American Chopsuey (short story)

A short story about friendship, food and all that lurks behind...

“A lost vulnerability” PC: Reena Kapoor. Instagram: @1StarDusty

American Chopsuey

Lopa is already at baggage claim. Her anxiety is obvious in the way she turns her entire body to check and recheck all the exits in sight. She’s searching for me. I haven’t seen her in over five years. There’s something different about her. 

I think back to the first time we met over two decades ago in college. The first thing I noticed was how tall she was, despite her penitent hunch. In those days in India she towered over most boys and men, scaring them all. When we became friends, I pressured her to stand up straight. “Stop apologizing for being tall. You tower. Let them cower!” I would laugh. 

That’s it! She’s lost her hunch! In the past few years, she’s somehow overcome the habitual apology she once embodied. I guess we all change in ways we can’t predict. But I can still read her anxious self-talk: Did she forget my flight time? Got caught up in something more important? Can’t be! She’s always there for me. Yes, I’m always there for her. Like I was when her ex-husband cheated on her, then unceremoniously dumped her. I’m the one who helped her navigate back to some semblance of happiness.

Just then Lopa sees me. We wave madly, rush over and embrace. Sisters from tears and fears witnessed over two decades. She knows more about me than is necessary to acknowledge. She’s seen my lows. Especially the one particular low in college we don’t mention anymore. When I was ditched. By Sunil. Like being shoved into a ditch, then being unable to get up, or even get out of bed. For days on end. 

We were in college, in Delhi at that time, living in the girls hostel, which is what college dorms in India are called. Quite unlike American college kids, we never considered renting off campus housing. The only “off-campus” housing available or affordable then would have been our parents’ home if they happened to live in the same town; or a room at an aunt or uncle’s house who might accommodate us in the name of family, while charging our parents above market room and board. 

So for most of us, the hostel it was. Which came with hostel food from the single-option kitchen that offered carelessly spiced goop, passing it for lentils or vegetables of various ilk, daily. We ate our meals in the “mess” — the communal dining room attached to the hostel — where such goop was shamelessly presented. 

Finding a sly hair or two in the goop was not uncommon. On one particularly bad day someone found a baby cockroach. We avoided the mess that day. A few girls grumbled that even if a cockroach was found, why was this fact advertised so broadly? Such unnecessary sharing spoiled everyone’s appetite. After all, compromise was the key to survival. 

For days after Sunil ditched me, I refused to leave my room. So at mealtimes Lopa brought me plates of food. Much like the mess food, my days became indistinguishable from one to the next. Except for when Lopa ran out to bring me American Chopsuey from the Chinese food truck that occasionally stationed itself outside our campus gates. It was a dish we both loved, its greasy, unwholesome origins notwithstanding. It broke the monotony of my despair, and cemented our friendship.

Peppery noodles with shallow fried vegetables, draped in a piquant tomato-based sauce, finished with an even more mysterious desi tarka, and topped with a crispy fried egg. We assumed it was a poor facsimile of something with forgotten roots in China. Claims were made — and lightly believed — that an itinerant American had brought the dish to India. But in America I discovered even that theory was a lie. Here American Chopsuey was a pasta casserole made with ground beef, macaroni and a seasoned tomato sauce. So a bastard dish adapted out of recognition to fool whichever regional palate it encountered. Genesis unknown. The comfort food of a friendship that is neither authentic nor challenging. 

Last year when she was visiting Delhi, Lopa tagged me in a photo of a sizzling platter of #AmericanChopsueyForever on Facebook. Bless her though, she never as much as mentions the darkness I inhabited in those days. Thankfully, I came out much stronger. Unbreakable perhaps. So much that even my father’s passing was tearless. The man who always did too much for too many. The “too many” wailed for him when he went. Not me. 

As we hug, I sense something’s up with Lopa. She’s crying. 

I hold her back and ask, “All ok?” 

She nods. “So sorry about your Dad.” 

I nod too. We hug some more. 

I look up to see a man watching us. Indian? Pakistani? Indian! The fraying red threads on his wrist. Hail Mary equivalents to counter whatever the fates may bring. Brimming with curiosity. Our age? With his prosperous paunch it’s hard to tell. I stare back at him. Takes him a minute to look away. He looks back to see if I’m still guarding my moment with my friend. Finds my stare and pretends he’s reading signs behind me. Indian men! Really better off without them. 

My mother used to cringe at my mouthing such opinions. She wanted me “settled”. Like my three “fully settled” sisters she loved to compare me with. All three in desiccated marriages with self-soothing platitudes and performance-monkey children. My child can do this, my child can do that… on and on!

I scared off the few miserable suitors my mother arranged for me, usually in the very first interaction. Much like Indian police meting out vigilante justice in “fake encounters” before it slipped away like sand from a tight fist. No guns were needed. My foul mouth, as my father called it, was more than enough. 

Lopa and I look at the motionless baggage belt. She apologizes, “Sorry! I should’ve simply brought a carry-on. But I wanted to get you something...”

