No Land's Man

  For my mother Fatima, who encouraged me to day dream

  Also for Hakim and Shabana

  DISCLAIMER: Although the stories in this book are based on true events, the specific circumstances are often a blend of fact and imagination. Some of the names, identifying characteristics, and circumstances have been changed . . . sometimes for the better, but that’s just my opinion.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Aasif Mandvi.

  Front cover photograph copyright © 2014 Peter Ash Lee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available:

  ISBN: 978-1-4521-0791-2 (HC)

  ISBN: 978-1-4521-2409-4 (ebook)

  Cover design by Gregg Kulick and Neil Egan

  Cover Illustration by Jim Tierney

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street

  San Francisco, California 94107

  www.chroniclebooks.com

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  Welcome Home: The Return 11

  Better Than Fonz 17

  Curry Pot Cowboy 25

  The Ledge 33

  International House of Patel 49

  PART II

  Welcome Home: The Train 61

  No Land’s Man: Becoming Aaseeeef 71

  No Land’s Man: You Can’t Be Michael Jackson All the Time 79

  Born Again 89

  The Chili Pepper 105

  Love, Indian-American Style 115

  PART III

  Welcome Home: The Empty Space 123

  Patanking 133

  Movie Star 147

  Brooke and Monday-wala 165

  The Jihadist of Irony 179

  Acknowledgments 191

  About the Author

  Part I

  WELCOME HOME: THE RETURN

  MY FAMILY LEFT the Northern English textile factory town of Bradford and moved to America in the early 1980s when I was sixteen years old. It happened so fast that I never really had a chance to say a proper goodbye to the place where I spent my childhood. As a teenager you tend to focus on the future rather than the past, and because my life after college and in New York was busy and full, I never had a desire to return. This actually might not come as a surprise to anyone who has ever lived in Bradford, for until my parents saved up enough to move us to the suburbs, we lived against the backdrop of factories, mills, graffiti-ridden tenement buildings, and run-down council estates. I remember the entire city looking like it was covered in soot.

  However, sixteen years later, now living in New York and working as an actor, I had recently closed a successful run of my one-man show Sakina’s Restaurant1, which I had written and performed at the American Place Theater in New York City after several years of development. The play was critically well received and it ran for almost six months in the tiny black box theater below 46th Street. It was the culmination of several years of hard work for me, with write-ups in the New York Times and movie directors and VIP’s coming to see me perform. It was my first brush with success in a business that I had been struggling to make it in for almost a decade.

  Through the process of workshopping the play, performing, and rewriting it, I managed to excavate what I thought was the story of my immigrant experience. As solo shows often are, it was a personal and cathartic performance and became a way for me to examine how my own issues of identity and dislocation had affected me.

  As I performed the play every night, I had the sense that I had uncovered something that had lain dormant in me for a long time and I could not put it back to sleep. The play that I thought would put the pieces of my dislocated identity together, actually just shone a spotlight on the pieces that were missing and I realized after some time of denying it, that those pieces were back in Bradford.

  I began to feel nostalgic for the city of my childhood. I thought about returning to the house that I grew up in, my middle school and boarding school, the reservoir where I went sledding as a child, my Dad’s corner shop and the makeshift little children’s theater where I first discovered my love of being a performer. This feeling came about suddenly and I couldn’t really understand it, or afford it, honestly. Traveling to England is expensive for anyone, especially someone making an off-Broadway theater actor’s salary.

  My opportunity to return presented itself serendipitously a few months later.

  After one of the performances, a screenwriter friend mentioned my show to the famed Indian film director Shekhar Kapur. Shekhar and I became friends and for a while thereafter he would buy me lunch whenever he was in New York. He also happened to be working with Andrew Lloyd Webber on what would later become the musical Bombay Dreams. During one of our lunches in New York he mentioned Sydmonton, a festival that Andrew put on every year at his country estate. Shekhar thought my show would be perfect for the festival and he told me that if I came out to England, he would set up a meeting. “It would be a wonderful addition and I’m sure Andrew would be very excited,” he said.

