Written by Matthew L. Pasulka –

My father-in-law is a well-read and widely-traveled man. An Indian citizen by birth, Vikram was actually born in Thailand just after India finally achieved independence from the collapsing British Empire in 1947. His father, an engineer by training, worked in various positions for the United Nations throughout South and Southeast Asia, and at the time of the birth of his first child, was overseeing a project to rebuild a Bangkok that had been decimated by the Second World War.

Fast-forward twenty-one years and Vikram had moved from rural Gujarat, the state in western India that his family has called home for generations, to California, where he had begun classes at UC Hayward in pursuit of his MBA.

Not long after he graduated from college, he met and married his wife, Smita, also a Gujarati. They settled down in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, an affluent suburb of Philadelphia, and raised three children, two of whom spent much of their childhoods at an exclusive Indian boarding school and one of them, my future wife, who was allowed to experience the ups and downs of life as a resident of New Jersey.

After their three kids grew up, moved on, and started lives and families of their own, Vikram fulfilled a life-long dream of his by returning to Gujarat in order to manage a charitable organization that his grandfather had founded more than fifty years before. Smita, considerably less excited to leave the comforts of life to which she had grown accustomed during thirty years in America, remained behind for several years before eventually surrendering and joining her husband.

A year or so after my wife and I were married, we packed our bags and embarked upon a twenty-hour airplane ride to join her father on his Gujarati estate.

Life in India during the unbearably humid monsoon months can often devolve into a contest among adults and children to see who can sit as still as possible in order to avoid generating any more sweat on his body. One must consider a number of factors before committing to any physical movement, taking into account the immediate necessity of moving, subtracting the disgusting inconvenience of adding to the layer of sticky, salty sweat that has congealed onto one’s body in the form of a biological gelatin, and arriving at the final determination of whether or not to stand up.

When it is 110º F and 100% humidity, peeing oneself while sitting motionless on the couch is not always an irrational decision.

Of course, going for a walk outside in such weather conditions is not an option, so when one makes a decision to leave the comfort of a partially-air-conditioned home, what one is, in fact, agreeing to is making a mad dash from the front door of the house into the thick wall of heat that is always waiting just outside of the house to suffocate you, sprinting across the slowly melting driveway and diving headfirst into the scorched seats of the waiting car.

If you’ve never experienced the sheer terror of a car trip in India, I envy you. Though I estimate that I have spent a cumulative total of less than one hundred hours in various automotive contraptions within the geographically-defined borders of India, I blame that small amount of time for my early-onset baldness, an anxiety disorder, and a stuttering problem that has strangely persisted for over ten years now.

Indian roads, whether the well-paved variety in New Delhi or the dust-and-gravel sort that provide access to the hidden gems of the Indian countryside, are utilized equally by all Indian animals, human and otherwise. These roads are thus home to packs of mangy dogs who gather to discuss the impending monsoon rains, camels who scoff at the poorly-evolved creatures who need regular drinks of water in order to survive, and cows, who enjoy simply sitting in the middle of traffic and flipping their tails at passersby in boastful flaunting of their revered status among a large portion of the population.

And there is nothing more infuriating than having to swerve at breakneck speeds around a cow with an inflated opinion of itself.

One morning, just after breakfast, my father-in-law pushes himself away from the table, rubs his stomach, and hums an unidentifiable tune for a minute.

“How ‘bout we get in de car and drive to Baroda?” he asks. Baroda is a large city about thirty miles south of the bustling town where we are staying, which is a long way of saying that it’s a place where we have a good chance of finding Doritos and Diet Coke.

Having absolutely nothing better to do with our morning, my wife and I agree to the invitation, and within minutes we are on the road and headed to Baroda.

My father-in-law waves off the driver, shunning the services for which the man is paid and opting instead to take our lives into his hands. We pile into the car and peel out of the driveway and onto the mostly-paved road.

“Muttyu,” he says, puncturing the air with precise jabs of his left hand, “if you are going to be Indian, man, den you must learn about our mitts.”

“Your mitts?”

“Yeah, man, our mitts. Dey our important, our mitts. Dey tell us stories about where we come from, man. About who we are as Indians, as Hindustanis.”

