Blue Boy

Rakesh Satyal

Description

As an only son, Kiran has obligations - to excel in his studies, find a nice Indian girl, and, make his mother and father proud. If only Kiran had anything in common with other Indian kids besides the colour of his skin. They reject him at every turn, and his cretinous American schoolmates are no better. Kiran's not-so-well-kept secrets don't endear him to any group. Playing with dolls; choosing ballet over basketball; taking the school's annual talent show way too seriously. the very things that make Kiran who he is also make him the star of his own personal freak show. And then one fateful day, a revelation: perhaps his desires aren't too earthly, but too divine. Perhaps the solution to the mystery of his existence has been before him since birth. For Kiran Sharma, a long, strange trip is about to begin - a journey so sublime, so ridiculous, so painfully beautiful, that it can only lead to the truth.

Sujets

• Magical Realism
• Literary
• Coming of Age
• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Religión
• Adventure (Guyana)
• Diáspora
• Literature
• Contemporary history
• Realism
• Lambda Literary Award
• Magic (paranormal)
• Religion
• Adventure
• Contemporary
• Saga
• Fiction
• Diaspora
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Roli Books
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351940043
• Langue: English

Extrait

About the Book
As an only son, Kiran has obligations - to excel in his studies, find a nice Indian girl, and, make his mother and father proud. If only Kiran had anything in common with other Indian kids besides the colour of his skin. They reject him at every turn, and his cretinous American schoolmates are no better. Kiran's not-so-well-kept secrets don't endear him to any group. Playing with dolls; choosing ballet over basketball; taking the school's annual talent show way too seriously. the very things that make Kiran who he is also make him the star of his own personal freak show. And then one fateful day, a revelation: perhaps his desires aren't too earthly, but too divine. Perhaps the solution to the mystery of his existence has been before him since birth. For Kiran Sharma, a long, strange trip is about to begin - a journey so sublime, so ridiculous, so painfully beautiful, that it can only lead to the truth.
About the Author
Rakesh Satyal graduated in 2002 with a B.A. in Comparative Literature and Creative Writing from Princeton University. He has been published in a variety of anthologies, including the Lambda Award-winning The Man I Might Become: Gay Men Write About Their Fathers and the second volume of the Fresh Men series, which featured an introduction by Andrew Holleran. Rakesh is currently an editor at HarperCollins and is also on the planning committee of the annual PEN World Voices Festival. In his spare time, Rakesh sings jazz music. His act has been featured on Page Six and in the New York Observer, DailyCandy, The New Yorker, New York, the New York Times, and Time Out . Born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, he now lives in Brooklyn, New York.

