by Diksha Basu
“How do you find time to study?” he asked Elizabeth now. “I’m struggling to pass and the semester has only just started.”
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders and got up and walked to Rupak’s kitchen.
“You just do. We’re here to study, right? So that’s what you do. You don’t say you’re studying while playing with your new camera flash.”
“You make it sound easy,” Rupak said, putting the manual aside and picking up a textbook.
“It isn’t hard. It isn’t easy but it isn’t hard. We aren’t in high school being forced to take these classes,” she said, opening his fridge and looking in. “I wish you knew how to cook Indian food.”
Rupak thought back to the chicken curry he had left with the men at the airport and felt guilty. He would call his mother more often, he promised himself. And he would not fail the semester.
“I just can’t seem to focus,” Rupak said, putting the textbook down on the floor and leaning his head back against the sofa.
“That’s because you should be studying film, not business,” Elizabeth said, returning to the living room with a handful of grapes. She sat down on the sofa behind Rupak and ran her fingers through his hair.
“Please don’t say that,” he said. “You know I can’t study film.”
“You can, though. You’re an adult—your parents aren’t going to disown you for choosing to study something you like studying. I bet they’d respect you for doing something you really enjoy.”
“I don’t even know if I really enjoy filmmaking. I can’t give everything up for what’s basically a hobby. You don’t know what it’s like to have Indian parents,” Rupak said.
“You’re right, I don’t. But I think you underestimate them. From what you’ve told me, they sound pretty nice. You were so nervous about telling them about me and that worked out fine.”
“What time is the concert?” Rupak asked, reaching for his phone, which was on the coffee table.
“Now. In ten minutes,” Elizabeth said. She kissed Rupak’s head and got up from the sofa. “I should leave.”
Rupak grabbed her ankle and looked up at her.
“Don’t go,” he said. And he meant it. He wanted her to stay. And he wanted to have the courage to tell his parents about her and he wanted to have the courage to quit his MBA and study film.
“If you hadn’t spent all day playing with your new camera, you could have come too,” Elizabeth said. “Focus, put your phone away. Call me if you get done and we’ll have dinner.”
Rupak watched her leave the apartment. He opened his e-mail and saw one from Serena Berry, with the subject line Delhi Connection.
Dear Rupak,
My aunt, Mrs. Gupta, from Mayur Palli, gave me your e-mail address. She said you’re studying at Cornell? I just started my master’s here and apparently my uncle was very keen that I meet you. Do you want to have a cup of coffee in Collegetown this weekend?
Best,
Serena
Under other circumstances, he would have ignored an e-mail like this, but he didn’t want his mother to hear he had been rude. But there was no such thing as just a neighbor’s niece anymore—and it was quite a coincidence that Mrs. Gupta’s niece was studying in Ithaca after all. Serena probably knew all about the Jhas’ new money. Her aunt and uncle had probably told her that they were moving to a bungalow in Gurgaon and had an unmarried son in the United States. Over the last year, Rupak had often been introduced to the daughters, nieces, and granddaughters of neighbors, friends, and acquaintances, and not one of them held his interest. Most of them already resembled their overweight mothers. His parents might have bought a new home and ordered a new car, but they didn’t yet have new friends. They were outsiders in both places at the moment.
Over the summer, the Patnaiks, who lived in D block and hardly ever socialized, bumped into him repeatedly at the new Café Coffee Day and insisted on paying for his coffee and chatting with him. Their daughter, Urmila, with her frizzy hair and visible stretch marks on her upper arms, sat with them quietly, smiling coyly in his direction, not saying a word while her mother told him how good she was at cooking.
“Not just cooking,” her father added. “She is a modern lady. She also takes dance classes and is thinking of joining a course for hairstyling.”
After that, Rupak stopped going to Café Coffee Day in the mornings.
So he didn’t expect the Guptas to have a particularly exciting niece and was already plotting a way to avoid spending more than fifteen minutes with Serena. And he didn’t want her to think he was too available, so he replied saying yes, they could meet at Stella’s at six next Friday for a quick drink. And then he would report to his mother and then, definitely then, he would also tell her about Elizabeth. Much to his surprise, Serena’s reply didn’t sound particularly keen on more than a quick drink either. In fact, she specified that it would be a cup of coffee.