“Your mitts tell you this?”

“Prerna!” he yells to my wife in the backseat. “Tell him, man. Our mitts our important.”

“Myths,” she corrects.

“Dat’s what I said, man. Mitts. Okay, Muttyu. So, our mitts our important to us, yeah?”

I nod. “Definitely.”

“Okay. So, what do you know about Indian gods, man?”

I shrug. “Not much,” I admit. “I mean, I’ve read a bit about-”

He grimaces and waves me off impatiently. “Never mind your reading. You can’t learn anyting from books, man. To learn about I, you must go dere and experience it. To learn about a country’s mitts, you must go to de country. You understand, man?”

I nod and shrug. “Sure,” I say, ignoring that little urge inside of me to point out that he just dismissed the entire concept of learning by reading. No matter.

“Good, man. Now, de important ting about India is that we have lots of gods, man. We have so many gods dat we don’t even know who they are, man. Millions of gods. But dere is one god who is the best of dem all. Do you know who de best god is?”

I shake my head. “I have no idea.”

He again waves dismissively at me, though this time the wave doesn’t seem connected to the conversation I think we’re having and seems to be nothing more than an impatient reminder that I have nothing substantive to contribute to this conversation, no matter how long it continues.

“Of course you have no idea, man. How can you have ideas about Indian gods, man? You’re not Indian. But don’t worry. We will change dat. By de time I am tru wit you, Muttyu, you’ll be demanding discounts from your own parents, man. Den you will be an Indian, man.

“Okay, so de best god is Ganesh. No question about it. You ask anyone and dey tell you, man: Ganesh is de best god.”

“What are you talking about, Dad?” my wife interjects from the back seat. “That’s not true.”

“Not true what?” he demands, literally turning around in his seat while driving and staring at her.

I feel like I have to repeat myself in order to make clear what is happening at this moment. We are in the middle of monsoon season in India, which means not only are the roads covered in a semi-permanent coating of moisture, but that it is 100 degrees with 100% humidity, so the windshield is so fogged-up that we can barely make out any shapes in front of us. Drivers in India generally use their horn instead of their brakes, so one avoids a collision with other drivers not by slowing down but by honking on one’s horn, flashing one’s hazard lights, and swerving maniacally into oncoming traffic.

In a country of 1.2 billion people, who cares about road fatalities?

While driving in these unforgiving conditions, my father-in-law has just flipped his middle finger at both fate and common sense and has now turned around so that he is facing his daughter in the backseat, and proceeds to engage her in an argument.

“Prerna!” he yells. “What are you talking about, man? You know noting about Indian gods, man. You grew up in New Jersey, man. Your parents didn’t teach you anyting about dese tings, man.”

“You’re one-half of my parents, Dad,” my wife points out.

He nods. “I know, and I had no patience for you, so I didn’t teach you anyting. You’re de worst Indian, man. Look, you even went and married a gora, man.” A gora is a white person. He turns to look at me. “No offense intended, Muttyu. You’re a better Indian dan she is, man.”

“No offense taken.”

Satisfied that he has prevailed in the argument, he turns back around and swerves around a rickety red bus that is so overcrowded that people are literally sitting on the roof of the bus as it barrels down the highway at 70 miles per hour.

“Now, where was I? Yes. Ganesh is the best god. Don’t argue wit me, Prerna. You don’t know anyting, man. Anyway, do you know de story of how Ganesh got his head, man?”

I shrug. “Uh, he wasn’t born with it?”

He looks at me, his face contorted in a painful mixture of disappointment and annoyance. “What are you talking, man? How is he gonna be born wit an elephant head, man? Does dat make sense to you, man? He gets born wit an elephant head, you tink his moder’s gonna be happy wit him, man? What do you know about vaginas, man, if you tink a boy can be born wit an elephant head?”

“Oh my god, Dad,” my wife whines from the back. “Did you just ask him about vaginas?”

“I sure did, man,” he replies. “How can a husband not know more about vaginas, man? Muttyu, a woman’s vagina doesn’t have de strength or the elasticity to be able to squeeze an elephant head tru it, man.”

I shake my head from side to side in embarrassment. “That’s good to know,” I say. “I could have just skipped biology class and come straight to you.”

