Chapter 3: Rohit's Fortune
Rohit listened for the familiar sounds of his father, Neil, preparing for bed. He heard the shuffle of his father’s leather-soled slippers – he parked his shoes at the door everyday of his life – up and down the stairs of number 213 Orange Heights Avenue. Before bed, his father opened and closed every door, checking the locks twice. Then he climbed slowly up the stairs, pausing at the landing to turn off the hall light and went into his bedroom, half a flight of stairs above Rohit’s room.
When Rohit heard the bedsprings wheeze, he rose from his bed and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He tried to flatten the clump of dark hair that had dried standing up, and he practiced a friendly smile. “Hi, Dad,” he said to the mirror.
He walked up the six stairs that led to his parents’ bedroom holding a sheaf of white paper behind him. His father greeted him by raising his eyes above a copy of Fortune Magazine and smiling.
“Rohit,” he said. “I thought you were asleep in there, so I didn’t greet you. You are happy that you’ll have Mammi back tomorrow.”
Rohit nodded. “What time does her flight get in?” he asked, though he knew already.
“Noon,” replied his father. “So by the time she gets through customs with your grandparents and their dozen suitcases, you’ll be home from school already. Maybe you’ll make us dinner, eh?” Neil smiled.
“Dad, Baba, I want to talk to you before Mammi gets back,” Rohit said with sudden seriousness. He continued speaking as his father nodded and put aside his magazine.
“The bill for school came last week and the bill for CTY is here too,” he began, pulling the papers from behind his back. His father reached for the bills, but Rohit continued to speak.
“This is a lot of money, especially in a bad economy,” he said, gesturing at Fortune Magazine. “And I know that you need to send more money to India now for the aunts and uncles.”
“This is not your concern, son,” said Neil. “It’s my responsibility to pay for school and the camp at Johns Hopkins.”
Neil frowned. His father spoke with such conviction that it was hard to argue with him. “Here’s the thing, though, Dad,” he stammered. “I don’t want to go to Horton Academy anymore. I want to public school. I want to walk there and walk home like the other kids in the neighborhood and I want to learn film-making in the classes they have.”
“Have you told your mother this?” asked Neil.
“She knows,” said Rohit sadly. “Oh, she knows. But she wants me to go to a good college, right? So I have this list of acceptances from Columbia High School and this other list from Horton Academy. A lot of kids in this town are going to good colleges it looks like, and if you want to do film, like me, this is a better place to be in high school.”
He handed the lists of college acceptances to his father without speaking. Rohit watched Neil push his reading glasses further up his nose to study the lines of print.
“Rice University,” his father said finally. “Four Columbia High School students accepted in 2008. That’s where I went.”
Rohit nodded silently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He knew his parents’ educational history well. Neil moved to the United States at age 16, spent a year at Deerfield Academy, before graduating from Cornell. He studied medical physics at Rice, finishing his dissertation just days before Rohit was born. His mother, Sarita, was educated in India and England; she worked part-time – “on a consultant basis,” she called it – as an architectural draftsman.
“So what is it with film that we are talking about, Rohit?” asked his father, looking hard at his son.
“I want to be a documentary filmmaker, Baba, going around the world and even just the town and showing people what’s going on. I want to film what’s really there for people to see,” Rohit replied. He walked across the forest green carpet to look at the window at the new neighbors’ car. “Look out there,” he told his father. “There’s everything out there and somebody just needs to, like, put a frame around it.” He stood staring out the window for a long moment.
“Fine,” said his father, folding the papers neatly lengthwise.
“What?” asked Rohit. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are asking me not to spend thirty thousand dollars a year on tuition and to allow you to do what you choose,” answered his father. “That’s fine. You must finish out the year, including the summer session.” He raised his hand against Rohit’s protest. “Then, if your mother says yes, you will attend Columbia High School in the fall.”
“What will Mammi say?” asked Rohit.
“We will surprise her with the strength of our resolution,” answered his father. “She has a surprise for you too.”
“I know,” nodded Rohit. “She collected newspaper articles about the Indian elections for me to take to school. I think she forgot that we’re learning about ancient Rome this year.”
“A democracy is a democracy, whether young or old,” said his father. “But that’s not the surprise. You have a big surprise for Mammi, but her surprise for you is even bigger.”
Rohit looked at his father, willing him to say more. His father smiled.
