The Windfall

by Diksha Basu

  She didn’t think he had even noticed it. Then he got up and started his day, but she remained in bed a little bit longer, happy. That happiness had carried her through her marriage. She raised her right hand to her ear and touched the tip of a finger to the mole and wondered when Upen would notice it.

  She saw, in the window she was facing, the short waitress leading the tall Upen Chopra over toward her table. Before she could respond—before she could even decide how to respond—she felt his warm hand on her shoulder, a sliver of his finger directly against a sliver of her bare neck, as he came around from behind her to her side.

  “Should we start with an order of the fennel salad?” Upen asked. “And what will you have to drink? Some wine, perhaps? Or whiskey? I’m a whiskey drinker myself, but I’m happy to share a bottle of wine.”

  “No whiskey for me, thank you,” Mrs. Ray said. “Maybe just a glass of wine. White wine.”

  She never drank whiskey in front of others. She had, once, when her husband was alive, and Mrs. De had said, “Whiskey. Oh my. Aren’t you a modern woman?” with such poison in her voice that she now stuck to only white wine in public, sometimes with soda added in to make it even daintier.

  “In that case, I’ll have a whiskey,” Upen said, and waved the waitress over and ordered their drinks and the salad. She was going to order a glass of the local white wine that tasted awful and was made in a vineyard outside Mumbai, but Upen said, “She’ll have a glass of the sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. You’ll like it. I went to New Zealand about four years ago and now that’s the only white wine I drink.”

  Mrs. Ray liked his authoritative way even though she had noticed that the foreign wine cost three times the price of the domestic one and she was not sure how the bill was going to be split tonight. She shook that thought out of her head and committed to trying to enjoy herself. She hardly spent money on anything these days; a glass of imported wine would not cause her to go bankrupt.

  “I’ve heard New Zealand is beautiful,” she said.

  “Oh, you’d love it. It’s as if God—if you believe in God—was particularly kind to that whole country,” Upen said, and then continued talking about his holiday there through the appetizers. Mrs. Ray had stopped listening after he said she would love it, because the way he phrased it made it sound as though they would perhaps go there together someday, and even though that was an absurd thought to have barely half an hour after sitting down to dinner with this man, it was a thought that made her feel warm inside.

  Through the main course—a rather bland grilled sea bass with vegetables for her, and a vegetable korma with rice for him—and her second glass of wine and his second large pour of whiskey on the rocks—they continued to talk about cities and countries far away from where they were as if they both understood that to talk about anything closer would be dangerous tonight. They asked each other almost no questions about their lives. They both knew that by this age, there was too much that was too difficult to speak about and you never knew which question would unravel a carefully crafted conversation. Upen smiled and tilted his empty whiskey glass toward himself. “Another glass of wine for you?”

  Mrs. Ray wanted to say yes. She wanted another glass of wine, maybe even a whiskey. She wanted to stay here talking to him and hearing about the world for many more hours, but she was nervous. She was getting to the point where she wanted to know less about the biodiversity of New Zealand and much more about who was with him on his trip, who it was that stood by his side on the viewing deck of the Sky Tower in Auckland, who walked through the dark caves of Waitomo with him to see the glowworms, who tried a bite of the best rack of lamb he’d ever tasted. So instead she declined the offer for more alcohol, but he insisted on dessert and she didn’t refuse.

  “I’m so happy to hear you’re interested in visiting Chandigarh,” Upen said as their plates were cleared away. “Did your husband spend a lot of time there?”

  “Oh no, he just spoke about it,” Mrs. Ray said. “But he always wanted to go.”

  “It’s nice of you to consider making the trip for him,” Upen said.

  Mrs. Ray felt guilty about using her husband this way, so she simply said, “He was a good man.”

  Upen nodded.

  “My wife was a good woman,” he said.

  “When did she pass?” Mrs. Ray said.

  “What? Oh, my wife. Right. About seven years ago. I’ve been on my own for the past seven years.”

  “My husband died five years ago,” Mrs. Ray said.

