Rajeev
Balasubramanyam
STARSTRUCK

If you are reading this book, you are probably like me. Why would you care whether Rihanna left Chris, or Miley twerked Robin, or how much Kim and Kanye’s wedding cost? Celebrities are fools sold by fools to other fools. Why should we pay to feed their narcissism? Why should we waste our time? We are not fools.

But it isn’t so easy. Sometimes it’s only on our deathbeds that we atheists find we’ve been talking to God all our lives.

Oh yes, they get you in the end.

Sooner or later, we’re all starstruck, whether we like it or not.

You know this is true, because you’ve seen it. Don’t try to deny it. I know it, you know it, they know it. We’ve all seen it, for God’s sake.

Seen what? Don’t give me that. You know what …

The video. Yes, that video.

Over two billion views on YouTube. Google went offline for two hours. The subject was raised, quite seriously, during Prime Minister’s Questions. If he cares, you definitely care. It doesn’t matter why you care. You just do. When that video hit cyberspace, the planet held its breath and gave a collective sigh.

He lives, we said at once. He lives.

And everyone smiled, even the jaded and the cynical, the intellectuals and recluses, even those sweaty pink-skinned fornicating hacks themselves.

All of us.

Except, perhaps, for me.

When I saw that video I knew, beyond any doubt, that my brother was dead.

Go on, open your browser. Type those words. You know the ones. Scroll down and press Play.

Now watch.

My brother did this for you, so don’t tell me you’re not smiling. Don’t tell me you don’t care. That’s what I used to say.

1.

It started with my father, all this controversy, and I hated him for it. When I told him I was getting married his eyes lit up like cathode rays:

‘Ameena …’ he murmured, before it dawned on him. ‘But we are against Muslims,’ he said. ‘Just like we’re against blacks. Please don’t embarrass us.’

It was the verb that hurt; ‘don’t upset us’ would have been better, even ‘don’t disgrace us’, anything but this.

I had to admit it. My father wasn’t backward or ignorant, he was simply selfish and mean. I didn’t speak to him for six years.

He’d asked to be removed from the hospital so he could die at home, in his bedroom. Ameena and I were living in the US, but we came at once and checked into a hotel. I went home and she went shopping, not knowing what else to do. The first thing my father said to me was ‘Ashish, either that wallpaper goes or I do.’

Dad was always an Oscar Wilde fan, though he always refused to believe me when I told him his hero was gay.

I sat on the bed and held his hand, and he said, ‘Where is Ameena? Where is my daughter?’

I was so amazed that all I could do was cry.

We were with my father when he drew his last breath, and I forgave him everything – it was so easy. His death brought the rest of us together, my mother, Ameena and me. We became a family. Forgiveness is the purest expression of love.

But then my marriage began to fall apart.

It wasn’t family that caused the rift: it was politics, a word I’ve come to hate. It began with 9/11 and ended with the day that George Bush Sr came to use the bathroom. But we’ll come to this later.

Ameena and I were never very political. In my youth I was a member of the Labour Party, and she had something to do with Greenpeace, and in New York she ran a women’s group in addition to her dental practice, but this was more therapy for lonely hearts than anything feminist. And as for me, I was buried in my work.

I’m a professor of linguistics and have read everything Chomsky ever wrote, except for his political tracts. I had them on my bookshelf, but never felt moved to hold them in my hand. I’ve even met the man, on three separate occasions, but we only ever spoke about grammar and genetics. I could tell you the name of the US President, the British Prime Minister and perhaps two other heads of state, and for an academic that’s doing quite well. There’s a professor in my university who thinks Mao still rules China. When I tried to correct him, he said, ‘Right, it’s that new guy now; what’s his name, Hong Kong?’

I suppose it’s a luxury to be like this, and it’s easier in America than in any other country in the world, though after 9/11 this began to change. It sort of shook everyone up, and when the apathetic become political overnight, they say the stupidest things. It’s inevitable. Imagine if everyone suddenly starting talking generative grammar over the dinner table.

My first realisation of this was when Ameena came home, not only in tears but shaking with anger. It turned out that she’d been waiting at the checkout, and someone had come up behind her and put four slices of bacon inside her blouse. What made it worse was that no one tried to help her. Some of them were even laughing. She’d thrown the bacon at him, sworn loudly, knocked a bottle off the shelf, and left, but on her way home a squad car pulled over and took her in for questioning. They let her go, but for three days she didn’t leave the house. By the fourth day Ameena had changed.