“You must give your old father a hug,” said Neil, “then to bed for us both. Tomorrow will be a big day.”
Rohit looked out the window once more at the big house on the block. Then he turned away to hug his father and post his news on Facebook for the whole world to read.
When Rohit heard the bedsprings wheeze, he rose from his bed and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He tried to flatten the clump of dark hair that had dried standing up, and he practiced a friendly smile. “Hi, Dad,” he said to the mirror.
He walked up the six stairs that led to his parents’ bedroom holding a sheaf of white paper behind him. His father greeted him by raising his eyes above a copy of Fortune Magazine and smiling.
“Rohit,” he said. “I thought you were asleep in there, so I didn’t greet you. You are happy that you’ll have Mammi back tomorrow.”
Rohit nodded. “What time does her flight get in?” he asked, though he knew already.
“Noon,” replied his father. “So by the time she gets through customs with your grandparents and their dozen suitcases, you’ll be home from school already. Maybe you’ll make us dinner, eh?” Neil smiled.
“Dad, Baba, I want to talk to you before Mammi gets back,” Rohit said with sudden seriousness. He continued speaking as his father nodded and put aside his magazine.
“The bill for school came last week and the bill for CTY is here too,” he began, pulling the papers from behind his back. His father reached for the bills, but Rohit continued to speak.
“This is a lot of money, especially in a bad economy,” he said, gesturing at Fortune Magazine. “And I know that you need to send more money to India now for the aunts and uncles.”
“This is not your concern, son,” said Neil. “It’s my responsibility to pay for school and the camp at Johns Hopkins.”
Neil frowned. His father spoke with such conviction that it was hard to argue with him. “Here’s the thing, though, Dad,” he stammered. “I don’t want to go to Horton Academy anymore. I want to public school. I want to walk there and walk home like the other kids in the neighborhood and I want to learn film-making in the classes they have.”
“Have you told your mother this?” asked Neil.
“She knows,” said Rohit sadly. “Oh, she knows. But she wants me to go to a good college, right? So I have this list of acceptances from Columbia High School and this other list from Horton Academy. A lot of kids in this town are going to good colleges it looks like, and if you want to do film, like me, this is a better place to be in high school.”
He handed the lists of college acceptances to his father without speaking. Rohit watched Neil push his reading glasses further up his nose to study the lines of print.
“Rice University,” his father said finally. “Four Columbia High School students accepted in 2008. That’s where I went.”
Rohit nodded silently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He knew his parents’ educational history well. Neil moved to the United States at age 16, spent a year at Deerfield Academy, before graduating from Cornell. He studied medical physics at Rice, finishing his dissertation just days before Rohit was born. His mother, Sarita, was educated in India and England; she worked part-time – “on a consultant basis,” she called it – as an architectural draftsman.
“So what is it with film that we are talking about, Rohit?” asked his father, looking hard at his son.
“I want to be a documentary filmmaker, Baba, going around the world and even just the town and showing people what’s going on. I want to film what’s really there for people to see,” Rohit replied. He walked across the forest green carpet to look at the window at the new neighbors’ car. “Look out there,” he told his father. “There’s everything out there and somebody just needs to, like, put a frame around it.” He stood staring out the window for a long moment.
“Fine,” said his father, folding the papers neatly lengthwise.
“What?” asked Rohit. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are asking me not to spend thirty thousand dollars a year on tuition and to allow you to do what you choose,” answered his father. “That’s fine. You must finish out the year, including the summer session.” He raised his hand against Rohit’s protest. “Then, if your mother says yes, you will attend Columbia High School in the fall.”
“What will Mammi say?” asked Rohit.
“We will surprise her with the strength of our resolution,” answered his father. “She has a surprise for you too.”
“I know,” nodded Rohit. “She collected newspaper articles about the Indian elections for me to take to school. I think she forgot that we’re learning about ancient Rome this year.”
“A democracy is a democracy, whether young or old,” said his father. “But that’s not the surprise. You have a big surprise for Mammi, but her surprise for you is even bigger.”
Rohit looked at his father, willing him to say more. His father smiled.
“You must give your old father a hug,” said Neil, “then to bed for us both. Tomorrow will be a big day.”
Rohit looked out the window once more at the big house on the block. Then he turned away to hug his father and post his news on Facebook for the whole world to read.
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