“That was the hardest part. I once lied for her when she was spending the night with her boyfriend, giving up her virginity. I mean, she smokes weed all the time, and she still ratted me out. She knew I was too good a guy to tell on her. I wish I had. Well, I also don’t wish that I had because I’m not that type of person.”
Ranjana had never thought about the possibility of Prashant’s being gay. He was such a typical boy. Would she have turned him out of the house if he were gay? Absolutely not. Your child was your child. Nevertheless, most Indian parents, she knew, would be very upset to have a gay child.
“I am flattered that you told me all of this, Achyut,” Ranjana said. “I have to go, though.” It was an abrupt response, perhaps, but they had spent over an hour together and the sun had just set. By the time she drove him back to the coffee shop—where he had left his bike—and drove home, she would have just enough time to put dinner on the stove before Mohan pushed into the house, smelling of fishy sweat and his clothes stuck to his body as if he’d been doused in water.
“No worries,” Achyut said. “I’m just glad that we got to have this talk. I know that it’s out of the blue and kind of weird, but you don’t know how hard it is not to…” His voice trailed off, and she saw that he was biting his lip. He looked at her and shrugged. “Just—thank you.”
When they got back to the parking lot outside Dr. Butt’s office, Achyut hopped out of the car and turned to her. “Can I get your number, auntie?” She stiffened. “No need to worry. I’m not going to call you at some crazy time. I don’t even have a phone right now, after my mom took it. I just—can I have it?”
She pulled a pen and tiny notebook out of the glove compartment and wrote her cell number on it. Achyut took it from her and then snickered.
“What?” Ranjana said.
“Nothing. It’s just that I think this is the first time that I’ve ever asked a woman for her number.” He shut the door and was gone.
THE SAMOSA STUDY BREAK OCCURRED in the lobby of Whig Hall, a white, classical-looking structure that had an exact twin, Clio Hall, opposite a walkway. Together, Whig-Clio constituted the home of the debate teams and larger political discussions on Princeton’s campus. Prashant, generally not interested in political matters, had not set foot in these places, so he was surprised to see that their interiors were rather plain. The presence of the small South Asian student body did not help this effect of shabbiness, and Kavita was made all the more impressive in this setting. In some chameleonic trick, the darkness of her hair and eyes deepened when placed amidst a group of Indian girls. Although she fit seamlessly into the WASP-y hordes around campus—her beauty leveling any racial discrepancy—she could still pass as a proud desi woman.
She came up to him almost immediately. At last, a vulnerability: a tiny dab of mint chutney was smeared under her mouth. Prashant felt a small glimmer of power as he pointed it out to her. She grinned and licked gently at her lip, swiping the dab away and laughing the moment off.
“I’m so glad you actually came,” she said. “And look—you didn’t even have to wear a turban.”
“Mine’s at the cleaner’s,” he said.
“Is there an apostrophe in ‘cleaner’s’ in that sentence?” she asked.
“There most certainly is,” he said. “You should know that as an English major.”
“Ahem,” she said.
“Oh, right—an English and mol bio major. Par-doe-nay-mwah,” he said in mock-French.
“Oh, no, I’m only getting a French certificate, not majoring in it,” she said. He hoped that she was kidding but was pretty certain that she wasn’t. “Do you know they’re offering a Hindi course now?”
He shuddered internally. She was going to ask him about his own proficiency in Hindi, and he would have to admit that he was terrible at it. Sure, he had some conversational basics, but he couldn’t watch a Hindi movie with a great level of understanding, and anytime that an Indian person had ever asked him for directions, he had always botched his response.
He decided to head her off at the pass.
“My Hindi isn’t exactly great. I did get a five on my AP Spanish exam, though.”
One of the girls standing near them heard this sentence and decided to butt in. “You should take the class! Hi, I’m Rashmi.” She put out her hand. He shook it and was impressed at the firmness of her handshake. Prashant could see that she was exactly the type of person he wanted to avoid, the overenthusiastic participant who would want him to join a mailing list and a dance group and a community service project. “We had to fight hard to get it recognized by the university, but we now have the class. It’s super-informal and easy, so you should come. One hour on Thursday nights.”
Any self-respecting student already knew that Thursday night was one of the biggest party nights of the week, since very few upperclassmen had classes on Fridays.
Luckily, Kavita intervened. “Prashant is a chemistry major, so that’s a lot of work right there.”
Rashmi had the audacity to roll her eyes.
“Let’s get you a snack,” Kavita said, diffusing the tension. She took Prashant to the large but rickety table that held three tubs of samosas and a mess of spilled chutneys that resembled a Jackson Pollock painting. It was funny to see the few American students eating samosas; instead of pecking at them with their hands and getting their fingers coated in ghostlike potato, they bit into them as if they were exotic fruits. They weren’t prepared for how hot they were inside, which caused them to fan their mouths, as if someone had put jalape?os on their tongues.
Prashant loaded up a plate with two fat samosas and a careful but generous serving of the three chutneys—mint, tamarind, and coconut. He thought of his mom’s cooking, how she pureed her own chutney, poured it into Tupperware containers, and tucked them into the freezer to be used at odd times of the year. He felt another pang of guilt for his tone with her on the phone the other night.
“So,” he said, tucking a piece of samosa into his mouth and trying to seem nonchalant. “How handily do you think you’ll win the election?”
She clicked her tongue and swiped the air. “Oh, come on. It’s a fair race. Odette’s got a great chance, and Richard has a bit of the jock vote.” Odette Kim was an extremely affable actress who had been in a few commercials when younger. Richard Bender was a high school basketball hero who was now pursuing a degree in electrical engineering. Odette’s flyers featured her face placed onto the Quaker Oats logo—her most high-profile commercial gig—with the phrase “How ’Bout Dem Oats?” Richard’s flyers featured a drawing of a basketball with a lightning bolt through it with the phrase “Best of Bolt Worlds.” Neither flyer really made any sense.
“It’s a totally unfair race,” Prashant said. “Face it: everyone loves you.”