by Diksha Basu
“What?” Mrs. Jha said. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent,” Mrs. Ray said. “Anyway, it’s silly. I didn’t even want to mention it, but be glad you’re moving. Everybody here interferes too much in each other’s lives. You are lucky to be going somewhere where you will have some privacy. Count your blessings.”
“Reema, you have to complain about this at the next meeting,” Mrs. Jha said.
“And what? Draw more attention to myself? Forget it. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be doing yoga on the balcony.” Mrs. Ray said. She turned back to the counter and put a large spoon in each serving bowl. “Here, the chicken and the daal are in the bowls. I’ll take them out to the dining room. Do you need anything else?”
Mrs. Jha turned to Mrs. Ray and said, “Thank you. Just send my husband in here, please.”
Mrs. Jha picked up the pan from the stove and dropped it in the sink. Water splashed out and wet her sari, darkening the blue fabric near her bellybutton.
Mr. Jha came into the kitchen. It was smoky and felt as though the loud exhaust fan above the window was pushing hot air back into the kitchen. It would be nice for his wife to have a new kitchen with a door leading out to the backyard instead of this small space that was the same size as one of the bathrooms in the new house. All the surfaces had become sticky with years of oil splatter. Mr. Jha wanted one of those kitchens he had seen in television cooking shows—all stainless steel with pots and pans hanging off hooks above the stoves. Even though he never cooked and hardly even entered the kitchen, he wanted the spices kept in clear glass bottles in a wooden holder hammered into the wall. He was sick of the salt and sugar being browned by fingertips and clumpy through humidity.
“I think they’re ready for the news now,” Mr. Jha said. “I tried to get them started on the idea of ‘home.’ Said it isn’t defined by location. I made some quite moving points, I think. I talked about home being where the heart is and all that. No need to mention that home is where the double servants’ quarter is.”
He paused, then continued, “What are you doing in here? I was just about to announce our plans when you rushed off screaming about the chicken. Would you prefer it if I called people in here? The Guptas have definitely not been over since we got the new dishwasher.”
“I am not screaming about anything. I’m just trying to serve our guests a decent dinner. If you had let the maid stay, I would have had the help I needed. I have been spending all day every day packing boxes, going back and forth from Gurgaon in the heat, setting up the water filters, dealing with the air-conditioning installation—”
“It’s your fault that you’re going back and forth in the heat. I’ve told you a thousand times to take the car. You act as if you’re scared of the car. The car, the new house, a washing machine, everything. Everything, Bindu. You think the new dishwasher will ruin the serrated knives—you’re scared of everything.”
Rupak entered the kitchen.
“What are you two doing? The guests are getting restless. And, Dad, Reema Aunty wants some more wine. Should I take out another bottle of white from the fridge?”
“Don’t call him Dad!” Mrs. Jha said as Mr. Jha returned to the living room. “What’s wrong with calling him Papa? You’re studying in America, but you aren’t an American.”
Mrs. Jha didn’t want Rupak turning into one of those typical rich kids who assume they’ll never have to work hard. For that, she was grateful that they had lived very average lives until recently. But Rupak was changing fast. As soon as they were settled into their new home, it would be time for them to go to the United States to see how he lived.
Rupak ignored his mother and rummaged in the fridge for the wine. His parents had gone from keeping no alcohol at home, to keeping some Kingfisher beer and Old Monk rum, to keeping bottles of white wine that was made in vineyards outside Mumbai, to keeping imported bottles of red and white wine from countries as far as Chile. Rupak closed the fridge and opened the freezer to take an ice tray. It was next to a frosted bottle of Absolut vodka that still had the plastic seal around the neck. So much had changed at home since he had left for the States.
Once the food had been brought to the dining room and the guests had sat down and begun to serve themselves, Mrs. Jha whispered to her husband, “Will you please tell them? Stop avoiding it. I can’t organize one more dinner like this.”
Across the table, while taking from big bowls of food, Mr. Gupta said quietly to his wife, “I think you’ve got enough chicken. Leave some for the others. It looks bad.”
