No One Can Pronounce My Name

by Rakesh Satyal

  At quarter till five, Harit plucked Barbie from under his bed, then spent an excruciating ten minutes slowly descending the stairs so as not to wake anyone up. Finally, he reached the bottom and placed Barbie on the sill. He had little to do besides this, the light outside striking the window just as he had envisioned and the curtains framing the doll perfectly. Harit tiptoed over to the couch, in the same spot where his sister had been just a few hours ago, and waited.

  * * *

  He would hear people’s compassion as anger, feel their pats on the back as if they were slaps on the face, see their drooping gazes as upside-down mockeries of the doll’s eyes.

  If his mother’s madness had one upside, it was that it prevented her from looking at him as if he were responsible for Swati’s death. Harit may never know what his mother’s true judgment of the situation was, but his mother would also not know what it felt like to see Swati scurry down the steps—then catch herself midway, shocked by what greeted her below, only to trip and get caught in her own salwar. His mother would not know what this looked like, although perhaps the cause of her hysteria was that she could envision a million ways in which the fall might have occurred. (The medical term for what had actually killed Swati—“an epidural hematoma due to blunt impact to the head”—would forever repeat in Harit’s head like a demonic mantra.)

  It was just so vicious—that a life woven of such charm and oddity could be ended in such a ridiculous manner. And of the three of them to go, why Swati? His mother had lived at least six decades; Harit was the quiet standby to Swati’s star. He had needed her. They had needed her.

  The family for whom Swati normally babysat called later that afternoon, angry that she hadn’t shown up. Theirs were the first voices that cracked in whimpers as Harit informed them of the accident. He wasn’t sure what slapped him across the face most: the fact that a doll, of all things, had led to her death, or the fact that the first people to hear of his sister’s passing had nothing at all to do with where she had begun her life. It was only then that Harit understood that all of these Indians who had come to the States would end their stories here. For some reason, he had always envisioned their deaths as occurring on Indian soil, their bodies cremated amidst the rustic-commercial swirl of their upbringing. But there was no guarantee that they would make it back to their homeland before they died. Life wasn’t a circle but a line. The blurry opening of the film may have taken place on the subcontinent, but its counterpart, the fading into darkness, was decidedly American.

  AFTER HARIT’S STORY, he and Ranjana remained quiet—a space filled by the sonic knickknacks of the café. It seemed odd to hear an assortment of canisters clicking shut and mugs being stacked and coffee beans being packed away, but Ranjana was grateful for these noises. She knew that she could not let this moment hang in the balance for too much longer. She had to offer something to assuage his fear.

  “Ji, I am very honored that you have told me about this. I know this could not have been an easy thing for you to do.” This was not as noble-sounding a response as she had hoped to make, but she was distracted by how despondent Harit looked.

  He made one simple nod of the head downward—no upward movement to complete it, so that he looked like he was slouching instead of acknowledging her comment. Clearly, recounting the events of his sister’s death had thrust him back into its trauma, but she had to do her best to draw him out of that period and into the present moment.

  “I cannot imagine going through what you have gone through.” Equally unimpressive a response, but she had to keep his attention. “This was not your fault, ji. It was an accident. And to think that you’ve been keeping all of this inside you … To me, what you have done is heroic.”

  This word changed him immediately. He seemed to be mulling over the magnanimousness of it, its weight and nobility. It was astounding, what he had endured, and he deserved to be exalted. The achievement being, of course, simply being able to put one foot in front of the other, given the circumstances.

  Struck by some Edith Whartonian inspiration, the first thing that came to Ranjana’s mind was throwing him a dinner party. Well, a dinner party in the Indian sense, which meant that she and Mohan would throw a regular party but that Harit would be in attendance—a small but still noticeable addition to their social circle. His attendance at temple had already started this process rolling, so it would not be totally out of the ordinary for him to make his way into their home.

  She and Mohan were not known for their entertaining; in fact, she knew that compared to the sprawling, buttressed palaces of their friends, their house was rather modest. But Prashant’s recent departure gave them a reason to have a party. They were newly freed parents—their own bosses now—and it was time to be “Ranjanaji and Mohanji” instead of “The Chaudhurys.”

  She was already thinking of the menu as she drove Harit back to his house. Harit seemed relieved to have told someone his troubles. Ranjana assumed that he had not gone into nearly as much detail when recounting the situation to other people; perhaps he hadn’t told anyone. She had gotten the real story, and as a writer herself, she understood the preciousness of this. Perhaps he had sensed this ability in her: he could see that she would appreciate the drama that he had endured.

  Here was a man stunted by tragedy, not by the made-up troubles of a woman who was, frankly, dabbling in self-absorption. While Ranjana was crumpling up pages in her hands, amidst the petty grievances of her fellow writers, this poor man was grieving without being consoled. She had not been in his house, but since Harit had said that his mother was basically paralyzed by her grief, Ranjana could envision what it would be like inside, the usual disarray of an immigrant household: dishes washed and rewashed and leaving watermarks on shelves; bedsheets repurposed into curtains or throw rugs; the general smell of bodies recently slept and food recently eaten. No wonder Harit seemed so lost. He was basically an outsider in his own home.