She drank more but also began to pray, and sometimes she’d go out with her head covered. All this gave her strength, which I was glad of, but she also began to talk about politics. Constantly. At first, I didn’t mind. I just listened. But as time went by it became more extreme. Ameena would go to demonstrations and when she came home she’d be so wound up that she would rant for hours. When I begged her to stop, she’d yell at me:

‘You don’t care about anything but yourself,’ she’d say. ‘Wake up, you idiot. Can’t you see what’s going on?’ And worst of all: ‘You’re not Muslim. How can you understand? You’re probably enjoying all this.’

Now this was simply unfair, whichever way you looked at it. Yes, I wasn’t Muslim, but my wife was, and I identified with her, which meant I identified with them. I tried to tell her this, but she told me to shut up and stop talking linguistics.

‘This is reality, Ashish.’

‘This is logic, Ameena. It’s the way I think.’

‘Fuck logic. How about a little solidarity? You know Michael Jackson’s become a Muslim?’

‘What?’

‘It’s true.’

It was. It was on the MJ Shrine. But what did this mean?

‘Are you telling me you want me to convert?’

‘I’m telling you Islam is the refuge of the oppressed. Not that you’d know anything about that, Mr Professor.’

‘We’re not oppressed. The war’s thousands of miles away. We’ve got two cars and a house.’

‘The war’s here. Can’t you see that?’

I looked out the window.

‘Not really.’

‘And so what if the war is thousands of miles away? They’re killing babies in Iraq, Ashish. Are you telling me you don’t care?’

‘I thought it was Afghanistan.’

‘The sanctions, you idiot!’

‘On babies?’

She got so angry she went to my study and threw my Chomsky collection at me. After that I started reading them, the political ones, but I could never remember what I read. This made her angrier still until, by autumn, we were hardly speaking. It got so bad I even tried phoning Chomsky himself, but he never answered my calls.

By October I saw her perhaps two nights a week, but she was either on the phone or on the Internet, corresponding with ‘like-minded people.’ By that time, I had no idea what ‘like-minded people’ meant. My wife was becoming a stranger to me.

November came and my little sister was due to graduate university. She’d been living at home to cut costs because – this I do know – the government had introduced tuition fees. Ameena and I decided to fly to England for the ceremony. I was frightened she would change her mind, which would have upset my mother, but when the day came she was packed and ready to go.

Of course, they checked and double-checked our luggage, but Ameena said nothing, not even during the flight. I was silent too, not wanting to provoke her, and read Deterring Democracy by Noam Chomsky. When we landed, Ameena seemed more relaxed, confessing she was glad to be in England.

‘It’s fascist as fuck,’ she said, ‘but it can’t be worse than America.’

I nodded my agreement.

When we reached home, the talk was of nothing but Mala and her achievements, the atmosphere loving and jolly. Mala had decided to apply for a PhD, she informed us, in politics. Ameena clapped her hands at this, while I pulled a face and got told to grow up; I’m not sure by whom.

Ameena and I gave Mala the gift we’d brought her from New York, a brand-new Apple Macintosh PowerBook G4 with a 17-inch screen.

‘You can write your thesis on it,’ I told her.

‘It’s the fastest there is, honey,’ said Ameena. ‘Look at the screen. It’s great for DVDs.’

Mala mumbled ‘Thanks’, but left the computer in the box. Ameena looked at me. I looked at Mum.

‘She’s an anarcho-primitivist,’ said Mum.

‘What’s that?’ I said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘She’s against technology fetishism,’ explained Ameena. ‘She wants to get back to nature.’

I put my head inside a cushion and screamed, which everyone thought was a joke.

During dinner, we opened a bottle of champagne, and then a second. Ameena drank the most, but she seemed in good spirits, teasing Mala about boyfriends, sympathising with my Mum about road rage (this from a woman who regularly tailgated men she suspected of being Republicans), and smiling at my jokes.

After dinner, while my Mum made coffee, I made the mistake of switching the TV on, and there was the news. All of a sudden, Ameena’s eyes glazed over: her news face. And then my mother entered the room, with a tray of coffee cups. Seven minutes later, the two were locked inside a row, and Ameena was stone-cold sober once more. Statistics, analyses, and ‘hard facts’ flew from her over-articulate mouth, while my mother replied with patronizing quasi-demented non sequiturs.

My mother, you see, was in favour of the war. My wife was not.

‘I’ve read the dossier,’ Ameena said. ‘It’s lies, every inch of it.’

‘It’s because you don’t have children,’ said Mum.

