She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice at first that Harit was glancing her way. She had thought herself out of his line of sight, but he had shifted his legs so that he was tilted in her direction. He nodded his head slightly, in a way that indicated it was the last in a series of nods that he had tried to direct toward her. She nodded her head back in turn, felt the nervousness rise in her again. She looked at Mohan. Harit saw her look and then looked at Mohan, too. He faced forward for the rest of the puja.
Harit had probably gotten to know Preeti at the temple. Now that Ranjana saw him here, even though he was merely sitting and watching a puja, she realized that he seemed almost as out of place here as he had at the restaurant. She would have thought a place like temple would be a natural fit for him, but the unease of his posture made his reticence more evident than ever. She was overcome with sympathy for Harit. She had made her way through this country with the help of various Indians around her, and she wondered to what extent Harit had that kind of support system. Maybe Preeti had extended some kindness to him, and here he was, supporting her, his tenuous acquaintance, doing the only thing he knew how to do—to pray among others.
What if she had come to the States by herself, with no one to guide her? True, Harit had come with his mother, but Ranjana was thinking of people her own age, people who could share her experience. If you didn’t have a family member to steer you through this mess of a country—and it was a mess—then what would happen to you? You would become the quiet, confused dining companion that Harit had been.
She had mistaken her budding friendship with Achyut as the logical replacement for Prashant’s absence. But she saw now that maybe she could contribute to the greater good of her little world if she directed her kindness at Harit, a fellow lost soul.
*
The puja ended, and Harit was not quite sure how best to proceed. He had come here with hopes of seeing Ranjana, and upon seeing her, he felt an instant sense of communion. Nothing like this had happened since Swati’s passing. Despite his interactions with Teddy, he didn’t feel himself understood by anyone, but his dinner with Ranjana had assured him that he was a viable person. That was the word that kept coming back to him—viable. He was living as if incidental to the world around him instead of having an active part in it. Ranjana could help him change that.
He was overthinking this evening. Yes, he needed to figure out whether or not Ranjana’s husband knew about their dinner, but it was no big deal. Indians met other Indians all the time. Meeting other people was not something that he did with any great frequency, but he could interact with Ranjana and her husband if he simply pretended that he was like everyone else.
The few moments after a puja ended were always fleeting, and he did not want to end up in some situation where all they did was say hello. He approached her, and her greeting betrayed no trace of deeper understanding. Her husband was in conversation with another man, a heart surgeon whose name Harit had forgotten, so he and Ranjana had a moment to themselves.
“How are you, ji?” he asked.
“Very well,” she said. “I apologize for disappearing. It has been rather hectic at home.”
This was a compassionate response because it directed blame at her instead of allowing any to come his way.
“How have you been?” she asked. It was a question he always found comical. As if there were any particularly intriguing answer anyone could give.
“Busy at the store,” he said. “And you?”
“A doctor’s office is always busy,” she said. “People always getting sick.”
“Cold season?” he said, proud to have used this phrase.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is this your husband?” he asked, sensing that the conversation between her husband and his companion was making terminal overtures.
“Yes, it is. He comes home so late from tennis that I’m not sure I told him about our dinner!”
Perfect. She had helped him.
Her husband approached. He seemed gruff. Perhaps Harit was projecting a common stereotype onto Ranjana’s husband—that Indian professors, more than any other type, had a haughty manner. The broad-chested stance that her husband took, even though he was very slight, even though he was clearly trying to emphasize his defiance, reinforced this idea.
“Ji, this is Harit Sinha,” she said. “He is a friend of Preeti’s.”
Harit did not exactly love the fact that this was the introduction she gave him, but he understood why she phrased it this way.
Her husband inclined his head and pulled his pants up, his thumbs and forefingers pinching at the back of his waistband, which meant Let’s hit the road.
“Namaste,” Mohan said. “Are you new to the area?” He clearly felt obligated to ask this, given the flat tone of his voice.
“No, I have been here for a few years,” Harit said, shrinking the tenure he’d had in the area so as to appear more agreeable. “I work at Harriman’s.” He appended this fact randomly, courtesy of his nerves. Her husband reacted accordingly, his brows raising, his head nodding to indicate that he knew the place but had no cause to value it.
“We would love to have you and your mother over for dinner sometime,” Ranjana interjected.
He knew why Ranjana had said this—compassion, again, as well as an effort to ease the conversation along—but it stopped him cold. It was something he had not even considered as a possibility, the idea of taking his mother somewhere to meet potential friends. Of course, he thought often of his own home and how bizarre it would seem to visitors, which is why he did not bring others into it. But with this offer of dinner, he foresaw the challenge of making a friend of Ranjana: the little string of conversations like this one, the folded paper plates and tousled napkins, the head nods and kowtows, the clink of bangles and the pulling of waistbands, the subtle jokes and confusions, the mystery of his mother and her blankness, the secrets of his rum and Cokes and tangled saris.
He could see that Ranjana understood his discomfort, in the way that she said her good-bye and then bustled away with her husband. It was as careful yet respectful an exit as she could have made.
As they disappeared down the wide temple steps, he realized that he still didn’t know her husband’s name.