Abhimanyu

Abhimanyu

Ajey Pandey
I am going to another party of Indian people—or rather, another party of middle-age Indian-American immigrants and their children. I climb into the back-left seat of my parents’ SUV and play music off my phone, letting my headphones blur the reality that everything seems to be at least a half an hour away.
We arrive in the neighborhood of the gathering, recognizing our destination by the line of Accords and Camrys and Odysseys. My mother leaps out of the car and rushes to the door. My father slowly follows. My brother asks if he can stay in the car. I wrap my headphones around my hand and follow my family to the front door.
The door opens, and I’m greeted by an auntie, who is so happy to see my family! I walk into the front hallway and hug all the aunties and shake the hands of all the uncles. The aunties wear saris and salwar kurtas. The uncles wear polo shirts and either khakis (if the party’s fancy) or cargo shorts (if it’s not). My mother seems to know them all. My father pretends not to. I don’t know them at all, but they know me. They ask me about college. They compliment me on my accomplishments. They’re proud of me.
I struggle to remember their names.
The aunties and uncles bring their kids, too. Mostly they bring the little kids, these balls of energy who seem forever happy.
But there’s one exception: Abhimanyu.
My mother introduces me to Abhimanyu. I shake his hand. He is my age—or maybe a year younger—or maybe a year older. He’s quiet. We part ways. I forget Abhimanyu’s name. I hug more aunties and shake more uncles’ hands.
Then the party starts. The aunties cluster together and talk. The uncles cluster together and talk. My mother goes in the aunties’ group and my father goes into the uncles’ group. The little kids rush off into another room and play together. They probably don’t know each other’s names. They probably don’t care.
I, the teenager, not quite child and not quite adult, am left alone. I walk around. I go on my phone. I eavesdrop on my father’s conversation. I eavesdrop on my mother’s conversation. My mother talks about how proud she is of me. The aunties talk about how proud they are of me. They talk about something else. I leave. I walk around. I go on my phone.
And I keep seeing Abhimanyu. He is walking around. He is on his phone or his Nintendo DS. He does not talk. He does nothing. He reminds me—yet again—that Indian teenage boys are lame.
Then the food comes, and I eat food, and I am happy, and I compliment the people who made the food. And I see Abhimanyu.
I bet he’s good at math. I bet he doesn’t read fiction books. I bet he only plays Super Smash Bros. I bet he has never cliff-dived or gone to a wild teenage house party or fallen in love. I bet he’s a “good kid,” in the most beige, all-As, Ivy-material, big-house-and-two-cars-in-a-subdivision-forty-miles-from-anywhere-fun kind of way. I bet he hasn’t done anything remotely interesting with a moment of his upper-middle-class almost-American life.
These are lies. I don’t know Abhimanyu. I know nothing about him except that his parents wanted him to come to this party and that he probably only came because there was food. But I want to say he’s boring. I want his existence to prove that the immigrants’ pursuit of The American Dream bleeds Indian culture of its color until all that’s left is an early-90s VHS nostalgia of a now-foreign world moments before it was caught off-guard by a globalized, DOS-powered punch to the gut. Because believing my caricature of Abhimanyu makes me feel far better about never bothering to talk to him.
Finally, the tone of the aunties’ conversation changes. Then the tone of the uncles’ conversation changes. It’s time to leave. We say our goodbyes. Then we say our goodbyes twice more. Then, as we drive away, we shout our goodbyes out the window. And as I stare out the window at 10 in the night, still in a haze from overeating half an hour after I overate, I ask myself:
How different am I from Abhimanyu?
I’m a “good kid.” I do homework when I should be partying. I grow an I’m-too-busy-to-care-about-how-I-look stubble. I’m going to college for engineering, for crying out loud! Unless you know me, unless you talk to me, you would never know all the cool things I do. From the outside, I’m boring. From the outside, I’m just another Indian kid whose parents are among the sea of aunties and uncles who all seem to know each other.
From the outside, I too am Abhimanyu. So I should probably cut the poor guy a break.

Ajey is a young man and a son of well known desi Mom Jaya Pandey. He is an engineering student at UMass Amherst (Class of 2019). He enjoys music, technology, and learning.   He has agreed to write for BDC on social desi issue. I am just blown away after reading his piece of writing “Abhmanyu” It has always fascinated me when our kids come forward with their confidence and help us in a way we love it. God bless him, enjoy reading the an article on “Desi Life in America” series. Writer can be reached at his blog at m34ftx.wordpress.com.