“Man, no more talking, okay?”

I nod silently.

“Good. Now, Ganesh wasn’t born wit an elephant head, man. He was just a boy. His parents were Shiva and Parvati. Do you know dem?”

I shake my head silently, afraid now to speak, visions of elastic vaginas floating around in my head.

“Dey’re gods, man. Big gods, like head honcho gods. Shiva is like de Godfadder, man.”

“Did you just compare Shiva to Don Corleone?” my wife shouts from the back seat.

My father-in-law nods defiantly. “I did, man. What’s wrong with dat? It’s a compliment, man. Corleone got his own books and movies, man. Shiva is de Don, man. He makes offers you can’t refuse. He takes de gun and leaves de cannoli. You get it, right Muttyu?”

I nod. I would gladly follow a god who reminds the masses of Don Corleone, especially if he was shadowed by Luca Brazi.

“Okay, so Shiva and Parvati get togeder one night for some nookie, and wham, bam, boom, Ganesh appears.”

“Nookie?” my wife interjects. “What is wrong with you, Dad?”

He waves her off and continues. “Nookie, man. Even gods need it. Anyway, de nookie happens, as nookie does, and Ganesh is born. Now Shiva, he’s an important god, man. He has tings to do. He likes to hunt.”

“Why does a god like to hunt?” I ask.

“Man, who knows why gods do de tings dey do?” he asks rhetorically. Before continuing with his lesson on the pastimes of Hindu deities, he opens his car door – like, fully opens his car door as we’re zooming down the pot-holed road at nearly 80 miles an hour – drops, his head, and spits out of wad of paan.

Now, paan, for those of you who are not acquainted with it, is a form of Indian chewing tobacco that utilizes betel nut, a natural stimulant. Men all over India can be seen with teeth that are stained blood-red, and these same men are responsible for the ubiquitous dots of red spittle that stain and discolor Indian sidewalks and roads.

“Dad!” my wife screams from the back seat. “What are you doing? Get back in the car!”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, rolls his eyes, and hisses at her. Hisses – really hisses – like an enraged cat. “You Americans, you’re all so worried about everyting. What could happen? We are talking about de gods, man. Dey won’t let us die right now, not when we’re talking about dem. De gods have big egos, man.

“So, Shiva, man, the Godfadder of de mob of gods, he likes to hunt, see? So one day he goes out hunting. Now his wife, man, Parvati, she’s an Indian god, too, man, but she’s a woman god, and all Indian women are de same, man. Dey have to be clean and pretty all de time, man. So Parvati spends all of her time in de battub, man, using saffron soap to keep her skin clean, man. And she doesn’t want to be boddered, man, so she hires a bunch of armed soldiers to guard de entrance to her castle so that nobody can bodder her when she’s baiding.

“But den Shiva finishes wit his hunting, man, and he hasn’t seen Parvati in a long, long time, and he’s a man, Shiva is, so he has needs, man. Do you know what I mean, Muttyu?” he says as he shakes his head back and forth playfully, his lips curling into a mischievous smile. “Shiva wants some nookie, man, and he wants it now.”

“Dad, Shiva did not want nookie,” my wife insists. “You can’t say that a god wanted nookie.”

“What you want I say, Prerna?” he demands, annoyed at my wife’s constant interrupting. “What, he wanted carnal knowledge of his wife? Is dat better for your American ears? Pshh,” he spits, flinging his hand impatiently through the air. “Anyway, Shiva wanted some nookie, man, so he went home to his castle where Parvati was baiding, but soldiers were guarding de doors and dey wouldn’t let him in.

“So Shiva looks at dem and says, ‘Are you guys serious? Do you know who I am, man? I’m Shiva, de Don Corleone of this whole planet, man. I want to see my wife so I can have some nookie, man.’”

Mid-sentence, without losing a beat, he swerves around two lazy camels resting in the middle of the road. As he passes them, he rolls down his window, spits out a wad of paan, and yells, “Stupid bloody camels!” with a fierceness that makes me question whether he believes they can understand him.

