by Diksha Basu
A faint murmur of approval went through the twenty or so people who came to the meeting every week, and then the sound of scattered conversations picked up. Shatrugan came in and turned the fans off. Someone said, “Mr. Gupta, please see to those overhead fans,” and others agreed.
“I have one more thing,” Mrs. Ray said from the back row, raising her hand. Why did she raise her hand? She wasn’t a schoolgirl. And why had she waited until the fans had been turned off? Now the silence was like a spotlight on her. She sat up straight, cleared her throat, and repeated, “I have one more thing to discuss.”
Mrs. Ray knew it was her last chance to bring up the stolen yoga pants. She was fairly certain she knew who the culprit was, and her accusation was nothing more shocking than what had already been discussed, so there was really no reason for her to avoid it any longer.
But the difference between her complaint and the rest was that she was a widow. And not a widow like old Mrs. Chabbra, who hardly left her home and walked only slowly, bent over a walker, and had a few stiff white hairs that sprouted on her upper lip. Widows of that genre were the norm. But nobody knew what to do with widows like Mrs. Ray.
Not too happily married when she was nineteen years old, Mrs. Ray had never known the feeling of young flirtation, new romance, and endless possibility. She had gone from her father’s home straight to her husband’s home, and there had been minimal fun along the way. Her husband wasn’t bad—he didn’t drink, never hit her, and, as far as she knew, had never had an affair—but he had also never caused her stomach to flutter with excitement. Even at the start of their marriage, they never went dancing, they hardly ever went to watch movies, and they certainly never flirted with each other. Her marriage, and her life in general, had always felt like a transaction—she was handed certain items, and she paid in kind. She went to college until her parents found her a suitable match, and the price for that was to stop going to college. She moved to Delhi because her husband’s work needed him there, and she put Mumbai behind her and set about building a new life. They didn’t manage to have children, so she befriended the older ladies in the neighborhood and accepted a life without little toes. Her husband didn’t want her to work and she liked her husband, so she didn’t work. She followed all the rules and did everything that was expected of her and still her husband died when she was thirty-seven years old. How was that fair?
The rules had failed her, so in widowhood she decided she was not going to play the role of a widow. She liked sheets with higher thread counts than she’d ever had before, and she paid extra to buy a cream that was meant to be used only on the feet when regular Nivea cold cream would obviously work just as well. She liked the occasional cigarette and she liked to play her music on speakers even if the neighbors could hear the widow next door enjoying music. She didn’t want or need a man, but she did want to live well, even on her own. Especially on her own.
After Mr. Ray’s death, Mrs. Ray felt like a television character who moves to a big city to make it all by herself. She did indeed break her bangles and remove the vermillion from her hair when Mr. Ray died, but instead of plain white saris and daily prayers, she changed into tight gym clothes, got a yoga instructor, dyed the few gray hairs that had started to come in, and started taking prenatal vitamins. You were supposed to live for yourself, all the American afternoon talk shows always told her. So she tried. It was difficult in this housing complex where everyone watched and discussed her every move and she came home every evening to a dark and empty home that she shared with only her maid. She knew that everyone thought that her living well meant she didn’t miss her husband. But she did. She missed him almost every day, but she also wanted to install shower heads that had a massage setting.
She wished she had some company tonight. She shouldn’t have given Ganga the night off to visit her relatives in Kalkaji. The room settled into silence again as everyone turned to look at Mrs. Ray. She adjusted the dupatta that was draped around her shoulders and stood up to face everyone.
“Mr. De has stolen my yoga pants,” she said, and pointed over her shoulder in the direction of Mr. De, who was snoozing in the back row with his chin against his chest. His bald head was reflecting the tubelight above him and the second button on his shirt had come unbuttoned and wispy gray chest hairs were visible. As the newly appointed treasurer, Mr. De was required to attend these meetings.
The few people who had started to leave the room all came back in and took their seats again.
“Reema, what are you saying?” Mr. De said, spluttering awake.
“Please call me Mrs. Ray. And it is because I have been doing yoga,” Mrs. Ray said.
“You don’t need yoga pants to do yoga, you know,” Mrs. Kulkarni said. “Those tight, tight pants are not in our culture. You can do yoga just as well in a salwar kameez.”
Mrs. Baggaria, who was sitting next to Mrs. Kulkarni, wobbled her head in agreement.