  She realized, again and more fully this time, that it was her responsibility to give Harit a sense of belonging. She saw now that friends were not simply presences that came into your life; you had to inject personality into the relationship so that you could both become more than yourselves. In short, she wanted to give Harit the gift of her own recent realization: she wanted him to discover his own personality, his own sense of humor, a way forward through his grief to a place of resilience and acceptance. But even more than that, she wanted to provide him with a sense of community, the security that he need not suffer his troubles alone, even if others had not endured the kind of trauma that he had. It was possible and necessary to protect him like this.

  She believed this firmly, yet she knew that trying to comfort a man who had endured its complete opposite was dauntingly naïve. It reminded her of fashionable American women who would come up to her when she was newly arrived from India, still swaddled in saris that she had owned from her teenage days. These Americans would approach her and marvel at the fabric, not understanding that even more intricate and impressive garments existed in her own closet, let alone the closets of other Indian women. These girls assumed that she cared about fashion and style as much as they did, not seeing that simply trying to have a mundane conversation was a much more pressing issue for her.

  She worried that she might not be able to help Harit through this period of his life when her own experience had been drastically different. But she had to try. She knew that she had to play some integral role in his rehabilitation, even though “rehabilitation” didn’t seem like the right word. He didn’t need to be rehabilitated; he had to be habilitated in the first place.

  HARIT MADE THE MISTAKE of telling Teddy about Ranjana’s party.

  He hadn’t intended to do it. Teddy came upon him while he was tallying a figure in his head, and he was so lost in his calculations that when Teddy asked him if he wanted to go to an art opening that weekend, Harit simply blurted out that he had an event to attend. The last thing that Harit wanted was for Teddy to think that h
e was invited to the party. Teddy was already such an anomaly amidst Americans that Harit could only imagine the impression he would make on a group of Indians. They would find nothing savory about him.

  If there was one thing that Teddy couldn’t understand, it was a hint. Naturally, if Harit brought up the party, Teddy would assume an invitation was implied.

  Harit thought of a quick solution: he would say that the event was for Hindus only. He would deem it a puja, like the one that he had just attended for Preetiji. He would tell Teddy that there had been a death in the host’s family and that the Indian families were gathering to pay respects and pray. Harit couldn’t believe that he was using this as an excuse, given his family’s tragedy, but this only underscored his fear of Teddy’s attendance.

  Teddy seemed as shocked by the prospect of Harit’s socializing as Harit himself was. “You’re going out?”

  “Yes,” Harit said. “We Hindu families have these every so often. They cleanse the house of any bad spirits or feelings.”

  “‘We families’? Not to be rude, honey, but I don’t recall you ever going to anybody’s house for … well, anything.”

  “I—I have. I just haven’t mentioned them before.” Then, with more force: “You know, I don’t have to tell you everything, Teddy.”

  Teddy chuckled, either not noticing—or willfully deflecting—the steel in Harit’s voice. “There, there, sweetheart. I’m going to the art opening that night anyway. I’m happy for you. It’s good for you to get out and about.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will Ranjana be there?” Teddy continued to pronounce her name correctly, which irritated Harit. He was used to Americans garbling Indian names, but he somehow felt more unsettled by Teddy’s correct pronunciation. To hear Teddy speak her name made it seem as if he were equally worthy of it, that he had as much of a claim to Ranjana’s friendship as Harit did.

  “I believe that she will be there, yes.” Harit neglected to mention that Ranjana herself was the hostess.

  Harit noticed the difference in his behavior since his confession to Ranjana. It wasn’t as if his stress had left him entirely; there was little chance that such a thing would ever happen. Rather, he understood why people sought therapy: it was true that simply talking about something made it at least slightly more manageable. A few days after their secret meeting, Ranjana had called to invite him to the party, and Harit’s first instinct had been to begin another emotional outpouring. Instead, he caught himself: he couldn’t approach every situation with the same level of drama. After all, being involved in a regular event like a get-together was already a big step in the right direction.

  What was more, although he had told Ranjana about Swati’s accident, he had not told her about his mother or his dressing up. These still felt like impossible topics to talk about, and he didn’t want to scare her away. A possible friendship with her seemed as fragile as his emotional state, and he would take this party as the next step and then see if it brought him any closer to sharing more of his personal issues with her.

  Although Harit had successfully prevented Teddy’s invitation, that didn’t prevent Teddy from bothering him about the upcoming party. Tuesday, in the break room, Teddy said, “So, tell me what actually happens at this puja.” He got that word right, too, and Harit thought of Teddy before a home computer, typing in the word to do research before bringing it up casually like this. This was something Harit himself had done. LOL, bee tee dubs, tweet, obvi—these were words and phrases that he had heard from younger customers, constantly clicking gum into their cell phones, never understanding how much harder it would be to learn their made-up slang than to learn Harit’s native language, and he had searched them online at the local library in order to educate himself.

  “A pandit comes to the house,” Harit said, “and performs rituals.”