“But dey wouldn’t let him in, so he beat de shit out of dem, man. He killed dem, he murdered dem, and den he went inside and got his nookie. But Parvati, man, she was pished.”

“Pished?” I ask, not recognizing this new word.

“Yeah, man, pished. Prerna, what is pished?”

“Pissed, Dad.”

“Dat’s what I said, man. Pished. You got it, Muttyu?”

“I got it. Pished.”

“Dat’s right, man. Pished off. She didn’t want to be boddered while she was baiding, man, so she sends her son Ganesh to guard de door to de castle after Shiva leaves to hunt some more. Now, remember: Ganesh is a god, man. He’s not some lackwit soldier, man. Ganesh is like de Terminator, man.”

“Dad, how is Ganesh like the Terminator?” my wife asks.

“Man,” he says, looking at me with pity in his eyes. “Do you have to listen to dis all de time, man? You couldn’t find a better wife dan her, man? She just won’t let us talk, will she, man?”

I smile. “She’s not that bad.”

“Not dat bad, man?” he says, shaking his head back and forth. “Not dat bad. Congratulations, Vikram. Your daughter is not dat bad. Fadder of de year, man. Anyway, Ganesh de Terminator is now standing guard at de castle door when Shiva comes back from his next hunting trip, man. But Shiva hasn’t been around much during Ganesh’s life, so he doesn’t recognize him, man.

“He says, ‘Outta my way, you ugly loser, man,’ and tries to push past Ganesh, but Ganesh is too strong, man. He doesn’t move. So Shiva steps back, and now he’s angry. Shiva says, ‘Man, you get outta my way before I do a flying elbow smash and take your ugly head off of your shoulders, man.’

“But Ganesh won’t move. Parvati has told him to stand guard, and he’s a good Indian boy and he listens to his modder, and he’s not going to let anyone into de castle. So Shiva says, ‘Alright, man. To hell wit dis shit, man.’”

“Shiva didn’t say that, Dad,” my wife complains.

“How do you know what Shiva said, man? Gods can say what dey want, man. He says, ‘To hell wit dis shit, man,’ and he takes off Ganesh’s head wit his bare hands and trows it into de woods behind him. He walks upstairs, sees Parvati in de battub, and says, ‘Woman, I want some nookie.’

“But Parvati, man, she is pished. ‘Where is my son?’ she screams. ‘What did you do to my son?’ And Shiva now knows what happened and he says, ‘Oh, shit, man,’ because he knows dat Ganesh is deir son. And he says, ‘Look, woman, I know you’re upset and all, but let’s do de nookie dance first, and den we can tink about your son.’

“Of course dis doesn’t work, man, and Parvati says, ‘Man, you better fix dis if you ever want nookie again, man.’ So Shiva says, ‘Fine, man,’ and he sends his little toady out into de forest and says, ‘Man, just get me the head of de first animal you see, man.’”

In front of us is a truck that is overloaded with bales of hay. My father-in-law honks once, twice, three times, but the bus isn’t moving out of our way, so he presses down on his horn and holds it there as he swerves onto the grass on the right shoulder and passes the truck.

“Did stupid guy, man. Eider learn to drive or get off of my road, man.

“So, anyway, dis guy, Shiva’s toady boy, goes out, sees an elephant, and wham, chops off his head. He brings de elephant head back to de castle, and Shiva puts it on Ganesh’s shoulders, and den he brings de boy into Parvati’s room to show her dat he fixed everyting, man.”

“Wait, what?” I ask. “He beheaded his son, then tried to fix it by attaching an elephant’s head in place of the human head that he cut off?”

“Yeah, man. He didn’t have time to find a better one. Didn’t I tell you dat he was horny, man? He needed nookie. So Parvati sees her boy wit an elephant head, and she says, ‘Okay, fine. Get your nookie den get out of my castle, man.

“And dat’s de story of Ganesh, man.”

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Born, raised, and educated in Chicago, as soon as Matthew graduated from college he packed his bags and headed to Taipei, Taiwan, where he taught English literature and creative writing for a couple of years. He then moved to Quito, Ecuador, and did much the same for another nebulous period of time. He is currently a stay-at-home father to his two tyrannical little girls, nursing both his wounds and his dreams of one day being a writer.