Copyright © 2007 Sunanda Chatterjee. All rights reserved.

"What was that noise?" asked Alka Singh, craning her neck. It was nearly eight o’clock, the late summer sun losing its luster, leaving but a few wisps of light lingering outdoors. She was getting dinner ready. She paused, holding a Tupperware box with potato curry in one hand, the refrigerator door held ajar with the other. Her teenage son Sunil was in his room completing his summer reading assignment, for school would start tomorrow. Her father, who had just returned from the store with bread and eggs for the next day’s breakfast, said, "I didn’t hear anything."

"Papa, there was a bang! Just now!"

"Must be Sunil playing his music."

"No," she said, shaking her head, a small frown furrowing her well shaped brow. She replaced the Tupperware box in the refrigerator and opened the blinds of the window overlooking the backyard.

"The security lights came on!" she said, tucking a dislodged strand of slightly graying hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she had picked up in college when she had first cropped off her knee-length hair to shoulder-length, much to her father’s dismay.

Mr. Singh put away the newspaper that he had opened in the hope of reading the editorial before dinner. He walked over to the window and stood beside Alka. Dressed in a collared shirt and shorts, his skinny frame contrasted against Alka’s slightly corpulent figure. He squinted at the backyard, where he saw the black sedan right in front of the garage door.

"It’s the car!" he said, hoarsely.

"What do you mean?"

"I think it rolled…"

"Where did you park it, Papa?"

"In the driveway near the backdoor! It must have rolled down!"

"Why didn’t you park it in the garage?"

"I wanted to get the groceries out! I forgot to go back out to park it."

Alka and Mr. Singh stared at the crushed hood of the car and the deeply dented garage door. The car had rolled about fifty feet down the sloping driveway and crashed into the garage door.

"My God! What have I done?" said Mr. Singh.

Alka tried to open the driver-side door of the car. "It’s jammed. Lemme try the other door."

She got into the passenger’s side of the car and squeezed over to the driver’s side. She started the car and placed her hand on the gear.

"It’s in neutral! Papa, you didn’t put it in gear. And the parking brake isn’t on!"

Mr. Singh stared at the crumpled heap of black metal that had been Alka’s car for nearly a decade.

"I’m so sorry!" he said, eyes misting over ever so slightly.

"It’s okay! We’ll think of something."

She backed the car out a few feet and said, "At least it’s still working!" She raised her hand and pressed the button on the garage door opener. There was a whirr of the machine turning on and then a creaking noise as the door struggled with its bent metal plates to roll up. It went up a few inches and stopped with a shuddering jerk.

"How’ll Sunil go to school tomorrow if the garage door won’t open?" asked Mr. Singh.

"Papa, I said we’ll think of something."

Alka lived in a small house in the suburbs of Los Angeles. It was a three bedroom and two bath home with a two-car detached garage. There were fruit trees in the backyard and flower beds in the front, most of which had been planted by her father and Sunil, when he was five years old.

Alka remembered when her father had come to stay with her for the first time, nearly fifteen years ago. She had telephoned him in Delhi, India, where he had bought a flat after retiring from government service. It was midnight. Distraught and desolate, she had not known what to do. Wiping her tears, she had dialed the one number she knew would always provide her with answers.

"What happened? Are you alright?" he had asked.

"No, Papa. I’m not," she had said, amid tears.

"What’s going on?"

"Bhaskar left me. He’s gone. He moved to Chicago with a Russian woman from his corporate office."

"What? Did you know about this?"

"I found out last week. We had a big fight… I told him to forget about her … I’d still take him back. But he said he loves her." She broke into a fresh stream of tears.

"What about Sunil?"

"Sunil is with me," she said, sniffing. "Bhaskar said he won’t fight for custody if I don’t ask for alimony…it’s not fair for the boy, he said."

"And it’s fair for you?"

"I don’t know what’s fair. At least he left me the house. Bhaskar has left me some money, but I need to start working to support me and Sunil."

"Who’ll take care of Sunil while you work?"

