Dispossessions
by Vaidhy Mahalingam
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Dr. Prakash Trivedi’s combo housewarming and retirement party was in full swing, and the youthfully old doctor, his dyed hair and beard shining like limousine fenders, leaned back on his patio sofa and raised his freshly filled Glencairn glass towards his five closest friends.
“A view to kill for!” he said, revelling at the spectacular sunset over San Francisco Bay, positioning his glass to make the orange orb sparkle through the amber liquid. He gestured to his friends to come closer, glancing with the corner of his eye to make sure all their wives were inside.
“I owe you guys,” he said. “We really pulled it off.” Switching to a vulgarity-laced Hindi, he crowed about how easy it was for him to cheat Americans.
“They are too trusting; they don’t know about us brainy Indians,” he said, pointing to his head. “After you guys sent in your proxy lowball bids, the old hag who lived here probably wet her diapers. She was deep in debt, I had found out. These people never know how to save money. And then I come with this all-cash offer, valid for one day only, take it or leave it, and BOOM, I get this house at three hundred K below listing. Smooth, no?”
His buddies answered with clinking glasses and mirthful repartee.
“Before we forget, a little token of gratitude,” Prakash said, pulling out five small envelopes from a pouch wedged between the cushions and handing one to each of them.
Pandey stuffed his gift inside his shirt pocket and asked, “But what about other offers? The ones we did not make? After all, it is a sellers’ market nowadays.”
Prakash chuckled, “I met with the seller’s agent privately. I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.” His Indian-accented Brando imitation was the worst ever, but his friends still roared.
“So, what’s next?” Pandey asked, shaking his head.
Somewhere far below their hillside perch, a police cruiser turned on its siren and wailed its way through the Berkeley flatlands. A dog immediately responded with a protracted, pensive howl.
“That’s what comes next,” Prakash said, furrowing his brow and pointing to the redwood fence on his right, from behind which the howls rose.
The friends stared at the fence, puzzled.
A light turned on in the house on the other side of the fence. An old woman’s voice called out, “Hush, Aisling, hush!”
The howling stopped with a whine.
“That house,” said Prakash, “is also ripe for acquisition. At least the old lady who lived here wiped out her retirement money, turning this place into a miniature Hearst Castle. Her friend over there, though, still lives in a shack built in the thirties. There is an opportunity there, don’t you think? Here, try this single malt.”
Four of his friends nodded quietly as he poured the whisky into their glasses.
“What?” he remonstrated, catching Pandey’s concerned look. “You want the old doctor to wind down and take up yoga and meditation already? I got to keep my brain active. Yes, my part-time clinical research position at WizGenics keeps me busy, but I need more challenges.”
He abruptly switched to inquiring about Pandey’s kids when he saw his wife, Sunita, slide open the door to the backyard to bring a trayful of fiery pakoras, straight off the deep fryer.
* * *
When Prakash parked his Tesla and entered the house through the garage, he was surprised by the animated chatter from the kitchen. Usually, when he returned from the lab on Wednesdays, his lone workday, his dinner would be on the table and his wife would be holed up in her office, on Zoom calls with her college-admission coaching clients, having testy conversations with difficult Indian parents of easy Indian kids.
That day, she was at the kitchen table, conversing with a fluffy-white-haired Caucasian lady, definitely eighty-plus. The old British-style tea set, which he hadn’t seen in decades, had been brought out and both ladies were sipping tea from floral-patterned fine china cups. An open packet of McVitie’s Digestive biscuits and another of Amul Cheese lay on a filigreed Rajasthani brass tray in front of them.
“Oh, Prakash! You are back,” Sunita called out cheerfully. “This is Patricia Kelleher, our neighbor. Such a wonderful lady.”
“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Kelleher,” he gushed. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
As he approached the table to shake her hands, he almost bumped into a large dog lying at the foot of the table. The dog quietly looked up at him with her blue melancholic eyes, holding them steady.
He couldn’t stop staring at them, they looked so human. The more he looked at them, the more they locked in and they seemed to say something. After much concentration, the message coalesced slowly: “Humble abode? Really?”
Prakash got flustered and looked up.
“Her name is Aisling,” his wife beamed. “She is a Siberian Husky. Beautiful dog, isn’t she?”
