*
Harit had never seen a child behave this way, and he greeted the moment with a surprising feeling: relief. The outburst made Prashant the oddity of the room, not Harit. If anything, Mohanji was more polite to Harit after Prashant’s spectacle. Mohanji seemed too proud to let a new guest in his house feel uncomfortable or inconvenienced. He offered Harit another drink, then made sure that everyone made it to the kitchen in an orderly fashion so that dinner could be doled out. He waited until everyone—the men, the women, the few grandparents tucked into corners like gifts, the two random young children—had served themselves food before picking up one of the sectioned foam plates and scooping dinner onto it.
After a few minutes, the party appeared undisturbed. Prashant was, presumably, in his room. The women were chatting animatedly in the living room, the men had moved from political matters to money matters to school matters to family matters—who was sponsoring which family member to emigrate to the States—and Harit responded to all of this by tipping his head to the side in agreement or crinkling his head back in soft disapproval. He had worried that he would be the center of attention, but this was just another routine party for them; they did not fear such gatherings as Harit did.
Just as he began to worry that he may not get a chance to converse with Ranjanaji, she tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he might help serve the chai. He didn’t need to be an expert at parties to know that this was rather unorthodox—a man helping a woman prepare chai? He knew that to object would make the situation even worse, so he followed her into the kitchen.
She had taken down a large assortment of cups and saucers, and a shiny silver serving pot presided over them like a proud parent. Fancy, loose tea leaves, and containers of cardamom and ginger were at the ready. The kitchen was made beautiful with their smell. She was going to make true Punjabi tea.
“So, ji, have you had a good time?” she asked, pretending to ignore the outburst in the other room that she had overheard. Then her face cracked into a playful smile.
Harit laughed uncomfortably.
“It’s OK, ji,” Ranjana said. “It’s Prashant’s first time home. I know that he misses school already. We’re not the easiest people to deal with, especially at a party. As they always say, you shouldn’t talk politics at a party.”
“I didn’t know that,” Harit said, “but I do now.”
They both laughed, Ranjana more so. The water was boiling. She sprinkled the tea leaves into its pitching heat, their smell instantly more fragrant. “Ji, can you get the milk from the fridge?” she asked. The word “fridge” struck him like a coin tossed in his face. As Harit extracted the cool carton from its shelves, he wanted, as always, to be as well-versed in such turns of phrase as Ranjana was.
“What did you think of President Obama?” Ranjanaji asked. Harit had not expected this question. The truth was that he didn’t follow political matters very much. It wasn’t like Obama’s health care initiative had affected how many tea bags Harit bought or how many nonmeals his mother ate. He had never visited a doctor in the U.S., and neither had his mother. The only thing he had thought about Obama was that it was peculiar to see a black man as president of the United States. Compared to the complex political makeup of India—Modi’s constant struggle with Musharraf, the old days of the Gandhis, the constant upheaval in Kashmir—this American landscape wasn’t particularly new.
“I don’t know, ji,” he replied, honestly.
“Between you and me,” Ranjana said, “I thought he was wonderful. Not perfect, but I certainly didn’t think he was a Muslim or a terrorist. I wouldn’t want you to think that I thought those things.”
Harit nodded. He was queasy discussing this with anyone, but especially with a woman while preparing tea. Nevertheless, he found himself strangely compelled. He had been in several unexpected situations in recent weeks—the dinner with Ranjanaji and Teddy, his confession about Swati’s death. But this, being in this cluttered kitchen, so much brighter and alive than the one in his gloomy, dark house, with the chitchat of men in one ear and women in the other, and speaking to this woman, this progressive, Americanized, compassionate woman—this was the most significant oddity of all.
And now, a revelation. He felt something along the lines of real affection for this woman. She was at once plain and fascinating, her hands preparing tea as every other woman did, her bangles clinking innocently, her face scrunched up in mild concentration, her hair doing its usual free-form billow, her motions mundane but her intentions unlike those of anyone else. It had taken him too long to make the obvious connection: there was something of Swati in her. The same spontaneity, the same joy, even if it was conditioned with some sort of disappoint or boredom. Harit understood the root of such boredom—being surrounded by others who didn’t stimulate you.
Ranjanaji paused in the middle of her tea preparation. She was staring at the tea, watching the steam rise from it. Her face was bent so far over it that the steam seemed to be breaking against her face. It must have been scorchingly hot, yet she seemed unfazed by it. Harit was leaning in to ask her if she was all right when she pulled back. “I’m so sorry, ji,” she said. “I’ve been feeling under the weather these days.”
He had already been leaning forward to say “Ranjanaji,” and in this moment, as she pulled back, his hand met her forearm. She looked at him, and he could see in her eyes that she also understood that their friendship was strengthening, bringing them closer and providing a sense of security.
They separated from each other and finished preparing the tea. As Harit helped Ranjana to distribute the teacups to everyone, he found his mouth incapable of not shooting into a grin.
EVENTUALLY, PRASHANT WAS SUMMONED from his room by Ranjana and charged with driving Harit home. Given the events of the evening, the ride was even more stilted than the one that had preceded it. Harit tried to pay no mind to this. He was still basking in the moment that he and Ranjana had shared in her kitchen, and he wasn’t going to let this car-confined awkwardness, nor the thought of his mother at home, diminish its joy.
When they reached his house, he let himself out of the car and gave Prashant a short head nod. Prashant did the same, clearly ready for Harit to shut the door and be gone. Harit obliged, then strode across the lawn and made his way into the house.