Grandpa Raj

One night I’m over at the Sharmas’ house to work on the diorama of the Kennedy assassination that Yashi and I are building for our American History class. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, debating the accuracy of our miniature replica of Zapruder’s Zoomatic camera when we hear thumping on the basement stairs. The door flies open and Yashi’s grandfather, Grandpa Raj, bursts into the kitchen. He’s panting a bit, with a big grin on his face. He holds up what looks like an old record in a cardboard sleeve. “Boys,” he exclaimed. “I have found it!” 

“Found what?” Yashi mumbles while squinting at the tiny camera.

“My record,” Mr. Sharma exclaims.

“That’s great, Grandpa.”

“What record?” I ask.

“From my band,” he says, “back in India.” He gestures at us with his free hand. “Come, come! I want to play it for you.”

“Grandpa, we’re trying to finish our—”

“You were in a band?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, beaming. “A rock band.”

“Cool,” I say. “Yash, have you heard it?”

Yashi shakes his head.

“Let’s go check it out.” I get up and walk over to Grandpa Raj as he turns to descend the stairs. “We could use a break.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Yashi says.

***

The basement is bathed in soft pink and green light, which emanates from a large, vintage-looking lava lamp sitting on top of the entertainment center along the far wall. Grandpa Raj is hunched over in front of it, placing the record on the turntable. Mrs. Sharma is sitting at one end of the frayed plaid couch along the opposite wall. I sit at the other end, and Yashi plops down in a polka-dot bean bag chair next to the rickety coffee table.

Grandpa Raj turns around to face us. “Ladies and gentleman,” he says in an exaggeratedly theatrical voice, “from Bangalore, please welcome, your favorite rock ‘n‘ roll band in all the land...The Spitting Cobras!

Mrs. Sharma and I clap enthusiastically while Yashi sips at a can of Sprite. Then there’s a moment of complete and awkward silence as Grandpa Raj fumbles with the needle. We hear the crackle of static, and he stands up straight, still with his back to us, and raises his head and outstretched hands toward the ceiling.

A roiling swirl of frenzied guitar feedback and cymbal washes pour from the speakers. Grandpa Raj’s hands shake, as if channeling the energy of some celestial being. The rush of noise ends and the drums kick in. He lowers his arms and begins nodding his head in time with the beat. A jaunty guitar riff introduces itself, and he slowly spins around and begins swaying to the rhythm. The singer starts the first verse, and Grandpa Raj lip-syncs right along, holding an imaginary microphone. 

For five minutes we watch him slink around in front us, alternately lip-syncing and playing air guitar. He has the cadence of the vocals and the guitar notes down pat. I do hear a similarity between the husky young voice on the record and that of the gruff, paunchy middle-aged man preening in front of us. He certainly has stage presence. Mrs. Sharma grooves along in her seat, and I can’t help but nod my head. The song ends with the same swirl of guitars and cymbals, and Grandpa Raj turns his back to us and offers himself to the heavens once more.

Mrs. Sharma stands to cheer and applaud, and I join in. Yashi rises and nods his head. “Not bad,” he says.

“Thank you, thank you,” Grandpa Raj says, before executing a graceful bow.

***  

Yashi repositions the Umbrella Man on the grassy knoll, which we made out of astro turf. We have to have the diorama done by Thursday for our class presentation.

“Your grandpa’s a freaking rock star,” I say to him. “Literally.”

“I guess he is,” Yashi says. “You know, next year we’ll have World History. Maybe we should do a project on The Spitting Cobras.”

I have to admit, it's a pretty good idea.