“It’s OK,” I say. “How was the flight?” 

“Good! Southwest...” 

“Ugh! I hate Southwest — the way they board everyone, like cattle!” 

She laughs. She almost never openly disagrees with me. It’s comfortable this way. Thing is, I harbor a lifetime of opinions. Feminism. Marriage. Men. Politics… And at any given time I’m only a breath away from expressing them. Who’ll speak up if women like me don’t? 

The luggage belt shudders to life. A wave of humans surges forward like a tide for the moon. A great heave-ho to collect our literal baggage. I feel a shove on my left and see the same Indian man. 

“Excuse me!” He offers with an ingratiating smile. “Sorry! I need to leave A-S-A-P,” he claims, spelling it out. Liar!

“Geez!” is all I say and turn away. 

Lopa’s nervous laugh begs me to let it go. We stand back from the belt and wait. The Indian man is soon nowhere to be seen. Banished, like the rest. Good! Whatever it is with me and Indian men got worse after Sunil’s big ditch in college. The shock from being the ditch-ee. Truth is, our romance had already lost its luster. I’d started to wonder how long I could stand it. But then Sunil got ahead of me in the ditchers’ queue. Afterwards he wouldn’t tell me why. 

I thought my mother would be upset when he left. But she’d already soured on Sunil. In her book, a suitor had to have it all: a family man, successful professionally, trusted yet savvy in a corrupt world. Someone she could be proud of materially, emotionally and intellectually. Who could get there? Sunil thoroughly failed her metrics. 

When he cut me loose, I felt relief, then curiosity, and finally anger. What reason could HE possibly have? That he wouldn’t tell me was the last straw. Coward! Eventually I got over the hurt. Mostly in the five years during which I met my ex-husband, married him and let him go too. My poor mother departed pining for my grand “settling”. 

I suddenly realize Lopa is lugging her suitcase off the belt by herself. 

I rush over to help. “Sorry!” She gives me a smile, already forgiving me. 

We head to the parking lot. Soon we’re home. She’s been here before but she looks around. For signs of what, I wonder. We’ve both been through our own journeys of separation. Her one and only husband left her and I offloaded mine. Both better off alone. I help get her bags into the guest room. I go to the bathroom and I can hear her setting up in the room. I come back and she’s staring into space. 

I ask, “Penny?” But she just laughs. 

“Shall we go out to eat? I’ll make your favorite rajma-chawal tomorrow?” I offer. 

She loves that comfort food of Punjabis — red beans and rice. She’s Gujarati but grew up in Delhi like I did. Delhi culture is Punjabi culture. No resident is immune. The Delhi-fication of her palate was complete long before we met. She told me how much she loved our food. Who knew its exact origins or even when it was invented given the centuries of invasions, sackings, migrations the city assimilated. Another comfort food to alleviate eons of suffering. 

Lopa nods, gets off the bed and looks for something in her handbag. Her hairbrush. I go into the kitchen. She soon follows with her hair brushed and lipstick on. 

I stare at her. “I’ve stopped wearing make-up. Just done with all that. Who for?” 

She laughs. “I enjoy it.” 

I’m surprised at her soft objection. She follows me to the door as we lock up and head to my car. We arrive at Queen House in Mountain View, a Chinese dive for old times’ sake. No one can recreate that peppery taste from that truck that still teases our memory tongues. 

“That’s one thing I don’t regret,” she says, quickly looking away. 

I’m puzzled. “What do you have to regret?”

She just shakes her head. We dig into the food. 

“Did you ever think we’d both be here, still connected, single again AND not looking?” I laugh.

She spits nervously. “I’m dating again!” 

I give a little laugh. “Really? White guy?” 

“No,” she says, “desi...” 

I try to absorb my feelings and wait for more. 

She starts again. “Met him online. Dating site. Actually, uh…met again.”  

“Again?” The back of my neck is heating up. I have to understand this.

“Don’t know if it’ll work…this time,” she offers tentatively.

“This time? What do you mean? Thought we… er… you were done! Who is this guy?” I sound more angry than I like. I try again, this time more empathetically, “You went through so much with that cheating husband…” 

She looks at me. “Yes. And I wouldn’t have made it without you.” 

“I guess I’ll be dying alone!” I declare. My eyes are feeling prickly. I hate it when that happens. 

She places her hand on mine on the table. “Never! I’m always here for you.” 

“I’ve always been there for you!” I abandon any pretense. “Then WHY?” 

She looks unhappy, astonished. “I…I just want a life partner.” 

“Really?” I exclaim. “Why? Sunil alone should have taught us BOTH what scum Indian men are! Yet we both tried marriage. And look what happened!” 

“Sunil was OK.” She sounds unrecognizable. She’s refusing to look at me. 

I rush, “What’re you saying? He’s the guy who ditched me one fine morning, gave me no explanation. Never had the courage to man up and talk to me, that assho…” 

“You were going to dump Sunil anyway?” She cuts me off. 

