by Diksha Basu
“Not for me. I’m not any good at golf. I’ll play you in tennis,” Johnny said. “Bye, Papa. Kunal will drop me home later.”
“I can play on your father’s team and you can play on my father’s team to balance out the skills, ” Kunal said. “Bye, Uncle.”
That little brat, Mr. Chopra thought. The teams would not need balancing out.
“Now that the new car is here, will you take it the next time you go to Gurgaon?” Mr. Jha asked his wife over breakfast the next morning. He felt bad when he saw her return the previous evening sweating, with her sari crumpled and hair escaping from the tight low bun she always wore it in.
“I’m not comfortable driving it,” Mrs. Jha said. “Besides, we need to get the car blessed before we use it.”
Mrs. Jha was sick of being nervous. She double-locked all the doors and windows before bed every night. She checked the vault at the bank at least once a month, and she had even joined a ladies’ investment club and taken their advice and put a significant amount of money into gold bricks. The wealth was exciting but it also made her nervous. And now with this flashy car and big move to Gurgaon, she was having sleepless nights. They needed God on their side now more than ever, she thought.
“Don’t be silly,” Mr. Jha said, pouring hot milk on his bowl of oats. “Such a shiny Mercedes is already blessed. I’m not wasting time taking it to the temple for the pujari to bless it. Did you happen to see the neighbors yesterday?”
“No. I didn’t see anyone. Sometimes I wonder if all the houses in Gurgaon are abandoned. But listen, I’m telling you we’re attracting the evil eye. It’ll take less than an hour. We have to do this. Bad luck is coming.”
Mrs. Jha hardly went to the temple these days herself. Last time she went, about three months ago, there was a hand-painted sign that advertised, Rupees 25 for special exam time prayer. Sometimes God’s home resembled the local shop that sold rice and flour by the kilo. As much as she loved the feel of the temple, lately she always left thinking it made religion feel too much like a transaction. She still tried to go every few months, for the well-being of her family, even though Mr. Jha and Rupak never accompanied her.
“Do you think the neighbors might be foreigners?” Mr. Jha asked. “I’ve heard that some of the multinationals own houses in Gurgaon and their international workers come and stay for long stretches of time. Imagine if we move in next to an expat from America. I’ve always wanted to organize a Fourth of July party.”
“How come Americans get called expats but if we move to America, we’re called immigrants?” Mrs. Jha asked.
“To-may-to, to-mah-to. No need to find reason to be sensitive about everything.”
“Anil, you turn everything into a joke, but I’m not comfortable with all this change. If we offer just a bit extra, I’m sure the pujari will be more than happy to bless the car. I’ll pick up the coconut on the way myself.”
“Are you mad? I will not drive the car through these wretched narrow lanes, and I absolutely will not have the pujari’s filthy hands touching vermillion to the car. And the coconut—yuck—who knows what it will do to the paint job. Not a chance. The car stays in the garage,” Mr. Jha said. “End of discussion.”
“No, it isn’t the end of the discussion,” Mrs. Jha said, standing up and collecting her empty bowl and glass. She picked up her husband’s bowl while he was still holding the last spoonful up to his mouth. “Forget the car. We’ll take the keys and get them blessed.”
Mr. Jha ate his last bite and put down his newspaper. He looked at his wife. Stubborn woman. Fine, it had been what had attracted him to her in the first place. The first time he had met her, with his mother and aunt with him, and her parents with her, at the end of the meeting, she had said, “I’d like to meet him alone next time, please.” Mr. Jha still remembered how the older generation had gone silent in response to her request. “There’s nothing you can’t say in front of us,” her mother had said to her then. “That is true,” his mother had added. “A marriage is a marriage of the families.”