‘Ten million protested worldwide in one day,’ said Ameena.

‘What about if you found yourself a hobby?’ said Mum. ‘Bird-watching, perhaps.’

‘If the guns didn’t exist in the first place, there wouldn’t be a war,’ said Mala.

‘Why don’t we all calm down?’ I said, glaring at my sister.

‘Shut up, Ashish,’ said Ameena.

‘Yeah,’ said Mala. ‘Shut up, Ash.’

Mala didn’t realise that this was my life now, these rants, all day every day. I stomped upstairs to smoke but was followed by my mother and told to go outside. I stood in the cold like a teenager instead of a thirty-eight-year-old tenured professor. I could still hear them in the street.

When I returned to the living room, the two of them turned on me, forgetting about their own disagreement. My mother was suddenly furious that I’d married a Muslim. Again. And my wife was angry at me for refusing to condemn my mother. Mala disappeared to her bedroom and spoke on the phone to her friends, which only vexed me further. How come she would use the phone and not a computer?

Angry now, I raised my voice:

‘Shut up, both of you.’

It worked. They both stared at me with playground faces.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I said, and took out the letter (I had been saving it for the right moment, which, obviously, had arrived).

‘Dear Prof. Iyer,’ it read. ‘As part of the graduation festivities I should like to take this opportunity to invite you to attend the Vice-Chancellor’s dinner on the evening of June 9. We should enjoy the privilege of honouring you in your hometown, and do hope you will accept. Our prodigal sons are few, but unrivalled in stature.’

A handful of academic superstars would be present, and of course Ameena was invited. It confirmed the heights I had scaled in recent years with my papers and my tenure at such a young age. My mother was very proud, turning the letter over in her hands as if expecting to find a cheque enclosed. Ameena seemed happy too.

‘I’m sorry I got so flustered,’ she said. ‘An evening out sounds like a good idea.’

I opened some duty-free whisky, and even my mother accepted a thimbleful, but then Mala returned and revealed the identity of the after-dinner speaker.

It was George Bush − Senior.

Ameena’s head seemed to rotate on its axis.

‘I forbid you to go anywhere near that man,’ she said, and at once tried to tell my sister to boycott her own graduation, which brought my mother to her feet.

‘Ameena, what has that man ever done to you? All he’s done is his job and look what he’s achieved. Now we can sleep in our beds without worrying about nuclear war.’

Ameena’s reply was unintelligible. I couldn’t even tell which language she was speaking.

‘Tell me, Ameena,’ my mother continued, ‘who do you like? You don’t like Bush or Clinton, you don’t like Reagan, you don’t even like Thatcher, or Major or Blair. You don’t like anyone.’

‘I like people,’ said Ameena. ‘That’s the point.’

‘Which people?’ said my mother. ‘Saddam Hussein. Or Osama bin – ’

Ameena stormed upstairs and I was left with my mother who glared at me as if to say, ‘You started this.’

We argued all night, my wife and I. She called my mother the most terrible names, words I can’t bear to repeat, and I lost my temper.

‘She’s my mother,’ I said. ‘You can’t speak about her like that.’

‘Look at you, Ash,’ she said. ‘You’re defending her while she defends murderers and rapists and genocidal – ’

‘What are you talking about? This is my mother. We don’t have to agree with what she says. This is parents.’

‘But you do agree with her, don’t you, Ash? You also think that Bush is a “nice man with a lot on his plate”.’

‘I told you, Ameena. I don’t know anything about politics.’

‘It isn’t about what you know, Ashish, it’s about who you are. And if you go to this dinner and sit beside that man, it’ll say something about the person you’ve become.’

‘I’m an academic, Ameena, and this is a university like any other. We have to do these things. It’s a privilege, actually.’

‘Privilege. So that’s what you are, a defender of privilege, like General fucking Franco.’

‘That’s the Spanish guy, right?’

‘Go to hell, Ashish.’

‘Meena, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to fight with my Mum.’

‘She called me a fucking terrorist.’

‘She was only angry. You both were. Think what you called her.’

‘This is the bottom line, Ash. You can go to the ceremony, but go anywhere near that dinner and our marriage is over. I don’t care what else you do.’

I didn’t sleep well, but the next morning I decided to forget about Ameena and think about my sister. This was her day, after all.

The ceremony was very sweet.

My mother cried and there were hugs and kisses and photos. Mala looked lovely, and I even found myself missing Ameena, wishing she were there. And then I saw Bush.

