He told us he had one beer and one glass of scotch a week, no more. His daily lunch was very simple, usually rice with daal and some salad. And he kept himself busy, constantly attending lectures and concerts and traveling around the country when he could.
I remarked to Susmita that Shyamal seemed really active.
Susmita said, “Well, you know, he has to pass the time.” Did he ever.
Wesley pointed at a picture on the wall. It showed a young boy and a baby.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“That’s me. And my brother, Sattik,” I answered. I was a bit astonished, since I had never seen this picture before. My brother and I don’t have many shots together, and I wasn’t sure where this one was set. Sattik had his arms around me. He’s completely bald now, but in the photograph he had thick curly black hair. I had fat cheeks and wasn’t using them to smile.
To its left was an older picture of Shyamal golfing. “I am losing my hair, you see it. But I am old enough to lose it,” Shyamal said, eyeing the picture. He said it so clinically. He wasn’t upset about losing his hair or wistful for his younger days. It was a fact of life. Me? I’ve got a bald spot that’s growing in proportion to the federal deficit. And the bald spot bothers me more. I don’t care if the country can’t pay its bills. Just let me keep my hair. Don’t let me follow in Sattik’s footsteps.
During the apartment tour, Shyamal briefly mentioned his brother Sudhirendra to Susmita. I realized she had mentioned him that morning too. My ears perked up. What brothers? I have never heard of any. I soon learned that my father had nine siblings growing up, Sudhirendra being his oldest. Six of them were still living. There were nine aunts and uncles that I knew nothing about. Sudhirendra was Susmita’s father-in-law, whom she was here to visit. Part of the Kolkata itinerary, Shyamal said, was to go meet Sudhirendra and another one of my uncles, Siddhartha. Both lived near my father’s house.
I asked my father later to tell me more about his siblings.
“I have seen nine of them,” Shyamal said. He was the second youngest.
“Seen nine of them? What does that mean? Do you have more that you didn’t meet?” I said. What an odd way to describe siblings: “seen them,” as if they were the Lord of the Rings franchise in theaters.
“Yes. One or two miscarried babies and more who died,” Shyamal said.
I felt foolish asking this next question: “What do you mean, ‘died’?”
“Died at the time of delivery or died through childhood,” Shyamal answered. “Delivery or early age. Very common in those days. I have since seen nine of them.”
The Deb children are listed here—dates and years are estimates, according to Shyamal:
BROTHERS:
1. Somorendra Kumar Deb (died at twenty-three in 1948)
2. Sudhirendra Kumar Deb (Somnath’s father)
3. Hitendra Kumar Deb (died at sixty-eight in 2001)
4. Amal Kanti Deb
5. Arun Kanti Deb
6. Shyamal Kanti Deb
7. Siddhartha Kumar Deb
SISTERS:
1. Satadal Deb (died at seventy-six in 2005)
2. Basanti Sarker (died at seventy-eight in 2011)
3. Anjali Dutta
I must have always known Shyamal had brothers and sisters. Where else could Somnath have come from? But as my family splintered, I didn’t put much thought into the deeper connection, which seems silly in hindsight. The only sibling who moved to the United States was Shyamal.
“So, show me around,” I said. “Give me the tour.”
“Pardon me?” Shyamal said.
“Tour! Tour!” Susmita said. “Dhekye-dhou!”
“Come on! It’s all yours!” Shyamal said.
The apartment had one bedroom, an office, and another room featuring an upright piano. Each room was largely devoid of personal effects but littered with art, books, and small figurines on every surface. He took us into the office, which was simple, cozy, and just bigger than a closet. Here my father quizzed me more about my comedy career. I told him I had performed several shows at the Magnet.
“On Broadway?” Shyamal asked excitedly.
“No, it’s not Broadway. It’s Off-Off-Off-Off-Off-Off Broadway,” I said, lowering expectations as much as I could.
“But you’re known,” Shyamal said.
“I wouldn’t say I’m known,” I responded.
Shyamal said that while Googling me, he had found an old picture of me onstage. But how had he known it was old?
“You looked skinnier,” Shyamal said, matter-of-factly.
This guy: Maybe he really was the class clown.
In the room with the piano, Shyamal sat me down and made me play. He hadn’t heard me play since high school, when I used to perform