“But it’s really a marriage between us, and I’d like to meet with him alone next time, please,” Mrs. Jha had repeated calmly. Mr. Jha himself had laughed and said, “I’d like that too,” and their parents had had no option but to agree. The following week Mr. Jha met Mrs. Jha for ice cream sundaes at the Nirulas in Connaught Place. Her father dropped her off and browsed in the shops downstairs for an hour exactly. Mr. Jha had ordered chocolate sauce drizzled on his sundae and Mrs. Jha hadn’t, so he offered her a taste of his. She said no at first but then leaned in and had a spoonful when the hour was almost over, so Mr. Jha was not surprised when his mother came to him the next afternoon and said, “The girl has said yes.”
This impending move to Gurgaon had not been easy on her, Mr. Jha knew. Getting the car blessed was the least he could do.
“The spare keys only,” he said. “And we won’t spend more than half an hour there. The incense makes my eyes burn.”
“Answer me one thing, Bindu,” Mr. Jha said, bending down to untie his laces, outside the main entrance of the temple. “How come even as Hindus with all our gods, we say we believe in God singular?”
He took off both his shoes and held them out to Mrs. Jha.
“And here, I don’t trust all these godly types—put my shoes in your purse,” he said.
“Just leave them here. Nobody is going to steal your shoes.”
“These are from Woodlands. Look at how nice the leather is. Some beggar will steal them and won’t even know what they’re worth,” Mr. Jha said. “Gods or God, Bindu? Which one is the right term?”
“I don’t know, Anil. I suppose it’s the collective idea of God in many different representations and forms, so you can say either. And if you’re so worried about your shoes, don’t leave them out here, go and deposit them—they have a shoe check-in. You would know if you came a bit more often,” Mrs. Jha said, dropping a ten-rupee note into a small metal can belonging to a man with leprosy, who was sitting in his wheelchair at the entrance to the temple.
“Ten rupees?” Mr. Jha said. “That’s what beggars get these days? While the world is in recession. Absurd.”
He wandered off to find the shoe deposit. The summer heat was getting on his nerves. The heat in Delhi summers did not just come from the air; it radiated up from the ground and came off the walls of the buildings and pushed you from every direction, making it difficult to move. What was the point of all this new money if he couldn’t escape the blistering midday temperatures? It should be possible, Mr. Jha thought, to have a small portable air-conditioned Plexiglas cubicle built to walk around in. After all, he had had a shower installed in the Gurgaon bathrooms so he would no longer have to use a bucket filled with water and a mug to pour it over his body. So maybe he could have a similar contraption—completely sealed and cooled—to take everywhere with him. It would make life a lot more pleasant. Maybe something with wheels. But then that would just be a car.
“Sir, twenty rupees for the bin and fifty rupees for the individual,” the bare-chested man with a red tika was saying to him. The shoe handler, who was sitting behind a counter, with burning incense and loud ragas, looked like God’s own guard.
“Fifty rupees to store my shoes for twenty minutes?”
Mr. Jha walked away. He hadn’t made his money by being cheated out of small amounts. He saw his wife standing near the entrance with her fair feet naked against the hot, dirty asphalt.
“They’re robbing people blind with the shoe check-in,” he said. “I’ll leave one shoe outside the temple and keep one in my back pocket—nobody will steal a single shoe.”
“You can’t carry a leather shoe into the temple, Anil,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Why not? You’re carrying a leather purse.”
They entered the main foyer of the temple, and the sudden oasis of peace and quiet silenced them both. It was built in a way to maximize the cross-breeze, and the air smelled of incense. Templegoers all chimed the
large bell that hung on the main door to announce their arrival to the gods. A few priests sat scattered on the ground around the periphery, wearing white dhotis with the Brahmin thread crossing against their bare chests. Everyone was barefoot and quiet.
“Where is the temple in Gurgaon?” Mr. Jha whispered. He realized that he had never seen one there. Did rich people not need temples anymore? Or maybe it was more fashionable to go to church these days.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Jha said. “But more and more people have prayer rooms in their own homes. And you can all a pujari home, depending on what you’re praying for. I was reading about how some of these rich industrialists have puja parties in their homes that would put the biggest temples to shame. With gold-embossed invitations and return gifts for a Ganesh Puja. Just imagine.”
“Interesting,” Mr. Jha said. “Maybe we should do that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t even like coming to the temple,” Mrs. Jha said. “We don’t need to copy everything other people in Gurgaon do.”
