No One Can Pronounce My Name

by Rakesh Satyal

  Now that Prashant is gone, I need you. I want us to do things together. I want to sit on the couch with you and drink some tea and watch the original version of Lagaan. I want to drive to one of those glassy new restaurants and perhaps have a bottle of wine. I want you to forget that we were married to each other by our families and appreciate me for who I am.

  I want to go to the bedroom with you and undress and not feel ashamed, look at each other’s bodies and see that no, we’re not what we used to be—maybe we were never what we thought we were—but we’re here now, and we can try. I’ve done my research. I’ve looked up things that I never thought I’d look up. And I’ve even forced myself to consider doing those things, trying them without disgusting you entirely.

  I’ve studied how to be good to you there, in that room, with nothing but our nakedness and our determination.

  Half an hour later, Mohan watched as a police car approached. Which station would it choose? It was the Shell. A fitting symbol—the conch-like announcement of a fallen dynasty. Mohan let himself snicker for a few moments, then drove home. He didn’t want to miss the nightly news, when he’d see one owner, then another, then another, then another in handcuffs, all of their heads bowed, the gold watches on their wrists glinting in the winter sun.

  THEIR BAGS WERE PACKED, and they were facing each other, clones of themselves reflected in the dresser’s mirror. In Teddy’s stillness, Harit could see the handsomeness that was normally masked by layers of moving, jesting flesh. Teddy’s eyes moved from Harit’s glasses to the tufts at his hairline, then to the lightly wrinkled folds of his neck. Outside, a fast winter wind made its way among the tall buildings.

  Their reflections moved toward each other and hugged. Harit’s nose was nestled in the soft crisscrosses of Teddy’s houndstooth jacket. It smelled of sharp cologne and something soap-like.

  “You know I adore you, but you don’t know what you’re doing,” Teddy said. He had said this several times already. He had said it last night when Harit pulled away from that first embrace on the bed and touched his lips to Teddy’s. Teddy had gently pushed Harit’s head back onto his shoulder and demurred. It wasn’t right to take advantage, he said.

  “You’re right,” Harit said now. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be doing it.”

  He kissed Teddy again.

  He was surprised when the tip of Teddy’s tongue emerged and found its way onto his. Harit felt the tension rush back into his body, but Teddy had his arms around him, always gentle, and Harit leaned into the roundness of Teddy’s stomach and let his head tip back. He had never known how complex the movement of tongues could be; he had never had anything move his tongue for him. It tasted unlike anything—it was as if he were tasting himself—but he enjoyed it. So much, in fact, that he enjoyed it for an hour more.

  * * *

  “I insist. You drive. Ranjana and I will take the backseat.” They were all standing outside Cheryl’s car.

  “I don’t really feel comfortable driving your car,” Teddy said.

  “Honestly, I’m not really in the state to drive right now.” Cheryl leaned forward, the balls of her feet rising off the ground, and she gave Teddy a knowing look—or, as knowing a look as her bloodshot eyes could give. Teddy took the keys from her and headed to the driver’s seat. Harit, at a loss, got into the passenger seat, then looked in the visor mirror at Ranjana. Her forehead was against the window, and she was blowing circular mists against its cold surface. Her hair looked insane; she couldn’t stop smiling. Harit didn’t know what was making her so giddy, but he was happy if she was happy.

  Teddy produced a CD from his blazer pocket and popped it into the car’s player. It was Taylor Swift. Harit was pleased with himself for knowing this; they played her music all the time at Harriman’s. Cheryl sang along to every word. At first, Teddy appeared annoyed, but the unrelenting brio with which Cheryl seconded these stories of heartbreak and resolve, these fairy tales and nascent adulthood, won him over. Soon, he was belting his head off.