He was chewing something, tobacco, I concluded, and wore a bored but, I had to admit, powerful expression, as if nothing could dent his will, not even bullets. I felt an epiphany twitching at the base of my spine.

Ameena had lost respect for me because I was vague and dithering and didn’t stand by my opinions, didn’t have any opinions to stand by. But at the end of the day, what did it matter where I stood, so long as I stood like a man? And how did a man stand? Like the former President in front of me, with legs braced, muscles tensed, and a jaw set like a vice. He had the courage of his convictions, and so would I.

When the ceremony was over, Mala went off with her friends and my mother went home. I stayed. I had a dinner to attend.

I was given an office to change in, and when I’d struggled into my dinner jacket I joined the dons for a pre-reception reception. There was champagne and canapés, which I enjoyed, and I spied Steven Pinker across the room and sought him out. He was very appreciative of my analysis of sign language and primates, and suggested I turn it into a book, to which I smiled and explained that ‘the popular thing isn’t really my thing.’ We didn’t speak much after that, but I didn’t care. The guest of honour had arrived, resplendent in silver cummerbund and presidential cufflinks.

I was introduced to him in a line-up, and we chatted about my subject and the history of the city. ‘Yeah, I knew a linguist once,’ he said. ‘A cunning one.’ We both laughed, though usually I hate this joke.

‘Bet your wife loves it,’ he continued.

‘She does, actually. Except when I get tongue-tied.’

Bush slapped my back and I spilt my drink.

‘Great meeting you, partner,’ said Bush. ‘We’ll hang out later, OK?’

‘Take it easy, George,’ I replied, and shook his hand in a virile sort of way.

Being used to sycophants, he probably found me a breath of fresh air. Thinking this made me feel important, something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

At dinner I sat with some physicists, but I managed to keep my end up, making a few salient points about the effect of mantras on neurocellular patterns, playing up the ethnic thing, but not too much (which is always the best way). The most gratifying part was when a blonde biologist asked me to sign a paper I’d written. She’d brought it specially, she said.

I winked and wrote, ‘With love, your cunning linguist.’

Yeah, I’d probably had too much to drink, but she blushed and gave me her number, which I tucked inside my cummerbund.

After dinner, the former President made his speech to great applause and some booing, which he took in his stride. Someone shouted something about how Clinton was the only real American in Washington and simultaneously Bush’s bow-tie came loose and fell into his plate.

‘At least I was never caught with my pants down,’ he quipped, and the room roared its approval.

When the speech was over and coffee served, I sidled my way over to him.

‘Shame about that heckler,’ I said. ‘I guess a man in your position has to be careful.’

‘Hardly,’ he replied. ‘After Reagan was shot you wouldn’t believe the security we get. Half the people in here are agents.’

‘Really?’ I said, scanning the room.

‘You’d never know. They’re experts. But make one move and they’ll shoot you between the eyes before you know it.’

I made a joke of pretending to hit him with my coffee spoon, and we both guffawed.

‘So where is it you’re from?’ he said.

This was the question I’d been waiting for.

‘Well, I was born here, but now I live in your country.’

‘Good man,’ he said. ‘Good man. We need people like you.’

‘Oh, I love it there,’ I enthused. ‘I’m even learning baseball.’

‘I thought you boys liked cricket,’ said Bush.

‘Nah,’ I said (though I do love cricket). ‘I’m an American now.’

‘Ever been to Texas?’

I shook my head.

‘You should. There’s nothing like Texas. Check out these boots.’ I looked. He was dressed like Clint Eastwood. ‘They’re for snakes. That’s why they’re cut so high. I don’t go anywhere without ’em.’

And with that, George Bush invited me to Texas. He’d send a plane for me, he said. I was so astonished I couldn’t think of a reply.

‘Aah, this coffee stinks,’ said Bush. ‘Let’s have some bourbon, or some of that Scotch you guys are so famous for.’

I ran off to find a bottle, but when I returned Bush was getting ready to leave.

‘I’ve got to be in Edinburgh tonight,’ he said. ‘Wanted to drive there myself, but security wouldn’t let me, so I thought I’d sneak out and do it anyway. Fuck ’em. Plenty of time to get old.’

‘Damn right,’ I said.

‘Everyone thinks I’m so boring, you know. Old man Bush. Mr Dry. Mr Dour. But it’s all PR. That isn’t me at all.’

‘No, I’m sure.’

‘The hell with it,’ said Bush. ‘You want to join me? I’ll drop you home and we can have a nightcap in the car.’

