Ten minutes later, when she walked up to the man and presented her license to him, he looked at the picture and Ranjana in quick succession, then let her through without a blink. To Ranjana, this meant that the picture was, sadly, a likeness.
She couldn’t have been more ill-prepared if she had walked into a spaceship. That was exactly what the place resembled with its slab of a bar, behind which hovered an intricate chandelier of glasses, bottles of alcohol, and vases. It was as shiny as chrome, an evenly spaced collection of red-cushioned stools huddled next to it. On the ceiling, light fixtures with rainbow-colored bulbs rotated frantically. The brilliant offal of their lights moved in healthy riot on the floor, then crawled up the rippling bodies of people in the bar. In a booth above and beyond the crowd, a DJ held one hand to his ear and moved the other in a seductive beckon to the crowd. Ranjana was bumped to the side by a man who was being supported by two young companions; the cologned grit of their bodies filled her nose. She spotted a woman with bouffant hair, then realized that the person was too big to be a woman. She reexamined the men who had just passed her and knew that she would find similar clusters throughout the bar. Achyut had neglected to tell her what sort of place this was, and she vowed to have one cup of soda before making her exit.
Achyut’s outfit of a hooded sweatshirt and jeans had become as expected to Ranjana as his thick black hair and the thin slice of his grin. So to find him bare-armed, his hair alive with product, was as surprising to her as the bar itself. His arms looked like Ranveer Singh’s in a Bollywood movie. Her reservations about befriending him skyrocketed. She had never been in the presence of someone who had the universal allure he had; men leaned on the bar invitingly, Achyut the nexus of a carousel and they his painted horses. A black light hung over the bar, and when Achyut smiled—as he did at every guest—his mouth erupted in neon purple. Ranjana waited for two men in front of her to finish ordering so that she could lean over the bar and catch his attention. Both of the men were wearing tank tops, their arms as chiseled as Achyut’s. As they ordered, she noticed that their arms brushed against each other incessantly, and neither man made an effort to stop this from happening. Then the man on the right reached around and placed his hand in the waistband of his companion’s pants. Ranjana looked away, saw two men kissing, and decided that the waistband marauders were the more desirable sight.
The men in front of her finally walked away, and Ranjana charged to the bar, determined to catch Achyut’s attention, to bid adieu, and to leave straightaway. He didn’t notice her for at first; he was busy crafting a bundle of drinks in tiny glasses, hooking a tiny lime wedge in each. A lithe gentleman gathered them all in his hands, clasping his chin over them and grinning at Achyut. A companion of his swirled a twenty-dollar bill down to the bar for Achyut, and Achyut brought his hands together in a Namaste. Looking up, Achyut finally spotted her, his mouth gleaming once more.
“I’m so glad you came!” he said, leaning over and hugging her, which he’d never done before. “Did you meet the gang?”
“I didn’t realize there was a gang. But Achyut—”
“They’re right here. Oh, wait—just let me help this guy and then I’ll introduce you.”
Ranjana wanted to leave without waiting for him to come back, but her curiosity about his friends was too strong. Within five minutes, Achyut was back in front of her, pointing to the end of the bar, where a motley group was standing.
One of Achyut’s friends was named Jesse, and he was as tall as Achyut, just as good-looking, with chocolate brown hair, dressed almost the same. Another was Tyler, baby-faced and wearing a navy blue T-shirt so tight that it seemed of a piece with his large arm tattoos. Sean was a short yet burly man from Ireland, about Ranjana’s height, which made his proximity to her all the more awkward.
Then there was the pair of girls with them. Amber, Achyut’s roommate, had a dried cactus of dreadlocks atop her head and a generously exposed bosom that Ranjana could hardly ignore. Charity was the other girl, a platinum blonde and wearing a black turtleneck, paisley skirt, and an assortment of silver rings.
Ranjana hoped that the collective personality of these friends was an assortment of wit and intelligence that would redeem this visual madness. She thought of her own acquaintances. Even though Achyut was Indian, would her friends have put him off the way that Amber’s fungus-like hairstyle repelled Ranjana?
An encounter like this was proof: this experiment in culture, this gesture in the direction of assimilation, was doomed. You could not reconcile these two spheres of being. In the past few decades, this country had tried to instill a feeling of progress in not just Indian people but also in people of all colors. We were supposed to feel united, all of our children starting from the same place, where cultures melted into each other, yet the divide between Eastern ethnicity and this American setting was greater than ever.
Example: The wide, hairy expanse of Mohan’s chest and his round belly, so unlike Achyut’s broad, hairless torso and his sculpted arms.
Example: A stainless steel pot filling up with milky tea in the linoleum haven of your kitchen while, next door, someone was making a kale smoothie.
Example: Seema telling a traffic cop once that she didn’t understand how the speed limit worked, feigning ignorance until he ripped up the ticket and sent her on her way.
Example: Prashant’s third-grade teacher, convinced that he had cheated on a math test because he had gotten a perfect score.
Like the lime-skinned ghosts of sci-fi movies, Indian people existed outside the normal landscape of America. Ranjana thought of all of this as Amber approached her.
“It is so good to meet you!” Amber said, pressing Ranjana against her bosom. Charity placed one hand on Ranjana’s shoulder and squeezed. Jesse deepened his hands into his pockets, just like Achyut always did; Ranjana wondered if this was a sign that they were boyfriends. Tyler shook Ranjana’s hand, his paw rough and meaty. Sean was easily excitable, and he began a long monologue on how many Indian people were in Dublin now.
“There are a lot of Eastern Europeans, too, lots of Czechs, but I love the Indians the best. They’re so polite, and the food is so good.” His accent had a way of scattering his voice in many directions at once.
“Ugh, I’ve never cared for Indian food all that much. Curry is gross,” Amber said, oblivious to how offensive this sounded.
“Nice purse, Amber,” Charity said. Ranjana looked but didn’t see any purse on Amber’s shoulder. “I meant ‘personality,’” Charity pointed out, noticing Ranjana’s expression. “We abbreviate everything.”