STEFANIE HAD WRITTEN A SECTION containing as many adverbs as it did mermaid scales, and Ranjana wanted to scream. Sometimes she wondered why she even came to this writing group, why she endured these strange people week after week. But she knew why: she needed a reliable tether, something to guide her. To lose herself at her computer and not have any outlet other than that was dangerous. She knew that people went to therapy to talk through their struggles, since worry led to off-putting behavior if left unchecked, so it was necessary for her to vent her literary frustrations here. Yet at times like these, when Stefanie was tugging at her daggered necklace, her neck practically painted in hives, her long nails scraping against the paper in her hands—it was times like these when Ranjana thought of turning to crime novels, of writing her own Dexter-like serial killer just so that he could prey on such people.
She wished that she could bring Seema to this workshop. Oh, the laughs they would have. There was practically no intersection between a woman like Seema and Stefanie apart from outspokenness and kohl, but Seema could have seen Stefanie as a scientific study, a fun organism to observe. Instead, Seema constantly chided Ranjana for continuing to go to the class. “If you’re better than the people around you, it’s time to go to a different class,” she would say, and then Ranjana would call Seema out on her own yoga class, and then they would keen at the cyclical routine of their complaints, the fact that they simply continued to find new ways to malign the same old things.
Meanwhile, here were these classmates, writing about the same old things. How many times had Stefanie written about mermaids? At least a dozen. Cassie, her face especially sallow today, as if the sarcasm had sucked the blood from her cheeks, was massaging her temple with one hand, the other clutching her stomach. Wendy was staring at the ceiling. Colin was cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his Return of the Jedi T-shirt. The crumpled pages in Ranjana’s own hands were an accordion of exasperation.
Then Stefanie stopped. The silence resounded with the sharpness of a halved sentence, and Ranjana had no idea what that sentence had been. Stefanie was staring right at her.
“You got a problem?” Stefanie said. She was still pulling on her necklace.
“Pardon?” was all Ranjana could think to say.
“If you were any less interested in my book, you’d be dead,” Stefanie said.
“Now, now,” Roberta said, her voice scooping with surprise. “Stefanie. Ranjana was paying attention.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Stefanie said. “What just happened? What part did I just read?”
“Don’t blame her for the fact that your book is boring,” Cassie said. Ranjana had never loved her more.
“Cassie,” Roberta said, rising in her seat and putting her hands out, as if calming an angry group of animals. “Ladies, please. Where is this coming from?”
Oddly, Stefanie started laughing. “I don’t even know why I bother coming here. I’m clearly the only one who takes this seriously.” Cassie made the beginning of a retort, her mouth popping open, but Stefanie was at the ready. “And don’t even try to pretend like you take this seriously, Cassie. All you do is sit there and act like a sourpuss. I like writing erotic thrillers. It’s what I do. Leave it alone.”
“Stefanie, I really do think that you are mistaken,” said Roberta. “Ranjana, you were paying attention, weren’t you, dear?”
Never had Ranjana wanted to be a bitch more than she did right now, but she shuddered to think how much longer this outburst would last if she engaged with such pettiness. So she said as evenly as she could, “No, I wasn’t paying attention. And I am sorry, Stefanie. It is not you. I have a family member who has been very ill, and it’s put me in a bad mood.”
An easy fib, and it had the desired effect: Stefanie held her tongue, and there were a few seconds of silence as Roberta reemphasized her hands, as if patting the anger to the ground. Stefanie started reading again.
Afterward, Ranjana called Seema from her cell phone and asked to see her right away.
Seema was at her dining room table reorganizing one of her many cosmetics cases. She bought lipstick like it was Chapstick—frequently and almost medically—and the table had become a shiny arsenal of tubes and wayward pink splotches.
“Can you believe this woman?” Ranjana asked, blowing on her tea and remembering her awkward spill from weeks before.
“Yes, I can believe it,” Seema said. “I have finally decided that nothing can surprise me about women in this country. Nothing. Yesterday, I was standing in line behind a girl at the grocery store, and one whole cheek of her bottom was sticking out from her shorts, they were so short.” The way Seema said “cheek of her bottom” in Hindi, while caressing the imaginary protrusion in the air, made Ranjana’s tea squirt back up her throat. “Laugh all you want, ji! It’s not funny! No wonder this country has so few successful women politicians. They’ve gone mad! At least Indiraji kept her saris wrapped tight.”
They’d read Midnight’s Children in a two-person book club a year ago, and as a result, Indira Gandhi had become Seema’s go-to political reference for any manner of occasion, even and especially when the reference didn’t make any sense.
Like in some sitcom, Satish walked into the house just as she said this, shaking his head and sighing. “Always with Indiraji. Let her rest in peace, yaar.”
“But look at Hillary Clinton,” Ranjana said, nodding at Satish, who held a plastic grocery bag in one hand. “She dressed demurely.”
“What a horrible example, Ranjana!” Seema yelled. “I’d rather wear one of Indiraji’s saris from years ago than one of those pantsuits. And don’t compare them to salwars because you know they aren’t the same.”
“Then what about Michelle Obama?” Satish said, turning toward the kitchen. “She’s always been very stylish.”
“Oh, God. Let’s make a deal, ji—I’ll stop mentioning Indiraji if you stop mentioning Michelle Obama.” Seema leaned over to Ranjana, exaggerating a whisper so that Satish could hear. “He loves that Michelle Obama. I think they all do.” Ranjana had not considered this before, but she did know that she found Barack attractive. Perhaps the other women did. She abstained from mentioning this to Seema in the presence of Satish.
“What are you really discussing?” Satish called out as he emptied whatever contents were in the bag into a variety of cabinets and drawers.
“What do you mean?” Seema said. She fixated on a lipstick that she had clearly not seen in ages. An intricate pattern of flowers was carved into its golden surface. She popped the tube open, a touch of dark pink.
“I mean, what are you talking about? American women?”
“We are talking about how American women are crazy.” Seema slid the lipstick around her mouth.
“Not just that.” Ranjana sighed. “They don’t want to expand their minds and learn anything new. Or accept anyone new. Instead of supporting other women—in a world dominated by men—they’re mean. And petty.”
Seema snickered, almost smudging herself. “Yaar, what do you think you’re being?”
“Et tu, Brute?” Ranjana said, sighing and picking up her teacup.
“What?” Seema asked.
“I thought you were on my side!” Ranjana clarified as Satish sighed in the kitchen.
“I am on your side, believe me.” Seema turned back toward Satish. “Ji, all I mean is that we Indian women are so much more … civil and … well, smarter than these American women.”