The following week, on an unusually overcast September day, Mr. Jha pulled into the quiet lane of his new Gurgaon home. He had never been here by himself, he realized. Mrs. Jha was usually with him, and this summer Rupak had come with them a few times, and there were all the contractors and painters and builders buzzing around, working. He had never really appreciated the silence and the greenery before. Gurgaon felt still while the rest of Delhi throbbed.
The air was heavy with heat and the promise of rain. On the radio, a Bon Jovi song played. “It’s been raining since you left me,” the lyrics said. How funny, Mr. Jha thought. An Indian song would have to say, “It hasn’t rained since you left me.” Unless, of course, you were happy that they left you.
An electronic shoe-polishing machine in a large box was on the passenger seat of his Mercedes. He had strapped it in with the seat belt. It was beautiful. And it was expensive. It was not a planned purchase. This morning he had a breakfast meeting with two young men who were launching a website that would help people find handymen around Delhi, and they asked him to join their team as a consultant. He declined. He did not have time to take on any new work until they were done moving homes. And then they had to visit Rupak, so he was not going to have any free time until November or December. And then it would be the holiday season, so really it was best if he took the rest of the year off.
The meeting was over breakfast at the luxurious Teresa’s Hotel in Connaught Place in central Delhi, and after filling himself up with mini croissants, fruit tarts, sliced cheeses, salami, coffee, and orange juice, Mr. Jha went for a stroll through the lobby and the other restaurants in the hotel. All the five-star hotels in the center of town were little oases of calm and cool. Mr. Jha was walking by the large windows that overlooked the swimming pool that was for guests only when he thought he would book a two-night stay here. He knew his wife loved the indulgence of nice hotels and he had recently read about what youngsters were calling a staycation—a vacation where you don’t leave the city or the home you usually live in, but you give yourself a few days to take a holiday. Of course, since he didn’t work much anymore, most days, weeks, months were a staycation, but how wonderful it would be to check into a hotel and have a lazy few days. Having room service—or, like they were called at Teresa’s, butlers—was a different sort of pleasure than having servants bringing you food and cleaning your home. Butlers showed that you had made the progression from servants to expensive appliances to uniformed men who ran the expensive appliances.
He was about to go to the front desk to inquire about rates for the following week when he saw an electronic shoe polisher on the floor. He had not used one of those in ages. Mr. Jha placed his right foot in between the motion-sensor bristles, which promptly started whirring around his shoe. He did his left foot as well and then looked down happily to see how shiny his shoes were. They hadn’t looked this good since the day he bought them, so he changed his mind and decided that an electronic shoe polisher was a much better use of money than a staycation. They had just bought an expensive new house, after all, and thinking of a sta
y in a hotel as an “escape” was offensive to the new home. But the one thing missing in their hotel-like home was an electronic shoe polisher.
So instead of making a reservation for the following week, Mr. Jha asked the pretty woman at the front desk where they bought the electronic shoe polishers. She had no idea, so she had to call the manager while he waited. A shop in INA Market, she said, and wrote down the name on a small yellow sticky paper.
Mr. Jha left Teresa’s and went straight to the market, found exactly what he was looking for—more than what he was looking for—the newest model of the polisher had arrived recently, so Mr. Jha bought that one—and was now arriving in Gurgaon with the box safely belted on the front seat where there were front and side air bags for safety. He did not want to take the box back home to Mayur Palli, because he got the feeling his wife would not like it quite as much as she would have liked a staycation, so it would be best if she saw it later, when they were settled in and happy and excited about their new lives.
Mr. Jha reached the big metal gate of their new home in Gurgaon and was about to step out of the car to push it open—they would have to hire a guard soon—when the gate next door opened and a man walked out followed by what looked like a guard wearing a white uniform. Mr. Jha pressed the button to roll his window down. Had he remembered to show Rupak the power windows?
