Abhay's Bhay

The bar was half-packed with people, a cacophony of overlapping noises rising in every direction. The smell of delicious food and spilled beer filled the air. Two friends sat in a booth next to the giant window, laughing and chatting animatedly. A neon sign buzzed on the wall opposite the window: “Good Food, Gooder Beer.” Its radiant glow flickered on the faces of the people nearby.

One friend emptied the remaining contents of the pitcher into both pints. A plate full of bones sat on the edge of the table, quietly demanding a passing server’s attention.

“A gorilla clearly has the upper body strength to smash a lion’s back. There’s no way a lion would win,” yelled Kishan, gesturing wildly.

“You’re so wrong. It isn’t even a close fight. A lion would hunt at night to get the edge. Plus, they hunt in packs!” Sameer retorted, hands flat on the table.

“How are we doing, guys?” came the bubbly voice of the server.

“Frustrated, but that’s not your fault. Thank you. Can we get another pitcher, please?” Kishan asked with a grin.

“For sure.” She smiled brightly, cleared the plate of bones, and left.

“I still can’t get over that accent of yours,” Sameer said, downing his glass.

“Better believe it,” Kishan responded, downing his own. “Besides, you’ve got an accent too now. You don’t see me making a fuss.”

“True. Still, you’re the one who flew in from Australia. Even though neither of us is from here, you’re somehow still the more ‘exotic’ one.”

“Shut up. I’m going to the bathroom.” Kishan excused himself.

Sameer exhaled loudly and rubbed his face. His eyes scanned the walls for a clock, then he chuckled to himself, seeing his phone in front of him. It was 9 o’clock. The night was still young. He wasn’t surprised he was having fun, after all, it had been five years since he’d last seen Kishan, his best friend from high school. They’d parted ways when he flew out to Canada, and Kishan flew to Australia. During those five years, they’d kept in touch on and off, but lost the daily intimacy.

When Kishan said he was coming to Canada, he hadn’t thought twice before agreeing to meet.

He smiled, unfocused eyes staring into his glass.

Sameer saw Kishan weaving his way back from the bathroom, grinning.

“Such an exotic country, this is, the flush handle is on the right side instead of the left.” He sat and reached for his beer.

“I bet,” Sameer responded with a smile, taking a big gulp and emptying his glass.

“What’s with the face?” Kishan asked.

“What do you mean? It’s my face,” Sameer said, eyebrows arched, pulling a goofy look.

“Looks like you’re thinking too hard.”

Sameer rolled his eyes but smiled. “You remember the canteen in school?”

Kishan’s eyes lit up, a grin blooming across his face.

“Instead of these pints, we used to have bottles of Coke or Pepsi. Sitting on the window ledge, we’d clink our glasses to teachers being sick to avoid tests.”

“Out of all the futures we cheered to, I don’t think leaving home was ever one of them,” Kishan said, resting his chin on his hand.

“Feels like a different lifetime.”

“Okay, old man.” Kishan chuckled.

“Here you go.” The server returned with a fresh pitcher. “Anything else, guys?”

“Can we get a plate of nachos as well?” Sameer asked with a tipsy grin, joining his hands together playfully.

“Of course.” She scuttled away.

Gasps rose from nearby tables. The TV had shifted to breaking news: an unarmed assault at a park in the city. The victim, a senior man of color, was hospitalized, and police had apprehended the suspect.

Sameer’s smile dropped. He shook his head. “Every day, this city seems to get worse.”

“Gee, thanks. I feel so safe here,” Kishan said, placing a hand on his chest.

“What? Like Australia has no crime?”

“It does. You’re right. Every day, the problems seem to escalate. It always makes me sad when there’s a racial element. Makes you feel unwelcome.”

“I had something happen to me when I was new here,” Sameer said.

Kishan sat upright. “Do tell.”

Sameer took a deep breath, eyes drifting outside the window. “When I was three months new to this country, I was on the phone with my mom, talking in public. A lovely old white lady felt the need to tell me to go back to where I came from.”

Kishan dropped his face in his hands, his dark hair flopping over.

