The Windfall

by Diksha Basu

  “Do you live here? With your family?” Upen said. He wanted to keep her here and talk to her more.

  The white BMW that Mrs. Ray had passed pulled up next to them near the guava stand, and the dark window of the backseat went down. The woman in the yoga pants put her head out the window and said, “Upen, darling, how nice to see you. It’s been ages.”

  “Sheila. It has indeed. How are you? You look lovely, of course.”

  “All for you. What are you doing walking the streets? Come. Come along to the LRC with me.”

  “I would love to, but I was just having a chat with Reema here…”

  “It’s quite all right. I must be going anyway,” Mrs. Ray said quickly, and walked away from the guava cart and the white BMW and the handsome man. She could never call him darling and invite him into her car. She quickly glanced over her shoulder and saw Upen still standing near the car, his hand resting on top of it, talking into the window. He looked up and saw her looking at him while walking away and he smiled. She smiled back quickly and turned away.

  Mrs. Ray walked into the Jhas’ house and went to the kitchen, which was at the back of the ground floor with a door leading out to the small backyard and servants’ quarter. In Mayur Palli, she had no privacy from Ganga, and Ganga had none from her. Ganga’s “servants’ quarter” was just the side room that was used for storage and happened to have a small bathroom attached to it, with an Indian-style squatting toilet. Ganga kept a thin rolled-up mattress to sleep on, and all her belongings fit in a metal trunk that doubled as a table and shrine for her various gods.

  “Some tea? How is the rest of the lane?” Mrs. Jha asked, turning off the gas and pouring hot tea, catching the tea leaves in the brass strainer that she held over each cup.

  Mrs. Ray nodded.

  “So peaceful and quiet. You are lucky to be living here. I think I met the man who lives next door and he was very friendly. And some of the ladies who live around the corner as well.”

  “You did? Oh, thank God. I haven’t seen anyone yet. Did you talk to them?”

  “No, not really. Just a smile and a hello. They were busy chatting. But they seemed friendly.”

  “Oh, Reema,” Mrs. Jha said. “How does one start from scratch at this age? How do I make friends here all over again?”

  “The man next door, Upen Chopra, was very friendly. I’m sure his wife will also be wonderful,” Mrs. Ray said.

  “Or maybe there’s no wife and you will fall in love with him and move in next door and then I’ll have my friend,” Mrs. Jha said.

  “He was quite a handsome neighbor, I must say. But there is a wife. And a son. I don’t think I’ll be shifting in.”

  Mr. Jha came into the kitchen.

  “The showers look so lovely, I want to jump in right away and take a long, hot shower. Bindu, are the towels here yet?” he said.

  “I’m using the towels to pack the dishes. They’ll come with the movers. Are the workers done? Let’s finish the tea and get going now. I want to avoid rush hour.”

  “We have a six-CD changer in the car, Bindu. Rush hour is no longer a problem.”

  “But we don’t have six CDs in the car,” Mrs. Jha said. “You lock up upstairs and bring the car. Reema and I will walk ahead; I want to see the lane. And you can pick us up near the main road.”

  On his way back home, Mr. Chopra dropped his wife off at the tailor because she needed to get some of her blouses loosened, so it was just him and the driver in the car when he saw Mrs. Ray and Mrs. Jha standing near the main road, looking around at the new neighborhood and chatting.

  “Nimesh,” Mr. Chopra whispered. “That’s her. That must be her. The new woman of the house—in the jeans and red kurta. I have told my wife a thousand times to lose weight and instead now she is getting her blouses loosened. She ate more than half of my ice cream at the mall just now. Speed up, speed up. If they are still here, maybe Mr. Jha is at the home.”

  “Sir, would you like me to stop near the ladies?”

  “No, you fool. You can’t just pull up next to ladies in Delhi and stick your head out the window and say hello. They’ll call the police.”

  Mr. Chopra’s Jaguar reached his gate right as Mr. Jha’s Mercedes was reversing out of the next driveway.

  “Mr. Jha!” Mr. Chopra said, getting out of the car.

