Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood by Varsha Bajaj Page B

accent as I have with his, and we communicate best when I keep my sentences short and speak slower.
    Serving me elaborate meals makes Shiva feel like he’s doing a great job. Who am I to rob him of the satisfaction? Shiva, Mina, and Bina wait on me like I’m in a full-service restaurant.
    “ Upma for A-bby,” says Shiva, setting a plate before me. “U-p-ma?” I repeat. I take a small bite.
    Hmm. I take another bite. It reminds me of a cross between grits and polenta but with an Indian flavor. It has peas, onions, and cashews in it. I’m an adventurous eater so I dig in.
    “So what’s with the cups?” I ask again, pointing.
    Shiva says the fans stand outside the gates of Dad’s house 24/7 for a glimpse of him regardless of the weather. Most days Dad steps out, signs autograph books, and obliges fan requests for pictures. Shiva tells me many are tourists; some are people from India’s rural areas. In their eyes, Naveen Kumar is God.
    I like the way Shiva talks about Dad’s status better than the way Thomas tells it. Somehow, it doesn’t sound all braggy.
    “Fans like guests. Sometimes, God comes knocking at your door like a guest,” says Shiva.
    “I take them water at noon,” he says.
    I’m intrigued by Shiva’s status in the house. I figured out that he’s the driver, head chef, and general housekeeper. He didn’t drive Dad to the studio today because he stayed home to take care of Grandma Tara and me. Dad is obviously okay with giving him that responsibility.
    “I remember my days,” Shiva mumbles to himself.
    “What days?” I ask Shiva, curious.
    “Nah!” he says. Not one to sit idle, Shiva picks up a basket of snow peas and sits down on the stoop outside the kitchen door. It opens onto the lushly landscaped backyard. Tall coconut trees, blooming rosebushes, and potted plants surround an impeccably manicured lawn. A covered swing seat sits on the slate patio. It all looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. I can imagine Shiva serving Dad and Grandma Tara tea out there.
    Shiva scoots to make room as I sit by him. One by one, he squeezes and pops the shells and pulls the peas out. I shell too. Peas for me have always come in a bag from the freezer. After much coaxing and insistence (Please! Please! Please!), Shiva reluctantly tells me that almost forty-five years ago he came to Mumbai from his village in northern India as a teenage runaway.
    “Shiva, you were about my age,” I say. I can’t imagine being alone in a gigantic city like Mumbai.
    Somehow, in spite of our language barriers, Shiva and I communicate. He tells me how he escaped drought and poverty in his village. When he came to the city, he eked out a living as a shoeshine boy. Shiva has a faraway and pained look in his eyes as he talks.
    Then he waves away his memories and smiles at me. “No sad talk,” he says.
    I want to know more. “How did you meet my grandparents?” I ask. “That’s not sad, is it?”
    The word grandparents feels new when I use it to refer to my father’s family. Grandparents have always been Grandpa and Grandma Spencer.
    Grandma Tara’s husband, my grandfather, used to come to him for shoeshines and took a liking to him. “What do you want to do?” he asked the young Shiva.
    “Abby, my dream to drive car,” Shiva says.
    My middle-class grandparents paid for Shiva’s driving school and then gave him a job. He’s been with them ever since. He’s like family.
    I squeeze his hand. I want Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa to meet my new friend. “Will you come to America, Shiva?” I ask him.
    He laughs. “No, no! I no English!”
    Even Mina and Bina, who hover in the kitchen, eavesdropping, understand. They tease Shiva in Hindi. I understand the word America , even though they pronounce it Ahm-ri-ka, with an emphasis on the Ahm .
    “You come to give water?” he asks me. “I’d love to.” I grin.
    I lifted one of the trays and follow Shiva. The wiry security guard at the gate grins and asks Shiva in