by Diksha Basu
The party continued in a haze of marijuana and stiff drinks, and Rupak felt his voice slipping back into his comfortable Indian accent and bits of Hindi creeping into his sentences. Serena sat by his side and he rested his hand on her thigh and thought of Elizabeth. By now he wanted to kiss Serena, but he also wanted to go over to find Elizabeth and breathe in the smell of her tousled blond hair and hear what she had been doing all evening. He wanted to hear her talk about her home, her one home. The marijuana and the alcohol and the Indians were making his head spin and he wanted desperately to cling to something stable.
In Gurgaon, it was finally the day Mr. Chopra had been planning for. It was time to sit down and get to know the new neighbors.
“Is Johnny going to be home this evening?” Mr. Chopra asked his wife. “And did you have pastries picked up from the club?”
“Who knows when Johnny will come home? Who told you to buy him a new car? Now he will be even more useless,” Mrs. Chopra said.
She went back to playing Angry Birds on her iPad. She wasn’t as excited about the new neighbors as her husband was, but she was looking forward to having new friends. She went to the LRC on occasion, but those evenings were just an opportunity for their friends and neighbors to get drunk and flirt with each other. She had heard whispers of a few couples trading partners, and it sounded mad to her. Most of them were nearing sixty—they were trading partners for what? Rubbing Icy Hot on each other’s backs at the end of the day? All those women huffing and puffing on the treadmills, trying to be young women in old women’s bodies. After the gym, they would stop by the bar to see their husbands and have a drink, and they would laugh and shake their ponytails around like the young girls Johnny chased after. She was glad her husband had lost interest in those women with age. At least that was one thing he was sensible about.
“Have you checked the maids’ uniforms? And told them to put out the crystal glasses?” Mr. Chopra asked his wife.
“I’m sure it’s all fine. Why are you creating such a fuss? It’s a weeknight. They won’t stay that long. Will Upen be joining us?”
“No, he’s gone out for dinner with some college friends. Geeta, do you ever worry about the future?” Mr. Chopra asked.
“About getting old?” Mrs. Chopra asked.
“Worse—getting poor,” Mr. Chopra said.
“No, I don’t waste time thinking about that. And neither should you. Things are good.”
“For now. But what happens if the mine crumbles? Or I lose control of the management?”
Mrs. Chopra put her iPad down.
“That is why we bought property and jewelry and gold. What is wrong with you today?”
“What if everyone else in Delhi becomes rich and the people who are poor now move in next door and suddenly we are one of the poor. What then?”
“Then nothing,” Mrs. Chopra said. She knew her husband was impossible to talk to when he got in one of these moods. “You think about it all too much. We will be fine. Things don’t just fall apart all the time and economies don’t change overnight. Because of your hard work, Johnny will also always live well. Look at him, driving around all day, getting better and better at tennis. Not all fathers can provide that for their sons. Didn’t you say the next-door boy is studying in America? Poor fellow.”
“That is true. At least Johnny will not have to go in for postgraduate studies, thank God,” Mr. Chopra said. “I’ll go take a quick shower before the neighbors come.”
Next door, Mr. Jha was also taking a shower before their evening out with the neighbors. His wife was probably being stubborn as usual and sitting crouched on her haunches over a bucket of water, with a mug. Mr. Jha did not even like having an overturned bucket in the bathroom with him when he was showering. He liked to have the floor space open to move around freely, so in Gurgaon he installed a section under the sink with a drain where Mrs. Jha could store her bucket and mug after she was done bathing.
She also insisted on keeping a mug in the downstairs bathroom near the toilet. He had started noticing that fewer and fewer Indian homes kept mugs near the toilet these days. Almost all kept toilet paper, and most had traded in the mug for a water gun attached to the wall. Mr. Jha was getting used to those—it was like having a handheld bidet for easy aiming—and he had water guns installed in all the bathrooms, but even here, Mrs. Jha preferred using a mug and would often leave one near the toilet in the downstairs bathroom. He had repeatedly told her to hide the mug when it was not in use, but she always forgot. He would have to use the bathroom at the Chopras’ home to see how they had it set up.
