She was already thinking of the menu as she drove Harit back to his house. Harit seemed relieved to have told someone his troubles. Ranjana assumed that he had not gone into nearly as much detail when recounting the situation to other people; perhaps he hadn’t told anyone. She had gotten the real story, and as a writer herself, she understood the preciousness of this. Perhaps he had sensed this ability in her: he could see that she would appreciate the drama that he had endured.
Here was a man stunted by tragedy, not by the made-up troubles of a woman who was, frankly, dabbling in self-absorption. While Ranjana was crumpling up pages in her hands, amidst the petty grievances of her fellow writers, this poor man was grieving without being consoled. She had not been in his house, but since Harit had said that his mother was basically paralyzed by her grief, Ranjana could envision what it would be like inside, the usual disarray of an immigrant household: dishes washed and rewashed and leaving watermarks on shelves; bedsheets repurposed into curtains or throw rugs; the general smell of bodies recently slept and food recently eaten. No wonder Harit seemed so lost. He was basically an outsider in his own home.
She realized, again and more fully this time, that it was her responsibility to give Harit a sense of belonging. She saw now that friends were not simply presences that came into your life; you had to inject personality into the relationship so that you could both become more than yourselves. In short, she wanted to give Harit the gift of her own recent realization: she wanted him to discover his own personality, his own sense of humor, a way forward through his grief to a place of resilience and acceptance. But even more than that, she wanted to provide him with a sense of community, the security that he need not suffer his troubles alone, even if others had not endured the kind of trauma that he had. It was possible and necessary to protect him like this.
She believed this firmly, yet she knew that trying to comfort a man who had endured its complete opposite was dauntingly na?ve. It reminded her of fashionable American women who would come up to her when she was newly arrived from India, still swaddled in saris that she had owned from her teenage days. These Americans would approach her and marvel at the fabric, not understanding that even more intricate and impressive garments existed in her own closet, let alone the closets of other Indian women. These girls assumed that she cared about fashion and style as much as they did, not seeing that simply trying to have a mundane conversation was a much more pressing issue for her.
She worried that she might not be able to help Harit through this period of his life when her own experience had been drastically different. But she had to try. She knew that she had to play some integral role in his rehabilitation, even though “rehabilitation” didn’t seem like the right word. He didn’t need to be rehabilitated; he had to be habilitated in the first place.
HARIT MADE THE MISTAKE of telling Teddy about Ranjana’s party.
He hadn’t intended to do it. Teddy came upon him while he was tallying a figure in his head, and he was so lost in his calculations that when Teddy asked him if he wanted to go to an art opening that weekend, Harit simply blurted out that he had an event to attend. The last thing that Harit wanted was for Teddy to think that he was invited to the party. Teddy was already such an anomaly amidst Americans that Harit could only imagine the impression he would make on a group of Indians. They would find nothing savory about him.
If there was one thing that Teddy couldn’t understand, it was a hint. Naturally, if Harit brought up the party, Teddy would assume an invitation was implied.
Harit thought of a quick solution: he would say that the event was for Hindus only. He would deem it a puja, like the one that he had just attended for Preetiji. He would tell Teddy that there had been a death in the host’s family and that the Indian families were gathering to pay respects and pray. Harit couldn’t believe that he was using this as an excuse, given his family’s tragedy, but this only underscored his fear of Teddy’s attendance.
Teddy seemed as shocked by the prospect of Harit’s socializing as Harit himself was. “You’re going out?”
“Yes,” Harit said. “We Hindu families have these every so often. They cleanse the house of any bad spirits or feelings.”
“‘We families’? Not to be rude, honey, but I don’t recall you ever going to anybody’s house for … well, anything.”
“I—I have. I just haven’t mentioned them before.” Then, with more force: “You know, I don’t have to tell you everything, Teddy.”
Teddy chuckled, either not noticing—or willfully deflecting—the steel in Harit’s voice. “There, there, sweetheart. I’m going to the art opening that night anyway. I’m happy for you. It’s good for you to get out and about.”
“Thank you.”
“Will Ranjana be there?” Teddy continued to pronounce her name correctly, which irritated Harit. He was used to Americans garbling Indian names, but he somehow felt more unsettled by Teddy’s correct pronunciation. To hear Teddy speak her name made it seem as if he were equally worthy of it, that he had as much of a claim to Ranjana’s friendship as Harit did.
“I believe that she will be there, yes.” Harit neglected to mention that Ranjana herself was the hostess.
Harit noticed the difference in his behavior since his confession to Ranjana. It wasn’t as if his stress had left him entirely; there was little chance that such a thing would ever happen. Rather, he understood why people sought therapy: it was true that simply talking about something made it at least slightly more manageable. A few days after their secret meeting, Ranjana had called to invite him to the party, and Harit’s first instinct had been to begin another emotional outpouring. Instead, he caught himself: he couldn’t approach every situation with the same level of drama. After all, being involved in a regular event like a get-together was already a big step in the right direction.
What was more, although he had told Ranjana about Swati’s accident, he had not told her about his mother or his dressing up. These still felt like impossible topics to talk about, and he didn’t want to scare her away. A possible friendship with her seemed as fragile as his emotional state, and he would take this party as the next step and then see if it brought him any closer to sharing more of his personal issues with her.
Although Harit had successfully prevented Teddy’s invitation, that didn’t prevent Teddy from bothering him about the upcoming party. Tuesday, in the break room, Teddy said, “So, tell me what actually happens at this puja.” He got that word right, too, and Harit thought of Teddy before a home computer, typing in the word to do research before bringing it up casually like this. This was something Harit himself had done. LOL, bee tee dubs, tweet, obvi—these were words and phrases that he had heard from younger customers, constantly clicking gum into their cell phones, never understanding how much harder it would be to learn their made-up slang than to learn Harit’s native language, and he had searched them online at the local library in order to educate himself.