“The chicken is half burnt. I am doing Mrs. Jha a favor by eating so much of it,” Mrs. Gupta whispered back, peering into the other bowls to see what else had been cooked. “Otherwise it will all be left and she will have to give it to the maids and she’ll be embarrassed. I’m being kind.”
“Would you like another drink?” Rupak asked Mrs. Ray on the other side of the table.
Ever since he had gone to America, Rupak had decided he would never date an Indian woman again, but seeing beautiful Mrs. Ray made him aware that there were exceptions to every rule. But Mrs. Ray wasn’t that old, he reminded himself. He knew that she was friends with this group only because she had never had children, so now she had more in common with the older women whose children had left home. And glancing to his right and seeing Mrs. Gupta trying to pry a piece of burnt chicken out from her teeth reminded him of the rules.
“Rupak,” Mr. Gupta said. “Bring me another whiskey and come and tell me more about America. My wife’s niece also studies in America. Sudha, where does that girl study?”
“I can never remember,” Mrs. Gupta said. “Perhaps New York? I will find out.”
Mr. Gupta wobbled his head and said to Rupak, “Maybe you know her. We will find out where she is studying.”
“I doubt it,” Rupak said. He was always amazed by how small some people in Mayur Palli thought America was.
“Urmila is planning a trip to America next year,” Mr. Patnaik added. “She should add Ithaca to her list of places to visit.”
“You must meet lots of pretty women there,” Mr. Gupta continued. “White skin, white hair—those girls are like cotton balls. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Do it,” on the other side of the table Mrs. Jha whispered to her husband. “Tell them now, otherwise I will. You’ve done well, you’ve bought a new house—I don’t know why you’re so ashamed.”
“A girlfriend?” Rupak said. Here was his chance to tell them. His parents would have to react calmly to the news of his American girlfriend if all the neighbors were watching. “Well, you know in the U.S….”
“He doesn’t have time for girlfriends while he is studying. A wife will come later. He’s just like his father. They both want to do well in life,” Mrs. Jha said. “Such ambitious men I’m surrounded by. In fact, that’s why we called all of you here tonight.”
“So that is all,” Mr. Jha said. “Nothing too big to discuss. We are not selling this apartment. We are simply renting it out for now. We have found a lovely young couple from Chennai who are going to move in. They have a young son also. Very decent people. And next time we will have dinner in Gurgaon. Enough about us. Why don’t we have some more food?”
“Wait,” Mr. Gupta said. “This new house you’ve bought—is it through the Meritech company? I heard they got in trouble with the government about bribes. Did they accept the full amount in check?”
Mr. Gupta was certain that Mr. Jha was a tax evader. All these new-moneyed people were the same. People acted as though engineers were honest, simple-minded people, but look at Mr. Jha here—he was obviously making lots of money now and had probably paid for his house with mostly black money. But Mr. Gupta knew that just because he himself had been a police officer, the assumption was that he was corrupt. It was unfair. He had never taken a bribe over five thousand rupees. A lot of other policemen had worked their way up financially and drove fancy Hondas and Toyotas, but Mr. Gupta had simply upgraded from a scoot
er to a Maruti 800 to a Swift. He had been content with his life in East Delhi. He knew many young couples who used it as a stepping-stone to fancier neighborhoods, but people of his generation stayed put. They no longer got their walls painted after every monsoon, and they no longer complained about the regular electricity outages. Their lives, he thought, had fallen into a nice comforting rhythm. They didn’t need to impress their spouses or their neighbors. But now here was Mr. Jha announcing their move to Gurgaon while his pretty wife looked on proudly. Their son was visiting from the United States of America and probably had a white girlfriend by now. Mr. Gupta looked over at his own wife, who was heaping her plate with another helping of chicken curry. Their daughter, married to a chartered accountant and also living in East Delhi, was turning into her mother far too quickly, and Mr. Gupta knew he would never have the luxury of objecting to a white boyfriend.