  “I’m sure wherever they are now, they want to see us happy. If you had died first, would you want your husband to remarry?”

  Mrs. Ray was silent for a moment.

  “I’ve never really thought about that. I know I should say yes, yes, of course, but I don’t know. Is that an awful thing to admit?”

  “I think it’s a very brave thing to admit,” Upen said.

  “It would have been easier for him to have been the one left behind. The world is more forgiving for male widows. He wouldn’t have everyone peering into his windows to see exactly how he was living his life. Male widows are lucky.”

  Upen said nothing.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Ray said. “That’s not how I meant it. No widows are lucky. Male ones are simply less unlucky than female ones.”

  Upen laughed and said, “No, no. You have a point. It’s definitely easier for male widows, except men don’t know how to make dinner.”

  “They can hire maids,” Mrs. Ray said, grateful that Upen had laughed, grateful that the topic of widowhood didn’t have to be shrouded in whispers and sadness and guilt.

  “We should start a matchmaking agency for the widowed,” Upen said. “Men need women who know how to make them dinner.”

  “Or we could start a cooking class for male widows,” Mrs. Ray said.

  By the time the New York–style cheesecake with raspberry coulis and trio of macaroons were served, Upen had started talking about Chandigarh again, and Mrs. Ray had come to the conclusion that it was a dreadfully boring city but Upen was wonderful company.

  “There’s so much more to tell you about Chandigarh. I know it’s getting late now, but perhaps we could meet again some night?” Upen said when the check was brought to the table.

  Mrs. Ray tried to calculate how much her share was going to be—it was not a cheap restaurant, and there was the international wine order. And the dessert—those three tiny macaroons cost more than a full meal would at the South Indian restaurant in the market outside Mayur Palli. When the high of this evening wore off, she was going to feel terrible. Mrs. Ray was about to reach into her purse when Upen placed his big hand on the little black folder that held the check and pulled it toward himself. She wondered what it would feel like if his hands were ever on her body. They were not a young person’s hands, but they were hands that looked confident and firm. Mrs. Ray owed Mrs. Jha a thank-you—for calling Upen Chopra on her behalf. And for moving to Gurgaon.

  “You might even know some of the people here tonight. Delhi is a small social circle,” Serena said to Rupak as they walked through Collegetown on Saturday night.

  “Correction: the Delhi you come from is a small social circle. I grew up in a different world in East Delhi. Our worlds don’t collide,” Rupak said.

  As they walked along in silence, Rupak worried that his comment had sounded too rude. Either rude or insecure and he really didn’t want to be either.

  “Hey, thanks for inviting me tonight,” he said.

  Serena stopped walking as they approached the apartment block and turned to him.

  “Thanks for agreeing to come. I like hanging out with you. It’s funny, we grew up probably within—what?—fifteen miles of each other and then we both ended up in this small town in upstate New York, but we’re so different, aren’t we? It’s fun.”

  “So different?” Rupak said. “I thought the opposite—we have so much in common.”

  “We have logistical stuff in common
, sure—I guess in that we’re both from Delhi. But that’s about it, I’d say. I don’t really cavort with the obscenely wealthy usually.”

  Rupak laughed at the term obscenely wealthy, but he noticed Serena did not.

  “But I like hanging out with you. And your texts are pretty funny,” she said, and she kept walking and he didn’t want to sound petty, so he walked along with her.

  The nights in Ithaca were starting to get cold and the trees were almost bare already. The winter was much more of a proper winter here than it was in Delhi. In Delhi, even though the temperature dropped, the days did not shorten as noticeably and the leaves on the trees never changed color.

