“Um, yes,” Harit said, but the slight pause before his response lifted Teddy’s eyebrows.
“This is all such a coincidence,” Teddy said, his eyes ablaze. “I was going to ask you to go to a conference this weekend.”
“What?”
“Let me guess: you’re going to a writers’ conference.”
The first thing that occurred to Harit, in spite of his Internet ignorance, was that Teddy had hacked into Ranjana’s computer. “Well, yes.”
“I’m going to the same one! Pushpa Sondhi is speaking, as you probably know. Ever since I met Ranjana, I’ve tried to read everything of consequence when it comes to Indian literature, and I’ve already read all of her books. What’s the matter with you?”
Harit was half-laughing, half-guffawing. Of course something like this would happen. Of course. God forbid that anything in life be easy, especially an outing between him and Ranjana. There was no way that he and Ranjana and her friend would escape Teddy’s detection now, so Harit revealed that they would all be attending the very same event. Teddy clapped his hands rigorously.
“This is the most exciting thing that has happened in forever! Do you guys need a ride?”
“Actually, Ranjana’s friend is going to be driving us, so I’m not sure if it would be polite to add another.”
“Oh, forget ‘polite.’ This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip. I’ll ask Ranjana myself.”
Harit didn’t understand how, exactly, this managed to make things less awkward, since Ranjana would then have to arbitrate between Teddy and her friend, but he decided to let it be. Ranjana was better equipped to handle social situations like this, and Harit had already seen how a passing conversation could reveal too much too quickly.
*
Teddy called Ranjana, of course. Teddy chimed on and on about how he had seen a pop-up ad for the conference (“You order one Pushpa Sondhi book and you’re in the NSA’s system”). He had immediately thought of her and Harit and what a great adventure it would be for all of them. Somehow, Ranjana found herself sympathetic toward him. Whereas in the past she had been annoyed by his overeager approach and his lack of social delicacy, she could hear, as she did in Prashant’s voice, a combination of hope stirred with disillusion—the sense that Teddy was one disappointment away from becoming depressed. She couldn’t allow herself to find him annoying.
Teddy and Cheryl would either adore or loathe one another. Now that Ranjana thought about it, they seemed almost like siblings. Yes, Teddy was over a decade older than Cheryl, and no, Ranjana had no idea how Cheryl would react to a gay man, but there was some undeniable overlap. Whatever the case, they were all in for a very long ride.
*
Cheryl picked Ranjana up in her Taurus, the one that they often used for their Wendy’s excursions. It had thankfully been cleared of its usual trash (fast-food wrappers, countless rubber bands, stacks of gossip magazines), and Cheryl had installed a peppermint air freshener. Ranjana had never seen Cheryl out of her office scrubs. Her outfit was actually more tasteful than Ranjana could have imagined—sleek black blouse under a leather jacket, tight blue jeans, brown boots. Ranjana was just about to compliment her when Cheryl spoke:
“Why, don’t you look wonderful! Did you get a haircut?”
“Yes,” Ranjana said. The hairdresser had chopped and shaped her hair into a subtle bob.
“Nice. And your outfit—did you buy that in India?”
“Actually, I bought it here, but it is from India,” Ranjana said. “And thank you. You look wonderful, too, Cheryl.”
“Oh, it’s not often that this girl gets out, sister.”
Ranjana placed her purse at her feet and straightened the salwar kameez that Cheryl had just complimented. It was teal blue with gold embroidery, and she had worn it with a strategic purpose in mind. If this was a writers’ conference and she needed to impress publishers, then she needed to present herself as a beguiling Indian woman. After all, Pushpa Sondhi was one of the most beautiful women in the world. Ranjana had to aim for some kind of elegance.
“Teddy is, you know—he is gay,” Ranjana said. She tried to say the word gay nonchalantly but ended up prolonging the long a sound.
Cheryl widened her eyes. “You made friends with a gay man? Aren’t you something.”
Ranjana took this as a signal that everything was fine.
Her chest tightened as they drove the few miles to Harit’s house. After Teddy had called her, she had called Harit, reassuring him that telling Teddy wasn’t such an imposition. As they pulled up to his house, he looked—could it be?—excited. He was holding a dish of some sort, and he had also dressed nicely—crisp brown slacks, tan jacket, shiny black shoes, a thick wool coat. He had combed his long hair. It didn’t matter how dated the clothes were or how forced the hairstyle seemed; there was something charming about his having made an effort.
Ranjana got out of the car to greet him.
“Namaste, ji,” she said, and he repeated her greeting. “Did you make something?”
“I brought some pakoras,” he said, offering them to her as if they weren’t both getting in the car. She took them anyway, then motioned for him to get in the backseat. She knew that he would feel weird if she opened the door for him, and she would have felt weird, too. So they opened their respective doors as Cheryl’s voice spilled out.
“Why, hello, there! I can’t believe that I’m finally meeting one of Ranjana’s friends! I’m Cheryl, but you probably already know that.”
“Of course.” Through the visor mirror, Ranjana could see Harit nod kindly.
Ranjana had printed Google directions to both Harit’s and Teddy’s houses, but Cheryl had a GPS device clipped to her dashboard that she insisted on using, so she typed in Teddy’s address while Ranjana recited it. Harit interjected, saying that he knew the way, but Cheryl insisted, saying that she had a way of getting lost even when people were giving her directions. Ranjana and Harit caught each other’s eyes in the mirror at the exact same time.
“So, how long have you been in America?” Cheryl asked, shouting over the robotic GPS voice as if it were a football game.
“Over fifteen years,” Harit said.
“And you live in that house all by yourself?”
“No. I live with my mother.”
“Oh, I see. God, I would die if I had to live with my mother. I mean, she’s dead already, but I mean if she were still alive.”
“How is your mother?” Ranjana asked Harit quickly. In her haste, she had asked the question in Hindi and was aware that this would make things harder for all of them. “I asked him how his mother is doing,” she said to Cheryl, who nodded.
“She is fine,” Harit said shortly, the statement thudding.
“Great,” Ranjana said. She was actually looking forward to picking up Teddy now.
“What’s your mom’s name?” Cheryl asked.
“Um, Parvati,” Harit said.
“Um-par-vutty. What a pretty name,” Cheryl said, of course. “How do you spell that?”