"I don't know," he answered. "What're you making?" And through the window above the sink he heard a male voice say, "Yeah."

Kianga turned to Abhay and smiled. Preview stepped through the back door, holding a cuc.u.mber and a bell pepper. He nodded to Abhay, washed the vegetables at the sink, and started slicing them at the island counter.

Abhay felt useless standing in the middle of the kitchen. He'd thought he was going to gaze into Kianga's eyes while they ate a private breakfast.

"You got here early," Abhay said as Preview arranged cuc.u.mber slices on a plate.

"I live here." Preview scratched his head of matted hair.

Kianga was spooning oatmeal with raisins into four bowls. "Abhay, go ahead and put on some water for tea," she instructed. He thought about walking out the door, but he had to eat breakfast anyway. He just needed to be cool about the situation-whatever it was. He strolled over to the sink and filled the teapot. By this time Ellen was in the kitchen. She stood on a stool next to him, took several boxes of tea bags out from a high cabinet, and set them on the counter. After he turned on the stove he picked up the boxes of tea bags and took them into the dining room. Ellen was setting out spoons next to the bowls of oatmeal. "Would you bring the honey?" Ellen asked softly. "It's next to the stove." He found a jar of honey and a spoon and brought them out.

Then, not knowing what else to do, he stood near the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. Preview set out bottles of olive oil, vinegar, and herbs on the counter in front of him.

"So, Preview," Abhay said. "What do you do for work?"

"Well, right now I'm kinda between jobs." He splashed olive oil and vinegar into an empty jelly jar. "Kianga got me a temporary gig helping a disabled woman who's making this film about disabled street performers. I carry her equipment and help set it up." He added generous pinches of herbs with his fingers, capped the jelly jar, and shook it vigorously.

Kianga came in the back door holding stems of bright red tubular flowers, which she set into a drinking gla.s.s filled with water and brought into the dining room. "I needed to thin these plants anyway," she explained to Abhay. "They grow like crazy. The hummingbirds love them."

Preview set his plate of vegetables, drizzled with dressing, on the table. Abhay thought about slipping out without eating, and perhaps never coming back to this house again. Ellen smiled at him and said, "Come and sit down." So he sat next to Ellen and across from Preview, who was next to Kianga. Preview laid a hand on Kianga's bare shoulder and ma.s.saged it carefully. Kianga and Preview exchanged a long glance. Abhay noticed Ellen gazing at him in the same way. He gobbled down his oatmeal as fast as he could.

Abhay stayed away from Kianga's place for the rest of the week. On Friday evening he went with his roommate, Victor, and Victor's girlfriend, Tiffany, to see a movie called Sicko, about everything wrong with the American health care system.

"Our country's going to h.e.l.l," Victor said when they exited the theater. He had his arms around Tiffany, and she was nuzzling his neck. "Canada's got a way better system than we have, so does France, even Cuba's better off than us. Those governments take care of their people. We spend our money on wars and shipping arms to dictators." Victor gave Tiffany a sloppy kiss. Abhay looked away.

Victor and Tiffany took off for her place. As Abhay walked in the other direction, he could hear the two of them laughing. Why was it that Victor, and so many people like him, could see a disturbing movie like that, and complain about the country, yet continue to be apparently happy with their lives? Abhay, on the other hand, brooded.

In the apartment kitchen were dirty bowls, plates, gla.s.ses, and pans in the sink, which Victor and Tiffany had failed to wash. Abhay noticed a large black bug squeeze itself into a crack between the countertop and wall. He walked past it all to fall into bed with his clothes still on.

Sat.u.r.day morning dawned dull and overcast. The greasy popcorn from last night still sat heavily in his stomach. He showered, dressed, washed his dishes, and then sat at his kitchen table looking out at the gray sky. He thought about calling Rasika.

The phone rang. It was his mother. She called every week or so, worried about his low-paying job as a bookstore clerk, and worried that the job with Justin Time didn't really count as decent work.

"How are you?" she asked dolefully.

"Great!" He tried to make his voice full of pep. "Things are going really well here. How are you, Mom? How's your business going?"

Mom clicked her tongue. "Remember big sale I made? Last month?"

"To that home-schooling group?"

"So much work it was. So many times I met with them. Then they bought lot of books, so I am happy. I think, it is all worth it. Finally I receive my check. Hardly anything it is. All people above me have taken so much."

"That's the way it is with these pyramid schemes, Mom."

"Your father is angry. I did not even earn enough to pay for all samples I bought. They did not tell all this. In those meetings they just told how much money we will make."

"I'm sorry to hear that it didn't work out, Mom."

"So I will not do this work anymore. I gave samples to my friend Linda. I don't know what I will do now."