  Groups of undergraduate girls in short dresses and bare legs rushed down the sidewalk huddled together, talking and laughing about the promise of the night ahead. Despite the cold, Collegetown on a Saturday night felt electric with life and energy. Walking down this stretch with Serena felt very different than doing so with Elizabeth. Serena didn’t seem to notice the buzz all around them, let alone have a desire to participate. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was the buzz. It emanated from her. Rupak felt a pang of guilt about having left her behind in her apartment tonight. He had technically not lied. He had told her he was meeting a family friend from Delhi who went to Cornell. Okay, perhaps he had lied slightly: he had said the friend did not speak fluent English so it would be boring for Elizabeth to come along. Fortunately, she was not the kind to cross-examine him or care. She was perfectly happy going out with her own friends and living her own life. It was another one of the things Rupak loved about Elizabeth—her independence. Although, he thought, maybe it wasn’t independence. Maybe she didn’t care because she thought he was incapable of looking at another woman. Maybe Elizabeth thought she had Rupak in the palm of her hand and would never have reason to worry. Maybe she thought he wasn’t man enough to ever cheat on her.

  “Where’d you go?” Serena said. “You went silent.”

  “Sorry, nothing. I like hanging out with you too. Your friends—are they all studying theater?” Rupak asked.

  “No. I’m the only one foolish enough to do that. There are a few business and law school people. Suresh is here doing his PhD in math and a few are doing their master’s in international relations. And one of the women, Pallavi, is doing a PhD in comparative literature. I don’t know her too well, though—she’s older. Her younger brother was my boyfriend in school,” Serena said.

  She knocked on the door. Rupak could smell the marijuana smoke seeping out from behind the door and muffled conversation and laughter on the other side. All these people from Delhi with whom he had nothing in common except for a city. It was like an exclusive club and he was not sure he knew how to talk to people studying comparative literature and math. He would have to find the business students and stick with them.

  Rupak was welcomed into a room filled with smoke and soft music he did not recognize. This was not at all the kind of gathering he had been expecting—he was prepared for either loud Bollywood music or contemporary American hip-hop. Those were the two brands of Indians he was used to—the ones trying hard to assert their Indianness, and the ones trying hard to assert their Americanness. But Rupak instead found himself standing in the middle of a room filled with neither. He followed Serena into the kitchen and poured himself a strong vodka tonic. She stood next to him while a man passed her a joint. Rupak was curious to see what she was going to do with it. He had not expected to see her like this. She was wearing jeans, the ends of which were folded up to expose a sliver of skin and gray ankle boots with short heels. On top she was wearing a bulky white sweater and her hair was loose and a little messy. She tucked some of the hair behind her ear and took the joint and brought it to her lips. She inhaled, looked up toward the ceiling, and exhaled slowly. Rupak and the man who had passed her the joint just watched. Serena let out a small cough, smiled, passed the joint to Rupak and said, “Rupak, this is Ashish. He’s doing his MBA. Ashish, this is Rupak. He’s from Delhi and he’s doing his MBA at Ithaca College. But he’s also really interested in film.”

  While leaving Beebe Lake, Rupak had told Serena that he was studying at Ithaca College. He made it sound casual, as if there were no reason why she should have assumed he was studying at Cornell, and she had accepted it equally casually, as if she hadn’t assumed he was studying at Cornell. And then they hadn’t spoken about it. He got the sense that Serena thought it was interesting in its strangeness—her less-successful rich friend who preferred Beebe Lake over books. She didn’t ask him much about his life, and Ithaca College quickly got tucked away with Gurgaon. Until she just mentioned it, he wasn’t even sure she had registered it.

  Ashish said, “Hey,” and Rupak nodded at him, inhaling deeply from the joint.

  “Did you study at SPV too?” Kunal asked.

  “No. I know Rupak through my aunt,” Serena answered. She picked up her vodka tonic and slipped out of the kitchen, leaving Rupak alone with Ashish. They both looked at each other and sipped and smoked for some time, Rupak wondering if Ashish had ever slept with Serena. Ashish asked Rupak a few questions about his classes, and Rupak answered and did the same.

  “Are you looking at jobs in New York next year?” Rupak asked.

  “No, I’m going to head to Bombay. I interned at Mahindra after undergrad and I want to work for them full time. My girlfriend lives in Delhi, so that’ll be a lot easier. Are you planning to move to New York?”

  “I think so,” Rupak said. “I hope so. I want to go into investment banking, so it makes sense.”