‘That’d be great,’ I replied, hardly believing my ears, and, together, we edged towards the corner of the room.

For an old man, Bush was surprisingly nimble. He was strong too, his arm vicelike around my bicep, and I imagined him wrestling buffalo back at the ranch. In an instant we were out the door and running through the corridor, laughing like schoolboys. We could hear men following us, running and shouting from behind, but we pressed on, down the stairs, out the fire escape, and into the night.

Bush led me to an underground car park I’d never seen before.

‘For VIPs only,’ he said, and unlocked his Mercedes, throwing the whisky onto the front seat.

As we pulled away, we saw two agents running towards the car. I blew them a kiss.

We took the long route to my mother’s house so we could better enjoy the whisky, and on the highway we flung the glasses out the window and passed the bottle between us. Bush told dirty jokes and we sang along to Bruce Springsteen on the radio.

‘Born in the USA!’ sang Bush.

‘Born in the USA!’ I echoed.

‘Hey,’ I said, drunkenly. ‘Isn’t this song kind of anti you guys?’

‘Who cares?’ said Bush. ‘My son got it wrong. If you’re against us, you’re still with us, ’cause you got no fucking choice, and that, my friend, is politics.’

‘Politics, yeah,’ I said. ‘You should tell my wife that.’

‘Women. This is their idea of politics.’

And with that, George Bush took out his penis and dangled it in front of me.

‘Right on,’ I said, and did the same.

‘Nice pecker, man,’ said Bush.

‘You too, George.’

We went on drinking and singing until the bottle was empty and flung into a field and the car came to a halt outside my mother’s house.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘this was great. And I’ll see you in Texas, buddy. You’ve got my number.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Bush. ‘I’ll call you. Now you go in there and give the wife some politics.’

‘Will do, and thanks a lot for the lift.’

‘No sweat.’ said Bush. ‘But hey, you mind if I use your bathroom first? Got to get rid of some of this Scotch.’

‘Gee, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘My wife isn’t the biggest fan of yours.’

‘So what?’ said Bush. ‘Rodeo style, man. Dig those heels in. Ride that cow.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Sure thing. Come on in.’

So in we went. Ameena, I thought, would probably be in bed anyway.

My mother was waiting for me in the kitchen.

‘You haven’t been drinking, have you, Ashish? Oh …’

‘Mum,’ I said. ‘This is George Bush, from America.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Bush,’ said Mum.

‘Call me, George,’ said Bush.

‘Will you have some tea?’

‘That’d be fine, ma’am. Just fine.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘The bathroom’s upstairs,’ I said.

‘Ashish!’ said Mum, after he’d gone. ‘Have you gone mad?’

‘I’d thought you’d be pleased, Mum. I brought him to meet you.’

Mum looked happy at this, then turned sober.

‘But Ameena, Ashish. We made up this afternoon, but she’s still not happy with you. I told her forgive and forget, but I don’t see how she’ll forget this.’

‘Where is she?’

‘In the bedroom. Go see her, then get him out of here or she’ll never forgive you.’

‘Right,’ I said, and went upstairs.

In the bedroom, Bush had removed his boots and belt and was lying on top of my wife. He had a handkerchief pressed against her mouth.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I shouted.

‘Pipe down, partner.’

There was a pair of dumb-bells on the floor. I lifted one and smashed it against the former President’s skull. It seemed to bounce off, so I hit him again. It broke in two, but this time he stopped and looked up.

‘Get off my wife!’ I said.

‘Moses and Jesus on a yacht. Don’t get irregular on me, pal.’

‘Just get off her!’

‘All right, all right. Hold on to your bananas.’

Bush pulled up his trousers and went downstairs. Ameena was unconscious. I stroked her hand and phoned the police. I didn’t tell them who the intruder was, just that he was dangerous, and a rapist.

When I’d finished, I remembered I’d left my mother alone and hurtled downstairs. There was no one in the kitchen. Panicking, I ran into the lounge.

George Bush was drinking tea on the sofa and crying. My mother had her arm around his shoulders.

‘Poor thing,’ she said. ‘He needs therapy.’

‘He’s an animal!’ I shouted. ‘He needs prison, that’s what he fucking needs.’

‘Ashish, mind your language,’ said Mum.

‘Ameena was right. You’re nothing but a criminal and a murderer, George. A criminal against humanity.’

‘Criminal?’ said Bush. ‘Name one. Name one of my crimes.’

‘Granada,’ I said, remembering my Chomsky. ‘You killed thousands.’