“You know, the best thing about Ava Gardner, my gawd, you should see her inner thigh – simply creamy, just inviting, waiting for your caress-”

“How would you know? You talk as if you had her-“

“But I did yaar, I did.”

“Yiah - I am sure – in your dreams.”

“Yes.”

It is now more than seven years since that dialogue took place. We were all a little pissed, on 5th avenue New York, hearing the wails of sirens and the catcalls of those who thought we were truly aliens. There were 4 of us – Amarjit, a newly graduated engineer from Purdue university come to the east to seek a better fortune, Sarjit, the lawyer whose job was mainly to frame everything for his colleagues in Smith & Smith but not appear in court himself, Harvinder, Amarjit’s brother who had come from Malaysia to entice his brother to return home because their parents were getting old and missing their firstborn, and me, yes me –I had newly arrived in New York from Singapore to be interviewed for a possible appointment at Columbia - one of the great universities of the world where I was hoping to become an agent of real change so the university could truly usher in the new millennium with flourish. And, oh yes, I must not forget Jenny – Jenny was Sarjit’s white American girlfriend. Jenny was a painter, an artist whose own parents had written her off.

Poor Amarjit. He really loved the USA. His parents had spent tens of thousands to get him educated at what everyone considered one of the best engineering schools in the world. And he had done very well, scoring top grades in every examination. Upon graduation he got a job immediately, in a small firm in Indiana. But he was unhappy because, as he told us, there really had been no future in the small firm. And he had been advised to come east (or go east) for better prospects. And so, now in New York, Amarjit was drinking his life away, effusing to return home to Malaysia and refusing to acknowledge, like Sarjit, that life for aliens like him was going to be tough. The blacks - or Afro-Americans as they were increasingly being labelled – didn’t welcome the likes of Amarjit for reasons which still remain unfathomable in spite of numerous theories of competition being put forward by various sociologists, the Hispanics who were a growing number, just didn’t want anyone whose command of English was better- and almost everyone’s was! – and the whites, aaahh yes, the whites, they always said the best of things but did little to actually help Amarjit get a good job! Jenny’s explanation for this was, “We whites have a super love-hate thing for you guys - we actually admire you for your hard work, commitment and dedication, but are not sure if you are going to make us brown by marrying our girls.” And then she would laugh, ironically, sardonically, sadly. I new that her relationship with Sarjit was a real contributing factor to her parents’ indifference to what she was so desperately trying to achieve as an artist.

“You know what though,” said Amarjit, more thoughtfully, “she was simply adorable in ON THE BEACH. Any of you saw that beautiful film? Based on the novel by Nevil Shute? Hey, you (pointing to me), surely you must have seen it, after all, aren’t you into books and all that?”

Yes. I was into books except that for my immediate purpose I was not into the kind of books which Columbia for all its talk of openness was really keen on. But yes, I had read Shute’s novel and seen the film. It was science fiction to me. And very Australian. And yes, I remembered Ava Gardner’s role - stunning, not quite vampish but highly sexual. But we were in America. And Ava Gardner had died a sad, lingering death and never, I thought, found lasting joy in any of her marriages or relationships. For me it was THE NIGHT OF THE IGUANA which was her best film. I remembered watching that as quite a young boy but never forgot the tied iguana. Later as I grew up I realized that the iguana was such an apt symbol for so many of us - yearning to be free but trapped in our own prisons. Even here, in New York, I could see how apt the symbolism was. Amarjit was in a prison.

“Yes, of course Amarjit, but I still prefer the novel – I think Ava Gardner should have suicided like the character in Shute’s novel which she portrays. Would have made it a much better film.”

“Maybe,” said Amarjit, “but you know Ava Gardner- she was not made for death my dhost, she was made for life. For giving life vitality, especially the vitality of sex which keeps us all alive.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Sarjit.

“Is there nothing you guys talk about but sex?” intervened Jenny. “You know we white girls may be attracted to you guys but we are not dumb. And we are not your ex slaves.”

“Of course not honey,” said a meek Sarjit.

* * * * * * * * *

I felt for Jenny. I almost knew by instinct she was finding the four of us Sikhs a little tiresome; our sense of humour was not exactly hers, though because of her love for Sarjit (Amarjit though was convinced it was not love but pity) she tolerated our ranting and raving and carrying on. 5th avenue New York was enchanting - I had heard so much about it that being there now, physically, was for me almost out-of-this-world. I saw drunks lying around, I saw couples hugging and kissing, I saw executives hurrying and scurrying, I saw old people being told to get out of the way by indifferent young people. I saw wonderful stores selling expensive, branded clothing and goods, I saw some superlative cars making their presences felt as the traffic crawled, I saw people with aimlessness in their eyes just strolling, staring, stopping, window-shopping. Was this, seriously, the place I wanted to be if Columbia did offer me a job? My reverie was interrupted -or rather, I was supposed to be part of Amarjit’s rave.