“I just walked away. I didn’t know how to respond. But afterwards, my brain kept running highlight reels of what I should have said. That spiral messed me up. Identity crisis. Did I embarrass my people? Should I have stood up for myself? Sworn at her? All the could’ve, should’ve, would’ves.”

He took another sip. “Eventually, I came to a conclusion.”

“I couldn’t figure out what triggered her. I tried imagining what would make me tell someone to leave. And I thought: if someone came into my home, made a mess, disrespected my space, then, sure, I’d be upset. But I didn’t walk into her house. I came to this country. A country doesn’t belong to individuals. The people belong to the country. I wasn’t invading her personal space. But she wanted to let me know I didn’t belong. And that’s what got to me.”

“Here you go, guys!” the server returned with nachos.

“Thank you!” they chimed in unison.

“These nachos are so good,” Sameer said, mouth full.

“They look divine. Finish your story.”

“What got me was the irony. Canada was declared a nation in 1867. Before that, it was known as the northwestern territory. But even before colonization, First Nations people lived here for generations.”

“Just like Australia!” Kishan added.

“Exactly. The country isn’t hers either. If we follow her logic, she should go back to wherever her grandparents came from. Canada is an immigrant nation. Sister, look in the mirror!”

“People don’t look in the mirror before they hurl nonsense,” Kishan said, shaking his head. “I’m glad you’re okay, though.”

Sameer nodded.

“Something similar happened to me in Australia,” Kishan began, running a finger along his beer glass.

Sameer leaned forward, attentive.

“Six months in, I got a job at a French café. Everyone there was white. I thought it was great, learning new cultures, making friends. Then one day, an old man, a regular, comes up and leans in: ‘Are you with ISIS?’”

Sameer winced.

“I replied, ‘Not yet. But I’ll look for you when I am.’”

Sameer spat out his beer, laughing.

“He went pale. I didn’t even get what had happened at first. Thought it was banter. But as I shared the story, the looks on people’s faces told me how serious it was. My funny bone saved me before my brain caught up.”

The table next to them broke out in song, it was someone’s birthday.

“Hate just seems universal,” Sameer commented.

“Every emotion is. Why is hate so easy to give in to?”

Sameer looked into his glass. “Because you don’t have to look inward to hate something outside you.”

“That’s true. Same for opinions. If you repeat what you hear without thinking about it, you’re just echoing someone else.”

“Exactly.”

They clinked their nachos and ate in silence for a moment.

“You know what I believe? What goes around comes around.”

“So does every major religion,” Kishan pointed out.

“I know, I know. But I really believe I’m responsible for what happens to me. If good things happen, it’s because I did good things before. And if I keep doing good, nothing bad will happen… until Life intervenes.”

He paused and drank, setting his glass down firmly.

Kishan raised an eyebrow. “Life intervenes?”

“Yeah. Like, if I leave here and get hit by a drunk driver, that’s Life. An outside force reminding me I’m not fully in control.”

“So things like natural disasters, wars, traffic… these are Life intervening?”

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t that kind of morbid? Doesn’t it make our daily efforts pointless?”

“Yes. And that’s why I don’t worry about what might happen. I just live day by day. If today I did good, I don’t worry about tomorrow. It’ll be okay.”

“Till it isn’t.”

“Till it isn’t.”

Kishan nodded. “Looks like all our talks about fate, karma, and destiny led you to an answer that works for you.”

Sameer nodded. “Life willing, you’ll get your answers too.”

“Life willing,” Kishan echoed, raising his glass.

They clinked their glasses and drank.

“How are we doing, guys?” The waitress returned with her ever-present smile and gum.

They looked at each other. “Two more beers, please?”

“For sure,” she said, clearing their empty plates and glasses.

“It’s really nice seeing you again, man. It’s been too long.”

“Way too long.”

“I need to use the bathroom,” Sameer said, weaving through the tables.

Rain began pelting the glass beside their booth. Kishan’s eyes scanned the wall for a clock. The night was still young. He followed a raindrop sliding slowly down the window, his body gently swaying to the music, waiting for his friend.