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An American Death

 

He was a typical-looking middle-aged Indian man with the expression of having accepted an ordinary life in America written all over him.

I used to see him for a few seconds every weekday afternoon on my way back from the office, at the booth next to the access-controlled exit of the Metro parking garage. He monitored whether every driver was dutifully paying his daily parking fee before the gate was opened, allowing the driver to exit.

I was still in the phase where I was trying desperately to find the rhythm to gracefully tackle the new reality of my life --- an infant son who needed to be picked up by 6 o’ clock each evening from his daycare center, no matter how crazy it was at work. Most of the afternoons, I would be in a super-rush, trying to make it to the daycare center by six. A working mother’s guilt at the end of the day coupled with the looming prospect of an economic and emotional blow known as ‘late fee’ would preoccupy my brain, and I would pay more attention to the garage gate opening rather than the person who was opening it for me. Nonetheless, when you see someone almost every day, a hint of familiarity does emerge, and it did.

One of the days, I was lucky to finish off my work a little earlier than usual. I left office five minutes earlier, giving myself the luxury of taking it easy on the return journey. I got down at my Metro stop whistling out a holiday tune, sauntered to my parked car at the garage, and drove lazily to the exit booth. Our trusted gatekeeper was sitting inside the booth, reading a newspaper. He lifted his head from the newspaper, and gave me a smile. I smiled back at him. I realized, he had been smiling at me everyday, but perhaps I never returned the courtesy until now. He looked at his watch, and told me, “You’re early today.” “I know,” I said, with a satisfied grin. “Have a nice evening,” I was rather generous with my pleasantries that day. What a difference leaving work five minutes earlier made!

I was back to my dashing-past-the-exit-booth routine from the very next day. However, from that day forward, it became second nature to exchange at least an acknowledging glance and smile with the gatekeeper on my way out. He was responsible enough not to bother me on the days when I ran late. However, I guess he looked forward to having an opportunity to utter a few words to a fellow immigrant Indian to break the monotony of his mostly silent job. “Good night, Beti. Drive safe,” he would say most of the days. He would add a few more heavily-accented words, like,“It is a rather pleasant day for December. Isn’t it?”, or something like that, only when his wristwatch would indicate that I was doing OK with time.

Our conversation never went beyond what I call elevator socializing-- exchanging a few words just to be polite. But one day the gatekeeper totally surprised me by saying, “Beti, you are working too hard. Your hair is turning grey.” He had a genuine avuncular tone, which touched my heart.

That night, before going to bed, I stood before the mirror, and there they were -- streaks of shining silvery-grey strands hiding cleverly among my still mostly black hair. I knew there were some, but I did notice a sudden jump in the number of silver hair strands, specially near my forehead. The old man had good eyes, I thought. I was indeed going through an unusually busy time at work. With no extended family support to help with the kid, home front was not a cakewalk either. But for an almost stranger to sense that and to express his concern, was certainly heart-warming.

The next day, while driving towards the garage exit, I was mentally prepared to talk to the gatekeeper. It was a rather long queue of cars at the exit, as only one of the exit lanes was operating instead of the usual two. I noticed a new face at the booth--a young African-American lady-- monitoring the exit. “He has probably taken the day off,” I thought.

That evening, my husband came back from work, and asked me, “Have you read the news about the tragic incident that happened at your Metro station last night?”

I didn’t get a chance to read the newspaper that day. “What tragic incident?” I asked my husband--an ominous feeling was already lumping up inside me. “The gatekeeper at the Metro parking garage was shot and killed when he tried to prevent an armed driver from speeding out of the garage without paying the parking fees. The driver was probably a teenager trying to steal a car, who fled the scene after shooting the poor guy. It was pretty late at night. Passengers waiting for Metro bus nearby came rushing hearing the gunshot and the screech of the speeding car, and caught a glimpse of the fleeing driver. The old man was spot-dead,” My husband’s voice was full of concern. “You have to be extra careful around that area, specially with all these teenage car thieves with guns,” he added.

“I knew that gatekeeper,” that’s all I could say, my voice already choking up. My husband comforted me.

Next morning I saw a notice pasted on the wall of the exit booth with a black-and-white photograph of the deceased gatekeeper. He was looking somewhat younger in the photo. “We deeply regret the senseless murder of our beloved colleague, Mr. Divakar Pandey. If you have any information, please contact the local Police,” the notice read.

That was the first time I came to know of the gatekeeper’s name. “May your soul rest in peace, Mr. Divakar Pandey,” I muttered. I don’t know how much Mr. Pandey got to live his American dream, but he certainly died a very American death.

 

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