American-born Danny had just met his Delhi-born cousin Bhanu at the Kansas City airport. Bhanu and his parents had come to America to help Danny's family run a smalltown motel...
I took the bag that Bhanu had been dragging across the floor. “You can call me Danny. I don’t know what they were feeding you in India, but maybe a shorty like me can get some.”
Bhanu looked at me dead-serious. “I would be happy to share my diet with you,” he said. “My name is Bhanu. Danny is not your real name.”
“ Yeah, but that’s what everyone calls me. If you keep your name, people will just butcher it. What’s with the accent anyway? You sound like a butler.”
“I received a formal English education,” Bhanu said, as if the answer was obvious. “I thought your name was Devak.”
“Like I said, just call me Danny.”
“I like ‘Devak’ better. It means ‘divine’,” he said. “I don’t know what ‘Danny’ means, but ‘Devak’ is a good name.”
It didn’t take a charter member of Mensa to know this guy would fail to impress the low society folks of Wapatamwa. He would find himself the center of attention of guys with no greater desire than to beat the fecal matter out of a spindly-armed, brown-skinned boy who talked like he had a silver spoon stuck up his butt.