Being Here by Manini Nayar

Author:Manini Nayar
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780813182544
Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky

Coda: Maharajah Abdullah

Most appalling of all was the name he gave his restaurant. For most immigrant entrepreneurs, an exotic hook to the old country was all it took to bring in the natives and flatter their sense of wisdom. Hence the myriad Bombay Curry Houses and Taj Mahal Tandoori Palaces that dotted the national landscape. Personal names missed the spot. The Jawaharlal Nehru Café was mistaken for a coat shop with coffee. That was the truth and not just an anti-Congress joke. But Chinoy was an imaginative man and disdained the obvious. He recognized the formula. Popular title + restaurant + happy patrons = success. And therefore: big house, Toyota, etc. But he rejected it. In his view, part of the immigrant’s burden was to educate the masses, elevating them to subtler cultural recognitions so that they might better appreciate their chicken makhani and aloo roti. The restaurant name must be a veil opening to reveal vistas of history, not a guidepost to a menu.

So it was particularly disappointing to the Indian community in St. Paul when Chinoy, after much cogitation, named his restaurant Maharajah Abdullah. This was wrong on so many levels. St. Paul residents could say Maharajah only by separating each syllable. The results were unhappy. “Ma-Ha-Ra-Jah,” they said, turning the word into a mediaeval chant or a horse at an easy canter. And Abdullah was oxymoronic. Muslims were Sultans or Shahs. Hindus could be Ambujas or Amaravallis. Certainly not Abdullahs.

“Who has a combined Hindu-Muslim name?” demanded Mrs. Protima Lal, wife of Dr. Shivaji Lal, MBBS, to the Tuesday night prayer session at the mandir. “Only converts!”

Earlier in the evening at the restaurant’s grand opening, Chinoy addressed a hungry crowd. “I aim for Hindu-Muslim unity. This is my subtext to opening Maharajah Abdullah.”

Chinoy was taking night classes in literary criticism at the University of Minnesota. Words like “subtext,” “hegemony,” and “subaltern” fell gracefully from his lips but landed like bricks on the heads of fellow immigrants.

“Subtext bubtext,” exclaimed Mrs. Lal warmly when apprised of the quote. “As if we are stupid or what? The man is an ulloo.”

“Double ulloo,” agreed Mrs. Manjula Singh. “Show-offer!”

“All the Americans are laughing at us,” said Mr. Gyan Chand, retired lawyer and father of six daughters all at Harvard. “As if we don’t know our own culture!”

“That I do not think,” said Dr. Thottam, “because Americans, they do not know so many differences. But who is this Maharajah Abdullah? He is not a person.”

“That much is definite,” said Mr. Gyan Chand.

“Maybe he was like Akbar,” said Mrs. Singh, softening. “Perhaps he was someone for unity? Such people are not so popular these days.”

The Tuesday evening prayer group turned as one and gazed at Mrs. Singh. She understood her transgression and sneezed politely into her handkerchief.

“Anyway,” she said, “The rasgullas at the restaurant are so bad, like big rocks. My son brought some home to play marbles. For that they are very good.”

At the renunciation of her apostasy, a swell of appreciation like a lift of song rose and drifted around the room.

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