First Prize Short Story 2004
A Simple Gesture by Amrapali, India/Texas, Age 15

The first thing Mrs. Sharma does after moving into apartment #402 of Briar Forest is to make acquaintance with the neighbors. She shuffles over with her jet-black bob haircut and long denim pinafore, first to the home on the left and then on the right. One outstretched hand carries a silver platter, lined with a paper towel drenched in oil, and some fried amorphous solids which seem to be the source of the leak. After knocking on the mahogany door of apartment #403, she waits on the shared balcony, fanning herself with a loose paper towel end.

Two toddlers peep out of the adjacent window, first surprised then excited at the sudden turn of events in their humid afternoon. Mrs. Sharma waves, smiles a betel-stained smile, and waves again—she likes to perform important actions in multiples of two, perhaps for security, or emphasis, or just old age.

The mahogany door opens a minute later, and a young woman in a pinstriped suit appears, a black cordless phone pressed to one ear and a cellphone pressed to the other. "No, the twins’ Summer Soccer Fun starts at two o’clock."

"No, it would be completely imprudent to keep Penguin waiting when they can withdraw their offer in an instant, and Scholastic doesn’t seem too keen." She turns her head a few degrees forward. "No, we don’t want to buy any of those today, thank you." She closes the door and continues her conversations.

The toddlers look disappointed. "Yes honey, I picked up their uniforms already. Ok. Ok, bye." "Yes, start off with that amount but see if you can make any negotiations by factoring in the minimum cost of printing it paperback with the new popularity of this ‘chick lit’ stuff. Update me on the meeting."

The (acquired-over-time) patience in Mrs. Sharma knocks again.

"Yes?" asks the flustered woman.

"Hell-O," she announces, pronouncing the word like Jell-O. "My name is Shipra Sharma, your new neighbor. I just moved into apartment #402 with my husband Pollob."

"Oh. Oh! Oh no, I’m so sorry about before," laughs the woman, shaking her head at her stupidity. "This is very embarrassing. I’m sorry. I was on the phone, and slightly stressed, and I didn’t realize, thought you were, and — I’m Tracy Haines, nice to meet you Ship-Rah." She extends a somewhat reluctant hand, and with the other adjusts a strap on her camisole.

"It is very nice to meet you also," says Mrs. Sharma, her English understandable if not perfect. "Here, I made some pakoras for you and your family."

"Excuse me?"

"Pakoras," she smiles, extending the tray. "It is an Indian snack: cauliflower and potato dipped in a flour batter and fried. Eat it while it is hot, and you can give it to your two kids. Even Americans can’t live on fruits all day." She laughs a throaty, secret laugh at these words, and then sniffs and puts away her mirth somewhere in the unexplored caverns of her nose and mouth. "Well, I hope to be seeing you again soon."

"Thanks, this is so sweet of you. Here, keep the platter." And Tracy scoops the food up in the Hefty towel and hands back the steel tray.

"Bye," says the busy mother and runs upstairs with her oily gift, stashing it in a lonesome corner of the fridge. Smiling, bemused, she thinks to herself, "How quaint!" Then, hastily relieving the black cordless of its' strident shrieks, she fixes her children some grapes.

Mrs. Sharma, now heading towards apartment #404 on the other side, does her thinking aloud. "A strange place this is. I have never returned to someone, or have never been returned, an empty plate." She shakes her jet-black head, then pauses, and shakes it again.

Amrapali on life between cultures: The biggest obstacle in balancing two cultures is making the realization that your country of origin and country of residence are not like oil and water-- they can indeed mix. It is easy to blend elements of both "worlds" (people, customs, etc). This fusion brings about an inner and outer peace not achieved by creating rigid mental barriers between cultures. (Although it is admittedly awkward when I'm forced to walk into Walmart or Subway after dance class, still wearing a salwar kameez.) Surely the best thing about being an immigrant is the freedom to pick and choose the practices and values from both worlds that suit your personal outlook on life. I can remember countless times when friends, after hearing stories about certain Indian festivals or seeing our ethnic dances and clothing, have commented, "I hate being white." Although they don't mean the words literally, and indeed they shouldn't, being an immigrant does have, in this country that celebrates diversity, a mysterious, exotic appeal -- this is quite flattering.