At a certain point, you had to make a decision about what kind of man you wanted to be. He was far from being a man, he knew that, but he wanted to lay the foundation. He wanted to be the kind of person who would have an honest, adult conversation with Clara about what he was thinking and feeling, and he wanted her to see that he was making an effort to be better—even if she hated the idea of a breakup at this point in time. He had sat there observing his father’s middle age, the fractured nature of his parents’ interactions, and he didn’t want to fall into that trap. He felt extremely lucky to be learning this lesson now, before college was fully under way: he still had so much time to be an upstanding guy. There was poetry to realizing how much work it required for a person to be respectable.
As he studied the red bricks of his school and the sun-catching metal of the large flagpole that rose in front of it, he knew for certain that he was going to change his major once he got back to school. He wouldn’t tell his parents now. He would wait until sophomore year, when he had to officially declare it, and by then, he’d have so many credits toward a literature degree that there would be no turning back. He wasn’t going to throw everything away—he would still minor in chemistry—but he wanted to honor his love of books and stories. He hoped to do this without tipping into self-indulgence or being absolutely insufferable, but he was going to trust his instincts and try it anyway. Not for Kavita. Not for his parents. Not even for himself. For something larger and grander, something that rebuffed a life of narrow-minded safety.
RANJANA LOOKED GOOD. She performed a series of half-turns in her mirror, smoothing the silk against her thighs and trying to see them as roundly alluring. No—she didn’t even have to try. They looked good, without any effort necessary on her part. Self-esteem was like a pyramid: once you had a solid base, you could keep sliding more blocks onto it and make something sturdily impressive.
Here was a series of blocks that had been hoisted onto that foundation in recent days: Ranjana received an enthusiastic e-mail from Christina Sherman telling her that she was “delightfully mad to represent” Ranjana’s writing. Two short but meaningful phone calls later, Ranjana received a contract by e-mail that she filled out online and shot right back. She didn’t share this news with anyone, afraid that she would reverse the spell and jinx herself, but she relished it. On New Year’s Eve, Prashant, in an endearing burst of selflessness, decided to cook his parents an elaborate dinner of mattar paneer, rice, and homemade naan, all of which he created by consulting a Madhur Jaffrey cookbook. (Ranjana and Mohan flicked a pinch of extra masala onto their plates when Prashant ducked out to take a quick call from Vipul.) Seema called to apologize for her bluntness in the lingerie store, though she followed this up with a question about when Ranjana was thinking of “springing the surprise” on Mohan. Ranjana ended the conversation soon after. Then, perhaps least likely of all, Ranjana received an e-mail from Achyut, who apologized for his treatment of her and for having dropped off the face of the earth. He finally wanted her to meet his boyfriend. Despite whatever might have happened between her and Achyut, she was both surprised and glad that his relationship had lasted all this time.
With the exception of her contract with Christina, these were all relatively small successes, yet taken together, they gave her the confidence to slide this garment onto her body. Prashant was back at school now, and it was a Saturday night. Mohan had gone into the office at the university to finish a few things, and he would come home and find the first floor singing with a chorus of long-tapered candles, bowls of rose petals with floating candles in them, and an ascending pilgrimage of paper-bagged candles up the stairway.
She knew the irony of greeting her adulterous husband this way, but she comforted herself by not jumping to conclusions. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, there was a possibility that Seema was right: maybe Mohan hadn’t been trying those moves on someone else. Maybe he was just watching porn like so many other men did. She couldn’t blame him for this, could she?
She could. She wanted to. Instead she chose to straighten herself in front of the mirror. She saw the silk stretch over her skin, and she felt like someone that she would have written about. She would try controlling the story of her marriage, finding whatever allure she could in herself and seeing where it took her.
She mounted her bed, relaxing her limbs and feeling this simple act to be part of a choreography. She felt conscious of her brain, shifting gears to move the complex machinery of her body. In turn, she wanted her husband to appreciate the complex communication that it took for her to translate her body into sex.
Downstairs, the garage door retracted with a snarl, and she heard Mohan’s car roll forward, another snarl announcing its enclosure. He entered, his papers and briefcase swishing as he went into his study, calling out “Ji!” Unsurprisingly, he didn’t seem to notice the vigil in the house until he was out of his study and in the kitchen. She could hear his puzzlement all the way from here. “Ji…” he said more softly. She heard the cordless phone beep as it was switched on, the long ahhhhhh of the ringtone, and she realized that he was about to call 911.
She rose up on her elbows, then heard him hanging up the phone. Finally: he understood that a seduction and not a burglary was taking place.
He emerged out of the shadows like a creature in a trance. By now, she was flat along the bed, her head bent on the pillow and her eyes doing their best to keep his engaged. He went to speak, then closed his mouth.
All along, her plan had been to seduce him in silence, merely to look at him suggestively and have him embrace her, but she found herself speaking. “Show me what you’ve learned,” she said, and his mouth fell open again.
“Ji…”
“Show me all of the tricks that you know,” she continued.
“Tricks? What tricks?” He still seemed to be in some kind of trance, his arms limp at his sides. His beige jacket was still on and zipped. Then, his face moved knowingly. It was unclear whether he knew that she had discovered his antics online, but it was obvious that he knew what she meant by tricks.
She could tell that he was about to start back, flip on the light switch, and hustle this moment away, so she did the unthinkable: she reached down and lifted the hem of her negligee up, revealing herself. Earlier, she had used a pair of orange-handled kitchen shears to sculpt herself, and she felt the full effect of this now.
His eyes went to hers again, his mouth still open. “I was studying those … tricks … for you.”
If she weren’t so determined to see this delicate dance through to its finish, she would have crumpled and begun crying, eternally grateful that he hadn’t strayed. Rather, she tightened her gaze and slid the hem higher, and Mohan advanced.