media landscape for Indian representation. I was proud of Patel and his accomplishments and hoped this would be a turning point in the U.S. Finally, an actor of Indian descent being talked about in the same breath as Brad Pitt, Matt Damon and Denzel Washington. This is all to say that in the years that followed his splashy debut, more and more people became aware of his existence, a fact that I have struggled with personally.Īt first, I was thrilled. If I still lived there, I would have been able to see the smoke and ash from the smoldering building from our family’s apartment. That hotel is located a few streets from where I grew up in what was once called Bombay. named Dev Patel.Īfter “Slumdog,” his star continued to rise and was bolstered by roles in the comic ”Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” series, the dramatic tear-jerker “Lion,” for which he was nominated for an Oscar, and the thriller “Hotel Mumbai,” based on the 2008 terrorist attacks on the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. It also introduced the world to a young, charming, somewhat goofy-looking (at least in my opinion) South Asian actor from the U.K.
It was also the year a little movie called “Slumdog Millionaire,” directed by Danny Boyle, premiered and quickly became its own real-life version of the rags-to-riches plot that played out on screen when it went from sleeper hit to Best Picture Oscar winner. In 2008 we witnessed the spectacle of the Beijing Olympics, the debacle of the financial recession, and the nail-biting drama of the presidential election. Maybe it was from my still-throbbing leg.
I planted my lips on him and let out a low growl. He pulled me closer, forcing my legs to spread on his lap. I winced and prepared myself for the inevitable line that he and many other white boys feel the need to deliver to me. If you could see past my natural tan, I was blushing. He stopped kissing me and ran his bejeweled fingers through my hair and then clasped them around the back of my neck. I wanted to hustle things along to the bed (or at least horizontally), so there was no chance of me straining my leg again. It was verbal foreplay for the digital age. Then his hands were under my shirt and mine were working on his belt buckle. We continued to make out and the pain subsided (as long as I didn’t move my leg anymore).
White, bearded, man-bunned, pierced, tattooed, and looking up at me with a big smile.