Yes, My Accent Is Real Read online

  I’ve experienced so many setbacks in life. I suppose all of us have. But this is probably the best advice I’ve ever been given, because it’s simple and useful and true.

  If it happens, GOOD. If it doesn’t happen, VERY GOOD.

  THERE ARE TWO SIDES TO EVERY STORY.

  Empathy at a young age is a great remedy for confusion. Even and in fact especially when it seems like the other side is absolutely wrong. (Which is in most cases, since we always think we’re right. Right?) In 1993, tensions between Hindus and Muslims flared up and literally surrounded us. Riots erupted just outside our neighborhood; we could hear the police sirens and see smoke from various fires around the city. Dad had such a strong sense of morality that even at that moment, amid all the chaos, he still pushed us to be empathetic. “Even though we are Hindu, Kunal, we must recognize that the Muslims feel just as strongly about their religion and their cause. And they also deserve the basic human rights we have. Why else would they be willing to die for their beliefs?”

  USE A SPREADSHEET.

  Dad was an accountant, so I knew how to use Excel before I knew how to unhook a bra. Everything had to fall within a budget, and all expenses and cash outflow as well as inflow had to be perfectly balanced in the spreadsheet. And to be honest, to this day spreadsheets still drive me bat-shit crazy. But using them has saved my ass again and again. Even as a naïve college freshman, my spreadsheet told me that if I spent too much on eating and going out, I wouldn’t have enough money to buy underwear. (So I didn’t. Buy underwear, that is.) So do your spreadsheets, everyone, lest you be left naked underneath your pants.

  DISARM WITH A SMILE.

  Valentine’s Day was a big deal when I was young. The year I finally had a girlfriend in Ishani (or so I thought), I naturally wanted to get her something really nice. It was going to be my first Valentine’s Day gift to my first girlfriend, so of course I carefully selected the one thing every girl wants: an electronic card that plays a tinny version of “I Will Always Love You” when you open it. They sold these at Archie’s Gallery, a popular gift shop named after the comic book of the same name. Archie comics were huge in India. I never could figure out exactly why. But anyway . . .

  I found the card and handed the clerk a hundred rupees, which is the equivalent of two dollars.

  “I need more,” said the clerk.

  “What?”

  “The card is a hundred and sixty rupees.”

  “Oh. I don’t have any more money. I won’t buy it, then.”

  “No, you already bought it. See, it’s in your hand. You need to give me sixty more rupees,” the clerk said. He was being a dick and I wasn’t having it.

  “I’m going to call my father!” I said, raising my voice. “We live down the street. He won’t stand for the way you’re treating me.”

  “Okay, call him, we’ll see what happens,” the clerk said.

  I called my father, sniffling and blubbering, “You won’t believe it, Dad. They’re not giving me my money back. They are acting like thieves.”

  “I’ll be there soon,” my dad said.

  At this point, the manager and the security guard had moved to the front of the store, nervous about what force might come barging through the door. A few minutes later my dad showed up and I gave them a smug smile, knowing that Dad would rip them a new one. You messed with the wrong twelve-year-old.

  My dad comes in without saying a word and just smiles at them. A big, warm smile. He has two of the deepest dimples I have ever seen on his cheeks, which gives his smile the power to disarm a thousand Archie’s Gallery guards. It puts everyone at ease. “I’m sorry for the confusion, gentlemen. How much more do we owe you?”

  “Sir, just sixty rupees.”

  “Okay. Here’s sixty rupees,” my dad said, paying them. “Any more problems? Is this all sorted?”

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, we’re all good here, we are sorry.”

  We left the store and I looked at him, betrayed. “Dad, what happened? I thought you were going to kick their asses!”

  My dad looked at me.

  “Kunal, how much did the card cost?”

  “A hundred and sixty rupees.”

  “How much did you pay them?”

  “One hundred.”

  “Okay, then between the two of us, we paid for it.”

  Two sides. One smile to bridge the gap.III

  BUY A HOUSE YOU CAN AFFORD.

  If you buy something that’s too expensive, then you won’t have enough leftover money to go out and enjoy yourself, so what’s the point? You want to sit in an empty house all alone? Dad viewed money as a means to an end. It wasn’t the finish line. Rather than save every single rupee to buy the biggest house, he’d rather have extra money to spend generously on food and friends and sharing. Live in a house you can afford, but eat like a king.

  NEVER WISH YOUR BROTHER DEAD.

  My dad never raised his hand to me. Ever. He didn’t believe in violence. He did, however, have a temper, something I experienced whenever I misbehaved. One night the whole family was watching a movie together at the house, and there was this scene where this woman grotesquely, repeatedly, and bloodily stabbed some guy. The day before, I just had a fight with my brother about who gets to watch the TV before going to bed—or some other stupid territorial battle that takes place when you share a room with a sibling—so when the woman stabbed the guy, I said under my breath, “God, I wish that was my brother.”