  “Oh, hello, hello, Dinesh. Please, call me Anil,” Mr. Jha said. He put his car into park and got out to shake hands with Mr. Chopra and push the big gate closed.

  “You’ll have to hire a guard soon, Anil,” Mr. Chopra said.

  “Yes, we must. As soon as we are settled in,” Mr. Jha said. He knew that Mrs. Jha thought it was unnecessary for a guard to be there all day just to open the gate a few times. Most of the guards weren’t there for actual security purposes anyway. What would these skinny men with no training do if there was an actual break-in? Nothing. Run and hide, probably.

  “How is the move coming along? Please do let me know if I can be of any help.”

  “How kind of you. I will certainly let you know. And we must raise a toast. But right now, alas, my wife has walked ahead to the main road to explore the area and I must pick her up. But we will be making the final move next week!”

  “I think I drove past her while turning in from the main road. Will it be just the two of you?”

  “It will be mostly just the two of us. We have a son, but he is in business school in America at the moment.”

  “Wonderful. We also have a son. He lives at home. You will meet him. And my brother Upen is also visiting from Chandigarh. God knows why he insists on living in Chandigarh when there’s no family holding him back. In any case, you must come over and meet everyone next time.”

  Mr. Jha wondered how this man could have a son young enough to still live at home.

  “Yes, that would be lovely. We will come over as soon as we are settled in,” Mr. Jha said.

  “Good, good. And in the meanwhile, let me just give you our phone number in case you need anything at all. Please, take my card. Take two, one for your wife also.”

  “That is so kind of you,” Mr. Jha said. “I will tell her. I would like her to speak to some of the ladies in this neighborhood. She is considering going back to work after we settle in, but let’s see.”

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Chopra said. “Well, these are the times we live in, Mr. Jha. Life is expensive; many people need to have a double income at home.”

  “What?” Mr. Jha said.

  “No harm, no shame. It is perfectly acceptable for women to work these days. I wish my wife would do more than shop all day! I’ve spoiled her,” Mr. Chopra said with a laugh and a shake of his head. “Anyway, don’t keep your wife waiting. But please do give us a call. We look forward to having you next door.”

  When Mrs. Ray and Mrs. Jha got in the car, Mr. Jha said, “Bindu. Will you please look into hiring a guard immediately? It is important.”

  Mr. Jha was learning that in this neighborhood, your guard was a direct representation of how much was worth guarding in your home. Guards with guns meant bricks of gold somewhere in the house. Maybe he would also get a guard with a gun, Mr. Jha thought; it would be cheaper than buying bricks of gold.

  “I met Mr. Dinesh Chopra just now as I was pulling out of the driveway. Our new neighbor,” Mr. Jha said.

  “You mean Upen Chopra?” Mrs. Ray said.

  “Who is Upen Chopra? You mean Upen Patel, that actor?” Mr. Jha said.

  “No, Upen Chopra. The neighbor. I also met him when I went for a walk,” Mrs. Ray said.

  “No, Dinesh Chopra. Oh yes, he mentioned Upen. That is the brother who is visiting from Chandigarh. Mr. Chopra said Upen does not have a family, so he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t move to Delhi. Isn’t Chandigarh the city that is known for its grid system of roads? Like New York City—I like that kind of order. I would also not mind living there,” Mr. Jha said. “Anyway, Dinesh has given his phone number and invited us to dinner once we are settled, Bindu.”


  Mr. Jha passed Mr. Chopra’s business card to his wife, who looked at it and then passed it to Mrs. Ray in the backseat with a smile.

  “There’s a brother,” Mrs. Jha said. “With no family.”

  “Chandigarh,” Mr. Jha continued. “I wonder if we should buy a summer home there—what do they call it? Something French. A pedicure? A pediterre? Bindu, what’s the term I’m looking for?”

  “A pied-à-terre,” Mrs. Jha said. “And no, we don’t need one in Chandigarh.”

  In the backseat, Mrs. Ray looked at the business card. Was Mrs. Jha trying to set her up? She was not twenty. She was not going to call a strange man and introduce herself. She reached the card back to the front seat toward Mrs. Jha, who swatted her away gently.