Mrs. Ray inhaled, wishing again that she had had another glass of wine before coming to the meeting, and said, “Mrs. Kulkarni, that is hardly the point.”
“That is true,” Mr. Gupta said. “All foreigners are even teaching yoga these days. And you see our young Indians suddenly excited about yoga because the Americans are doing it. Bikram yoga—have you heard of it? Who needs a heated room? You can just do yoga outdoors in the summer in Delhi. And that Bikram has gone and made millions and millions of dollars.”
“I hear he has relations with plenty of American women,” someone added.
“That is exactly what yoga has become,” someone else said.
“Because of the clothes,” Mrs. Kulkarni said, and looked toward Mrs. Ray.
“Mr. Gupta, this is not about yoga. Or about what clothes to wear while doing yoga. This is about my yoga pants that have been stolen and I have every reason to believe it was Mr. De who stole them,” Mrs. Ray said.
She was certain it was him. The Des’ balcony was the only one from which you could reach Mrs. Ray’s balcony, where Ganga put out all her clothes to dry, including her yoga pants. In the past, Mrs. Ray had caught Mr. De watching her doing yoga and even though she could not imagine why he would steal her yoga pants, she was certain he had. And watching him now taking off his glasses and wiping the sweat off his face, she was even more certain he was guilty.
“Mrs. Ray, Mrs. Ray, Mrs. Ray,” Mr. De said. “What would your husband say if he were still with us? May he rest in peace. Am I right?”
Mrs. Ray looked at Mr. De looking around shiftily, laughing, trying to get the support of the others in the room.
“Besides,” he continued. “The ladies are correct—you can do yoga just as well in a salwar kameez. Probably even better. Mrs. Kulkarni, you are always wise. And Mrs. Baggaria, that is a lovely sari you are wearing today.”
They all agreed with each other, and Mrs. Ray wanted nothing more than to also move away from Mayur Palli. But where would she go? She looked toward Mr. Jha to see if perhaps he would defend her, but he was busy staring down at his shoes. She had hoped Mrs. Jha would be there tonight, but Rupak was due to leave this week so she was at home.
“You know what? It’s fine,” Mrs. Ray said. “It’s okay. I just wanted to mention the yoga pants, and I am glad I did. I trust that I will be left in peace now.”
She looked over at Mr. De, who was just shaking his head and whispering to Mr. Patnaik next to him, and Mrs. Ray regretted not just having mentioned her stolen yoga pants, but having worn them in the first place. She walked out of the meeting room and hurried home before anyone else could catch up with her.
Back in her empty apartment, she poured herself a glass of cold white wine. What else was there to do except wait until Ganga came home and told her about her relatives and the prices they paid for fish and why their fishseller was robbing them blind? Ganga was always full of stories and Mrs. Ray admired her for that.
Ganga had been a widow ever since Mrs. Ray knew her. Ganga’s aunt was Mr. Ray’s parents’ maid in Mumbai, a
nd when Mr. and Mrs. Ray got married and moved to Delhi, Ganga’s aunt told his parents that she had a perfect maid for them—her niece in Calcutta who had recently been widowed and was looking for full-time work and would be happy to move to Delhi. Mr. Ray was thrilled at the thought of having a maid who could cook authentic Bengali prawns in mustard curry and agreed to hire her immediately. In her white widow’s sari, Ganga showed up in Delhi only six months after the Rays had moved to Mayur Palli, and Mrs. Ray had hardly known life in Delhi without her.
Ganga made herself at home in the new city faster than Mrs. Ray had. Within a week, she had walked the entire market area outside Mayur Palli and made friends with the fishseller, the vegetable seller, the cobbler, and the local electrician. Ganga had the luxury of not feeling shame or shyness. It was a perk of being poor. In a city in which all the men stare and many of them touch, Mrs. Ray always noticed how poor women marched around without a care in the world, widowed or not. How was she supposed to continue living here? Now everyone knew about her accusation and once the Jhas moved, she would be left with no friends in the neighborhood. But she had nowhere else to go. She would not know how to sell this apartment and, even if she did, all she would be able to afford with that money would be another similar apartment in a similar housing complex in a similar part of the city with people who would look at her the same way. There was no way to start over.