Mr. Jha had never heard of a puja party, but now he was intrigued. You could probably be as lavish and show off as much as you wanted if you used God as an excuse. He followed his wife in toward the sanctum sanctorum.
“It’s so nice and cool in here,” Mrs. Jha said. “Even without air-conditioning.”
She was relieved to feel the cool clean temple floor that felt like silk beneath her feet.
“Doesn’t look like God is doing any of these people much good. Any of the gods,” Mr. Jha whispered to his wife as a man with a white bandage covering one eye walked past them.
“Well, you don’t know what state he’d be in if he didn’t come to the temple,” Mrs. Jha said.
Maybe she was right, Mr. Jha thought. He had been very fortunate so far; it was risky to offend the gods. Maybe he should have left the shoes with the Brahmin shoe attendant after all. He certainly shouldn’t have a leather shoe in his back pocket right now. He would put some extra money into the donation bowl when his wife wasn’t looking. When nobody was looking—the gods would notice that he hadn’t done it for any kind of human credit and would be particularly appreciative.
The silence seemed to get louder as they got closer to Lord Krishna’s shrine. You could tell this was the main god because the blue idol was nearly six feet tall and stood gracefully in his signature pose with one foot bent in front of the other and his flute raised to his lips. His pedestal was a deep red, and the yellow of his dhoti matched the yellow of the flute. It was the busiest part of the temple but also the most peaceful. The priest’s assistant was carrying the lit diya through the crowd of believers, all of whom were passing their hands over the flame and then over their own heads to receive God’s light. Mr. Jha waited his turn. He wanted God’s light, but because he hadn’t done this in years, he moved his hand too close to the flame and then screamed in pain as the flame licked his hand. Everyone turned to look.
“Why must you always make a scene? You don’t take anything seriously,” Mrs. Jha said, smiling. Her husband was a self-made man. Relying on God was a comfort, not a career. She put her hands together, closed her eyes, bowed her head, and thanked God for finding her a good husband.
At the same time, Mr. Jha, with his hands pressed together, eyes closed and head bowed, was also thanking God for finding him a good spouse. He rarely visited temples, he never followed rituals, he had a leather shoe in his back pocket, and he regularly ate beef—although, in his defense, he’d heard that the beef in India was actually buffalo and those aren’t sacred—but thanks to having a wife who truly believed and prayed for him, he had managed to find success. Maybe it hadn’t all been just a result of hard work and good luck; maybe it had been because of his wife’s prayers.
“Do we ask the pujari to bless the keys here?” Mr. Jha whispered.
“I’m not too sure. Maybe you can just take the keys and hold them up to your head near the main shrine? I’m not sure if we should disturb him,” Mrs. Jha said. The priest was standing just a few feet away and looked about as trustworthy as their real estate agent and better fed than any of the gods here. It wasn’t easy to trust someone with visible gold caps on his teeth and rings on most of his fingers, and seeing him now she was reminded again of why she came to the temple less and less these days.
“Now that we’ve come all the way here, may as well get the pujari to actually bless the keys,” Mr. Jha said. “I don’t want to go home without doing it and then have you blaming me and saying I’m impatient and whatnot.”
“I’m just happy you agreed to come. I’m sure God will also be happy,” Mrs. Jha said. “Let’s just give a small donation and go home.”
“You are giving a donation for a blessing?” the priest walked over to the Jhas to ask. “What would you like to have blessed? You know, with the moon in the fifth quarter, it’s an auspicious day today.”
He had been listening. He was always listening for the word donation. If this couple handed him the donation, he would be able to pocket it, but if they put it in the donation box, it would go directly to the temple’s main management. Unfortunately priests didn’t work on commission.
“Our new car,” Mr. Jha said.
“Oh, nothing,” Mrs. Jha quickly added.
“A new car?” the priest said. “A new car must be blessed. You have done well, praise God. People these days come to me only with misfortune upon misfortune. God has been kind to you. It was good of you to come to me. Where is the car? Have you brought a coconut or should I get one?”