  As I left the restaurant I marveled at the strange circumstance that was about to accompany my return to England. It felt somehow fated. I didn’t sing and the only Webber Musical I had ever seen was Jesus Christ Superstar so being invited back to England in this manner felt akin to being invited to Rome to meet with the Pope. You kind of have to stop making excuses and just go. Returning to England in this way also felt like a tremendous accomplishment. It would be a triumphant return, I thought! The little Indian kid from Bradford who was called a wog and chased home from the bus stop every night returning to perform his “toast of New York” play about being an Indian immigrant for the British aristocracy. I was pretty chuffed with myself as I walked around my apartment for several days singing, “Aasif Mandvi, Superstaaaaar! I’m going to be best friends with Lloyd Webbaaaar!”

  Several weeks later I found myself sitting in the offices of The Really Useful Group, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s headquarters in London. His associate finally came back into the office with an apologetic look on his face.

  “I am so terribly sorry,” he said, “but Andrew has to leave. He feels dreadful for making you wait, but something has come up and he has to dash. When do you leave to go back to New York?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” I said, standing up and gathering my things.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” he said as he led me to the door. “He has time next week but you won’t be here.”

  I could tell from his tone that he had more important things on his plate than talking to some unknown actor from New York.

  “Hope this wasn’t the only reason you came over to England” he said.

  “No. No, of course not,” I said, somewhat unconvincingly. “I actually grew up in Bradford so I’m going to visit my hometown.”

  “Bradford,” he said, “huh? I’ve never been.”

  There was an awkward pause after which he said, “Well, have a great trip, and let’s schedule it for another time, when you are back in the UK.”

  “I will,” I said, knowing that would never happen.

  He shook my hand and apologized again as he showed me the stairs to the street.

  I went back to my bed and breakfast, packed my bags, and made my way to Kings Cross Station.

  “The next train to Bradford,” I said to the lady at the ticket booth.

  “Good curry in Bradford,” she replied.

  “I know, I grew up there.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said as she smacked her gum and pulled out a train schedule. “Bradford is full of your kind.”

  “My kind?” I repeated tentatively, hoping she meant Bradford was full of strikingly handsome men.

  “Yeah
, you know,” she said nodding towards me. “Asians. Lots of Asians in Bradford.”

  “Well, it’s been a long time,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

  “Homesick, then, are you?” she asked.

  “Yes, something like that,” I replied, smiling. “I suppose I’m going to take a trip down memory lane.”

  She smiled back and then looked pensive for a moment.

  “I’m not sure I can recommend that,” she said as she handed me the train schedule. “Dangerous business, that is.”

  “I suppose it can be,” I said as I dropped a few pounds under the window.

  “Good luck,” she said. “I hope you find whatever you’re looking for.”

  1. The play Sakina’s Restaurant was originally directed and developed by Kim Hughes.

  BETTER THAN FONZ

  DR. ZHIVAGO. IT CHANGED MY LIFE.”

  I spoke so quietly I don’t think he even heard me. But he was probably used to that. Wherever he went, I imagined, gasps of recognition followed, along with the sounds of people whispering his name or the titles of the movies he’d starred in. I didn’t care about them. Those people may have been fans, maybe wanting his autograph or to have their picture taken with him, but for me it was much more than that. I wasn’t just an admirer or a sycophant, someone who just wanted to flatter him because he was a big star. I didn’t even really want to engage him in a conversation about his career or about the challenges of working in Hollywood, blah blah blah. . . . He was so much more than that to me.

  The best way to describe the way I felt about him would be to call it familial, like I was his offspring, metaphorically speaking, much the way Sidney Poitier was like a father figure to so many African-American actors. He had sown the seeds for myself and other brown actors hoping to work in Hollywood.

  I said it again, a little louder and clearer this time, with confidence, supporting my voice with my diaphragm like I had been taught in acting school. I could feel my voice rising above the din of the Manhattan rooftop bar where I was serving drinks.

