Ranjana knew this kind of Indian woman, someone born into privilege but without an exaggerated sense of it. Ranjana knew that Sondhi’s father had been an English professor—thank you, Wikipedia—so she knew that Sondhi had grown up with the base-level studiousness that Indians typically possessed. Ranjana could envision what Sondhi had been like in her American classrooms. She could see the jiggle of Sondhi’s hand as it rose to answer a question; she could see the respectful family dinners and the stern, beautiful mother. She could see the good grades, wished for and then zapped onto report cards and college transcripts. She could see the boys, both Indian and American, who snuck lustful looks at her light eyes.
There was no room for anything flippant. Composure had always been key because composure came with the territory. Children like this came from evolved lines that had perfected their efficiency and their comfort with success. Everything about Sondhi corroborated this: the evenness with which she spoke about her education, especially her grad school education in literature, and then the charming matter-of-factness with which she discussed her constant and steady success. Just as beautiful Indian girls earned the adoration of their fathers, the approval of their mothers, and the fawning dedication of Indian boys, so they attracted the expected achievements—from the academic to the romantic. And because these channels of merit were so engrained at this point, there was no element of legitimate surprise. With no surprise, there was no unexpected event—no serendipity—so there was nothing particularly funny. And when there was nothing particularly funny, there was only time to reflect on the things that might disrupt one’s success. And the disruption of success was always sad, never funny.
Upon looking across the table at Harit, Ranjana understood where she was in the literary hierarchy: in terms of writing, she was to Sondhi what Harit was to her in terms of cultural intelligence. She would never approach Sondhi’s level of discourse just as Harit would never approach her own understanding of American ways. It was an unsavory thought to have, but Ranjana was old enough to know that when something felt sticky like this, it was true.
The more she considered her tablemates, the more she felt that they were making a mockery of her writing. Yet the reason for her anger was her own ineptitude. She had invited them here so that she wouldn’t have to reckon with her own weaknesses. Their entire presence was an excuse for her to ignore this keynote speech and focus instead on the half-drunk coffee in Cheryl’s cup, the pilling on Teddy’s beige sweater, the descent of Harit’s eyelids, heavy with wine. She would collect these small scraps, these ministories, in lieu of being able to craft grand musings.
She couldn’t tell if it was defeating or liberating to realize that she wasn’t destined for greatness. It wasn’t like she was declaring herself a literary genius. She was simply trying to create stories that people would enjoy. Or was she? Whatever her weaknesses, she was not Stefanie; she had some level of talent. At some point, she had bitten into the forbidden fruit of seeing what good writing could be, and now she couldn’t shut herself back in the bliss of ignorance.
But then Sondhi poured herself a quick glass of water and said, “Many of you in the audience here are not going to believe me when I say this, but I have periods of great frustration and failure, when I fear that I will never write another sentence that matters to anyone, let alone to the critics who seem to cluster with their knives raised. Still, if you take one thing away from this speech today, I hope that it will be that the fear is not only valid but necessary. Fear is as common as blood. It courses through us and is, in its way, a vital source. It is the requisite formula for our continued work as writers. Without it, we would weaken and wither away. We feel it constantly, which means we can harness it and use it as a driving force. That’s what I’m encouraging you to do today—take that fear and put it to work for you. Turn it into the apparatus by which you get work done instead of making excuses. It is a rite of passage to acknowledge your challenges and then overcome them.”
This speech immediately reenergized Ranjana. So she had weaknesses and challenges. What woman didn’t? And especially, what immigrant woman didn’t? That didn’t mean that she had to give up altogether. It wouldn’t be easy to push forward; to be sure, she had lofty goals for herself: she didn’t want to be incidentally or circumstantially funny. She didn’t want to make other people laugh by making her stumbles seem charming. She wanted to be pointed in her humor, capable of meeting someone and pinpointing exactly what might make the person laugh—or at least cause the person’s eyebrows to rise in appreciation. That could be a point of differentiation in her work. It could be hard to infuse this kind of humor into her writing, but it might be possible. It was a delicate balance, trying to cater to the strictures of the genre while bending them just enough to allow an appreciative laugh. Perhaps this form of writing had no Literary-with-a-Capital-L equivalent, and perhaps she couldn’t match the sophisticated tone of Sondhi’s wry cultural observations. But she could at least strive to do so.
*
There was a signing after the talk. A stylish young publicist, her hair pulled into a tight chignon and her body slinky in a navy suit, hovered over Sondhi with a clipboard. Her function was to move the long line of fans along as quickly as possible. The audience had been instructed to bring only one item to be signed, and photographs were permissible only if the phone was already in camera mode. One click was allowed, and there were many instances when the delight of having a photo with Sondhi was immediately overshadowed by the result of a bad shot, discovered only once the fan had been shepherded away and deposited at one of the hall’s doors.
The room was unnervingly quiet; everyone in line seemed to be craning forward to hear what the current person in line was saying. All of them were trying to find a way to twist their compliments into something more expertly worded and impressive. There was a moment of collective jealousy, cut with pity, when one woman was heard confessing that she had lost her baby at childbirth, a horrible event recounted in one of Sondhi’s most famous short stories.
For her part, Sondhi was gracious, signing swiftly but engaging directly. For someone who had performed this task countless times, she never flagged, industrious yet approachable. A chief benefit of signing books, Ranjana thought as she shambled forward, was that Sondhi could find a crop of new characters by interacting with readers as varied as these. As one woman approached the table, her hair so long that it fell onto the table and near Sondhi’s signing hand—the publicist broke her martial pose momentarily to flick it away—Ranjana imagined her as an art teacher in a future short story.
Once they were about ten people from the front of the line, Cheryl turned around and popped up on her heels. “Oh, I don’t even know what I’m going to say. What should I say?”
“Just tell her how much you love her work,” Teddy said. To Cheryl, this advice may have sounded genuine, but they all knew: Cheryl had never read a word of this woman’s work.
“Yes, but everyone’s saying that,” Cheryl said. “I want to make an impression.”
“Honey, I don’t think making an impression is ever a problem for you.” The steel in Teddy’s voice was turning molten.