“I really prefer not to talk about finances like this,” Mr. Jha said. “Especially not in front of the ladies. But, you know, India is changing. International business comes with different standards.”
Mr. Jha had in fact paid more than the usual amount with taxable money. It had raised the cost of the house considerably, but ever since he sold to a company based in America, he knew that the government was keeping an eye on him.
Mr. Gupta shook his head as he used his thumb to push another bite of chicken and rice into his mouth. These people would never give a straight answer about taxes.
Mrs. Jha switched off the light in the hallway and walked toward her bedroom door. It was hot in the hallway, the Delhi summer in full swing. There was an air conditioner in each room, jutting out of a window, but they never kept all three of them running at the same time. The electrical circuit would not be able to handle the load. Instead, they cooled only the rooms they were using. The kitchen, the bathrooms, and the hallway remained hot. When they first got an air conditioner installed, it was only in the master bedroom and Rupak would drag a thin mattress in and sleep on their floor.
Mrs. Jha stopped in front of Rupak’s bedroom. The air from inside his room trickled out from under the closed door and cooled her feet. She considered knocking, but she thought she heard a muffled voice. Either he was watching something on his laptop or he was on the phone, and she no longer felt comfortable letting herself into his bedroom to have a chat. She pushed her ear against the door, but the white noise of the air conditioner made it impossible to make sense of the voices. That was okay, she didn’t need to interfere, she told herself. She just liked knowing he was home and she liked feeling his presence. As much as she swore she never had a preference regarding the sex of her child, she was glad she had a son. A son who, despite quickly adopting some Americanisms she didn’t much care for, was soon going to have a master’s in business administration from Ithaca College in New York State. It really did give her a sense of security.
She continued to her bedroom and entered as her husband was coming out of the small attached bathroom. The warm smell of sandalwood soap and a hot bath filled the room.
“Did you turn off the geyser?” she asked.
Mr. Jha poked his head back in the bathroom to check the switch and nodded.
“The geysers in the new house are all automatic, which means we can leave them on twenty-four hours a day,” Mr. Jha said. “That’s twenty-four hours a day of not having to wait for hot water in the taps. In the sink too! Just imagine.”
“I know,” Mrs. Jha said. “I’m the one who got them all installed. But they say it’s best to keep the switches off when they’re not in use.”
“You know in Korean apartments you can operate all your switches from your phone. Lights, gadgets, everything. You can even draw your curtains with a button on your phone. You can be on the way home and turn all the lights on so you don’t have to enter a completely dark house.”
“Couldn’t you just leave a light on when you go out so it’s still on when you come home?” Mrs. Jha asked.
Mr. Jha looked at her, thought for a second, and nodded. “That is another possibility.”
A minute later he added, “You could turn the teakettle on so the water would be hot when you got home.”
“That was a successful evening,” Mrs. Jha said to her husband as he buttoned the top button of the white kurta he wore to sleep every night. For as long as she had known him, he had always worn the exact same outfit to bed. He owned four sets of kurta pajamas and he had asked her to stitch numbers onto each top and each bottom so they would remain sets and, even though they were all identical, he would never wear a number two top with a number three pajama.
“That Mr. Gupta interferes too much,” Mr. Jha said, rubbing a small towel through his hair.
“He was just being curious. Don’t let it trouble you.”
“I just think it’s impolite—he wouldn’t go asking other rich people how much they’ve paid in black money,” Mr. Jha said.
“They’re our friends, Anil. They can ask us such questions. Anyway, I thought you handled the question very gracefully. Now please forget it and come to bed. And don’t rub your hair so roughly, it’ll damage the roots.”
“And why did he say we were too old for change? You heard him—he said at this stage to make a move like this was to become a small fish in a big pond and we’d understand that only after leaving the pond we know. I’m not a fish, Bindu. Is that any way to speak to a friend?”
“Those are his own issues. Forget it,” Mrs. Jha said, although she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Mr. Gupta’s comment either. How were they meant to start from scratch at this age? Why were they trying to start from scratch? They were happy. How was she supposed to make new friends and adapt to a new world? She was sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing Nivea cold cream into her cracked heels, trying not to let her husband see her concerns. Not tonight. It had been a difficult night for him.