They had been in Gurgaon for over a week now and had hardly seen their neighbors. Mr. Jha had left a note with the Chopras’ guard suggesting they get together for a drink. Of course they had not yet hired a guard themselves, so, in response, the Chopras had to throw a piece of paper over their gate inviting them for an after-dinner drink tonight. (A digestif, the note had said, and Mr. Jha had been using the term ever since.)
In the bedroom, Mrs. Jha took her gold chain out of the safe and put it around her neck. She usually only wore it to weddings or other fancy events, but maybe it was time to start using it more often. She smoothed down the front of her sari. She had changed into a starched yellow sari with a dark yellow blouse. An embroiderer in Jodhpur had worked on it. The pallu over her shoulder was covered with delicate patterns of birds and lilies in the same dark yellow as the blouse. She had ordered twelve of this design and color to be sold at the National Crafts Museum.
Mrs. Jha was one of the few women of her generation who had carried on a full career after getting married and even after having a child. Maybe it was time to consider going back to it now. The house was settled; there was not too much else for her to do all day, every day. And it was so quiet and lonely here. It had been over a week that they had been living here and they had not even met the neighbors yet. In Mayur Palli, even when she did not work, life felt hectic, but here it was too quiet. She could hear her own thoughts too loudly. And she could never be one of those women who spent her days at beauty parlors or out for endless lunches with friends. She did not have to work in quite the same way she used to. She could, perhaps, get a car and driver, for instance. And maybe she could even hire an assistant—a young graduate from the National Institute of Design, maybe, who would be the one to actually go to the villages and find the craftsmen. And Mrs. Jha could handle more of the business side of it.
She looked in the mirror to line her eyes with black kohl, and deep down she knew she no longer wanted to spend hours in the heat and dust of villages. Working with local craftsmen around Rajasthan had been fine, and even rewarding, when she was young and had the energy to drive and spend all day outdoors, using the villagers’ bathrooms and drinking questionable water. Not that she needed this big luxurious house and lifestyle in Gurgaon now, but she was tired of working. There were too many days when it felt hopeless.
So many of the craftsmen she worked with no longer wanted to do what they were doing, and how could she convince them that they should keep embroidering saris by hand in the heat when a machine could do it many times faster? And machines rarely made mistakes and the saris made by the machines cost much less. Most of the craftsmen she worked with lived in villages, but even the smallest villages now had cybercafés and the villagers were all aware that the world was changing in a way it never had before. Some of the craftsmen in Jaipur had heard about her husband’s sale, and they had started pestering her to find jobs in Delhi for their children. One of the women even got angry with Mrs. Jha for being from the big city and not helping to guarantee her children’s future. Why couldn’t she see how much Mrs. Jha was already doing for them? They didn’t understand that she could stay at home in comfort all day long. She did not have to try to help them. She did not have to go back and forth between shops in Delhi and the hot, dirty villages without proper plumbing. She did not have to help them get bank accounts and transport their creations back to Delhi. She did not ha
ve to do any of that. And so she just stopped doing it. She told herself it was because of the new house and the big move that was going to require a lot of her attention, but now that was all done and she was just another rich housewife.
Next door, Mrs. Chopra could not find one of her solitaire diamond earrings. It was only a one-carat one, but this was the second time in the past two months that she had misplaced a single earring. The last one, she was fairly certain, had been pulled out of her ear when she was changing and then had probably been thrown into the wash and there was no hope of finding it again. Now where had this one gone? Were the maids stealing? But then why would they steal a single earring? They could easily steal a pair. In fact, they probably had stolen many pairs—Mrs. Chopra never kept track of her jewelry and now that she was looking in her jewelry box, her collection did seem smaller than usual. Maybe she ought to start keeping the more precious pieces under lock and key. But she believed precious things should be treated the same way as nonprecious things. Placing too much value on anything was the simplest way to lose the possible pleasure to be derived from that thing. Still, her husband probably wouldn’t be thrilled that she had lost another earring. It was best not to mention it for now. She put on a pair of earrings that had an oval jade stone set in the center, surrounded by a frame of small diamonds. She fixed the pallu on her new sari—it was a dark blue chiffon sari with red vertical patterns from Rita Bahl’s new collection. Small pieces of onyx were stitched into the hemline, and the pallu was covered with silver zari work. It was quite a heavy sari, but Mrs. Chopra was looking for an excuse to wear it and she did not have to do much other than sit this evening. She checked her reflection in the mirror. She sparkled. She knocked on the bathroom door, told her husband to hurry up, and went downstairs to find her iPad and play some more Angry Birds while waiting for the neighbors.