"He’ll go to daycare. Papa…I’m thinking…now that you are retired…can you come here to be with me for a few weeks? Help me out…take Sunil to daycare?"

"Yes, sure. My visa is a ten-year multiple entry. From the last time I came to US for your wedding. I’ll ask the travel agent tomorrow for bookings."

Alka had entered Sunil in a daycare not far from the grocery store where she had started work as part-time cashier on minimum wages. Having lived at home with his mother all of his three years of life, Sunil had resisted valiantly and thrown tantrums every morning for the whole week.

She had asked him, "What will make you stop crying when I drop you to daycare?"

"If I don’t see you when I go to daycare, Mommy."

Mr. Singh had arrived in two weeks. Alka and Sunil had gone to the airport to receive her father, who had not seen Sunil since he was a baby.

"You’re going to see a special person," she had told Sunil. "The most important man in my life, besides you!"

Mr. Singh had walked up the slope of the ‘Arrivals’ at Los Angeles International Airport, pushing a heavy cart loaded with baggage. He had looked up at them and waved vigorously, while his cart tried to turn back, being pushed with just one hand. Alka had waved back. Sunil had been sullen. When Mr. Singh had tried to pick him up, Sunil had said, "Who are you?"

"I’m your grandpa."

"Why have you come?"

"I’ve come to take you to daycare," Mr. Singh had said, winking at Alka. Sunil had smiled at him for the first time.

Although Sunil had been used to his father’s trips out of town, he relished his grandfather’s company, especially now that his mother was working. He liked to say goodbye to Mommy early in the morning, looking forward to the special breakfast grandpa would always cook for him. French toast on Mondays, waffles on Tuesday, cereal on Wednesday, ready-made stuffed paratha, an Indian stuffed bread, on Thursdays. The cycle would repeat itself from Friday. This way, said grandpa, no two Mondays would he have the same breakfast.

Mr. Singh had reluctantly agreed to let Alka apply for a green card for him. She herself had come to the US on a green card, as the newly wedded wife of a US citizen. She had taken her oath as a US citizen two years ago, but Mr. Singh had refused to get a green card then. Now that Alka needed him most, he had consented. He had been driving with his International Drivers Permit until his green card came through. After failing the behind-the-wheel driving test twice, he finally had a California Drivers license.

"Let’s plant some roses, Sunil," his grandpa had said one Sunday morning, when Sunil was five. They had driven to the nursery and bought a dozen rose bushes. Sunil had hovered near grandpa in a baseball cap, while grandpa dug holes for the roses. Alka had been kept out of the whole plan; this was just between grandpa and grandson. The rose bushes were now mature; Alka had got the "Best Kept Garden" award twice in a row. Mr. Singh had taught Sunil to ride a bike on the driveway, with colorful roses blooming on both sides of it.

With her father’s constant encouragement, Alka had taken a community college course to complete pre-requisites for a Medical Technologist diploma. Because she had a bachelor’s degree in science, within just two years she had started working at the local community hospital laboratory. She had been promised a good salary with medical benefits, and had bought the black sedan which now lay in a heap by the garage door.

Hearing the commotion outside, Sunil strode into the backyard to investigate. Nearly six feet tall now, he had inherited his father’s swagger. He saw the distorted hood of his mother’s car and the bent garage door and asked, "What happened?"

"The car’s crashed into the garage," said his mother. "We need to get a hammer or something to bang the garage door open."

"How did that happen?"

"Er…," said his mother, glancing at his grandpa rather furtively. "He forgot to put the hand-brake on. And he left it in neutral."

"How could you do that, Gramps?"

"Sunil…Gramps is getting old. Go easy on him." Alka tucked the stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mom! He’s had two accidents in a year! Remember the time he changed lanes without doing a proper head-check? He nearly got killed! You know he’s not a safe driver anymore. Why do you let him drive?"

Nearly simultaneously, Alka said, "If he doesn’t drive, what’ll he do?" and Mr. Singh said, "If I don’t drive, what’ll she do?"

Alka gasped, her hand covering her open mouth, wide eyes staring at her father, who suddenly looked old. Her father said, "Is that why you let me drive? So I have something to do?"