  In the backseat, Ranjana kept giggling. Harit looked over at Teddy, who was obviously singing to ignore what had happened earlier. Everyone around him was smiling, and he found that he was, too. The rest stops and fast-food signs and check-cashing shops and fat motels and odd churches that they had passed on the trip to the conference took on new appearances now, becoming a succession of cheerful places where people did their best to live lives of contentment and purpose. He could absorb this energy and fill his house with it. Taylor Swift’s voice—moving from coquettish to wizened—urged Harit on, told him that he was capable of being something other than doleful.

  They didn’t hit traffic, and they pulled back into town right as the sun was settling down for the evening. Ranjana had fallen asleep, and Cheryl woke her with a tickle, which didn’t make Ranjana laugh but made her pop up and look horribly paranoid. Where were they? What time was it? She was babbling about how she and Mohanji needed to pick up their son from the airport, that she had entirely forgotten that he was coming into town. Teddy decided to drop her off first, and the car was soon empty of her, the silence settling as Cheryl joked about the clumsy way in which Ranjana approached her porch. Ranjana rang her doorbell and waited for a few moments. Then, snapping out of her daze, she popped up, realizing that she was at her own house and not a friend’s. She set her bag down, pulled out her keys, and let herself in.

  “Exactly how much weed did you guys smoke?” Teddy asked, changing gears and squeaking the car forward.

  “We didn’t smoke,” Cheryl said. “It was a pot brownie.”

  Harit was so surprised that he started sneezing.

  PRASHANT INSISTED ON FLYING HOME this time. No more bus rides full of quasi-homeless people, he thought. But when he got to the airport, people were lying around the terminal as if in some grown-up pajama party, pillows and blankets more plentiful than baggage. Somehow, though, Prashant proceeded without obstruction, right through security, ticket taken, the seat next to him left unoccupied even though the flight was otherwise full. Once they were in the air, he peered out of the window and saw the fiery stitches of the cities below. Down there were thousands of guys who were struggling just as he had struggled before Thanksgiving. He let his gaze fall back against the window, studied his reflection to see if he could detect the bloom of happiness that he felt inside. He was probably imagining this, but he liked to think that he saw a certain confidence, a firm jut of his chin and a face made narrower with calm. He was a straight-A student at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, and he had a smart, beautiful, and—though he would never say this outright to her—rich girlfriend.

  Not that he planned to tell his parents about Clara just yet. She wasn’t Indian, for starters—though he had considered saying that she was and changing her name to Chitra.

  Someone in the row behind him was speaking French, and as if a tall stack of books had just been set on his lap, he became instantly weighted with the idea of Kavita. He had not had this feeling in weeks—had, in fact, been so thorough in his scraping-off of her charm that he hadn’t replied to her last three e-mails, had managed to avoid seeing her at all in December. He knew why he was doing this, of course: beyond not wanting to see her and therefore compromise his ardor for Clara, he wanted his new relationship to reach her by word of mouth. Ideally, she would find out during some innocuous conversation and crumple, however slightly. She would understand that you couldn’t do this to someone; you couldn’t come along all brilliant and beautiful and gracious and funny and expect not to experience pain of your own. You couldn’t be impervious to knowing that other people had found love, nosiree.

  Yet she probably wouldn’t care. She had scores of people who found her attractive and beguiling, and she didn’t need Prashant’s attention. If she found out about his relationship, she’d smile genuinely and feel happy for him, certain that she would find the man of her dreams just as easily. Then they could all dou
ble-date and be friends!

  By the time the plane landed, he was glum. Aircraft in a holding pattern, stopgap at the cabin door, luggage delayed twenty minutes, Dad calling him every five minutes to see when he was coming out, bag arriving fifth from last, he stalked out of the airport and threw his bag into the trunk. He got into the backseat and muttered “Hey” to the backs of their heads.

  “Hello, beta,” his dad said. They had spoken very little since his outburst, but he could tell from his father’s tone of voice that he was trying to be sweet. This softened Prashant a little. He turned to his mother and said, “It’s good to see you guys.”

  “It’s great to see you, too, beta,” she said, reaching one hand behind her and toward him. “Want an orange?”