“I read somewhere that fish have very basic nervous systems,” Mr. Jha said. “I never get nervous. Except in airplanes, but that’s understandable.”
He stooped in front of the small mirror that was attached to the dresser in the corner of the room and combed his hair.
“I’m looking forward to having a full-length mirror in the bedroom,” he said. “This is like looking into a phone camera, it’s so small.”
Let Mr. Gupta say what he wanted; he was going to get a full-length mirror in his bedroom. Mr. Jha thought about his mother. She always took such pride in how she dressed, but while she was alive, forget a full-length mirror, they did not even have a dresser. The only mirror she had to use was the small one that hung in the bathroom in a plastic frame above the sink and had become speckled with dried toothpaste over the years. Mr. Jha wished his mother had lived to see him become successful. She would have died a happier woman if she’d had any idea what her son would go on to achieve.
Mr. Jha’s father had died when Mr. Jha was eight years old. Before he died, his father was doing well enough, climbing the ranks of an income tax office in the small, dusty, tier-three town of Giridih—which used to be in the state of Bihar but was now part of the new state of Jharkhand and was a town most people in Delhi hadn’t even heard of. He wore black slacks and carried a briefcase every day. Once a week, they went out for dinner and Mr. Jha’s mother would dress in the latest fashions of the town and push her feet into sandals with high heels and stiff straps that made her ankles bleed and she loved it.
But soon after his father died, Mr. Jha and his mother could no longer afford to live alone. They ran through Mr. Jha Senior’s savings in a year, even without going out for dinner, and they had no option but to move from Bihar to the outskirts of New Delhi to move in with Mr. Jha’s father’s older brother and his wife. Even at that age, Mr. Jha always understood that they were an imposition, an addition. They didn’t belong in Delhi. He never felt comfortable lingering in the bathroom, and he noticed that his mother always woke up when it was still dark outside so she could shower and use the bathroom before anyone e
lse was awake. His mother taught him to take his dishes to the kitchen after every meal, wash them, and put them on the rusted metal rack that sat near the sink, even though a cleaning lady would come and wash all the other dishes later.
As a child, he often felt anger toward his mother for making them live their whole lives as guests. As he got older, he felt guilty about that anger and so he worked. He studied and he worked hard to make sure he could give his mother a home that would be her own, and a reason to wear uncomfortable shoes again. And he had mostly succeeded. He had a nice wife, a son, and a stable job that gave him a small but reliable income every month and a domestic holiday every year. For years Mr. Jha had been the manager of a franchise of a Technological Training of India (TTI) center and supplemented his income by teaching specialized computer programming classes there on Saturdays. His mother saw all that, but she died before he managed to give her a full-length mirror to check the pleats of her sari.
“How do you manage to tie your sari so well without a mirror?” Mr. Jha asked.
“When you do it every day, it becomes the same as pulling on a pair of pants,” Mrs. Jha said.
“But it’ll be better for you to have a full-length mirror, right?”
“I suppose so, yes,” Mrs. Jha said. She knew what was going through her husband’s mind. “Are you thinking about Ma-ji?”
“She would have enjoyed tonight’s dinner,” Mr. Jha said. He sat down at the edge of the bed, tired after the evening and the adrenaline and the performance of hosting a dinner party. He took his glasses off and placed them on his side table. This bedroom was less than half the size of the master bedroom in Gurgaon. In here, there was room only for the bed, the attached wooden side tables, and two metal cupboards in which they kept all their clothes. One of the metal cupboards had a small built-in safe that was big enough to hold all their valuables. In Gurgaon, he had had a safe the size of one of their cupboards built into the wall of the master bedroom, and he was determined to own enough valuables to fill the whole thing. He rubbed his eyes. “She would have really enjoyed the new house. Forget traveling outside India, she died without even seeing the fancy side of Delhi.”