  “Why don’t we stop at Khan Market for a pastry on the way home?” Mrs. Jha said. “That way we’ll also avoid rush hour.”

  In Khan Market, the three of them went to Big Chill, the café in the back lane, and requested a table. After ordering some cake and tea, Mrs. Ray excused herself, saying she needed to quickly pick up a book and would be back by the time the food arrived.

  “Excuse me,” a young white woman wearing a salwar kameez and a backpack said to them, touching Mrs. Ray’s chair. “Is this seat taken?”

  “No. Yes,” Mr. Jha said, “It will be. Mrs. Ray…”

  “No problem,” the woman said, smiling, and moved along to the next table to look for a chair. Mr. Jha was not used to seeing so many foreigners in Delhi. You certainly never saw foreigners around Mayur Palli. The Ghoshes’ daughter had married a Canadian who had visited once, but with his short height, round face, and glasses, he looked more like a Bengali than most Bengalis so Mr. Jha never considered him a foreigner. But these days, they were everywhere. He saw the white woman find a chair and pull it up to join a mixed group of friends at a table nearby. He heard her also ask for a glass of water in English. That was how much Delhi had changed now. Earlier, the white people who visited would learn basic Hindi words to use while interacting with waiters or drivers or shopkeepers. Now, in these parts of town, they no longer had to do that. They assumed everyone understood basic English, and they were right. Even the taxi drivers in these parts of Delhi could converse in English.

  “Do you think Mr. Chopra’s brother is single?” Mrs. Jha asked. “Because if so, we should introduce him to Mrs. Ray.”

  “What for?” Mr. Jha said. He was still looking over at the white woman. “There are so many foreigners in Delhi these days.”

  “Maybe it will make Rupak want to come back here,” Mrs. Jha said. “It says a lot about a city as it gets diverse.”

  Mr. Jha wondered what it would be like if Rupak married a white woman. He had thought about this since Rupak had left for America. His son was becoming handsome of late, he knew that. He had never considered it before, but maybe it would be fun if he ended up married to a beautiful blue-eyed woman. Maybe they would even come and spend some time with them in Gurgaon. It would be nice to take her out to dinner or to take her to the Chopras’ house for a drink. She’d make an effort, wearing a sari but more seductively than was appropriate, with her blond hair in loose curls tumbling down her back. She would stand next to Mr. Jha and when his glass was empty, she would say, “Dad, do you want another drink?” Even though his wife wanted Rupak to marry an Indian woman, Mr. Jha was open to the idea of a white daughter-in-law, as long as she was beautiful. Like one of those Baywatch women.

  “We should buy swimming costumes,” Mr. Jha said to his wife. “Do you think I should go and have a look while we wait for our food? I earlier heard Mr. Chopra was considering getting a pool—I could speak to his builders.”

  “Anil, you don’t even know how to swim.”

  “If Rupak brings friends to visit from America, it would be nice to have a swimming pool. We’ll wear bathing suits, lounge by the pool, drink…what is that drink? Pomm’s? Pimm’s? That’s what they drink in England.”

  “We don’t live in England.”

  “Imagine telling Mr. Chopra to come over for a glass of Pimm’s near the pool. Do you drink Pimm’s in a glass? Or would it be a cup of Pimm’s? There is so much left to learn in life,” Mr. Jha said.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Ray had left the Jhas at Big Chill and was walking quickly toward the liquor store in the adjoining market across the parking lot behind Khan Market. She always preferred buying her whiskey away from the gossiping world of Mayur Palli, where nothing at all was private. And it was not simply a question of privacy. The fact was that in East Delhi, a woman—a widow, no less—buying a bottle of whiskey was something that people felt the need to talk about. What harm was there in her enjoying an occasional drink? No harm. But if she went to the liquor shop across from the Mayur Palli gates, someone would spot her and then the whole housing complex would talk about her drinking. And if she did what she did two weeks ago, and took a cycle rickshaw all the way over to the next market to get it, her own neighbors might not see, but the boys who worked at the liquor store there would look at her lecherously and pass comments.