"Well-do you feel like you learned something from this?" He watched a black water bug march boldly across the floor. "You were running your own business, after all. Maybe some of those skills are transferable. You could start another small business."

"What business? What I know to do? I can cook. I can take care of children. I can type and answer phone. What business I can start?"

"What about catering? Or a small day care? Or, I don't know, maybe a typing service or answering service?"

"Right now I have too many worries. I cannot think about anything new."

He flung himself back in his chair and looked at a stain on the ceiling in the shape of a dog's head. "What worries?"

"I want you to talk to Seema."

"Why? What's going on? I thought she was doing great in her cla.s.ses."

"I think she has-boyfriend," Mom choked out. "Black boy, I think."

"Oh?" Abhay focused on one of the dog's ears, hoping that his mother's comment wasn't as bigoted as it sounded.

"Some Pan-Africa group she is involved in now. One freshman cla.s.s is about multicultural something. I thought they will be learning about different countries. But she is spending lot of time with these black students."

"How do you know she has a boyfriend?"

"I can tell. One day she came home wearing new dress, some kind of loose African thing. She said her friend gave it. What friend, I said. And she told this boy's name. He must be black boy, if he is giving African dress."

Good for her, Abhay thought. He sat up straighter and placed his elbows on the table.

"I cannot tell your father," Mom said. "So upset he will be. I want you to talk to her. I will go and give her phone."

In a moment Seema's quiet monotone was on the line. Abhay had no intention of discouraging Seema from dating anyone she wanted, so he just chatted with her about her cla.s.ses. But Seema brought up the subject herself.

"Mom doesn't want me to get involved with the Pan-African Studies department," she said. "When I told her there were a lot of black people in my cla.s.s, I thought she'd be happy that it was, you know, more ethnically diverse. But instead she said, 'I didn't know so many blacks went to college.' I never realized Mom and Dad were prejudiced."

"I don't get it either. How can one group of brown people look down on another group of brown people?"

"It's crazy," Seema agreed. "I feel at home when I visit the Pan-African Studies department. Their offices are in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Ritchie Hall. It's cozy and colorful, and they welcome everyone. They're not like Indian people, who look you over and want to make sure you're good enough for them."

"That's great, Seema. Are you thinking of changing your major?" Maybe she'd come to her senses and would choose something that really mattered.

"I'm still in engineering. But I'm going to sign up for a cla.s.s called the Black Experience next semester. My friend Jawad suggested it. He said it would be a good introduction for me."

Jawad was obviously the boyfriend. Abhay was delighted and amused. He wondered how his father would react to Seema's defection from the role of obedient Indian child.

He said good-bye to Seema and sat for several minutes, staring at the phone in his hand. He wondered what Rasika was doing at that moment. It was about noon in Ohio. Was she happy? She'd said she wanted to live an honest life. He wanted her to be true to herself, yet he still wanted her truth to include him.

To prevent himself from calling Rasika he dialed Chris Haldorson's phone number instead.

"Hey, Adios! How goes it in Portland?"

"It's going OK. I have a job. Not too many friends yet, though."

"I imagine it's tough moving to a new place. You get lonely."

At these words, Abhay realized that his heart did feel empty. "Yeah, I have been kind of lonely."

"Don't worry about it. You'll find some friends soon. What about women? You looking for a girlfriend?"

"Yeah. I guess I kind of have a girlfriend here. Maybe."

"That's great, Adios. What's she like?"

He told Chris briefly about Kianga. Chris talked about his business, and about his father's continuing ill health. "He just got out of the hospital," Chris said.

"So he's fine now?"

"He's home," was all Chris would say, and Abhay felt guilty for not having called Chris since he arrived in Portland. Chris was being a good son, and Abhay could tell the situation at home was stressful.

After inviting Chris to call him anytime, Abhay pushed the "off" b.u.t.ton and sat with his elbows on his knees, staring unseeing at the floor. Chris was right. He was lonely and virtually friendless in a strange city. What was he going to do about it? He sat up and, holding his breath, quickly dialed Rasika's cell phone. It rang six times, and Rasika's voice informed him that she was not available to take his call. He turned off the phone, stood up, and flung it away from him. It skidded down the hallway, and the battery popped out. He sat with his head in his hands for a moment before walking over to retrieve it and put it back together again.

He didn't want to be in love with Rasika. She'd made her choice clear and he wasn't it. He set the phone into its holder near the refrigerator. He should forget about her and try again with Kianga. He'd told Chris that she was his girlfriend, and maybe she ought to be. He just needed to figure out the situation there.

