Short-Stories

He is living in Europe. He is an American citizen. His parents are from Mexico. In Europe, he is an American. In America, he is Hispanic/Mexican. In Mexico, he is a Mexican of European descent.

Indian doctor After having continuous hiccups for ~24 hours, I walked to a nearby doctor’s clinic. " Uncle kaafi der se hitchkiyaan aa rahi hai, iska…" (I am having hiccups for a long while, can something…) [interrupted] He replies in a loud voice, " Beta, hitchkiyoon ka koi ilaaj nahi hota, kai baar mujhe aati hai" (Son, there is no cure for hiccups, sometimes, I have them for days) The tone was part patronizing and part condescending....

[At a local bus stand in Mexico] After I explained to my mother that to ask for time in Spanish (Espanol), she has to start with ke time se (Haryanvi), replace time with hora and reverse se to es. She turns to her left and asks the mexican mujer (woman), ke [que] hora es. The mujer shows her watch and tells the time in espanol, which of course was incomprehensible for us....

“Give me your wallet, bro” he said in his heavy accent while holding a gun to my forehead. It seems, out of pure curiosity, I have walked into this shady neighborhood of San Francisco. “Pull out your wallet,” he shouted, “and count the cash,” this time bringing my full attention to him. I pulled out my wallet, carefully counted all the nickels, pennies and dimes and said, “13 dollars, 59 cents, and one Indian Rupee”. “That’s it,” he blustered at the peak of his voice while I stood sweating profusely on a chilly night. He was not amused and pulled the trigger.

Getting Inside After getting misdirected once to 436 Hill St, San Francisco which is the old original address which does not exist anymore, I eventually reached 5 Wood St, San Francisco. It was the time of sunset, I knew I was late, but finally, it felt good to see a nondescript apartment marked “Gadar memorial”. Least, I expected locked doors. I did not drive 40 miles to stand in front of this locked door....

I grumbled that I have to go through security check on a connecting airport. It turned out that my domestic flight had landed in the international section. There was no secure passage connecting it to the next terminal. I crossed the security checkpoint at LA airport, and after wearing my shoes, I was waiting for my bag to come out of the scanner. “Sir, is this your bag?” a tall African-American TSA personnel looking at me, said, “it turned the light red on the scanner, we need to recheck it....