  “What kind of rituals?” Teddy asked. Harit imagined what might have popped up during Teddy’s online research. Perhaps he had found pictures of a stooped pandit, legs crossed, hands pecking at uncooked rice or crushed flowers or ghee, garlanded portraits of deities flanking him while a couple dozen families surrounded him, their legs also crossed, backs straight, bedsheets carpeting the carpet underneath them. This is what Harit described to Teddy, who took it all in and seemed to understand the image that Harit was creating (possibly because Teddy had, indeed, looked up images online already).

  “You know, I might be able to skip my art opening that night and come with you…,” Teddy began, but Harit immediately said no.

  “Ugh, fine. I would have been so good as your wingman,” Teddy said, but even though Harit didn’t know what that meant, he was sure it was the last thing in the world that he wanted Teddy to be.

  * * *

  Things with Harit’s mother started to shift. She had become a nonentity in the house, a responsibility that ebbed and flowed depending on the ebbing and flowing of Harit’s drinking. Harit had gotten used to her stillness, and as awful as it seemed, he had begun to think of her as something that needed to be polished instead of cared for. His guilt would have been stronger if she had given him anything, but by maintaining her stillness, she indicated to him that she didn’t want to be moved, didn’t want to be handled, didn’t want to be part of his life. Swati was who she wanted, not Harit.

  But two mornings ago, he had come downstairs to find her standing in the middle of the room, the sari fallen from her head and trailing behind her like a wedding gown. Her eyes were still unseeing, but there seemed to be a sense of purpose in her posture. For her to be standing, in the daytime, was a breach of their unspoken rules. To move around during the day was a Harit thing to do; Swati was a nighttime creature. Had his mother begun to sense that something was amiss?

  He approached her carefully, asking her if she wanted more chai. She barely moved, her chin dipping slightly, and then he moved her back to her chair, as if repositioning a mannequin in the store. Once she was seated again, he instinctively reached for her throat, as if there were a tie there that he needed to tighten, then stopped himself.

  A few minutes later, he heard Gital Didi shuffle her key into the front door and scurry in. She stopped short when she saw him hovering over his mother.

  “Ji,” she said. She was holding her usual family of grocery bags. Her expression was mysteriously unreadable, and Harit challenged it with an equally taciturn expression of his own. “Kya hua?” she asked defiantly. What’s the matter?

  “Nothing,” he said dismissively. “Ma was out of her chair.”

  Gital Didi tsked, then headed into the kitchen. “She likes to get her exercise.”

  Harit broke his stance and followed her into the kitchen. Under his breath: “No, she doesn’t. You know she doesn’t.”

  Gital Didi was ducking into the cold shelves of the refrigerator and placing coriander into the crisper. “She likes to exercise lately. You just didn’t know because you’ve been occupied.” Although her back was turned to him, he saw the sneer that framed the word “occupied,” as if it had ricocheted off the refrigerator’s walls and into his eyes.

  Harit didn’t know what rejoinder to give, so he strode out of the kitchen and upstairs to his room. Fine. If Gital Didi wanted this badmash, she could have her.

  Her mother wouldn’t pay attention to him, but she cared about Gital Didi. Her vision was blocked by white fissures, but she apparently liked exercise. Did she understand where he was headed this evening? Perhaps Gital Didi was helping her piece together his social engagements. No, his mother had been incubated for so long that she probably didn’t even remember the staid dowagers who sat guard at every Indian get-together—white-bunned, cardigan-clad women with hands like gathered rope, nodding their approval or assent when necessary, reminders that every adult in the room was nothing more than an aged child. His mother could have been one of these women—had, in fact, been one before Swati’s passing. What if he could take her with him, steer her into an armchair and lend his presence a bit more importan
ce?

  If he were thinking of logistics alone, this would not work. Harit, of course, had no car in which he could drive his mother—and he was not going to ask Gital Didi to be their escort. In any case, Ranjana had arranged for her son, now on “fall break,” to pick him up and bring him to the party. This struck him as particularly awkward, but Ranjana had insisted, saying that it was “no problem.” If Harit had learned one thing, it was that “no problem” never meant no problem, especially when teenagers were involved.

  He didn’t know much about Prashant, but he could imagine a pimple-faced, slouching youth sighing with every turn of the steering wheel. What would they possibly talk about? Harit knew that he should play the inquisitive adult, finding out all he could about Prashant’s time at university and his studies, yet he knew that Prashant would have to draw conversation out of him like water out of a shoddy well. As Harit tightened his own tie and smoothed his bramble of hair back in front of his bedroom mirror, he thought of possible topics besides academics and the weather—new Bollywood films, the holidays, did Prashant want a discount on some suspenders?

  He couldn’t remember the last time that he had gotten dressed up (that is, when a sari wasn’t involved), and he had forgotten how nice it felt. He spent his days helping other men buy accoutrements to make themselves look handsome, and he had become so used to other people grooming themselves that he typically set aside such concerns when it came to his own appearance. It was here in front of this mirror that he decided to dive into his small savings and buy some new dress clothes in the store. If he wanted to change the course of his day-to-day existence, he was going to have to prolong this sense of being “suited and booted,” as Swati used to say.