He rode his bike to Kianga's. She was leaving the house with a few shopping bags over her shoulder, on her way to the farmers' market. "You want to come?" she asked Abhay.

They headed toward campus, where, on the long green park s.p.a.ce between the buildings, a field of white-topped shelters had sprouted, like mushrooms after a rain. He wandered with Kianga from one stall to the next, tasting chevre spread on minicrackers, and roasted hazelnuts, various flavors of pesto, and a tiny spoonful of lavender-blueberry jam.

"I need to stop by the peace booth," she said. "They've got this beautiful b.u.t.ton I want."

"Kianga!" a gruff voice called. "Kianga, honey!"

Kianga stopped in the midst of the shoppers streaming by. A heavy white woman, half-drunk it seemed, wavered toward them through the crowd.

"Hi, sweetie." Kianga gave the woman a long hug. Abhay stood behind them, holding the bags, and wondered what he was doing here. Kianga gathered around her people who needed help in one way or another. Ellen, for example: they'd met at school, and Kianga had helped Ellen when she was going through a hard time, something about an alcoholic and manipulative mother. Preview was another. Kianga had met him when she volunteered for some sort of peer counseling group, and he had shown up with suicidal urges. Abhay wasn't interested in Ellen, or Preview, or this strange woman who was now dominating Kianga's attention.

He began to realize that Justin was probably also one of Kianga's "projects." She had probably gotten Abhay the job with Justin because she felt sorry for Justin and wanted to help him out. And maybe Abhay himself was nothing more to Kianga than her latest project: she wanted to rescue a lonely, confused young man.

After the woman had invited Kianga to some event, and after Kianga had agreed to attend, the woman staggered away, and Kianga led Abhay toward the peace table, where she bantered with the folks while sorting through the pile of pin-on b.u.t.tons on the table.

"Maybe you guys ought to make up some b.u.t.tons," Kianga said to him. She held up a b.u.t.ton that said MAKE ART, NOT WAR.

"What d'you mean?"

"HOPE. Your organization. You could have b.u.t.tons saying VASECTOMIES WILL SAVE THE EARTH."

"HOPE is not my organization."

She picked up a b.u.t.ton of a penguin with a peace sign on its belly. "This is so cute!" She added it to the handful she had already collected. "You should suggest it to Justin. He doesn't get out much." She took out her wallet, extracted a five-dollar bill, and stuffed it into the donation jar.

On the way back to her house, Abhay held her bags bulging with bread, cheese, jam, mushrooms, apples, peaches, and flower bulbs. He carried them into the house and was about to deposit them on the counter, when he noticed it was covered in crumbs.

"Just put the bags on the floor." Kianga set a large pot on the stove. "I'm going to make some hot spiced apple cider. There's some couscous left over from last night."

She handed him a wet sponge before grabbing a broom in the corner and starting to sweep the floor. Preview wandered in and opened the fridge door.

Abhay dutifully wiped off the counter. "Unfortunately, I have to leave for work in a minute."

She b.u.mped him lightly with her hip as she swept. Preview slapped a bagel on the still-wet counter and began sawing it in half, creating more crumbs.

"I want to take you somewhere tomorrow." She replaced the broom in its corner and pulled out a jug of apple cider from a bag on the floor.

He rinsed out the sponge. "Where?"

"It's a surprise." Right behind Preview's back, she gave him a noisy kiss. "Meet me here tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. Wear something nice."

On Sunday morning, Abhay wore a dress shirt and pants, and took the streetcar to Kianga's place. She was wearing a flowing yellow skirt and a lacy white blouse. They borrowed Ellen's car-a heap of junk that smelled of cat pee-and drove to a nondescript two-story brown brick building on a side street somewhere in the suburbs of Portland.

In the parking lot, Kianga took his hand and led him into the building vestibule, where they were greeted by the scent of incense. He and Kianga took their shoes off, lined them up neatly on a shelf, and hung their jackets on a coat rack, before entering the main room, which was carpeted and bare of furniture. At the other end of the room was an altar on a raised platform draped in white cloth, and on top of the cloth was a large framed color photo of a long-haired, dark-skinned man wearing a garland-some sort of Hindu saint, Abhay guessed. The altar was decorated with silver vases of yellow and white flowers, white candles, and a stick of incense. On the wall above the altar were religious symbols: om, a cross, a Jewish Star of David, a Muslim crescent and star.

"What is this place?" he whispered. It seemed like a Hindu temple, with the incense and the altar and the removal of shoes, yet he didn't see any Indian faces. Also, it was much too quiet and orderly for a Hindu temple. People dressed in white and yellow were filing in silently to sit in neat rows on the carpet.