Mrs. Chopra heard the next-door gate creak open.
“We should get someone in to oil these hinges,” Mrs. Jha said to her husband.
“Once we get a guard, he can probably do it himself,” Mr. Jha said.
Mrs. Jha ignored him. It was so quiet and dark out here. You could barely hear any traffic sounds, let alone hear the neighbors talking. The only sound was the occasional jackhammer at work on a construction site nearby; most construction in Delhi happened under the cover of night, and sometimes all of Gurgaon still felt under construction. What did all these people do in their big houses by themselves, Mrs. Jha wondered? There were four lights on the road and, as they walked the few feet between their gate and the Chopras’ gate, she was grateful for the eight other guards on the street. But she still didn’t think they needed one of their own.
Balwinder saw the Jhas approaching and pushed the gate open for them. He had not had much chance to interact with Mr. Jha, but Mrs. Jha was friendly and comfortable with him—two things that Mrs. Chopra certainly never was.
A few days ago, a taxi had stopped outside the gate and Mrs. Jha had stepped out with bags full of vegetables. Balwinder had walked over to help her open the gate and carry everything all the way in to her house. It was decorated quite differently from the Chopras’ house. The living room, which was all he saw, had minimal furniture—there was a black sofa with jewels on it that stood out—and two big bookshelves along the walls. Balwinder had only studied until seventh grade, so he did not get much pleasure out of reading, but he had always liked the sight of books. And Mrs. Jha was so kind to him. She offered him water and asked him questions about how long he had been working next door and where he was from.
Balwinder’s own mother had left him with an uncle in Ludhiana when he was two years old, and he had never heard from her again. He didn’t miss her because he had never known her. He heard rumors that she had an affair with the man she used to work for—she was a cook—and he had moved her to Dubai when his wife found out. Whenever his uncle got annoyed with him, he would tell Balwinder his mother had left him in order to become a prostitute. Now, in Delhi, Balwinder did not mind the thought of that so much. Sugandha was a prostitute but she brought him such joy. What harm was there that he left some money for her every time? That did not make her a bad person. Even on days when he only sat and chatted with Sugandha, he would leave money for her. She always made him get up and leave in exactly two hours, but he thought of her as a companion of sorts. If that was in fact what his mother was doing, Balwinder felt no shame about it. But his uncle would say it to him in such an unpleasant way that Balwinder left Ludhiana when he was thirteen. He stole whatever money he could from his uncle and made his way to Patiala and eventually to Delhi, where he worked as a tea boy for a few years before joining a security guard agency through the recommendation of an electrician who used to come to the tea shack every evening and had a cousin who worked as a guard in Hauz Khas. Balwinder had always gone through life alone and he was not used to people asking him much about himself, so he was glad Mrs. Jha had moved in next door.
“Good evening, madam. Good evening, sir,” Balwinder said as he opened the gate.
“Good evening, good evening. Tell me, young man,” Mr. Jha said to him. “Do you know any other guards? Maybe some friends of yours who are looking for work?”
“Sir, the agency will certainly have many people. I can give you their contact. Chopra-sir will also have it.”
“Agency? Okay, then. Thank you,” Mr. Jha said as they entered the Chopras’ driveway. “The guards come from agencies here?” he asked his wife in a lowered voice. “What kind of agency do they come from? He’s not a model, for God’s sake, he is just a guard.”
“I’ve heard about this. Even all the maids these days come from agencies. In fact, I want to get information for a maid’s agency from the Chopras as well. Only for the cooking and cleaning, don’t worry. It’s a good system. I’m sure they will be more trustworthy if they are with an agency. Maybe they do background checks. And it probably also gives the maids more rights. Some people treat maids so badly.”
“I’ve told you so many times that now you can get a full-time maid if you want. Here we have a servants’ quarter, so a maid won’t constantly be hanging around looking shabby. We can even get a couple and the man can be the guard and the woman can help around the house. Do some research and see if you can find that at an agency.”