  “I would think Bombay or Hong Kong makes more sense. Does Serena know your plans?” Ashish asked.

  “Oh no,” Rupak said. “We aren’t, she isn’t…we’re just friends.”

  Ashish nodded.

  Rupak thought about how easy it would be to date Serena—how comfortably she would fit in his life. Despite what she said, he thought they had a lot in common and his parents would certainly approve of that. But he didn’t think Serena thought of him as more than a friend. Seeing her here in this world, he realized she had an ease around her male friends that made it impossible for him to read her. Was she hoping he would kiss her at the end of the night? He wanted to want to. He found her beautiful and appealing, but the word appealing wasn’t exactly making him excited. He never thought about Elizabeth that way. With Elizabeth, there was a physical hunger—he had never wondered whether to kiss her; he just had to kiss her.

  Rupak took back the joint and had another drag. He had to be careful to smoke just enough to feel relaxed but not so much that he started feeling fidgety. He was already feeling more like an outsider than he had in recent years.

  “What does your girlfriend do?” he asked Ashish.

  “She’s a costume designer for films. I’m trying to convince her to move to Bombay with me, but she loves Delhi. I can’t deal with Delhi and the whole who’s-who of it all. Serena said you make films, right? You should move to Bombay too. Have you spent any time there?”

  Rupak shook his head.

  “Where did you do film, then? You won’t even think of moving to New York once you’ve spent some time in Bombay. You really feel part of things there, you know—the movement.” Ashish stopped. “Did I just say ‘the movement’? I’ve smoked too much. Here, finish the joint. I’m going to go sit down for a bit.”

  He walked out of the kitchen and Rupak stood there holding the joint and finished his vodka tonic with two large sips. Serena came back in the kitchen with another beautiful Indian woman. Serena took the joint from his fingers, picked up a lighter from the sticky kitchen counter, and used it to relight the end while introducing him to Pallavi.

  “She’s the one doing a PhD in comparative literature.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Rupak said. “You’re also from Delhi?”

  “I went to school there but then I left. I haven’t lived in Delhi for years now,” Pallavi said, pouring herself a drink. Over her shoulder, Rupak made eye contact with S
erena, who was standing in the doorway of the cramped kitchen, smiling in his direction, the vodka already making her eyes sparkle.

  “Where do you live now?” Rupak asked.

  “I’ve already been in Ithaca for three years, I guess. My God, it’s been too long. But I was living in Goa before this. You’re from Delhi, right?”

  Rupak nodded and asked, “What was in Goa?”

  “I ran a bookshop. And surfed,” she said, laughing. “That sounds so ridiculous now. But I got it in my head that I wanted to be a surfer, so I moved to Goa after college.”

  “And you fell in love,” Serena added.

  “And I fell in love,” Pallavi nodded, “With an Israeli hippie, no less. Don’t ask. Anyone need a refill?”

  Rupak and Serena declined, and Pallavi took her drink and went back into the living room. Serena stepped closer to Rupak and whispered, “Are you okay here? You’re just hiding in the kitchen.”

  “I’ve been talking to people. I like it. I like them. I don’t know people like this from Delhi. How did she meet an Israeli hippie?”

  “In Goa. Haven’t you spent any time in Goa?”

  “I went one winter with my parents, but I don’t remember seeing any Israeli hippies,” Rupak said.

  “Goa with your parents is very different. You should go for New Year’s Eve sometime. That’s the Goa my friends and I go to. We started going right after we finished school. Pallavi had just moved there, so the first time I went was with her brother.”

  “The one you dated?” Rupak asked.

  “The one I dated,” Serena said.

  “I talked to Ashish for a while. He seems nice.”

  “He is. He has an identical twin. I can never tell them apart. Fortunately, the twin lives in London now.”

  “Did you ever date Ashish?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Rupak said. “Sorry.”

  “Jealous?” Serena said, looking closely into his eyes. “Come on. Come to the living room. I’ll introduce you to the others.” She took his hand and led him toward the rest of her friends from Delhi.