  “Dr. Zhivago. It changed my life.”

  I spoke with an assurance I didn’t quite feel. He turned to me, finally realizing that a young waiter was addressing him, saying something other than “May I get you another?” He looked at me sharply, noting my timid, perhaps even dimwitted expression. I had surprised myself by my boldness, and apparently I had surprised him, too. The problem now, I realized, was that I had no plan of action for the moment after contact was made. And contact had been made. A smile began to form on his mouth, in his eyes, and even his cheekbones. I was a waiter who had interrupted the conversation of a celebrity VIP guest, which was a huge no-no. I could very easily be fired for my brazenness, but strangely, I didn’t care. I had seized the moment. I had connected with one of my idols. But what should I say or do next? I grinned like an idiot, unable to leave, unable to stay.

  My path to this awkward and fumbling moment began years earlier. In the summer of 1977, when I was eleven years old, I decided I was going to become an actor. I confided my plans to my mother one day after watching an episode of Happy Days, the one where Fonzie tries to be a normal person like Richie Cunningham and fails miserably. I related to Fonzie not because of his cool factor, which he obviously had in abundance, but because his real name was Arthur Fonzarelli, which I knew instinctively, even as a naive eleven-year-old, was a name almost as unusual and uncool as my name, Asif Mandviwala.2 Even with this liability, Arthur Fonzarelli was still the epitome of coolness. All it took was that observation, along with a belief that TV acting involved no more than putting on a leather jacket and riding a motorcycle around Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to persuade me that Asif Mandviwala was destined to become the Monz.

  As I shared my thinking with my mother, she lay back on the couch and applied an ice bag to her forehead. Her eyes closed, she remained very quiet. My mother suffered from recurring migraines, which usually required that I rub Tiger Balm on her forehead just at the moment I was about to go and ride my bike. This particular headache, though, was no doubt brought on by the fact that my friend Sean and I had spent the entire morning driving tanks through the dining room, quite successfully defending our modest three-bedroom bungalow from a river of molten lava, an alien invasion, and three hundred and thirty-two tiny green soldiers. As a warrior returning from battle, and a Monz-to-be, I needed attention from my mother, so migraine be damned, I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  “MA! I WANT TO BE AN ACTOR!”

  Now, my mother has only ever said two things to me as a child that I didn’t understand. The first was, “Why do you have to go out to play?” and the second was that afternoon, when she sat up, opened her eyes, and while sounding (and some would say even looking) remarkably like Yoda, she uttered the following words: “Omar Sharif–like actor?”

  I don’t know what I had hoped for in response, but it certainly wasn’t that. I had never heard of Omar Sharif. I assumed he was someone my parents knew, most likely the son of some other Indian family.

  My parents were always comparing my behavior and successes or lack thereof to the behavior and successes of children of other Indian families we knew. “Sunil doesn’t talk to his mother that way,” they would comment. It was the perfect parental inadequacy monitor that Indian parents could train on their kids whenever they were feeling pretty good about themselves, guaranteed to take the wind out of their sails. If I brought home Bs on my report card, Alpana was certain to bring home As. If I took out the garbage for my mother, I found out that Raj didn’t have to be told, he just did it. If I helped my dad clean the garage, Milan, I was reminded, had cleaned the garage when his parents were on vacation so that it would be a surprise for them when they returned. So naturally I assumed that once again, my mother was resorting to inadequacy tactics by bringing up this overachieving Omar Sharif kid who had no doubt played the flute or recited a poem at some cheesy local Indian community talent contest.

  This time, I thought to myself, it’s not going to work. My mother would not inadequate my parade.

  “I hate that kid!” I shouted.

  My mother just smiled sweetly at me and stroked my hair while my eyes burned from the reeking Tiger Balm she’d smeared across her forehead.

  “You don’t know him,” she whispered. “But if you want to be an actor, you should try and be like him.”

