Blue Boy
Rakesh Satyal
Language: English
Pages: 276
ISBN: 0758231369
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Meet Kiran Sharma: lover of music, dance, and all things sensual; son of immigrants, social outcast, spiritual seeker. A boy who doesn't quite understand his lot--until he realizes he's a god. . .
As an only son, Kiran has obligations--to excel in his studies, to honor the deities, to find a nice Indian girl, and, above all, to make his mother and father proud--standard stuff for a boy of his background. If only Kiran had anything in common with the other Indian kids besides the color of his skin. They reject him at every turn, and his cretinous public schoolmates are no better. Cincinnati in the early 1990s isn't exactly a hotbed of cultural diversity, and Kiran's not-so-well-kept secrets don't endear him to any group. Playing with dolls, choosing ballet over basketball, taking the 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. . .
Surrounded by examples of upstanding Indian Americans--in his own home, in his temple, at the weekly parties given by his parents' friends--Kiran nevertheless finds it impossible to get the knack of "normalcy." 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. . .
"The best fiction reminds us that humanity is much, much larger than our personal world, our own little reality. Blue Boy shows us a world too funny and sad and sweet to be based on anything but the truth." --Chuck Palahniuk
New York Times Bestselling Author
The Quest for the Origins of Vedic Culture: The Indo-Aryan Migration Debate
Pours him a whiskey, my father takes it with another tough nod of his head, then sits back and listens to the conversation at hand, which is usually about George Bush—and soon, even Bill Clinton—and if he is helping or hurting Indians. The discussion is never about anything that does not relate to Indians. These men miss their homeland terribly. There is a longing, a sadness in their eyes that is difficult to miss. Perhaps as a result of this homeland-missing wistfulness, my family’s drive home.
Releasing the ball to the other end of the table, where Ajay lunges forward to hit it and loses it in the net. While Ajay reaches his paddle across the table to scrape the ball back to him, I look to the other end of the room, where Shruti the Big Bitch is sitting on a white wicker bench. Fat Neelam is sitting on the stone frame of the fireplace, her plump arms plopped on her knees. She is listening attentively to what Shruti is saying, as is Shelley, who is trying to compensate for the sharp.
Conversations. I consider joining my mother and the aunties in the kitchen, but then I will have to suffer Rashmi Auntie’s flesh again. And so it is upstairs I go, my socked feet light on the cool marble. I make sure to keep an eye out for Neha, who seems to have disappeared but as the eldest child of the party-giving family must perform various errands throughout the house. The coolest part about the Singhs’ house is the prayer room they have upstairs. It is no bigger than a closet—in truth,.
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-colored turmeric to the boiling basmati rice and humming in her husky alto. “I’ve got.
Remember that Cody and Donny are somewhere behind me, but I am pretty sure that they did not hesitate all that much to hoist themselves up on their bikes and take off (Cody cursing me because his sister’s bike had to be left behind). I guess I wouldn’t be so happy if I were those guys right now, either. I know that if someone had promised me what I promised them and then came up empty-handed, I would not only desert him but push him off the cliff. At least if I got pushed off the cliff I’d die.