by Diksha Basu
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Diksha Basu
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
crownpublishing.com
CROWN is a registered trademark and the Crown colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9780451498915
Ebook ISBN 9780451498939
International edition ISBN 9781524761288
Cover design by Elena Giavaldi
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Acknowledgments
About the Author
FOR MY PARENTS
AND THEIR PARENTS
Mr. Jha had worked hard and he was ready to live well.
“Seeing that all of you are here, we have some news,” he said to the neighbors assembled in the small living room of his home in the Mayur Palli Housing Complex in East Delhi. He was nervous, so he looked over at his wife, who was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and his son, Rupak, who was at home for the summer vacation, sitting on a dining table chair. His wife met his gaze and nodded gently, expectantly, encouraging him to hurry up and share the news. And he knew he had to, before the gossip spread through the housing complex. Tonight they had invited their closest friends—Mr. and Mrs. Gupta, Mr. and Mrs. Patnaik, and Mrs. Ray—to tell them that after about twenty-five years (they had moved in when Mrs. Jha was eight months pregnant) they were moving out, and not just moving out, but moving to Gurgaon, one of the richest new neighborhoods of Delhi.
It would have been easier, in a way, to announce a move to Dubai or Singapore or Hong Kong. Mr. Jha himself had often been part of conversations that criticized families for moving to different Delhi neighborhoods the minute they could afford to. And certainly nobody of his generation had moved out in recent years. He was fifty-two years old, his wife was forty-nine, and their twenty-three-year-old son was in business school in America. The move was going to be seen as an unnecessary display of his newly acquired wealth. And since the money had come from the onetime sale of a website, everyone in Mayur Palli treated it with suspicion. Nobody believed it was hard-earned money. “A lucky windfall,” he had heard Mr. Gupta call it. But Mr. Jha knew that it had been anything but luck; it had been hard work.
If an outsider, a stranger, were to see them all gathered here, would he see that Mr. Jha was different, Mr. Jha wondered? He was five foot eight and was neither impressively fit nor impressively fat. The fact that he didn’t have the traditional trappings of success worried him these days. He liked fitting in.
The new house in Gurgaon was a two-story bungalow with front and back yards, and they knew nothing at all about the neighbors yet. The house was tucked into a quiet lane away from the traffic and chaos of the rest of Delhi. Unlike in other parts of the city, all the drains were properly sealed and the streets were swept and cleaned on a regular basis. Big, decades-old neem trees lined both sides of their lane, and it was the kind of quiet that made it a place that hawkers and beggars avoided.
It was a much more lavish home and neighborhood than Mr. Jha had ever imagined himself living in. Not only did the doors fit in their frames, but most of the light switches had dimmers. There was a separate servants’ quarter at the back, and a wall went around the periphery so nobody could look in or out. Unlike Mayur Palli, and the rest of East Delhi for that matter, the houses in Gurgaon were spaced grandly apart and interactions between the neighbors seemed minimal. Mr. Jha knew he was supposed to want that—that was how rich people’s tastes were supposed to be.
Above his head a fat fly thumped repeatedly against the tubelight. The new house had better screens in the windows to stop flies and mosquitoes from invading. Mr. Jha took off his rimless glasses and wiped them with the white handkerchief he always kept in his shirt pocket. He wished he had opted for a short-sleeved shirt today instead of the long-sleeved blue one he had neatly tucked into his khaki slacks.
The Jhas were one of the original residents of Mayur Palli when they moved there in 1991. Mayur Palli meant, literally, the home of the peacock, but Mr. Jha had never seen a peacock anywhere near the area. Four buildings, each five floors high, were built around a dusty courtyard small enough for everyone to be able to peer into their neighbors’ windows. Every morning, wet laundry hung from ropes on the balconies, water dripping down to the courtyard. Downstairs, what had once been a space for the children to run and play and ride bicycles was now a clogged parking lot. A parking lot filled with scooters and Marutis and maybe the occasional Honda, bought for aging parents as a gift by adult children living abroad.
But now, on top of the fact that the Jhas were moving, the Mercedes Mr. Jha had ordered had arrived early and, embarrassingly, he had to take possession of it here in the old housing complex. He hadn’t wanted the car delivery person to see his current home, or his current neighbors to see his new car. What must the delivery person have thought driving it across the bridge to the wrong side of the Yamuna River? The silver car was big and shiny and completely out of place in the middle-class neighborhood and was nearly impossible to navigate past the cows in the narrow lanes. And clearly the car was annoying others. Just the previous morning, the undersides of the door handles had been covered with toothpaste and Mr. Jha had had a very minty-smelling morning drive. He was grateful it was only toothpaste.
Sometimes Mr. Jha himself couldn’t believe how much money his site had made. It had been such an easy idea—www.simplycall.com—that began as an online resource for local Delhi phone numbers and services. Mr. Jha had been trying to call his old friend Partha Sen in Chittaranjan Park to reminisce about their college days but had accidentally called a Partho Sen from the directory. He had chatted with the unknown Partho Sen for a good four minutes before either of them realized it was a wrong number.
