MIDWAY THROUGH HIS WINTER BREAK, Prashant got up late, at around noon, and went downstairs for a bowl of cereal.
It was a Saturday, the doctor’s office was closed, but his mother was out of the house anyway. His father was in his study, which was attached to their living room and which lay behind two white French doors that signaled a firm KEEP OUT when closed. Prashant chewed his cereal and thought about the house’s stillness, perforated by an occasional groan or clearing of the throat from the study. It was strange to think how few plans his parents had, how their weekends were not defined by unpredictable outings or raucous conversations. Instead, they would usually get a phone call at around 4:00 P.M. on Saturdays from an auntie telling them that a get-together was happening, and they would throw on some clothes and head out with a hastily assembled dish in hand. As Prashant tipped out some more cereal, he thought of how he, in fact, had been the one anomalous component of their parties in a long time.
As he was finishing up his second bowl, his father came shuffling into the kitchen, his sandals clapping against his feet and his breath wheezing out of his nostrils. Prashant didn’t often find himself at home alone with his father, but in the past when this had happened, it seemed as if both of them were waiting for his mother to return, biding their time until she came in and started asking about their days. Now, Prashant noticed that his father seemed to have more of a claim to the house. Prashant felt like exactly what he was—a visitor, someone who didn’t technically live here anymore.
His father strode toward the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water and a small package of dried nectarines. He then pulled up a chair and sat down at the table with Prashant, not having said a word.
“How’s it going in there?” Prashant asked. It sounded like a strange question, which it was, but he wasn’t sure what else to say, especially since his father hadn’t started any conversation.
“Kids don’t study anymore, beta,” his father said. “Only half of the students passed this quiz.” His father pulled a small tag of plastic from under the rim of the package of nectarines. The lid popped up.
“I study,” Prashant said, encouragingly.
“That’s because you are a good student. You’re like your dad.” He took the lid off the package, dove his fingers in, and put a nectarine into his mouth.
“You’ve never called me a good student before,” Prashant said. He wasn’t usually so blunt with his father. “I appreciate it.”
His father paused, midchew, and looked right at him. It was a rare thing for him to do this. His eyes softened, and he swallowed. “I am very proud of you, beta.” He looked down and placed his hands flat on the table. “I don’t ever tell you that.”
Prashant knew that he should have seen this moment as incredibly touching, but he actually found it comical. They made such a strange duo: he, still in his boxers and high school community service T-shirt, the box of cereal before him as loudly colorful as a calliope; his father, in old slacks and an undershirt, eating dried fruit like some kind of lemur. Prashant had never given it that much thought, but his father was mildly attractive—or had been. He had obviously let himself go a bit, but he must have once been relatively hardy, with a firm swing in his step and some kind of glint in his eye.
“I don’t tell your mom that, either,” his father continued. “But I should.”
“You should,” Prashant replied—less because he felt like fighting for his mother and more because it seemed like the only logical response to such a comment.
His father shrugged, picked up his bottle of water, and downed it. He picked up the nectarines and patted Prashant on the head. “Very proud,” he said, almost mournfully. Then he went back to the study.
Prashant went back up to his room and threw on some clothes. He checked his phone and saw a text from Clara: My familys gonna be out of the apartment 2nite. Do u wanna call me for some … fun? Prashant went to the bathroom attached to his bedroom, shut the door, locked it, and started jerking off. It was Clara’s words that had started this, but his thoughts went immediately to Kavita.
He had performed this act so many times in this bathroom, but when he finished, he realized that he felt like a sociopath. He had barely thought of Clara; he had replaced her all too easily with Kavita, altogether negating his existing relationship. He wasn’t someone to be proud of. He was pretending at having a real relationship while, just now, he had reverted to his primal interpretation of romance.
He sat on his bed and, without stopping to second-guess, composed a quick but earnest e-mail in which he told Clara that he wanted to have a conversation with her about their relationship when they were back on campus. He wasn’t sure if he was in the right place to be in a relationship and didn’t think that he was treating her with the utmost respect. He hit SEND, then headed downstairs and told his dad that he was going to go for a drive. His dad, as usual, didn’t see the purpose of such a thing, but he seemed OK with it, probably because he was still feeling emotional after their brief interaction in the kitchen.
Prashant drove to the parking lot of his high school, where he used to meet the guys after school. He felt like calling Vipul up and seeing if he wanted to hang, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to go through the boring details of his college life instead of delving into these large existential issues. So, he stayed in his car and listened to a Beatles playlist on his phone, not worrying that the car was getting colder and colder as the winter settled into it.