ROLI BOOKS
This digital edition published in 2014
First published in the USA by Kensington Books, New York, 2009
First published in India in 2011 by IndiaInk An Imprint of Roli Books Pvt. Ltd M-75, Greater Kailash- II Market New Delhi 110 048 Phone: ++91 (011) 40682000 Email: [e-mail] Website: www.rolibooks.com
Copyright © Rakesh Satyal, 2009
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, print reproduction, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Roli Books. Any unauthorized distribution of this e-book may be considered a direct infringement of copyright and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
The right of Rakesh Satyal to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover: Zimmerman Studio
eISBN: 978-93-5194-004-3
All rights reserved. This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my parents, Vinay and Lalita, for being as surprising as they are supportive. You have taught me how to love along with how to laugh throughout every hardship. Your hard work and the sacrifices that you have made go far beyond any accomplishment of mine;
my incredible brothers, Rajiv and Vikas, for always having my back and for giving me a childhood full of happy sibling moments;
my extended family – especially my aunt Usha, for recognizing and fostering my artistic inclinations early on in my life;
my incredible friends, without whom I would not survive;
my phenomenal writing teachers – Edmund White, Joyce Carol Oates, A.J. Verdelle, Paul Muldoon, Lynne Tillman, and David Ebershoff – for being so encouraging. Also, the entire staff of the Creative Writing Programme at Princeton for running the best writing programme in the world;
my agent, Maria Massie; my editor, John Scognamiglio; and point person, Peter Senftleben, for their strong faith in little Kiran – as well as everyone at Kensington;
Mary Davison, my first music teacher, for her strong faith in little me. You are missed.
Kim Dasher gave me the incredible gift of finishing my first draft within the comfy confines of her apartment. Ursula Cary, Kendra Harpster, Beth Haymaker, and Alex Lane all read early drafts of this novel and gave me helpful feedback.
Last but never least, a million thanks go to Chris Henry, BFF extraordinaire, for finding the humour in everything. It’s so easy.
In memory of James McMackin
As fire is shrouded in smoke, a mirror by dust and a child by the womb, so is the universe enveloped in desire.
– Lord Krishna, The Bhagavad-Gita
Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.
– Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
PROLOGUE: MAKE-UP-BELIEVE
I’ m surprised that my mother still doesn’t know. Surely she must notice her cosmetics diminishing every day. Surely she has noticed that the ends of her lipsticks are rounded, their pointy tips dulled by frequent application to my tiny but full mouth. Surely she has noticed that her eyeshadows have been rubbed to the core, a silver eye looking back at her from the metal bottom of each case. But here she is again, cooking obliviously in the kitchen, adding fire-coloured turmeric to the boiling basmati rice and humming in her husky alto.
“I’ve got homework,” I tell her as I pad across the linoleum floor and head for the foyer. I’m in Umbro shorts and a white t-shirt – the standard lazy-boy uniform in these parts – and my legs are tired from running barefoot in our backyard.
“Vatch your feet,” she says, pointing a powdered finger at the faint grass streaks my soles are leaving on the floor. I scurry away as I have learned in ballet class, as if grace is an able antidote to dirt.
“Kiran, beta ! Your dad …”
That’s all it takes. I stop on the tiled floor of the foyer, open the front door, and step onto the front porch. The smooth cement feels nice under my feet, especially since it is a hot, humid Cincinnati day. I walk the redbrick contour of our house to the nearest spout and struggle to twist the water on. Once I have succeeded, I scrub each sole clean with my hand. As I stand back on the cement, my feet feel icy. In comparison, the rest of my body feels hot and sticky. I wipe my feet on the doormat and go back inside, back into the AC and the sound of my mother’s metal ladle stirring lentils.
“Homework,” I call out and start up the carpeted stairs. Our staircase splits in two, so that to the left one set of stairs leads to my bedroom and the guest room, and to the right another leads to the master bedroom.
My father is out playing tennis with a family friend. My mother is singing bhajans as she stirs daal . The master bathroom is all mine. Involuntarily, I sputter the theme from Mission: Impossible . But this mission is far from impossible; I have succeeded at it time and again, so that the only impossible mission seems to be not wanting to put on makeup.
The master bathroom is regal in size and stature: a vaulted skylight above, two sparkling brass faucets popping out from the white marble counter. There is whiteness everywhere, shining at me from the tub of the Jacuzzi, from the white tile floor, from the tall white walls. The only conflict of colour comes from the bright orange towel that my father keeps near the faucets. He uses it after each time he washes – not to dry his hands but to dry the faucets. “You must alvays vipe them clean or the sink vill be in trouble,” he said once, referring to the tarnish that he fears the way a haemophiliac must fear thorns.
Awash in this white, made all the brighter due to the skylight, I set to work. I open my mother’s cosmetics drawer and pull out her squat silver makeup case. It makes a high tink as I set it on the counter. I roll the drawer shut: it rumbles and thuds. This sound reminds me of my mother’s rolling pin pushing balls of dough into roti , and I venture a listen against the bathroom door to make sure she is still cooking. There’s the ladle once more, tapping against the stainless-steel pot.
There are so many lipstick colours to choose from that one would think my mother were a model. The names are almost as exciting as the hues: Fire Engine. Mulberry. Fanfare. I love Fire Engine the most; it looks like the kind of lipstick Cindy Crawford wears in Sports Illustrated . And it is a nice complement to my brown skin. But wait – I think I like Mulberry more. It’s dark and mysterious, like me. I push it over my lips, over Fire Engine, the two colours mixing into a murky paste. “Oops,” I say, the word echoing. I pull a streamer of toilet paper from the dispenser and wipe the goo off, my eyes settling on Fanfare. A fanfare indeed, it is almost orange on my lips. Too orange. More toilet paper.
Magenta.
My mom has a bright magenta salwaar kameez that she wears with this lipstick. The front of the salwaar kameez is covered in gold embroidery. Once, when my mom was out, I put on this lipstick and then put on that salwaar kameez and started crying. I don’t know why. Since then, I have not put on Magenta. But something about today – my feet still cold, my torso still hot, the faint strains of my mom trying some soprano downstairs – makes me want to try on Magenta again. I apply it intently, colouring in my lips as I would a picture, and my mouth transforms into a smudge of passion.
I once asked my mom what they call eyeliner in Hindi. Kajol . I don’t even call it eyeliner anymore. “Eyeliner” is all well and good – it conjures up Maybelline commercials, girls with lashes as fat as ants – but “ kajol ” is a whole other can of worms. Cleopatra would not have worn eyelin