Despite others’ perception, this was no lucky windfall, Mr. Jha now reminded himself. He had sold the website a little over two years ago, after working on it for five years. And before that he had had several more complicated ventures that had failed completely. But all that was in the past. This was now and he had to break the news.
“You’ve found a bride for Rupak?” Mr. Gupta said before Mr. Jha could continue. He was leaning back on the sofa and holding a fistful of peanuts in one hand and a glass of whiskey with ice in the other. He wore a crisp white kurta and pajama, his uniform of choice ever since he had become the president of the housing complex, and his feet were
bare and resting on top of his sandals. “Is she also living in America? Don’t let her family talk you into having a wedding in America.”
As the current president of the housing complex, and one of the biggest gossips in the neighborhood, Mr. Gupta was the one who was going to take the news the hardest. He would see the move from Mayur Palli as a betrayal. The Patnaiks, who were a few years younger than the Jhas and were quieter versions of the Guptas, would probably try to move on the Jhas’ heels. Mr. Patnaik already dressed similarly to Mr. Jha and had recently bought the exact same pair of glasses but then claimed it was a coincidence. And if anyone asked Mr. Jha to describe Mrs. Patnaik without looking at her, all he would be able to say was that she had strangely curly hair but no other discernible features.
“That is true,” Mrs. Gupta added. She was also eating peanuts, one of which had fallen and was cradled on her glasses, which were hanging off a metal chain around her neck. She wiped her hand against her sari and leaned forward to pick up her glass. “Our nephew got married there and all the Indian weddings end up in the huge halls of the local Hilton or Marriott. You make sure the wedding is in India, in a temple.”
“Or outdoors,” Mr. Gupta said. “Lots of young people these days want to get married outdoors.”
“Personally I don’t think that is a good idea. You don’t want the flame of the fire to be blown out during the ceremony,” Mrs. Gupta said.
“The flame will go out soon enough after marriage,” Mr. Gupta said, laughing loudly and tossing the remaining peanuts into his mouth.
“That’s not the news,” Mr. Jha said.
“Rupak will find a good bride here,” Mr. Patnaik said.
His wife nodded and added, “He will. It’s best to find someone known. Someone close to the family.”
She turned toward Rupak and smiled, but his attention was focused on his phone. Everyone in Mayur Palli knew that the Patnaiks wanted Rupak to marry their daughter, Urmila.
“No,” Mr. Jha said. “This isn’t about…”
“Oh dear. Is Rupak marrying an American girl?” Mrs. Gupta interrupted, twisting around on the sofa to try to look at Rupak.
“This isn’t about Rupak,” Mr. Jha said. “We have some other news. About us.”
He stopped as Reema Ray entered his line of vision, settling into the seat across from him with a glass of white wine. He knew his wife had already told Mrs. Ray about the move but had still insisted on inviting her tonight for support. Mrs. Ray was leaning forward and fixing a strap on her sandal, and the pallu of her chiffon sari slipped off her shoulder. Her blouse was sufficiently low cut for the tops of her heavy breasts to be visible. Her hair, worn loose and messily around her shoulders—unlike any of the other women in the room—fell in front of her and she tossed it back as she leaned forward.
Mr. Jha looked toward Mrs. Jha, still standing near the entrance to the kitchen, wearing a stiff starched pale blue sari that was held up on the shoulder by a safety pin and her hair pulled securely back in a low bun. He knew that his wife would never run the risk of letting her pallu casually drop. And even if it did, her blouse came up to her collarbones so nothing would be visible. And even if anything were visible, Mr. Jha would feel no thrill. Such was the problem with a stable marriage.
Mrs. Ray was sitting upright again, so Mr. Jha continued, “We wanted to invite all of you, our close friends, to dinner tonight, to tell you about our home. Our new home. Our—”
Mrs. Jha sniffed the air. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I’ve left the stove on. The chicken will be burnt.”
She went rushing into the kitchen, irritated with herself. The stress of moving to Gurgaon was really getting to her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave Mayur Palli. She didn’t want to live surrounded by women in designer saris who shopped in malls. She didn’t want to use olive oil instead of vegetable oil. She didn’t want to understand what interior decoration meant. The point of life was not just to keep moving higher and higher. What happened if you made it to Buckingham Palace?
“Are you okay? Do you need some help in here?” Mrs. Ray came in after Mrs. Jha. “Your husband has started on what the idea of ‘home’ represents. He’s having a hard time making this announcement, isn’t he?”
“The chicken is burnt. Oh, Reema. The chicken is burnt. And the packing isn’t finished. I know I should be happy, but I’m exhausted. I don’t know why we decided to do this whole move in the middle of summer. The heat is just getting to me.”
“Where are your maids? Do you want me to send Ganga over every morning until you leave? She hardly has anything to do for just me these days.”