  It was actually a trio of orange slices, and he took them even though he wasn’t particularly in the mood to eat them. He wanted pizza.

  “How was the flight?” his father asked.

  “Ugh. Sorry I was so late. We got caught on the runway.”

  “See—I told you,” his mom said through a half-mouthful of orange.

  “Arré, eat your orange, ji,” his dad said. Prashant couldn’t tell if his dad’s tone was mock-reproachful or legit-reproachful.

  His mom pressed on. “Are you hungry, beta? I have rajma chawal at home.”

  His dad snorted. “Oh, he doesn’t want rajma chawal. He wants McDonald’s. Right?”

  “Pizza.”

  “Pizza.” His father always said this word as if it referred to a made-up food that appeared only in fairy tales.

  “Please tell me that you’re not just eating pizza the entire time you’re on campus,” his mom said. “What about all of that food that we brought you?”

  “No offense, but I went through that in, like, two weeks. I’m a growing boy.”

  “You’re not giving it to your friends, are you?” his dad asked.

  “No, Dad.”

  “At least charge them if you do. Don’t give it away for free.”

  “I didn’t give anything away.”

  “Do you know how much it cost to buy all of that food?” his father continued. “I can’t believe that you would give it away.”

  “Ji, didn’t you hear him? He didn’t give anything away.”

  They were speaking as if they were in their eighties, not their forties. Again, he couldn’t take the temperature in the car. Were they willfully playing at being mad, or had something terrible happened? Repartee was not a word that he attributed to his parents. Prashant was pretty sure that his dad didn’t even know what it meant.

  They pulled into a Domino’s. His father hated the idea of delivery because he hated the idea of tipping, so when he could actually be convinced to eat pizza, he insisted that they carry it out. He went into the store to order and then stayed inside. He always did this to make sure that the order was prepared properly.

  “So, tell me all of the stuff that you can’t tell your dad.” His mom was disposing of the orange peel in a plastic grocery bag.

  “Oh, Mom. What kind of stuff would that even be?”

  “Girls. You’re with girls now, aren’t you?”

  There was that stack of books on his lap again—Kavita. “Mom.”

  “What—you are, aren’t you?” she said.

  Something was definitely up. His mother never engaged him in talk about dating—a holy, holy blessing that he had never fully appreciated until this moment.

  “Mom.”

  “Oh, beta, I’m just joking, but you know you can talk to me if you need to discuss it.”

  “Did you just watch an after-school special? What is this?”

  His mom turned around in her seat. He hadn’t noticed until now, but her hair was different. It was cut to shoulder length and was inexplicably straighter. It looked nice.

  “Wow. I can’t even remember the last time you changed your hairstyle. Have you ever changed your hairstyle?”

  His mom simply shook her head no. She had this weird smile on her face. She looked high.

  “Mom … are you high?”

  “Beta!”

  “If you’re going to ask me if I’m not a virgin anymore, I can ask you if you’re smoking something.”

  She gave him a stern look, then turned back around and was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I cannot wait for that pizza.”

  “Mom!”

  CHERYL LOOKED PUZZLED when Harit insisted that she take the wheel. She did so anyway, her eyes less wild but still roving. Now, Harit stood outside the door to his house, Teddy beside him, both of them teetering.

  They entered, Harit moving slowly but confidently. He could hear Teddy’s timid footsteps behind him—the first person he had ever invited over the threshold. Without having to turn around, Harit could see his house through Teddy’s eyes—the careful emptiness of the counters and tabletops, the tapestry of browns and dusty greens, the silence and the torpor. He could sense the shift in Teddy’s body as they crested the doorway to the sitting room. Harit was reminded of fairy tales, the feeling of impending fire when a knight neared the nexus of a dragon’s cave, the telltale refuse of dismantled skeletons and purposeful splatters of blood.