"No, Papa, I didn’t mean it that way."

"I don’t care why you let him drive," said Sunil. "He’s not safe anymore. Not for himself, or for others on the road."

"I’m still here, you know. My hearing is still good," Mr. Singh said.

"I know you can hear me," continued Sunil. "I’m not afraid to say it. Mom can’t or won’t do it. It’s up to me."

"Just get the toolbox out, Sunil," said Alka.

"Where’s it?" he asked.

Mr. Singh said, "It’s in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, like always. You’d know it if you did any work around the house."

"My hands are full. School starts tomorrow! How am I supposed to get my car out?"

"Just get the damn tool-box!" Alka shouted.

Entering the garage from the side door, Sunil saw that his Toyota Corolla had not been damaged, because he had parked it well inside the garage. He and Mr. Singh hammered the metal panes of the garage door back into shape. "It still won’t work!" said Sunil.

"Use the Allen-wrench to tighten the bolts on the panes," said Mr. Singh.

"How do I use this thing?" asked Sunil.

"Here, let me show you," said Mr. Singh. Sunil held a flashlight as Mr. Singh showed him how to use the Allen wrench. In an hour, while Alka left a message at work that she’d be late, and called her insurance company to report the accident, the garage door was functional, and Alka’s car had been moved out of the driveway.

"What next?" said Sunil, washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

"Papa," said Alka, "I’ll go to work by bus tomorrow. You need to take care of towing the car to the body-shop and coordinating with the insurance people…can you do that?"

"Yes," Mr. Singh said softly.

"They may let me rent a car after we find out how much it’ll cost to fix it. Or they may pay me some money and total the car."

"I can’t believe how much damage the car did just by rolling down the driveway!" said Mr. Singh.

"The car weighs 2000 pounds," said Sunil. "It picked up a huge momentum."

"At least no one’s hurt!" said Alka.

The next afternoon, Mr. Singh called Alka at work and said, "The insurance company won’t fix the car. They’ll pay us $1100; it’s totalled."

Since the arthritis in his knees had started giving him trouble the last few years, Mr. Singh had not been able to go for his morning walks. His routine the last two years had been to drop Alka off to work and Sunil off to school, and then drive to the library, where he read magazines until lunch-time. He would then drive back home, have his lunch, and take a nap. Then he would pick Sunil up from school after buying groceries if needed, watch TV for an hour or so before he went to pick Alka up from work. Sunil had begged to let him drive the car sometimes, and Mr. Singh had given him ‘private’ lessons. When Sunil had got his driver’s license during the summer, Alka had bought him a used Toyota Corolla to drive to school.

Mr. Singh knew that $1100 would not get them even a used car. Now that Sunil would drive to school, and Alka had said she would carpool with a friend, Mr. Singh wondered what he was to do with himself all day. He hoped that Alka would let him use Sunil’s car for the same routine, but he also knew that Sunil needed to grow up and be independent. And so it came to be that Mr. Singh stayed home all day. He tried to go for walks in the neighborhood, but his knees hurt too much. Alka asked him to take the city senior transit to go to the library, but the bus always came too late. After a month of complete boredom, Mr. Singh decided to give the city transit a try again.

In a few months, he made friends with all the drivers of the city transit and even got invited to a retirement party for one. Alka was promoted to Supervisor, and bought a new car, which she herself drove to work. The insurance company had apparently asked specifically, to exclude Mr. Singh from coverage.

In December, Sunil was invited to a birthday party dinner followed by a movie which would finish at midnight. Because Sunil had got his license less than a year ago, he was not allowed to drive alone after 11 PM. Alka was working the night-shift that month. Seeing that Sunil was very keen on gong to the party, she asked him, "Can’t you get a ride back with someone?"

"No, Mom. They all live on the other side of the mall."

"Okay, then. Papa can take you."

"What?"

"He can’t drive, because of the insurance, but he’ll come with you."

"What’s he going to do the whole time?"

"I can watch a movie too," said Mr. Singh, hastily adding, "some other movie."

