Gold Diggers, Sanjena Sathian [hardest books to read .txt] 📗

PENGUIN PRESS

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Copyright © 2021 Sanjena Sathian

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Sathian, Sanjena, author.

Title: Gold diggers : a novel / Sanjena Sathian.

Description: New York : Penguin Press, 2021.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020022222 (print) | LCCN 2020022223 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984882035 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984882042 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: East Indian Americans—Fiction. | Magic realism (Literature) | GSAFD: Bildungsromans.

Classification: LCC PS3619.A8187 G65 2021 (print) | LCC PS3619.A8187 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020022222

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020022223

ISBN 9780593298671 (export)

Cover design: Stephanie Ross

Cover illustration: Misha Gurnanee Gudibanda

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For Usha, Krish, and Tejas Sathian

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One: Golden Children

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part Two: Panning

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Acknowledgments

A Note on Research

About the Author

PROLOGUE

In the middle of Bombay there was, for many years, a certain squat building that served as a beacon for the city’s ambitious. It was smog-licked and wedged between a halal butcher and a chai shop, with a sign that flickered neon blue: the goswami classes. Underneath, in faded lettering streaked with bird droppings: physics studies chemistry studies maths studies | best choice for scholars. A practiced eye could spot the sign from the Dadar flyover, or from the pedestrian bridge above the train station.

One evening in 1984, thirteen-year-old Anjali Joshi pressed herself against the balcony of her family’s fifth-floor flat and examined the neon from her elevated angle, fiddling with her two long plaits and smoothing her plaid school uniform. Anjali hoped to glimpse her older brother Vivek exiting the school after his extracurricular tuitions, his figure knocking shoulders with the clever neighbor boy, Parag. All the strivers shaded blue.

Vivek had lately stopped paying her much mind, and the world had become suddenly lonely. Once, her brother and his friends in the housing society had played cricket with her behind the building, bowling the ball with noodly and forgiving arms. But now, Vivek’s afternoons were reserved for studying, often with the wolfish, swarthy Parag, who was overgrown for his age, with a habit of grinding his teeth as he did problem sets, as though chomping hungrily on tough meat.

Anjali did not see Vivek, so she returned to her own chemistry papers—ordinary papers, unblessed by the legendary Ratan Goswami, who handpicked his students, anointing those who would matriculate at the Indian Institutes of Technology and later make their way to the highest echelons of the nation’s industry—or to America. Anjali’s parents had not entered her into such a pool. She was a daughter. It had never occurred to the Joshis that Anjali might want for herself what they wanted for Vivek. It had never occurred to Anjali to want very much at all.

On this particular day, she chewed on an eraser, lying on her stomach on the dusty floor and wishing for some relief from the heat. Even the drench of the monsoon would be preferable to the dryness of April in Dadar, where you could forget that Bombay bordered the sea, that a few miles away the air might salt your skin and you might see something like a beyond.

Anjali’s eyes drooping, she righted herself so she could see the highest curves of the letters in the cram school sign. Inside, the bulky figure of Ratan Goswami would be rat-a-tatting his chalk on the board as he drilled students. Young’s modulus is? Atmospheric pressure is? External torque is? At this hour, Vivek would be scribbling his last lines on graph paper before trudging home to inhale a small molehill of rice, then plunging back into his bedroom for more swotting. His body was growing slender, like a mongoose’s, the longer he studied.

Anjali lifted her head at the click of a key in the lock. Her mother glanced at her daughter only briefly, then made for the kitchen. In the afternoons, while Vivek was under Ratan Goswami’s supervision, Lakshmi Joshi mingled with the other ladies in the housing society, bragging about her two sons—Dhruv, who was in America, and Vivek, who would soon be abroad, too. Anjali heard her mother coming and going, the boys’ names always on her tongue, her own name never uttered.

In the kitchen, Anjali’s mother reached into her sari blouse and deposited something on the Cuddapah stone counter. As Lakshmi squatted to fidget with the rusty petroleum gas cylinder, Anjali padded closer to see the glint of the furtive object: a small, plain gold coin, the sort a family member might give a young boy for good luck.

“Ithna nigh, out of the kitchen while I’m doing this,” Lakshmi snapped.

Anjali obeyed, retreating with her chemistry papers to the dining table, but stealing glances. Her mother boiled water in a saucepan, reached for the masala dabba, shook some soil-brown powders into the hot liquid, and began to sing something like a prayer, passing through each phrase as though passing the beads of a mala from finger to finger. At one point, Lakshmi left the kitchen and stepped into the alcove in the hallway, where the family kept their altar—pink and blue gods and haldi and kumkum and bells on a bronze plate. She returned to the kitchen pressing two figurines against her breasts and set them on the shelf above the stove. The sandalwood eyes of the goddesses of prosperity and education surveyed the proceedings.

Lakshmi tilted the pot, just enough that Anjali could see the coin slip from her fingers and splash on the surface. Anjali stood on her tiptoes in time to see the liquid in the