Literary Fiction
Date Published: Sept.2023
Dayal Singh is brilliant, quirky, & has Asperger's. Son of parents trafficked to East Africa from India just before independence, he knows he's Sikh, African, and calculus is the evidence of God.
He becomes fascinated by a broken piano. and is offered a piano to sell,
buys it and learns to play.
Mentored by his older brothers, he follows them to Singapore to further his education, then goes to Switzerland.
He falls in love with the granddaughter of the man who bought his father. She tells him that the situation is impossible, and that he must stay in school as long as his way is paid.
He agrees to meet Sita, the daughter of a Sikh man his father met, and Dayal thinks they are both in agreement about how they will live and raise children, but things gradually go downhill. When Dayal learns Sita hasn't been truthful with him, he has to make a decision.
Read an Excerpt Below
About the Author
I am retired dog groomer and have titled dogs in performance and conformation. I didn't go to college until I was 30, and took CLEP exams to avoid prerequisites. I have a degree in anthropology with concentrations in African & Indian studies, and a master’s in urban planning. I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malawi. I have had several short stories published in literary journals, and the pet industry press.
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The song I wrote, “Is This OK?” was a hit. We got it out as
a single, and added it to shows. We started in Boston and zigzagged through
large cities in Canada, the USA, and Mexico, then to Spain and France. We
broadcasted live shows to theaters around the USA, San Jose, Lima, Buenos Aires,
Sydney, Perth, and Brasilia, and Japan. I wrote the Glazer girls, but there was
no way I could see them.
At the end
of the tour in August, I flew to Dubai for a week. We hadn’t seen each other
since December! I couldn’t imagine where Sita got the idea that there was so
much to do in Dubai. Was she comparing it to Mumbai? I noticed the town was
growing. There were triple the number of buildings, many quite tall. We got out
to the desert for camel races, where I saw my first Salukis. I thought they
looked like Mara’s dogs. They ran a few races, and were so graceful. We went
out to eat, saw movies, strolled the mall, the beach, met her girlfriends (she
knew no guys and did not socialize with the girls’ brothers or husbands), had
dinner with Baba Makkar’s other family, and we talked more about our
expectations. Again, I asked her if she had explored birth control methods, and
hit a road block.
“You know,
a lot of women use the rhythm method based on their cycles and it works,” she
said to me.
“Do you
know how it works? I will use condoms, but you need to know your options.”
We had no
arguments, but our conversations were never about anything controversial or
deep. She wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup anymore, at least not when I saw her.
She told me she had started saving her allowance, and was even going through
her wardrobe to decide what clothes she would really need, as the weather would
be different in Europe.
We weren’t
sleeping together in Dubai, but we could bring each other to orgasm, and I was
happy for that.
I asked
Fatima about how the wedding planning was going, and she told me she was
thinking of next March.
Seven
months more? “Why are you delaying this?”
“Your horoscopes… .”
“This is
nonsense. We’ve known each other over a year. I have a school break in
November. Make it for then.” I found this irritating, but when I was stressed,
and back then, it was almost all the time, everything was irritating.
I really
wanted to see my parents. I was halfway there, being in Dubai, so I asked
Fatima and Sita to come with me. Mr. Makkar agreed to pay for their flights if
I would pay for a place for them to stay, which was at Mr. Curtis’s hotel. A
few other small hotels had been built, but Curtis’ place was still the nicest.
I surprised
my parents (I did send a telegram). I sent Sita and Fatima on several safari
runs, suggested they have my tailor create some clothes for themselves, and
took them around in the truck to see Alfred. I brought him a solar lantern, a
few books on alternative energy, and a football and badminton set for his three
children, who were giddy about the gifts.
Fatima and
Sita were surprised at how far out from Arusha Alfred lived. When we pulled
into their compound, Fatima asked me, “They speak English?”
“Alfred was
in primary school with me, and he often guides safaris, so I know his English
is good. I’m not sure about the rest of his family.” I spoke to his wife and
children in Kiswahili.
Alfred and
I discussed putting in a rain catchment system on his house. He had managed to
build a burned brick house with a cement floor and tin roof, but still had his
rondoval. His wife and daughters still had to fetch water. I told him I’d loan
him the money if he agree to pay it forward.
Sita and
Fatima seemed uncomfortable with the goats, chickens and dogs approaching us in
their curiosity. Alfred’s mum offered us chai and mandaazi, which is a fried
pastry. I saw that Fatima and Sita were hesitant, but I whispered to them,
“Everything’s boiled or fried. You won’t get sick.”
On the way
back to town, we stopped at a Maasai encampment. I just wanted to greet them,
and I had bought them a few plastic buckets. We didn’t stay long. The flies
were too annoying, and there was no place to sit.
On the
drive back to my folks, Sita and Fatima commented how remarkable it was that
people could live like they did and be so happy. Sita asked me, “How is it you
have a relationship with such primitive people?”
Her
question shocked me. “They aren’t primitive. They’re just poor. You know, they
haven’t had the advantages we’ve had.”
“What do
you mean?”
“The Maasai
like living the way they do. They are free. Their children do all the chores.
As for Alfred, I had my older brothers to help me learn. Alfred was the eldest
child. He had nobody to help him. Also, his father had two wives, so resources
for the children were spread thin.”
My parents
were cordial towards Sita and Fatima. However, I knew from the way they were
acting, that they weren’t comfortable. There was a real class difference
between us and them. Baba pulled me aside and asked, “They knew they were
coming to Africa. Why didn’t they dress more simply?”
I
remembered the time Avi and Sodhi came home after guiding safaris one day, and
were counting their tips in various foreign currencies. Sodhi remarked that
most of the tourists on his lorry were French, and Avi responded, laughing,
“Today mine were all Italian. They always dress like they’re going to a photo
shoot. The women, always silk shirts unbuttoned to show cleavage and gold
necklaces, tight silk pants that look painted on, and stiletto heels. Not just
high heels—pointy six inch heels. They tottered and had to be boosted into the
lorry. I can’t imagine what they were thinking. That the ground would be hard
so they wouldn’t sink in?”
My future
wife and mother-in-law were dressed as if going to a business luncheon, and I
wondered if they owned any clothes that didn’t need to be dry cleaned.
“Baba,
these people live in a tall building. They don’t even have a garden. These are
their ‘simple’ clothes.” He understood this because he had visited my brothers.
I had been
living in Europe as a European and just accepted that some people never did any
real work. This was also why I took time to address expectations with Sita.
Hassan had brought one of his wives to live with him, and
she was helping Ama with baking. Fatima expressed surprise that my mother could
bake such amazing things over a grill in a covered pot.
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