  My father snapped his entire head toward me, and in the deepest, most furious tone I’d ever heard, roared, “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

  “I, um, I said . . . I wish that was my brother?”

  “GET OUT OF THIS ROOM!”

  “What, I was just kidding—”

  “Kunal, get out of this damn room! If I ever hear you say something like that again, I will kick you out of this FUCKING HOUSE!”

  I ran from the room, sobbing. My mom came into my bedroom after me and said that I should never say things about murdering my brother, and that even though I didn’t mean it, it’s still not a nice thing to say. I nodded, though I thought she was wrong.

  The next morning, I woke up for breakfast and my dad was sipping tea at the table, and I felt that he, too, was embarrassed about the night before. We didn’t really know how to break the ice. He then turned to me and said calmly, “Kunal, I’m sorry that I screamed at you. I shouldn’t have used bad language, but you should never say that, or anything like that, in this house again.”IV

  Sometimes when we are young (and even as adults) we can get caught up in a moment and say things we don’t mean. Or maybe in that moment, we do mean them. But I think what Dad was instilling in me was to be responsible for my words. Because words are powerful; they can hurt and wound, and one word can lead to a thousand horrors. So don’t forget to be impeccable with your words.

  Also, don’t wish anyone dead.

  USE A CUSHION (AND NOT JUST FOR YOUR BUTT).

  Every one of Dad’s budgets has a category he calls “cushion.” He believes that you should enjoy your money, but that you will sleep more soundly if you have just a bit of extra wiggle room. This way, even if things go wrong, you’ll still have some margin for error. Having a cushion means always having a Plan B. That’s why I stuck with my business degree before I got my master’s in acting. To have a Plan B. To have a cushion.

  YOU CAN HAVE A SOFT DEMEANOR AND NOT BE SOFT.

  In the early 1990s, protests broke out between students and police in riot gear over discrimination in the education system, all within walking distance of our home. Our eyes were glued to the TV and the bloodshed it depicted and we often talked about it over dinner.

  My dad came home from work early one day. “Kunal, come with me.”

  He took me to his gun cabinet.

  “Help me clean these guns.”

  We cleaned and loaded every single gun. He was a collector of antique guns and owned seven rifles. He showed me how to double- and triple-check that the safety
was on.

  “I’m giving you and your brother a key,” he told me. “The key to this gun cabinet. If anything happens, open the cabinet, and get ready to defend your home.”

  I was scared shitless. My father, as always, was a rock. He might speak softly and smile with dimples and patiently discuss both sides of every issue, but when the chips were down and the tide of violence was upon us, this was a man who owned seven rifles and was willing to use them to protect his family.

  JUST SHOW UP FOR THEM.

  At the dinner table, sometimes we talked about death. What does it mean to mourn? In India, when someone close to you dies, you drop everything and you go to their house. You show up to support the family as much as to show respect for the person who has died. You see this in nature, too: if a monkey dies in the forest, the other monkeys congregate and sit in silence.

  I was eight when one of my uncles died. It was the first time I can remember knowing someone who had died. On the way to my uncle’s house I said, “Dad, I feel scared to see a dead body.”

  “Kunal, it’s okay. In your life you will see a lot of dead bodies. All you have to do is accept death and just show up during the family’s time of grief.”

  “But what do I say? What do I do?”

  “You don’t have to say anything. By showing up you are reassuring them that they are not alone. Just being there is enough.”

  STAND UP WHEN IT COUNTS.

  One night Dad wanted to take us all out to dinner. There was an air of excitement since this restaurant had come highly recommended as the new hot spot in town, and to top it off, it was also my favorite cuisine, Indian-Chinese. Which is basically Chinese food that tastes like curry. A very fat and fancy maître d’ seated us at our table and as we waited for the waiter, we mused over the menu. I was damn near drooling looking at the other tables filled with spicy goodness. We waited five minutes for a waiter to arrive . . . then ten minutes . . . then fifteen . . . Nothing. We were being completely ignored by all of the staff.

  Then, at an adjacent table, we watched as a white family was brought over and seated. Out of nowhere, three waiters immediately showed up to take their order.

  Incensed, my father stood up in the middle of the restaurant and asked loudly, “Where is the manager of this restaurant?”

  Fat, fancy maître d’ waddled in, mumbling and fumbling.

  “What country do we live in?” my dad asked him.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “What. Country. Do. We. Live. In.”

  “Sir, we live in India.”

  “Is India a democracy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why am I being treated like a third-class citizen in my own country? I have been sitting here for fifteen minutes with my family, not one person has served us, but as soon as a table of foreigners sits down, the entire restaurant shows up to take their order.”

  Silence. Then Dad says, “Come, children, we are not eating here. We will never come here again.” We left. I could see the anger in Dad’s eyes, and the shame on the maître d’s face.

