Kalini

KALINI

  A short story by Hickory Cole

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Kalini

  Copyright © 2012 by Hickory Cole

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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  She sits at her keyboard, earnestly sifting through hundreds of lines of code that are clearly indecipherable to her. I’ve watched her over the past few weeks. She’ll get there eventually just through sheer determination. She studies the screen as if any moment the epiphany will strike her. Perhaps it will, but I believe her enlightenment will more likely manifest via undulating osmosis, occasional waves of comprehension that will ebb and retreat, back and forth, until she truly gets it. She is definitely bright, not brilliant, but her work ethic is what makes the difference. Plain at best in appearance, she has had to work hard for all of her achievements, which are modest to this point but she is very young. She is part of the growing tide of mid and entry level technicians, the new American Indian, or more appropriately labeled Indian American, this time truly from the Far East, not mistakenly named by a misguided European carrying small pox.

  I am a relic in this new world. Born and raised in the great state of Texas, I obtained a degree in Information Systems twenty five years ago, before she was born or maybe about the same time. They are an amazing generation and culture, so dedicated, so polite, so genuine. What they lack in acquired knowledge and an intelligible American English dialect they compensate with their tenacious desire to please management, my boss, his boss, even me. I, myself, am only loosely wrapped up in the management structure. I am a developer, highly technical, highly paid, nearly obsolete.

  They are taking over my job. Actually, they already have. I am not allowed to do what I really enjoy, roll up my sleeves and get intimate with the code. Debugging, that’s the thrill long since gone from my professional life. It seems hard to grasp for those who aren’t technically oriented. Most people would pull their hair out at the thought of pouring through hundreds or thousands of lines of code looking for that tiny little bug that made the whole process come crashing to a halt, often times grinding business to a halt. But there is a lot of adrenaline involved in that exercise, one that only the most confident programmers can handle, because there is an inordinate amount of pressure that comes with it. Succeed or the business fails. I’m still involved in those situations, just more so as a spectator, making demands of those who still get their hands dirty in the cyber-muck. Now I’m the people I used to berate under my breath.

  It’s hard to not root for this new working class, the way they approach their work, even though they have displaced me from the job I used to love. Kalini, like those who have come before her and those who will follow, embraces America for the opportunity it represents, but holds tightly to the traditions of her home. She rises from her seat for no reason when I pay a visit to her cubicle, and won’t sit again until I leave. I’m not certain what that’s about but it’s the same for almost all of our Indian contract workers. Is it because they report to me, or just because I’m older than them, possibly older than their parents? Either way I suppose it is somehow out of respect, another noble trait of this young workforce.

  She is always eager to please or impress me. I am not deserving of such treatment. I have been known to share potentially insensitive opinions in one of my peer’s cubicles on occasion. Is it the fault of our immigrant work force that our company has made it a priority to establish a “green” corporate image, to the extent that it installed waterless urinals throughout the facility where I work? Is it their fault that the traditional Indian diet features exotic curry spices that carry a strong odor, not only during preparation and consumption, but also somehow though the digestive system, into the circulatory system, past the kidneys and into the waterless urinal cartridge where it remains, festering, assaulting my nostrils, until the cartridge is finally replaced? No, but has it made me associate the odor I associate with relieving myself with that of the break room microwaves? Yes, it has. Have I vocalized that opinion in a way that could be demeaning to certain factions of people within earshot? Maybe once or twice. I’m not perfect. But she would never call me on that. None of them would. It’s just not their way.

  Instead for my transgressions she has on numerous occasions invited me to join her and her husband at their home for dinner. Again, I haven’t the stomach to sit through an evening of authentic Indian cooking, so I politely decline each time. Why they would want to spend time with a crotchety old white man I am baffled, but I believe her intentions are genuine as each declined invitation is met with disappointment I can clearly see in her expression.

  This is the week before Christmas, not a big time of the year for Kalini or her friends, but they seem to be uplifted by the season of cheer that surrounds them. I am heading out later than normal tonight and it is pouring rain. I pull out of my parking spot and head towards the exit. A huddled figure draped by a soggy newspaper is hurrying down the aisle of the parking lot when my tire finds a small pot hole hidden by a sheet of water that is sent rushing over the poor soul trying to escape the rain. Although I would like to, I cannot stop to offer condolences. It would make the unfortunate situation uncomfortable for both of us if I succumb to the urge to apologize, at least for me it would. My phone rings and my wife asks if I could pick up a gallon of milk on my way home. I promise her that I am up to the task. I detour slightly and stop at the local mini mart. The downpour has increased from just five minutes before when I climbed into my car at the office.

  I dart into the store and make my way to the rear refrigerated case. I notice a seasonal selection of eggnog and, throwing caution to the wind, grab a carton of it as well as the milk before heading to the checkout. There is only one register open and a line of four people ahead of me, so I wait patiently listening to “Blue Christmas” by Elvis Presley over the tinny sounding speakers in the ceiling. I am third in line to checkout when the door swings open. The bells clang loudly against the glass drawing my attention to the soaking wet Kalini standing in the entryway. In one hand is a drenched newspaper. I silently gasp, realizing she had been the unfortunate person to catch the puddle I sent flying her way. She doesn’t notice me at first, but she has a confused look on her face. I see growing concern in her eyes as she scans the mart. Finally her eyes catch mine. I instinctually react with a smile before I realize in horror that she may know it was me who doused her with the puddle. She seems to find relief though, in finding me here in this store.

  She approaches. “John. How are you doing?” She says as she smiles uncomfortably.

  “I’m fine Kalini. How are you doing?”

  She pauses. The question puts her on edge. “I am fine. A little wet.”

  I do not want to explore the cause for her lack of dry clothing but I’m drawing a blank on any other course of conversation. Finally, after an awkward pause, I think of something. “So, do you live close by?”

  Kalini glances around the store, her concerned look from before returns. “Yes… I mean no, not really. Though not too far.”

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “I… I am looking for a telephone.”

  “A telephone? Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, but its charge is gone. I must call my husband.”
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  “What’s wrong?” I glance out in the parking lot. I spot a familiar old beat up Honda Accord in the parking lot. It’s a car I have seen in our office parking lot. “Is that your car?”

  Kalini turns and looks at the old car. “Yes. That is my car.”

  I note the car is pulled in partially into the space at an odd angle. “Car trouble?”

  “Yes, it has been running oddly all week. It began sputtering very badly when I turned onto this street.” The pitch of her voice rises and falls in a rhythmic pattern as she speaks, emphasizing random syllables. Her words quickly begin to run together as I try to follow, but along with the awkward inflection in her voice there are also scant few pauses where I can try to catch up. Her speech pattern reminds me of a Jet Ski skimming across whitecaps, surging from one word to the next, but I believe I have the gist when she says, “I barely got it into that parking space when it made a horrible sound and then the motor just stopped running.”

  I offer her my phone. She takes it and places a call to her husband. As I try to follow along