  When she went last time—not to be secretive, really—she had gone to pick up some sari blouses that she had given for stitching and her favorite tailor happened to sit right near the liquor store, so she just thought it would be best to kill two birds with one stone. Like most of the liquor stores in the area, there was no browsing; you had to go up to a counter and ask the men—boys, really—to give you a bottle of what you wanted. There were always red-faced men jostling for space at the counter. At least she didn’t have to go to the separate window for the really poor drunks who were looking to buy unmarked locally brewed liquor—the kind that was often laced with pesticides and resulted in death or serious illness.

  Mrs. Ray hated walking up to this counter of men and pretending she was there to buy something for her husband. The men at the counter would inevitably get surprised to see her and would push back and make space for her to approach. They would do this under the guise of respect, but Mrs. Ray didn’t miss their leers and comments and laughs as she stood there asking, as confidently as she could, for a bottle of Black Label. She did not want to care what these men thought. Let them stare, she would tell herself. But when she got there, she mumbled, “Black Label is all my husband will drink. It’s just too expensive, but what to do?”

  But last time the man who was working there wrapped his fingers around hers while passing the bottle. He pulled away immediately, of course, but not before he bit his lower lip and made leering eye contact.

  But in Khan Market, the man working behind the counter spoke to her in English and told her about an Indian brand of whiskey that had recently been launched that he recommended she try.

  “Next time,” she said, smiling, without feeling the need to mumble anything about a husband.

  Mrs. Ray put the bottle into her purse and walked back toward Big Chill for cake and tea, comforted by the thoughts of a strange man from Chandigarh and a new bottle of whiskey in her purse.

  When she got back Mr. Jha was trying unsuccessfully to cut his lemon tart with a knife and fork.

  “What book did you buy?” Mrs. Jha asked.

  “Mr. Jha, wouldn’t it be much easier to pick it up and take a bite? They didn’t have what I was looking for,” Mrs. Ray said. As close as she and Mrs. Jha were, she was never comfortable admitting to enjoying the occasional drink by herself.

  “Can we stop by the liquor store on the way out for a bottle of Pimm’s?” Mr. Jha said, the crust of his lemon tart breaking into crumbs on his plate, leaving him to mix it up with the yellow jelly and scoop it into his mouth like rice and curry.

  “They won’t have anything so fancy here,” Mrs. Ray said, nervous that they would have to walk to the liquor store after this and the salesman would recognize her from hardly half an hour ago. “Pimm’s will be more appropriate to drink to celebrate once you finish your move.”

  “I was thinking we should give the Chopras a call,” Mrs. Jha said. “Since they w
ere so warm. It will be nice to get to know them. Maybe they’ll have a daughter for Rupak.”

  “They only have a son,” Mr. Jha said. “In any case, maybe Rupak will meet someone himself in America.”

  Rupak got a C on his first prelim. He also got a C on the first two problem sets for his accounting class, along with a note from the teaching assistant that said, “Please come and see me during office hours. I’m worried you may need extra tutoring.”

  He hadn’t bothered to see the teaching assistant yet because she was a young Indian woman who was doing a PhD in economics and it was embarrassing. She reminded him of Serena.

  His parents would not be pleased if he had to retake classes over the summer before Ithaca College would give him his MBA, and since that was looking likely, having an Indian girlfriend would really help smooth things out at home. And his parents were now planning a visit to America, which meant that he had to start arranging his life accordingly.

  Even though he certainly was not ready to let Elizabeth go, maybe it was best to see how things went with Serena. After all, he had never technically discussed exclusivity with Elizabeth. If anything, she was putting too much pressure on him by repeatedly asking him to tell his family about her. Maybe it wasn’t cowardice. Maybe he just wasn’t ready. That’s what he would tell her.

  He had been exchanging text messages with Serena since he saw her and they were easy and fun and familiar. This morning she had texted him,

  Have you seen all the places in Collegetown charging $5 or more for turmeric milk? Good old haldi doodh that our mothers make every day. Forget banking, that should be your next big business idea—something from our childhood at marked-up prices. I’m thinking Maggi Ramen. Wait, that might actually be a good idea.