“Look at the chair,” the first man said to the guard. He pointed at what Mr. Jha assumed was the guard’s chair placed right outside the gate. It was plastic, with a dirty-looking brown cushion on it. A stack of newspapers lay under it. “This reflects on the house, Balwinder. I can’t keep repeating myself. Get the cushion cover washed, and throw away all the papers. What will people think?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Balwinder said, while looking at the idle car parked near the next gate. The new neighbors, he realized! The ones Mr. Chopra was waiting to meet. “Sir,” Balwinder whispered, pointing toward Mr. Jha’s car. “Sir, look behind you.”
“Balwinder, focus. I’m late for golf already. Clean this up and take the contractor to the backyard when he comes,” Mr. Chopra continued. “If my wife is going to keep objecting to a swimming pool, we’re just going to have to have the contractor take measurements when she’s out shopping.”
“Sir, madam told me this morning not to let the pool contractor in when she goes shopping. I think she knows,” Balwinder said.
“How does that woman know everything I’m doing? Before I’ve even done it. Never get married, Balwinder.”
Mr. Jha stepped out of his car and said, “Good morning! Hello!”
Mr. Chopra spun around. He was wearing khaki pants with a single crisp crease running down each leg. Mr. Jha would have to tell his wife to get their clothes ironed more carefully. He looked down at his pants, which were crushed along the upper thighs, and tried quickly flattening them with his palms. Mr. Chopra was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt on top that stretched taut over his belly that looked hard like a well-tuned drum. He had a white baseball cap on his head. He might not be a foreigner, Mr. Jha thought, but he certainly looked fashionable.
“Good morning, good morning, good morning. Lovely day. Are you our new neighbor? Chopra. I am Mr. Dinesh Chopra. Welcome. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Anil Kumar Jha,” Mr. Jha said, extending his hand. “A pleasure. We are not shifting in yet—just dropping some things off, and getting the place cleaned and some work done.”
Mr. Chopra’s cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, looked at it, motioned to Mr. Jha to please excuse him for one moment, answered, and said, “I will be there in under ten minutes. I am just leaving now. Seven. Seven minutes. I will be on the course in nine minutes.” He hung up and shouted, “Balwinder! Tell Nimesh to hurry up and get the car out.”
“Course?” Mr. Jha said.
“Golf. My golfing partner at the club is waiting for me. Do you golf? Where are you from? Delhi? London?”
“I haven’t golfed in a long time,” Mr. Jha said, which was technically true. His lifetime was a long time and he hadn’t ever golfed during it.
“Once you have settled in, we must play,” Mr. Chopra said. “What do you do? Oh, I want to know all about you.”
“We must, we must,” Mr. Jha said. “I work in technology. Computers. And you? We must have a meal and get to know each other.”
Computers. Maybe they had moved from San Francisco, then. Mr. Chopra looked into the window of the Mercedes. An image of the shoe-polishing machine was clearly printed on the box in the front seat.
“Oh good, are you throwing away Mr. Mukherjee’s shoe polisher? Thank goodness. Who gets shoes polished these days? Am I right? It is so much easier to buy new ones. I’m glad we will have neighbors with better taste now!” Mr. Chopra said.
His car came out of his driveway right as his phone rang again.
“So sorry,” Mr. Chopra said again to Mr. Jha. His phone kept ringing. “Oh dear. I simply have to run. But will you be here soon? We must chat. I don’t even know where you’re moving from. But I am in the process of getting a swimming pool put in, so maybe we’ll make it a pool party once you’re settled. I know your house does not have a pool.”
He opened the back door of his car, and the air-conditioned air spilled out and cooled Mr. Jha. He would have to learn golf and he would have to hire a driver who would quietly pull up in the car and wait patiently while Mr. Jha wore a baseball cap and pants with crisp creases in them. But first, he had to see if the shop in INA Market would allow him to return the shoe-polishing machine.
“We will be fully moved in soon,” Mr. Jha said. “But it is so nice to have already met a neighbor. It will make my wife happy to know there are friendly people in the area.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be off then, Mr. Jha. Here’s to our friendship!”