I pause, confused. “What?” 

“Actually, it’s Sunil I met again, online. I’ve been wanting to tell you,” she mumbles.

I stand up, and start pulling cash from my wallet. 

Lopa grabs for my hand. “Just listen to me…” 

I snatch my hand away and walk out. She signals to the wait staff and follows me. I’m walking blindly. I can’t recall where we parked. I walk up to a bench and sit down. 

She sits down too and puts her hand on mine. I shake it off. 

She begs, “Please just listen to me. You’re the first person I’m telling…” 

I raise my hand. She stops talking. 

I bark, “Since when? Why’s he looking? Thought that jerk would’ve found a slave of a wife by now.” Then I laugh. “Ha! Maybe he has!” 

“Sunil always wanted to tell you what happened,” she continues, ignoring my insult.

I look daggers at her. “Tell him to never come anywhere near me.” 

“OK, but can we talk?” She tears up. 

I look at her. “Why’re you crying?” 

“I betrayed you,” she says between sobs.

She’s not making sense. But I guess this feels like betrayal. And one day she’ll come back whining to me. I get up. “Let's go home. Where did I park?” 

She follows me. I find my usual parking lot but I’m lost. I hold up the key to unlock the car, listen for the sound to locate it. I hear a soft beep and head in that direction. We get in. I start driving. 

Once we’re home I go to the bathroom to breathe. This feels like a betrayal. I’ve stood by her, shown her how to get out of her one messy marriage. Did my advice mean nothing? How could she? She’ll learn when Sunil treats her no better. She’ll go into years of depression. I’ll be called at all hours of the night and day. 

Good thing she sees it as a betrayal. She’s been dating after her divorce and hasn’t told me. That lifetime imprinting. Marriage, marriage, marriage. But I should be gentle. Breathe in. Breathe out. Remember I’m the strong one. 

I walk out of my room. She’s standing in the kitchen, drinking water. She turns to look at me. “You OK?” 

“Yeah. Let’s talk,” I offer. 

She braces. “There’s something else.” She comes up and faces me. “I want to come clean. Tell you everything.” 

I take a step back. “I get it. You want to date and marry again. Go ahead. But don’t forget what happened with your ex. And to me with Sunil!” 

“But you wanted to dump Sunil anyway,” she insists. 

“Yes, but I would’ve done it differently. Owned up to it, told him why. He ghosted me. Refused to tell me why! What kind of scum, coward does that?” 

“Sunil’s a good man! A very good man,” she declares with sudden defiance. 

I stare at her. She stares back. 

She inhales and continues, “I went on dating sites over a year ago. I came across Sunil’s profile. I’m the one who reached out. I wanted to make amends.” 

“Amends? What for?” I pull out a dining chair and sit down. “Are you confused?”

She sits down in another chair facing me. “Sunil dumped you in college because… because of me. He and I… we got together.” 

“WHAT!?” I’m standing up now. The back of my neck is on fire now. “What’re you saying?” I stop. My heart is beating so fast I have to sit down again. 

Words pour out of her. “It just happened. AFTER you told me you were going to let him go. I thought he was a nice guy. But there was nothing between us until… the seniors' farewell night. You got drunk and nearly blacked out. Sunil and I brought you back to your room. He and I’d been drinking too. He came to my room to sit down for a bit. And it just happened. I was so ashamed. I told him never to tell you. He wanted to see me again but I told him I’d never have anything to do with him. I made him promise. So he broke it off with you but kept his promise. It was all my fault!” 

Now I’m ice. “Get out of my house,” I tell her calmly.

She’s crying. “I had to tell you. When I met Sunil again I realized I still had feelings for him.” 

“GET OUT of my house! NOW!” I motion to the door. She sobs and goes to the guest room. Reassembles her belongings and is at the door. I haven’t moved. She stands at the door where she can see me. “Can we talk in a few days?” 

I don’t answer. I hear her Uber coming. She softly shuts the door and leaves. 

She’ll come crawling back. She’ll be betrayed. Or she’ll shrivel up like my sisters. Love, they all claim. But it’s just fear of being alone. 

I walk to the guest room. There is something large and flat laying on the bed. Looks like a framed picture. I walk over and remove the paper covering. It’s a framed collage of photos of Lopa and me over the years. Double matted, professionally framed. Would have been perfect above my desk. 

It bears a caption: “The American Chopsuey Sisterhood - 1992 to Eternity”.

###

reena kapoor | 2023

*desi literally means “local” referring to anything with origins in the Indian subcontinent. 
*tarka in Indian cuisine is a method of seasoning food with spices heated in oil or ghee.

A previous version of this story was originally published in Active Muse — a journal of literature, poetry and art in 2023.

What did you think of this short story?

It is a sketch of a woman who’s let cynicism take over after being hurt in love. The story is fiction, except that this phenomenon tragically afflicts too many people. All the references to real things from my own life have to do with food — hostel goop, the chinese food truck and Punjabi food!

I’d love your thoughts.