“You see, even you have come here from your blighted Singapore to seek greener pastures. This is what America is all about. Living your dream. This is the land of the brave and free, people, brave and free. Hey, you again, you man of books, what is that book, that book about the American dream, etc? You know the one I mean by Fitzgerald….”

“I think you mean THE GREAT GATSBY….”

“That’s the one. Correct. Ava Gardner would have made a brilliant Daisy –the woman whose allure is simply irresistible. The woman all men fall for. Oh man, if only I could have one Ava Gardner in my life. You Sarjit are a bloody lucky bugger man - you have Jenny.”

This was a little too close to the bone. Among Sikh men it was not proper to refer to a friend’s partner, even in jest. In fact, especially in jest.

“Are you flattering me?” asked Jenny, whose eyes lit up as he queried Amarjit?

“No my dear, I am telling Sarjit what a lucky bastard he is having got you. He should forget about what they call him and just marry you. After all a towel-head who wins the hands of a beautiful white girl can’t be that bad!”

Amarjit had crossed the line. He has spoken the unspeakable. Racism was not a subject any of us were comfortable about. I had been warned about discrimination by my colleagues but my answer to them had been it exists everywhere. The difference was in degree.

Sarjit was not going to let this go. Amarjit’s remarks were not only hurtful but an affront. Sarjit had been suffering snobbery ever since he made up his mind to live in New York and work at Smith & Smith. Jenny was his consolation. In her and in her paintings he found the much-needed transcendence he, as a lawyer, did not always find in the law books. But Amarjit’s utterance had made the inner truth the outer stigma come alive.

I remember Sarjit hitting Amarjit hard on the head and Amarjit stumbling. Jenny was shocked and clasped Harvinder tight. For his part Harvinder was speechless for he was not succeeding in persuading Amarjit to return. I, well I, the man of books, I pushed Sarjit to one side of the pavement and held him there. It was obvious to me that 5th avenue New York was not going to sympathize with our sorry state except to savour the fact that we aliens were yet another source for their merriment for with the corner of my eye I saw a group of boys laughing at what they had just witnessed.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” said Amarjit. “It’s the fucking beer you fed me just now-“

“Teri mah dhi,” said Sarjit.

“What did Sarjit just say?” asked Jenny

“Nothing. Don’t worry”.

Throughout the shenanigans I tried to maintain my cool. I was an obvious outsider, except, perhaps, for Harvinder who clearly was even more determined that the time had truly come for his brother to return to Malaysia and be with the family.

We walked on after the incident. Surely the night was not going to end this way, with a fight and the ensuing sullenness. I decided to speak up.

“Hey Amarjit, you know all that you said about Ava Gardner? Well I think we have our very own Ava Gardners. Many of them vying for the same titles, trying their luck in the same film yards, craving for the same glories. But ours dare not take the risks. And for me the real Ava Gardner is that near- tragic woman who took risks, with everything. Like Jenny here who has risked a lot to pursue her passion for art. Maybe this is where we should all stop and reconsider our lives. Do we want to stay safe or take risks?”

There was a faint smile playing on their lips. There was a look of expectancy in Jenny’s eyes as she still held close to Harvinder who was beginning to feel a little uneasy. Sarjit managed to put his embarrassment behind him and say, “America is not for the weak-and also not for those who just think scoring high grades in exams is the answer to making millions. America is for those who are in for the long haul. America is for those of us who believe in a dream and are prepared to suffer for it.”

We all seem to have sobered up. Now there was this other dialogue starting. About America. About the great US of A., about us who were brought up on Hollywood movies. Jenny, Sarjit, Harvinder and I looked at Amarjit who had been silent.

“Alright Harvinder. I think mah and pah are right. You are right. America is not for me. I should return to Malaysia. The bunga raya still smells good. My days of whisky and rye are over. The beer here is cheap. But dreams are expensive. Let us go.”

Well what could we say or do after these odd remarks from Amarjit but slowly move away from each other after wishing good-nights. Jenny held Sarjit’s hand but I knew the clasp had been weakened. Harvinder put his arms around Amarjit as he slowly steered towards a taxi. And I, well, I thought about my Columbia interview and slowly trudged towards my hotel thinking “If Columbia offers me a job, that will be my risk.”

All this took place seven years ago. How time truly passes.

Kipal Singh, a poet, literary and cultural critic and university lecturer in English language, is currently an Associate Professor with the Singapore Management University (SMU)