Walking down the driveway of their neighbors’ home, Mrs. Jha could see the moon and even a star or two. She had been so nervous about this move, this neighborhood, and the new money, but seeing the small lights shaped like birds that lined the driveway, and the wrought-iron chairs and tables in the Chopras’ front yard, made her feel peaceful. One of the hedges was cut in the shape of a deer. What nice attention to detail. She had never imagined this would someday be her life.
She looked over at her husband. He was a self-made man and she was proud. She vowed to make this home a happy place. She had complained enough about the move to Gurgaon. It was time to stop worrying.
“Maybe we can also get some of our hedges shaped,” Mrs. Jha said, and pointed toward the deer hedge.
As they approached the Chopras’ door, Mrs. Jha smoothed down the front of her sari and fingered the gold necklace around her neck. She hoped it would not look excessive.
“I left the bottle of wine on the table,” Mr. Jha said. “You go and ring the bell, I’ll rush and get it and come.”
Mrs. Jha rang the bell. Mr. Chopra answered. He wondered why the neighbors had sent the maid ahead.
“Will sir and madam be joining us?” Mr. Chopra asked in Hindi.
Confused, Mrs. Jha said, “Good evening. My husband is just coming.”
She was standing in a foyer with a domed ceiling above her head on which, if she wasn’t mistaken, was a reproduction of the Sistine Chapel. Except in this production, Adam—it was Adam, wasn’t it?—was wearing a pair of black shorts.
“Of course, of course. Mrs. Jha. You are Mrs. Jha. Of course. Good evening. So wonderful to meet you. Welcome to Gurgaon. So nice to have new neighbors. Please com
e in. Come and sit. My wife is just getting ready. My brother is also in town but he has gone out. As has my son. Hopefully they will both join us later. Is your sister joining us? I thought I saw her the other day, so I was a bit confused, you see. But never mind. Please come in, come in. What can I get you to drink? A whiskey soda?”
“Oh no, not for me, thank you. Just a club soda will do. I’m not much of a drinker,” Mrs. Jha said. “I think maybe you are talking about my friend who was here with me last time? She’s an old friend.”
She followed Mr. Chopra into the living room. There was a thick beige carpet on the floor, and the doorway that they had entered through was flanked on both sides by two large marble swan figurines. Heavy vermillion curtains covered the windows and made the room feel like a Chinese restaurant in Defence Colony. The sofas were all various shades of brown and white, and in a corner, on a table, was a massive Buddha bust lit up from inside and at the base of the table was a sculpture of a basketful of little dogs. A chandelier hung in the middle of the room. They were not going to find any fluorescent tubelights here, Mrs. Jha thought, except maybe in the servants’ quarter out back.
A woman in a sari similar to hers, but purple, came out holding a tray of beautiful crystal glasses. For a moment, Mrs. Jha thought she had managed to wear the right clothes. She thought she looked the part. And then she realized that the woman holding the tray was the maid, and Mayur Palli felt like a different country that they had left behind and here, in this new country, Mrs. Jha did not know the language.
“The other day you mentioned that you had a son, Mr. Jha,” Mr. Chopra said. He knew he had been asking questions since they sat down, but now that he knew they had moved from East Delhi, he had to know everything else.
“Anil. Please call me Anil. And yes, our son, Rupak, is in New York right now,” Mr. Jha said. He could not take his eyes off Mrs. Chopra. Over the past weeks, ever since he first met Mr. Chopra on the road, he had built up a visual of Mrs. Chopra as some young Kareena Kapoor type who would be wearing jeans and maybe a sleeveless top. He pictured her wearing wedge sandals and having her hair loose. Her fingernails would be long, painted a light pink, and the type that made clickety-clackety sounds against surfaces. But Mrs. Chopra looked like someone had taken Mrs. Gupta from Mayur Palli, coated her in honey, and dipped her in a luxury mall. The real Mrs. Chopra was about five feet tall, fat, wearing an expensive-looking sari and earrings that probably cost more than the Jhas’ Mayur Palli apartment had cost when they bought it. Her hair, dyed unnaturally black, was pulled into a bun and her fingernails were short and the nails on her right hand were tinged yellow from years of eating turmeric-infused food with her fingers. Mr. Jha could see that she was wearing makeup under her eyes, but her skin was not very supple and the makeup was caked into the cracks, making her look older than she probably had to. Her fingers were covered in rings of all sorts and, for reasons he could not quite understand, Mr. Jha found himself nervous in her presence.