“No need, no need,” Mrs. Jha said. “We just came to pay our respects to God. Thank you for taking the time to speak to us. That is more than enough.”
“But, Bindu, we’ve come all this way and he is being so generous,” Mr. Jha said. “Let us at least get the keys blessed. We couldn’t bring the car, but we brought the keys.”
“Well,” said the priest, eyeing the unfinished peace sign symbol of the Mercedes car keys in Mr. Jha’s hands. “I can bless the keys here, but if you would like, for just a small amount—a donation—I can come to your home and do a prayer for the actual car.”
“Just the keys will do,” Mrs. Jha said.
The priest took the keys and said he would take them to the back directly near the idol and sprinkle them with holy water and have them blessed.
“Right here is fine,” Mrs. Jha added. “The evening prayer rush will start soon and I don’t want to delay you.”
Mrs. Jha did not want him taking the keys out of their sight. She had been hearing about a series of crimes in Delhi lately in which thieves apparently took quick imprints of keys in bars of soap and then created copies of the keys and stole things effortlessly. She wasn’t going to fall victim to a key-copying priest.
“Bindu,” Mr. Jha whispered. “Now why are you causing a scene? This is why we came. Let’s get the keys blessed.”
“We are getting the keys blessed. Here in front of us, right now,” Mrs. Jha said.
“But if the keys can get closer to God, we should let them.”
“You be quiet,” Mrs. Jha said. “You have a leather shoe in your pocket. Now let’s just finish up here.”
Mr. Jha took out a hundred rupee note from his wallet, but before he could place it in the priest’s donation bowl, his wife snatched it out of his hand and walked toward the locked wooden donation box near the idol.
“I’ll just put it in directly,” she said to the priest. “Why increase your work?”
She looked over her shoulder, saw her husband busy talking to the priest, put the hundred rupee bill in her wallet, took out a fifty rupee bill, and slipped it into the slot of the locked donation box. Fifty was a lot, but at least now it was going directly to the temple management.
Outside the temple, back in the hot sun, on the dirty asphalt, Mr. Jha felt rejuvenated. He had gotten the priest’s cell phone number and would find out more about a prayer room in Gurgaon. He took his right shoe out of his back pocket, put it on, and limped
over to find his left shoe. Mr. Jha picked it up, placed his left foot gingerly in it, flexed his toes against the soft leather, and stood up satisfied. God would protect them.
Behind him, Mrs. Jha also slipped her feet into her sandals, which were hot from the sun, and felt relieved that they had come to the temple. Even if parts of the temple were getting more and more commercial lately, it was still the home of the gods and it was wise to hedge their bets. They would be safer now and, despite not paying extra for the exam time prayers, she was certain that God would look after her son, across the world in America.
In Ithaca, Elizabeth walked into Rupak’s living room, where he was sitting on the floor with his management textbooks spread out around him, all closed, while he flipped through the manual for the new camera flash that had arrived in the mail the previous day. Elizabeth was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and she held a bottle of water in one hand and her iPad in the other.
“There’s an a cappella concert on the quad. Do you want to go?”
“I should study,” Rupak said.
Elizabeth sat on his lap, straddled him, and kissed his neck.
“If I don’t, how will you marry a rich Indian investment banker? You go. I’ll be more fun after I finish this problem set,” he said.
“You won’t ever marry a white girl anyway,” Elizabeth said, laughing.
“What? That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is. I’m a stopover for you. It’s okay.”
“Hold on,” Rupak said, lifting Elizabeth off his lap.
“I was just joking. Relax,” she said, pinching a section of his neck between her front teeth.
Rupak felt the comfortable stir in his pants. His penis reacted immediately to Elizabeth’s touch, and he sat back and allowed it. He had avoided the relationship conversation with Elizabeth since he’d been back. It was easy to avoid the topic when the sun was shining and they were both busy trying to make the most of the fall. It was even easier since Rupak had hinted that he had told his parents and then quickly changed the topic. He was good at changing the topic.