The doorbell. Mrs. Ray opened it thinking it was Ganga, but it was a man with a big jute bag offering to sell eggs and pav bread.
“This late on a Sunday night?” Mrs. Ray asked him. “You can’t go around ringing bells this late at night.”
“But you will need this for breakfast,” he said.
“No, thank you. And please don’t come so late at night again,” she said, and went to shut the door, but he held it open. He looked small and Mrs. Ray was feeling warmed by the wine, which meant she felt invincible despite the events of the day. But now that he was standing closer, she could tell that he was warmed by something as well. She could smell it on his breath and it was foul.
“But you will need this for breakfast,” he repeated. “Just one egg and one pav, right? Just one?”
Mrs. Ray pushed the door. He pushed back. She thought about screaming, but after the night she had already had, she did not want the neighbors to have the satisfaction of hearing her scream. She considered buying the egg and bread in case that would just get him out, but something about his dry hand pushing against the door told her that he wouldn’t go away after making a sale.
“Stop pushing my door. Go. Get out. Get out or I’ll scream.”
He sucked his teeth.
“Don’t get so upset,” he said, smiling at her. “I’m just trying to take care of you. You must keep your body healthy.”
Mrs. Ray heard metal clanging coming up the stairs. Ganga kept her keys tied to the end of her sari. Through heavy breathing, she heard Ganga say, “Is someone there?”
The man dropped his hand from the door and said, “I’ll check in again some other evening. To see if you need anything.”
Ganga reached the floor. “What are you doing?”
Today, like every day that Mrs. Ray had known Ganga, she was wearing the widow’s uniform of a white sari with a white blouse. Ganga had beautiful dark skin that shone and showed no signs of age. She was short and round and walked with a slight limp.
“Just selling eggs and pav, but madam says she doesn’t need any,” he said, moving past Ganga and down the stairs.
“Fool,” Ganga called out after him. “Don’t come knocking again so late at night. That useless Shatrugan—fast asleep at the gate downstairs.”
Ganga pushed past Mrs. Ray into the apartment, muttering about Shatrugan, and Mrs. Ray wanted to agree with her, wanted to agree with all that Ganga was saying. She wanted to tell Ganga that she was happy to have her home, how were her relatives, what did she eat, did she know that she’d come back at exactly the right moment, but she did not say any of that.
Mrs. Ray wondered if Ganga was also lonely. She used to think Ganga was too busy being worried about being poor to be lonely. Like all the homeless people you see everywhere—they couldn’t possibly have time to be sad. But you couldn’t say that to anyone. Of late she wished she and Ganga could talk about their sadness, their loneliness, their widowhood. But they couldn’t. Instead Mrs. Ray poured herself another glass of wine.
“You don’t need anything more to drink.” Ganga reappeared from her bedroom without her bags. “Let me make you a cup of tea instead.”
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Ganga was like a ghost sometimes. She seemed to appear just at the moment you were thinking of her. Mrs. Ray had a dream a few months ago in which Ganga was dead but the doorbell rang and Mrs. Ray knew it was her. In the dream, she opened the door and dead Ganga was standing there in the same white widow’s sari. She looked just like living Ganga except one of her legs was a wooden peg. Mrs. Ray must have screamed when she woke up because Ganga came running to her room. Of course that just terrified her more. But both of her legs were intact, thank God.
“What do you do in that room of yours after dinner in the evenings?” Mrs. Ray said.
Ganga turned the gas stove on and poured water into a metal pan. On the counter near the stove, she placed a large cup and brass tea strainer filled with a few pinches of black tea leaves.
“You finished that new bottle of whiskey last night,” Ganga said. “You don’t need more alcohol today.”
Ganga stood watching the water. Mrs. Ray left her in the kitchen and walked out to the balcony and lit a cigarette. At least at night she could smoke in peace without all the neighbors peering in.
“Tell me something,” Mrs. Ray said, when Ganga brought her steaming cup of tea out to the balcony. “Which one of us do you think will die first? I’ve been doing yoga almost every day, you know. Doesn’t it trouble you not to know how old you are? I don’t understand how you villagers just approximate your age. How will you know when you might die?”
Ganga placed the cup of tea on the small wooden table by Mrs. Ray’s feet.
“It’s good that you’re doing yoga. Now you need to drink and smoke less,” Ganga said. “You know how it affects your mood.”
