Thought Recorded on an AeroplaneI Cocktail Napkin

  * * *

  I. Not a typo.

  Why Being Indian Is Cool

  DEAR READER, I KNOW WHAT you’re thinking: Kunal, you seem awesome and we should totally hang out sometime, but being Indian is soooooo not cool.

  Now, I don’t mean to throw my own culture under the bus, but if anyone is allowed to say it, it’s me; I mean, I am Indian. And dear reader, you’re right. We are not a nation of cool. We are not cool like the French, or the Italians, or anyone from South America. I’m not saying we’re entirely useless. We are known for some really good stuff, like medicine, engineering, and spicy food. But if you put us in a thong on a beach in Rio. . .

  Everything came to India a little late. You may remember a few of my favorite TV shows growing up—Small Wonder, M*A*S*H, Doogie Howser, M.D., and The Wonder Years. So when I moved to the States for college in 1999, all of my cultural references were about thirteen years behind the curve. I’d say things like, “Did you guys hear the new Bryan Adams song?” I worshipped true artists like UB40 and Mariah Carey. I could sing every word from “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You.”I I could even air-guitar the solo with one hand while playing air piano with the other. Recognize.

  Or take fashion. Even when I would try to dress cool, I’d still be held back by my Indianness. I might wear a great pair of jeans and a nice polo shirt, but under that polo you’d see a white undershirt. That means a shirt under a shirt. Think about that when it’s 120 degrees Fahrenheit and 99 percent humidity. When I went to the gym, my socks were pulled up to my knees and my shorts were so tight that if I bent over you would see some butt cheek, and maybe even the outline of my testes.II Despite my best efforts, my suit pants would often be a little too short, my shirts a little too shiny.

  Then, a few years ago, I noticed something really strange had happened. I noticed that retailers everywhere—from American Apparel to Barneys—had started stealing my look for their stores. Turns out that we Indians were hipsters before hipsters were even invented. Indians love big mustaches and thick-rimmed glasses. We love pocket calculators and pocket squares. We smell like musk and talcum and the earth but have the latest high-tech toys in our pockets. Today the coolest thing is to appear to be totally unconcerned with what’s cool. And I can’t help but wonder if we indeed are suddenly actually cool.

  It’s as if the entire fashion world has run out of ideas, only to begin recycling itself, leaving us, us Indians, at the forefront of cool. We were the original hipsters, with our facial hair and old-fashioned sensibilities. In a sense, we are the rise of the anti-cool movement that has in some roundabout way transformed us, actually, into a nation of cool.

  So to my Indian brothers and sisters, I say: Be proud and know that you are now cutting-edge. But don’t get used to it. This is fashion, so it will all change again soon.

  * * *

  I. Aka the stirring love theme from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

  II. Short for testicles, especially in short shorts.

  Dinners with Dad

  WHEN I WAS GROWING UP, it was a truth universally acknowledged that every night at eight thirty, no exceptions, we had to be seated at the dining room table for dinner. This was the one absolute law that my father enforced. No TV, no phone calls, no texting or Twitter or Facebook (in those days, it was more like no Walkman or pager or Game Boy). And no eating in silence, either. We were forced to share about our day. About what we’d been doing, how classes were, anything new that we had learned. Now, at the time I was pretty young, around ten years old, and as such these dinners could often seem tedious and boring. But the truth is, some of my greatest life lessons came from sitting around that solid mahogany dining table, a table that had once belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather. It had been around when the British took us over, and stood strong when we got our freedom. I always hoped that table could come to life and join these conversations. I’ll bet it would have a lot of wisdom to share. For a table.I

  Conversations would start trivially, maybe about school or about cricket. But then Dad would move on to something deeper; usually a topic that would bring up questions of morality and ethics, or why people of the same religion would turn on each other, or why we thought war existed. Heavy stuff. Or we would start by chatting about why one of my aunts was mad at my uncle, and this would se
gue into a discussion about personal morality. We talked a lot about relationships of all kinds, those between parents and children, or teachers and students, or friends and neighbors. My dad was always curious about humans, about how we react in different situations. He asked us hard questions at a young age, and even better, he listened carefully and respectfully when we answered. He could have dismissed our answers by claiming we were just children. But he always gave us respect; he really did make us feel like our ideas counted. And Dad wasn’t just some preachy old professor of philosophy. He was mad cool. He wore slim suits and had a handlebar mustache and Ray-Ban sunglasses—he was like the Original OG. Which I guess would make him the Original Original Gangster.

  Here are some things he taught me.II

  IF WHAT YOU WANT HAPPENS, GOOD. IF IT DOESN’T HAPPEN, VERY GOOD.

  When you want something really badly in life and it doesn’t pan out the way you envisioned, you really only have two options:

  1. You give up and you get dejected and you shit on yourself.

  2. You realize that every failure is an opportunity. It’s something you can learn from.