  My father always had a lot of pride, but he also had a sense of proportion. In the infamous Archie’s Gallery Valentine’s Day Card Showdown, my father didn’t think I had truly been wronged, which is why he paid the clerk the price of the card. In the restaurant, he felt like his basic right to be treated without prejudice had been violated. He stood up when it mattered.

  That night in the restaurant, it occurred to me that I’m the kind of person who, in a similar situation, might have noticed what was happening but probably would not have done anything about it. I would have quietly devoured every last bite of that Indian-Chinese meal (if and when it was finally delivered), paid the bill, and gone home. Looking back at it now, I wonder if perhaps when my dad was a boy, he saw his dad standing up to some injustice and wondered about his own ability to do the same. Over time he grew into a man and stepped into that role, teaching his children right from wrong. As I write this, I can feel myself changing, maturing, growing into a man, someone who will stand up for everything he believes in. At least, I really hope so.

  TREAT A KING AND A BEGGAR THE SAME.

  This says it all.

  WHEN YOU LEND MONEY, DON’T EXPECT TO GET IT BACK.

  This advice was passed down to my father from his father. It’s part of living with a big heart. Surround yourself with people that you love. Give freely. Don’t expect it back.

  GOOD-BYE IS JUST AN OPPORTUNITY FOR HELLO.

  When I was eighteen, it was time for me to leave for America. A large crowd of friends and cousins had gathered at the airport to send me on my way, but once I had hugged all of them good-bye and kissed and cried with my mother, and once I had checked all of my luggage, finally, it was just me and my dad.

  “I’ll walk Kunal to the gate,” he said.

  The two of us walked all the way to where they collected tickets and you boarded the plane—you could do that back then—not saying much. At the counter he smiled his deep-dimpled smile and charmed the pretty flight attendant, saying, “My son is finally leaving the house to become a man. He’s going to America today to study.”

  “That’s lovely, sir,” she said. “I have a two-year-old myself. I look forward to the day when I can walk him to the plane as you are doing.”

  “It’s a very proud moment,” my father said.

  “It is,” I mumbled, trying to add something memorable and appropriate and failing miserably.

  The flight attendant looked at me. “You know what, Mr. Nayyar, to help you on your journey, I’m going to upgrade you to first class, so you can fly in comfort for your first big trip alone.”

  Yes!

  And finally it was time to say good-bye to my father. We could not put it off any longer. I didn’t know how he was going to react, whether he would be heroic and strong, give me a pat on the back and gruffly say something like You got this, or if he would dissolve into tears.

  “I have something for you,” he said instead.

  I secretly hoped it was an envelope of money, but he instead pulled out a small book with a green cover: The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran, the Lebanese poet and philosopher.

  “Read this book, Kunal. Refer to it whenever you have to answer any of the difficult questions life will ask you.”

  And then he didn’t say good-bye. He didn’t say he would miss me. Instead he pulled me in close and said, “I love you, and I believe in you wholeheartedly. You will make a great life for yourself.”

  Tears began to well up in my eyes (as they do again, even now, as I write this).

  He continued. “This is not good-bye, my son. This is many more opportunities to say hello.”

  We hugged. As I walked to the Jetway, I turned back to look at him one last time. He said, “Kunal, when you’ve settled in on the flight, turn to the chapter on children.”

  I waved again, boarded the plane, and immediately tore the book open and read the chapter on children. Which is a complete lie, because first I geeked out over my free first-class seat with all the cool buttons and stuff! I had no idea how to work anything. I kept trying to turn on the TV but was instead just pushing the dinner tray open. The Indian businessman next to me, looking relaxed after a swirl of very important meetings, I presumed, was working his TV just fine. I figured he probably thought that having an overexcitable nitwit next to him would ruin his journey in first class. He probably hated me. He was probably about to demand a seat change for one of us. I was going to get demoted back to coach before takeoff.

  “Hey, son, let me show you how to do that,” he said. I noticed his sleek reading glasses and his gentle face.

  Okay. This is all going to work out okay.

  I sank into my leather easy chair and began to peruse many of the astounding number of horrible movies that are available on airplanes. I believe my first choice of the evening was Tarzan. Hours later, unable to sleep, I finally opened The Prophet and turned to the chapter on children.

  ON CHILD
REN

  And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, “Speak to us of Children.” And he said:

  Your children are not your children.

  They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

  They come through you but not from you,

  And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

  You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

  For they have their own thoughts.

  You may house their bodies but not their souls,

  For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

  You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

  For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

  You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

  The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

  Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

  For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

  * * *

  I. Of course, it’s beds that really know what’s what.

  II. Note: Should you choose to follow any or all of this advice, the author and publisher are not responsible for the consequences.

  III. To this day, I still wish (just a little bit) that he hadn’t smiled and had kicked their asses. But that’s not the point of the story.

  IV. It’s a peculiar sensation when your parents apologize to you. It humanizes them. I feel that’s the hardest thing about growing up—watching your parents become more and more human.