“Please call me Anil,” Mr. Jha said as Mr. Chopra’s car door slammed shut and the car pulled away down the lane.
At home in Mayur Palli, in the bottom drawer of her husband’s desk, Mrs. Jha found Rupak’s birth certificate. She put it on the pile of papers on the floor beside her and took a sip of her tea. Dust particles floated in the late-afternoon sunlight that was coming in through the window.
She ran her finger over the back edge of Mr. Jha’s desk and looked at the light gray and black dust that collected on her fingertip. Was it possible that one of the particles was from Rupak’s tenth birthday? Could there be one from the day he had come home in the evening with his lip cut open from a playground brawl? Perhaps one of the dust particles was from the afternoon when Rupak, seven, maybe eight years old, had fallen asleep on the school bus and not come home at the usual time. The maid had called her at the office to tell her that Rupak was gone and Mrs. Jha had rushed home in a taxi, crying and scared, only to find Rupak coming in the front gate, holding the bus driver’s hand, an hour after he should have returned. Mrs. Jha blew the dust off her finger, wiped it on the rag that she was using to clean up, and picked up the birth certificate again.
She was so scared when Rupak was born. Mr. Jha’s mother, Janaki, had died just eight days before Mrs. Jha went into labor, and the entire time she was giving birth, she prayed it would be a boy so she would not have to name the child Janaki. If it had been a girl, Mr. Jha would have insisted on naming her in his mother’s memory, and nobody named for her mother-in-law could be a happy person. Of that much Mrs. Jha was certain.
Janaki wasn’t so bad at first. She wore the most beautiful white widow’s saris. For many years, even after everything was arranged and they were married, Mrs. Jha always remembered that boy from Goa that she had kissed once on holiday with her friends from college and never saw again. That was part of why she agreed to marry Mr. Jha in the first place—to undo the guilt of having kissed a strange boy in Goa. Her parents never said anything about what happened in Goa, but she knew she had returned to Delhi slightly altered. Her parents must have also noticed, because the next week they set up the first meeting with a boy and his f
amily. The first one—she didn’t remember his name now—sat in between his parents on the sofa, and she knew immediately that he wouldn’t work for her. To test him, she had said that she’d like to meet him alone before deciding anything. His father had said that wouldn’t be possible and he had simply stared down at his feet. Mr. Jha was different—even though the families discouraged them from meeting alone, he agreed with her and made it happen. They went out to the Nirulas in Connaught Place for ice cream sundaes and Mr. Jha offered her a taste of his sundae, and it reminded her of the boy in Goa who offered her a taste of his bibimca, saying it was a sin to not have ever tried the Goan dessert. That was when she knew she would marry Mr. Jha. At first, every time Mr. Jha would touch her at night, she would shut her eyes tightly and think about that boy and her body would relax.
Mrs. Jha put Rupak’s birth certificate carefully back in a folder and placed the folder in the box. It had been so easy to conceive Rupak. The first two years of their marriage, they were not financially comfortable enough to have a child, so they had always timed their intercourse. When, however, it started becoming clear that computers were not going to vanish anytime soon, within a month, Mrs. Jha was pregnant. She always wanted another child but no matter how hard they tried, she never again managed to get pregnant. And Mr. Jha always refused to go to a doctor about it. “That’s too indulgent,” he would say if she ever brought it up. “These things should happen naturally.”
Every year, even now, Rupak’s birthday celebration was always muted because Mr. Jha was still mourning his mother. The night before she died, Mr. and Mrs. Jha had just come home from dinner and Mrs. Jha was heavily pregnant. She had dressed up that night because, in one of his few romantic moments, Mr. Jha had suggested they go out for dinner, since they would never be just the two of them again. When they came home, Janaki looked at the sari Mrs. Jha was wearing and said, “Are the rest of your clothes with the washerwoman?” The next morning when they woke up, Janaki was dead; those were the last words she ever said to Mrs. Jha. Now that she was long dead, Mrs. Jha could be more generous. It must have been difficult for her mother-in-law to have spent a much larger part of her life as a widow than as a wife.