"It's the Premananda Temple," Kianga whispered. She picked up a couple of printed handouts from a basket near the door, and led him to sit down in the center of the room, just behind a full row of people. "Have you heard of it?"

He shook his head. A short, smiling white woman slipped something into his hand. It was a brochure with the same long-haired, dark-skinned man on the front. He opened the brochure and read that Premananda was a Hindu saint who had come to the United States at the beginning of the twentieth century, for the purpose of spreading brotherly love throughout the Western world. Before he could read more, the room was filled with the sound of everyone chanting "om" as loudly as possible. Startled, he looked up. Everyone had their eyes closed and mouths open, including Kianga.

He tossed the brochure onto the carpet. He didn't want to partic.i.p.ate in this farce. Religious rituals were nothing but a way to manipulate people. He wasn't going to surrender his mind to G.o.d, or eternity, or any kind of crazy group where the members all dressed alike. In the past, he had based certain life decisions on a vision or a dream, but they were his visions, his dreams, not something imposed from the outside. In any case, he wasn't sure anymore that there was value in his visions or dreams.

He scanned the room for a way out. He was trapped, hemmed in on all sides by this sea of white and yellow. He clutched his hands together and hunched down to endure the ordeal. He could, if necessary, simply step over all these people and head for the door, but at the moment he preferred not to draw attention to himself. He decided to stay put. He wondered if this was how people got sucked into cults. They were polite, they went along with things, they didn't make a fuss. He looked at his watch: almost a quarter after nine. He'd give this thing until ten, and if it wasn't over by then he'd make a break for it, walk out, find a bus, get himself back to real life.

After everyone had finished "oming," someone lit a small fire in a metal bowl on the altar, and everyone repeated a few prayers in unison-one in English, one in Sanskrit. Then everyone grew silent, with their eyes closed.

He looked around at all the people meditating. Some of the women wore Indian-style clothing, and a few of them even had round red k.u.mk.u.ms on their foreheads. Here was this group of Westerners practicing what they believed to be Hindu rituals, following a Hindu guru, and yet they were doing it in an American way. The altar was clean, orderly, and symmetrical. There were no oily deepas or cracked coconuts or idols draped in silk and jewels, as in a Hindu temple. Hindu rituals never used printed handouts like the one he held in his hand. Instead, the priest mumbled whatever prayers were required, or a partic.i.p.ant would start singing whatever song came to her mind, and the others followed along as best they could. Here, some of the devotees who sat along the wall were stretching their feet out in front of them, toward the altar. No Hindu would ever dare to show the soles of the feet to the altar.

This temple was not as extreme as, say, the Hare Krishnas, where all the white women wore saris, and all the men shaved their heads. It wasn't as crazy as the Rajneeshees, that Oregon commune from the 1980s where everyone wore red and engaged in frenetic, exhausting exercise, which they called "meditations." These folks were calm and measured and quiet.

After the meditation, a tall, gray-haired white woman stood up next to the altar and talked in a singsong voice about the war in Iraq and loving one's enemies and world peace. Just before Abhay's ten o'clock deadline, the whole thing was over, and everyone filed up to the front of the room, where a large tray of prasada, food supposedly blessed by G.o.d, was on a table near the altar. The devotees picked up the tan b.a.l.l.s of prasada with their right or left hands-not only with the right hand. As a child, Abhay had had this important Hindu rule drilled into him: you accept and give things with the right hand only.

As Kianga and Abhay ate their prasada-peanut b.u.t.ter and dried apricot b.a.l.l.s, not something he'd eaten at any Hindu ritual he'd ever attended-the gray-haired woman minister approached them.

"This is my friend Abhay," Kianga said, and he shook hands with the minister. "He's interested in communal living, and his family is from India, so I thought he'd like to come here."

The minister nodded. "Some of us live upstairs. Swami Premananda taught that living together in a spiritual community is the best way to practice brotherly love. We try to share at least one weekly meal with the entire congregation, even those who don't live in the building. Our congregation comes from all over the area." She spoke softly and slowly. "We also have daily meditation every morning, and anyone is welcome to join us for that. And, of course, the weekly Sunday service, which you've just seen."

Kianga must have thought his Hindu upbringing and his interest in communal living would come together in this community. The minister was now explaining something about the guru of Swami Premananda back in India, and how the swami had come to the United States, and how she herself was initiated by a direct disciple of Swami Premananda. Abhay tried to look politely interested.

By the time Abhay and Kianga were back in the car on their way home, it was drizzling. The windshield wipers squeaked.

"Whad'ya think?" Kianga pulled out of the parking lot.

"I'm not that interested in religion." He tried to keep his voice bland, and not reveal all the frustration he felt about the morning.