Reluctantly, Sunil let grandpa sit in the passenger side of his car.

"Er, gramps, you can eat in the food court, okay?"

"Sure," said grandpa, beaming. He had not gone outdoors at night in a long time.

Sunil pulled his car out of the garage and eased into the road. As he took the ramp on the freeway, he picked up speed. He looked over his shoulder and turned into the right-most lane, merging with the traffic. The driver of the car speeding from behind him flashed his headlights. They heard the sound of screeching brakes. The driver honked at him angrily.

"Sunil," said Mr. Singh, "You didn’t have to move into the lane so fast. See how much more of the ramp was still left? You could have driven a bit longer until you had an idea of how fast the car was coming up from behind."

Sunil said nothing. He gripped the steering wheel, visibly shaken.

"Don’t be nervous. How many hours of night driving have you done?"

"I’ve done enough," Sunil mumbled.

"But night-driving on the freeway?"

Sunil was quiet. Then he said, "Don’t tell Mom, please?"

"Okay," said Mr. Singh. "Now concentrate on the road. Forget that it ever happened."

Mr. Singh ate a slice of pizza at the food court and bought himself a new pair of shoes. Then he watched a late night film. The only one with suitable timing was a horror movie. As a rule, he didn’t like horror movies, but the mall would close soon, and he had to do something. When he came out of the movie hall after two hours of listening to the screams and dramatic scores, he saw Sunil waiting with a group of friends. The parents of Bob Hadley, the birthday-boy were standing beside them. Sunil caught Mr. Singh’s eye and beckoned to him.

"This is my gramps, Mr. Hadley," he said. "Mr. Singh."

"How do you do, Mr. Singh?" said Mr. Hadley, a large-boned man with a wide chest wearing a T-shirt, tufts of brown hairs sticking up at the neckline.

"I’m well, thanks."

"Did you enjoy your movie?" asked Mrs. Hadley, a slim a deeply tanned middle-aged woman.

"Not very much."

"You should have come with us!" she said.

"That’s quite alright, thanks," said Mr. Singh. "At my age, watching a late night show is a sure sleep-aid. So I chose the one with the most noise and screaming. Now I’m too frazzled to sleep. Just didn’t pay off as I expected."

"Your gramps is cool, Sunil," said Bob Hadley, laughing.

"Thanks," said Sunil. "He taught me how to ride a bike….do gardening….drive a car!"

"Cool!"

The next morning, Sunil came out of his room for breakfast. Usually grandpa had the food laid out on the table, but today, there was silence in the house. Thinking that grandpa was still asleep, he knocked on his door. Hearing no reply, he opened the door. Sunil found Mr. Singh lying on his bed staring at the ceiling with an empty expression.

"Where’s breakfast, gramps?"

Mr. Singh drooled from the corner of his mouth. Sunil called 911, and accompanied his grandpa in the ambulance to his mother’s hospital. He drove back in his mother’s car and went to school.

They told Alka the worst was over. Mr. Singh had had a stroke. With time, he would regain some movement of his right arm and leg. He could still speak, although not very coherently. He might even get some memory back. Mr. Singh recognized his daughter, but could not recognize Sunil anymore.

Alka took time off from work to care for her father. Sunil had been accepted at the University of Southern California, where he would major in History on a full scholarship. He decided to live at home and commute if they would allow it, based on his family circumstance.

In late April, Alka had to go back to work. Her friends told her she should put her father in a nursing home, but that didn’t seem right. He had been there for her when she needed him most. She would be there for him now. She found an adult daycare that would take care of her father in the mornings. She took the 4 AM to noon shift at work. Sunil could drop his grandpa off to the center at 8 AM, right before school, and she would pick him up after work.

Sunil got up early on Monday morning. He opened a box of frozen French toast for himself and after breakfast, took a shower. Fully dressed for school, he went to his grandpa’s room.

"Who are you?" mumbled Mr. Singh.

"I’m your grandson."

"Why have you come?" asked Mr. Singh.

"I’ve come to take you to daycare."