  There she was, steady and silent and thrown into relief by strategic shadows. Equally quiet and still was Gital Didi, kneeling beside her and clasping her hands. When Teddy assumed a position beside Harit, his mother turned her head toward him.

  Her face brightened as if a plate of candles had been placed before it. Instead of freeing her hand from Gital Didi, she tightened her grasp and sat up, flicking her eyes upward for a brief moment before settling them upon Harit, upon Teddy, upon Harit, upon Teddy.

  Harit still was not accustomed to seeing her look at things with firm resolve, but that’s what she was doing, ingesting the sights of the room through her eyes. He understood that there was a fundamental shift in behavior happening, an allowance of sorts, and he moved to her feet, knelt at them and kissed them, felt their cracks against his lips as if they were coconut flakes. Teddy remained behind, but his mother kept looking at him.

  “Ma, I’d like you to meet my friend Teddy,” Harit said.

  “Harit, I’d like you to meet my friend Gital,” his mother replied.

  WHATEVER MIGHT HAVE HAPPENED recently in their friendship, Ranjana decided to tell Seema about Mohan. After her pot incident, she woke feeling that her bones were flimsy, that her skin was sagging. She was losing control of herself as if she were a car on an icy road.

  She knew what was causing this: the anxiety of thinking about Mohan and his indiscretion was coming to define who she was, and the only way to stop it dead was to tell someone. Someone who had one foot in Ranjana’s past and the other foot in her cultural reality.

  They met at the mall food court. For all of her gestures at holistic healing, Seema could not shake a crippling addiction to frozen yogurt, and the mall’s installment, Freeze ’n’ Cold, provided mounds of soft serve and toppings at prices so low that it was as if the store had low self-esteem.

  Ranjana and Seema wiped down a flat white table and set their full bowls on top—Seema’s bustling with blackberries and kiwi while Ranjana’s was Oreo-encrusted.

  “You’re having an affair, aren’t you?” Seema said.

  Ranjana coughed as a fleck of cookie flew down her throat. “What?”

  “With Haritji? That man from your party?”

  “No!”

  “Yes, you are. That’s why you brought up that Paradise Island place. It’s where you two go.”

  “Seema. I am not. We are just friends.”

  “Well, everyone’s talking about it.”

  Ranjana stabbed her spoon into her yogurt and leaned back. Around them, people were shoving cheesy pizza slices into their mouths and little children were crawling on the ground.

  If Seema knew that people were saying these things about her, then Seema had been part of those conversations. Ranjana cringed internally, sad to second-guess Seema’s loyalty yet again.


  “I am not having an affair with Harit. We are friends.”

  “Then why did you want to come here? Something’s obviously bothering you.”

  “Mohan’s having an affair.”

  It was Seema’s turn to choke. She raised a hand to her mouth, her bangles pealing like a group of gossips. “Mohan? Wow. I wouldn’t have imagined it. How did you find out? Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s been researching … things on the Internet.”

  “What kind of research?” Seema pushed her unfinished yogurt to the side and leaned over the table.

  “Online. Learning how to do certain things.” Ranjana felt the words tugging themselves out of her mouth even though she worried about saying such things to Seema. “Sex things.”

  “What kind of sex things?”

  Ranjana set her cup aside, too. “Doesn’t matter. The point is—”

  “Pussy licking? Anal?”

  Ranjana almost vomited up her yogurt.

  “Well, which is it?”

  “Seema, you go too far.”

  “You go too far. That’s what you always say. Now Mohan is going far into someone else.”

  Ranjana started to get up.

  “Ji, sit down. I’m sorry. Just because he looked those things up doesn’t mean that he’s sleeping with someone.”

  “Seema. Come on. If you’re going to be blunt, at least be honest with me.”

  “Well, true. Unless he’s tried those techniques on you…”

  “Seema.”

  “Fine, fine. The point is, you need to find out who this woman is and—wait. Do we know that it’s a woman?”

  “Seema!”

  “He did love Dostana. Didn’t he buy it on DVD?”