  “No, Ma, I want to be like the Fonz,” I declared. For emphasis I put my thumbs at right angles and with the deepest, sexiest voice an eleven-year-old boy could muster while wearing red polyester shorts and a turtleneck, I delivered Fonzie’s signature of coolness.

  “Heeeeey . . .” I said. It was a long drawn out hey just like Fonzie’s. I held it for a good ten seconds, just to the point of possibly needing to use my asthma inhaler if I continued much longer. When I was done, my mother was at first silent. Then suddenly, she burst into a fit of laughter. Again, that wasn’t the reaction I’d expected from her. I guess I’d hoped she would be impressed, even astonished, by my dead-on Fonzie impersonation. Instead, she couldn’t stop laughing, as if she had never seen anything funnier. I waited for her to collect herself, to dry the tears of laughter that were running down her cheeks, and notice my piqued expression, which she finally did. Taking my face in her hands, she then said something that haunted me for the next several months.

  “Omar Sharif is better than Fonz,” she observed knowingly.

  What? Had my mother even watched Happy Days? No one was better than the Fonz, especially not this stupid Omar Sharif kid. Was she out of her mind?

  For the next several months, the name Omar Sharif kept popping up. He seemed to be everywhere, upstaging me and my brand-new determination to be an actor. Between deep breathing exercises, I proudly announced to my asthma doctor that I had decided to become an actor. Before my father could get out the words that were on the tip of his tongue whenever I mentioned my desire to follow in Fonzie’s footsteps—”My son will go to medical school and become a doctor”�
��my friendly Indian doctor perked up while removing his stethoscope from my chest.

  “You want to be an actor, is it?” He asked. “Omar Sharif–like actor?”

  Again with this Omar Sharif! Before I even had the chance to stick out my thumbs and impress them both, I was being ushered out the door. I was devastated. Why did everyone think this Omar Sharif kid was so great? Why didn’t my dad and my doctor understand? The bus driver, the woman at the grocery store, my neighbor, the milkman, even the man who came to inspect our gas meter all seemed to love Omar Sharif.

  After hearing about my Fonzie dreams, the gas guy told me the story of how his brother had met Henry Winkler getting out of a taxi in New York. I was riveted by his story until my mother ruined it by interjecting that her son would not be an actor like Henry Winkler, but instead like Omar Sharif. In response, the gas meter inspector almost cracked his skull on the pipes under our sink when he straightened up and declared, “Omar Sharif! I love Omar Sharif!”

  Since I was way too young to hire a private investigator, and this was before the internet, there was no way for me to find out on my own who Omar Sharif was. I was afraid to even ask about him, fearing that I might discover he really was as handsome and talented as everyone thought, at which point my jealousy would know no bounds, and my fragile dream of becoming an actor would be forever punctured and deflated. I couldn’t risk that, so instead I comforted myself with fantasies of us confronting each other on the playground, where I would punch him in the nose so hard that he would run home crying. No doubt Omar was fat from stuffing his face with sweets all day, but still arrogant because inexplicably everyone seemed to love him despite his grotesque obesity. One day I would triumph over Omar Sharif.

  A few months later, on Christmas Eve, we were at the home of another Indian family, with whom my parents played cards every Sunday. The living room of the tiny house was packed with brown faces, aunts and uncles from four or maybe ten or so different families and their kids, all gathered around one tiny television set. It was time for the main event, the BBC movie of the night. That night, there was an excitement and anticipation in the air that I had not noticed when we had watched movies together before. The MGM lion roared, and the music began to crescendo. My mother passed around napkins and Indian snacks. I sat in front of the screen sullenly, having been dragged up from the basement, away from Anil’s Formula One race car tracks where for once I’d actually been winning. As the BBC announcer introduced the movie for the evening and announced the next few words, something happened inside my head. It was not unlike when Roy Scheider finally sees the shark on that crowded Long Island beach in the movie Jaws, a technique I believe was invented by Spielberg and adopted by my mind’s eye for this momentous occasion. My consciousness dollied backward while the focus zoomed forward as I heard the words “Dr. Zhivago, starring Omar Sharif.”