Bay City Runaway

Chapter 7

The BART took me within a fifteen-minute cab ride to Heath's apartment in Fremont, where there was a large Indian community. His apartment complex was modest but by no means a dump. As I climbed the stairs to his third-level apartment, I was overwhelmed by the fragrance of cumin, turmeric, ginger, onions, and garlic. The hour-long train ride had not done much for my appetite.

I was greeted at the door by a young, pudgy Indian woman in a sari. She was not unattractive, perhaps well-matched to Heath's appearance.

"Welcome," she said warmly, "I am Padma. You must be James. My husband has told me so much about you. Come in," she said very formerly.

"Thank you; it's lovely to finally meet you. Dinner smells delicious."

"You like it? Do you eat Indian food often?" she asked as I handed her my jacket.

"Of course. Who in San Francisco doesn't like Indian food?" I said, perhaps a little over-enthusiastically. I was feeling very anxious about the evening.

"Please have a seat wherever you like. Can I bring you some tea? You must be tired from the train."

Her hospitality touched me in small-part. I did not generally drink tea, but it sounded like something that could settle my stomach. "If it's not too much trouble."

"It is no trouble at all, James. Have you tried Indian tea before?"

"Is it like chai?" I asked.

"Yes! It is chai. We serve it with hot milk or if you like, with some sweetened condensed milk. Very, very tasty that way."

"That sounds delicious, Padma. Sweet is good, thanks."

"Heath and Guruji will be out shortly. They are praying," she said, rolling her eyes and raising her hands in an exasperated manner.

As she left the living room, she was shaking her head, and mumbling in what I assumed was Hindi.

As I waited, I took in the apartment. On the walls, there were pictures of family and a beautiful tapestry of sorts with tiny mirrors sewn into them. There was a picture of a man with pure white hair standing next to a woman that looked strikingly like Heath. I assumed that these were his parents.

Then a very small man in slacks and what looked to me to be a white linen Guayabera shirt like my grandfather in Brownsville, Texas, used to wear entered the room. He had three lines of white ash on his forehead. Heath, who was wearing an identical shirt, followed him in. Then I was rolling eyes as well but in my mind.

"James, this is Sri Ravi. He is very pleased to meet you."

The man made a small bow and then shook my hand very limply.

"It's good to meet you, Ravi," I said. His eyes gleamed at me--Dark brown, and full of gentle zeal. He nodded and sat down in a cushy chair across from me.

I addressed Heath, "Does he speak English?"

"Oh, yes. He speaks every language, but I will help you understand him."

For what seemed like minutes, we sat staring at each other. And then he did something very odd. Smiling at me, he took his foot and touched it to his forehead. And though I was a little impressed at how flexible he was, it certainly wasn't miraculous. As doubtful as I was, there was a part of me that wanted something extraordinary to happen. I smiled and nodded first at Sri Ravi and then at Heath.

"Would you like to ask him something?" Heath said.

I had no idea what to say or do with this, and I was grateful when Padma returned with my tea.