“That’s very nice of you, but we still have our maids. But Anil has decided he doesn’t want them at home all the time.”
Mrs. Jha stirred the pan, scraping the wooden spoon along the bottom, trying to pry free the burnt bits of chicken. The screw holding the red handle in place was coming loose and she still had not ordered new kitchen supplies. This kitchen was made for maids to use; it was small and badly ventilated, and being in here meant being completely separated from the rest of the people in the apartment. The new house had a huge kitchen where a few people could stand around while the host prepared dinner or put together a platter of appetizers. That kitchen, in fact, was specifically meant for nonmaids. It was a kitchen that was meant to be shown off. It was a kitchen that needed new pots and pans with secure handles.
“Why doesn’t he want maids?” Mrs. Ray asked.
“We got this dishwasher installed and Anil wants people to notice it. He’s convinced that if there’s a maid picking up all the dishes, everyone will just assume she’s washing them by hand and won’t know that we have an expensive imported dishwasher. I don’t know. I don’t understand half the things he wants these days,” Mrs. Jha said. The kitchen was small and stuffy, but she appreciated Mrs. Ray coming in here with her. On the next stove, the pressure cooker hissed and Mrs. Jha jerked away from its angry sound. Mrs. Ray came to the stove and turned it off.
“Move,” Mrs. Ray said. “You relax. Take the raita out of the fridge. I’ll handle the stove. You didn’t need to invite us all over in the middle of your packing.”
Mrs. Jha stepped away and opened the fridge. She could feel the sweat gathering under her arms. She leaned down and allowed the refrigerated air to slip down the front of her blouse. She was gaining weight. She looked over at Mrs. Ray, who seemed to become younger and more beautiful every day. Granted, at forty-two, Mrs. Ray was seven years younger than Mrs. Jha, but her glow wasn’t just about age. She looked younger now than she did when Mr. Ray had died five years ago. Mrs. Ray had been only thirty-seven when her husband died, and at first widowhood had forced her to immediately become older. But Mrs. Jha had noticed Mrs. Ray gradually reversing that trend, and now she looked over at her friend with happiness and a sudden stab of envy. Even her hair seemed to have become thicker.
“Your hair is looking good these days.” Mrs. Jha said, and shut the fridge. “Are you using some new hair oil?”
Mrs. Ray turned around from the stove, wiped her hands on the towel that was on the counter, and touched her right hand to her hair.
“It’s improved, hasn’t it?”
“Share your secret, Reema.”
“The usual,” Mrs. Ray said. “Lots of leafy green vegetables and coconut oil in the hair overnight once a week.”
“We’ve been doing that for years. It must be something else,” Mrs. Jha said.
Mrs. Ray laughed a little and turned back to the stove to open the pressure cooker.
“What is it?” Mrs. Jha asked. “What secret are you keeping from me?”
Mrs. Ray faced Mrs. Jha.
“Oh, Bindu, it’s ridiculous. Prenatal supplements! I’m taking prenatal supplements because I read that it helps the hair, and it’s true—my hair has never looked better! Every alternate day I take one pill,” Mrs. Ray said. “I feel so crazy when I go to the chemist to buy it; I make up some excuse or the other each time, as if I�
��m buying it for my niece or for a friend or something. Imagine a childless widow getting prenatal vitamins.”
Mrs. Ray spooned the daal into a glass bowl for serving. She shook her hair out and looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Jha, laughed, and said, “Prenatal vitamins for widows! Don’t tell anyone.”
In a way, being widowed young and childless allowed Mrs. Ray to have a second youth, one unencumbered by family. And as far as young deaths go, Mr. Ray’s quick and powerful brain aneurysm five years ago at age forty was as simple as possible. At least he didn’t suffer and Mrs. Ray didn’t have to deal with the guilt in the aftermath of a loved one’s suffering. Mrs. Jha knew it had been difficult for Mrs. Ray—young widows make people nervous. When Mr. Ray died, a lot of the other women in Mayur Palli treated Mrs. Ray like a bad-luck charm or a seductress—but Mrs. Jha looked over at her friend now and saw only vitality and a good head of hair. She immediately felt guilty for envying a widow. May God always keep my husband safe, she quickly said to herself.
“Do you know what I had to do this afternoon? I had to unpack all the decorations for the drawing room and put them back up so the guests wouldn’t guess as soon as they walked in,” Mrs. Jha said.
She took out the bowl of chilled yogurt mixed with onions, cucumbers, tomatoes, and spices, pushed the fridge door closed with her hip, leaned against it, and sighed. Mrs. Ray was now ladling the chicken into a large glass serving bowl, and she laughed.
“You’re living the dream, Bindu,” Mrs. Ray said. “In any case, you should be glad you’re getting out of here. This housing complex is not the same as it used to be.”
Mrs. Ray reached over for a napkin to wipe the curry off the rim of the bowl. She turned off the second flame on the stove and said, “Someone stole a pair of my yoga pants from my balcony.”