“And smart as a whip, too,” Patricia added.
“You have a wonderful accent, Mrs. Kelleher,” Prakash said, composing himself to shake her hands. “Where is it from?”
“Call me Pat,” she said. “I am from Ulster, originally. We — Declan, my ex, and I — fled during the Troubles, settled in Cork for a while and then found our way to Berkeley in 1972.”
Prakash listened attentively, pretending to understand.
Pat continued, “But I haven’t been here long enough to lose the accent. And love, I doubt I’ll be here long enough to lose much else either.” She laughed softly, in a cracking voice.
“Don’t say that, Pat,” he said. “You look good. Trust me, I am a doctor.”
Aisling stood up and barked once. When Prakash looked at her, their eyes locked again, and the reproach in the dog’s eyes was very clear. Perturbed, he looked away and walked to the dishwasher, from which he pulled out a clean dinner plate and utensils. Mumbling to himself in Hindi, using a plethora of uncomplimentary remarks about dogs, he served himself a plate of rajma and rice from pots on the stove. He joined the ladies at the table.
“Would you like some, Pat?” he offered.
“Ah no, love. I used to enjoy a good curry, but it doesn’t sit right in me guts anymore,” she said.
Swallowing his annoyance at the usage of the generic term “curry,” he nodded his head. As Sunita went to fetch yogurt and mango pickles for him, Pat said, “So I heard you two saw each other for the first time on the wedding night. Is that right?”
“Oh, yes! Sunita loves telling that story to everybody. It was just a typical arranged marriage of our times. Nothing unusual,” Prakash said. “So, tell me, how’s this neighborhood? Have you lived here long?”
Aisling gave a low growl. He had to learn to ignore the lie-detector dog. She seemed to know that he had researched Pat already.
“You’ll love this place, Doctor. Just twenty minutes from downtown, but still at the edge of the woods. I love sitting on the deck on foggy mornings with a cup of Darjeeling to watch the deer grazing in the backyard.”
“How lovely! Did you know Mrs. Spencer? The previous occupant of this house?”
“Oh, yes! We were thick as thieves for over forty years. Once her dear Mike passed away, she wasn’t herself. Fell into a bit of bother with money, so she did. She is in a senior community in Rossmoor. We still talk on the phone.”
“That’s so sweet of you guys,” Sunita said, touching Pat’s hand as she seated herself next to her.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Prakash asked, raising his spoon at her, “have you thought about that option for yourself?”
“Prakash!” Sunita cried in shock.
“That’s okay, it is all right for him to ask,” Pat said, patting Sunita’s hand.
Prakash looked at the dog once and decided not to feign ignorance. “Looks like you have a one-acre lot, like ours. Isn’t it a bit much to maintain? I am not saying you are not capable...”
Pat smiled, wide and warm. She had on bright red lipstick, and her irregular teeth were gleaming white.
“The land can revert to wilderness for all I care. The deer, the squirrels, the juncos, jays, and titmice can have it back. They need it more than I do. But no, I will stay here. For Aisling. She was born here. It is her acre. I can’t imagine her living anywhere else, a refugee in a place far from home, like I had to. Can you imagine this poor beast cooped up in a senior apartment all day long? Wouldn’t that be terrible? I’d love the peace of Rossmoor myself, but for her, I’ll stay put.”
“I see,” said Prakash. “You consider yourself dispossessed. Just like me. My grandparents were swindled out of our family farm by the village moneylender. There were nine of us, living in a tiny six-hundred square foot flat in Lucknow. So I know how it feels. But you have to get past those emotions and act rationally. I used the indignities I faced to fuel my own real estate ambitions, and that worked out well for me.”
“Perhaps so,” Pat replied. “But Aisling does not have to figure out such things. She will walk the land she was born in till the day she is buried in it. It will stay hers.”
Aisling expressed her approval with a quiet “Woof.”
Sunita’s fearlessly spiced rajma suddenly felt bland in Prakash’s mouth. He stopped himself from asking Pat her dog’s age. He looked at Aisling. Her eyes were smiling at him. Her coat glowed, and she looked the perfect picture of doggy health; she surely had several years left to live.
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by Vaidhy Mahalingam