“Don’t lecture me with your mouth full of chewing tobacco. How did you get to and from Kalkaji tonight anyway?”
“I took the train. It’s as modern as the radio says. You should try it sometime. There are different compartments for ladies and everyone behaves very well.”
Mrs. Ray had not yet taken the new train in Delhi, and it felt like a lifetime since she had last taken a local train in Mumbai by herself. She was eighteen then, and studying commerce at St. Andrews College, and every weekday morning she boarded the regular compartment of the 9:14 a.m. Churchgate local. That day a middle-aged worker fell out of the compartment and onto the tracks, his head smashed open. She was late for class and took only the bus from then on.
“What were you doing with your cousins this late? It sounds rather suspicious, you know. Do you have a man in your life? We’re too old for all that now, Ganga. It’s done for us.”
“I’ve told you a dozen times,” Ganga said. “I was talking to them about returning to Siliguri. You never listen. Now stop all this self-pitying and come inside and get ready for bed. The neighbors can see you when you smoke out here.”
“You will never leave,” Mrs. Ray said. Rupak left, the Jhas were leaving, Ganga couldn’t leave. Mrs. Ray wanted to again thank Ganga for never leaving, for being Mrs. Ray’s family, but instead, as always, she said nothing.
“I can’t carry chicken curry all the way back to New York, Mom,” Rupak said to his mother on the morning of his departure. “Ma.”
Mrs. Jha ignored him and his use of the word Mom and kept stirring. The onions sizzled in the hot oil, the garlic jumped, and the smell of fenugreek rose up from the pan. Her mother had taught her how to make this chicken curry and it had always been Rupak’s favo
rite. She hoped Rupak’s wife would someday learn how to make it. Wait, no—she was supposed to say she hoped Rupak himself would someday learn how to make it. She sometimes forgot to be a feminist. But she felt this dish needed a woman’s touch. She dropped the pieces of chicken—on the bone, always on the bone—into the pan and used the wooden spoon to push them around and coat them with the gravy. Even before her husband had developed his crazy ideas about not having maids around, this was one dish she always made herself. She tried teaching one of the maids, but it wasn’t the same. Mrs. Jha was never the type of woman to express her emotions through food. She was perfectly happy being at work helping rural weavers package their work for urban markets all day and making a quick call around three p.m. to tell the maid which vegetables to cook for dinner. But her methi chicken curry was hers alone, and if she had to let her son go across the world all by himself tonight, the least she could do was pack him a proper hot meal. She lowered the heat on the stove, covered the pan, and turned to the fridge to take out a bottle of coconut water. Coconut water came in bottles these days. She poured two glasses and handed one to her son.
“That smells good,” Rupak said.
“You should learn how to make it so you don’t go hungry in America.”
“I hardly starve there, Ma. And I doubt I’d get half the ingredients for it in America. I don’t even know what the English word for methi is,” Rupak said.
“Fenugreek,” Mrs. Jha said. “And maybe it’s best you don’t learn so you keep coming back to me for the chicken curry.”
Mrs. Jha used to cook it on Sundays, the one day of the week when the three of them would sit down for a proper lunch together. They would all wake up late and have a lazy morning. Mrs. Jha would often drop by the Rays’ home for a cup of tea. Mr. Jha would go downstairs for a walk and chat with some of the other husbands in the neighborhood. Or he would go to the barber for a head massage and shave. Rupak watched television or, if the weather permitted, went downstairs for a few rounds of cricket with his friends. Mrs. Jha would return home before the men and cook methi chicken or prawns with mustard—it was always one of those two dishes for the main course on Sundays. The maids would make rice, daal, and a vegetable dish, but Mrs. Jha took charge of the main dish. While she was cooking, Mr. Jha and Rupak would come home and take turns having hot showers, and the same smell of the sandalwood soap that Mr. Jha had been using since 1983 would mix with the food and fill the rooms. It was the one day of the week when they listened to music loudly—Mr. Jha would put in old Geeta Dutt cassettes, and in the kitchen Mrs. Jha would sing along to the high-pitched songs while the curry simmered on the stove. She hoped Rupak remembered those afternoons. Everything was changing so quickly now. Taking the chicken all the way to Ithaca and reheating it in a microwave was not the same as eating it hot from the kitchen on a lazy Sunday afternoon. But it was something.
