by Diksha Basu
“What are you saying?” Elizabeth looked back at him over her shoulder.
Rupak was trying to say absolutely nothing more. This was exactly the conversation he had been hoping to avoid tonight.
“Oh my God,” Elizabeth said, standing up and moving across the room. “You didn’t tell your parents about me, did you?”
“What? What do my parents have to do with this?”
Rupak wanted to stand up and be at the same height as her, but he knew that to do that now would seem confrontational. He had to stay seated and stay looking casual.
“You are so pathetic, Rupak. You’re a kid. You’re a confused little kid. I have never met someone over the age of sixteen who is as confused about themselves as you are.”
“Okay, you know what, that’s really offensive. And you keep so much from me. Why won’t you tell me how Andrew proposed?”
“What?”
“You keep that whole part of your life so hidden,” Rupak said. He knew he was flailing, but now he was in too deep. “What, the Indian guy can’t know about your past? You think I can’t handle the fact that you’ve had other men in your life? You see me as some conservative stopover before you end up with someone like Andrew who was probably born knowing how to set up a tent. I’m just exotic to you. Like some zoo animal.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I just invited you to Pensacola, into my family and my life. Stop trying to turn this around. God, take some responsibility. You can’t even figure out that you’re failing because you don’t study. That’s it. It’s simple. You’re just a confused child. Stop blaming everything else—stop blaming your parents, stop blaming India, stop blaming America. Figure out who you are and just be that person. Forget Thanksgiving.”
“Fine,” Rupak said. “And forget meeting my parents when they come to visit.”
“When are they coming to visit?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rupak said.
“They’re coming? They’re coming. Oh wow, they’re coming. Your parents are coming to visit. And you can’t be man enough to introduce me. I don’t even think I’m that upset because you saved me from continuing to date a child. And you’re right—Andrew does know how to set up a tent, and it’s sexy. I…No, I don’t have words. You don’t deserve words. But you know what? You do deserve pity and I pity you, Rupak. I really pity you. You can leave, please.”
Elizabeth kicked aside the pencil box and went into the bathroom. Rupak heard the shower turn on. She was right. He was a coward who was terrified about what other people thought about him. And he was failing.
“Why don’t I meet you out somewhere?” Mrs. Ray said. She did not want to care what anybody thought, but she also was not ready to invite Upen to Mayur Palli. For starters, someone or the other was bound to see and gossip. And, if he came home, then what? Sex, or something resembling sex, would be in the air and she did not know how that worked at their age. Her skin sagged in places, her breasts no longer stayed where they should, and what about him? Was he still capable of getting hard? As for her—frankly, she had never experienced an orgasm. She had had, and enjoyed, sex enough in her lifetime, but it was hard to desire what she did not know. She had read about orgasms—these days, of course, the headlines of magazines screamed about the powerful experience on the covers and it was hard to avoid reading about it or seeing it everywhere, but she had never felt it. From what she gathered, it felt like a particularly pleasurable sneeze. But her vagina embarrassed her and she could not imagine a man prodding around down there. Mrs. Ray had once looked at porn on her computer. She did not know quite how to do it so she simply went to porn.com. It was horrifying. There were women—mostly hairless down there—sitting freely on men’s faces while the men did God only knows what. Was that sex these days? It was best to suggest another meeting out somewhere with Upen.
“We could meet at Dilli Haat for a walk and maybe have lunch sitting out in the sun?” she said.
“We could, but then we’d just both have to travel. I can just as easily come to East Delhi. I’ve never even been to that part of town,” Upen said.
“Well, you really are not missing much. Let’s stick to Dilli Haat at one p.m. We can meet outside, near the ticketing desk. I have so many more questions about Chandigarh.”
She wished she had not brought up the idea of Chandigarh again, but she did not know how to suggest meeting simply because she felt like meeting, with no other excuses to hide behind. And Dilli Haat would be a good place to do that. The outdoor market had stalls from different parts of India selling local goods—shawls from Kashmir, jewelry from Rajasthan, saris from West Bengal, pottery from Gujarat. Toward the back, there were food stalls that sold food from different parts of the country. Dilli Haat always amazed Mrs. Ray. There was so much about India that she did not know.
While she was still standing near the phone, she remembered that she should call Ganga and check that she had reached her son’s home safely. Ganga had left the previous week and Mrs. Ray got the feeling she was not going to return soon. She always went with a one-way ticket and assessed what all was going on at home before calling Mrs. Ray and telling her when she would return. Getting to her son’s home was quite a trek, and it would make no sense for her to go all the way for less than a few months. Mrs. Ray offered to buy her a plane ticket to Calcutta to make the trip easier, and to make sure she came back soon, but Ganga refused. She did not want to accept anything other than her income, and she had never really trusted airplanes. Her reasoning was different than most, though. It was not a plane crash she was worried about so much as having her luggage disappear.
“I’ve heard they take your bag away from you before you get on the plane,” Ganga had told Mrs. Ray. “I refuse to fall victim to that. I like trains where I can sleep with my feet on the bag. I’m no fool.”
Mrs. Ray dialed the number for the local shop in Ganga’s son’s village. When she got through, she told the shopkeeper to go and tell Ganga to come to the shop and she would try calling again in half an hour. This was the only way to reach Ganga. She had also refused Mrs. Ray’s offers of a cell phone.
Half an hour later, when Mrs. Ray called again, Ganga informed her that she had spent the morning sitting in the local pond cooling herself and getting caught up on all the news from the other villagers. She sounded happy to be back even though she said, “There’s still no plumbing here. I have to take my things and walk all the way into the woods just to use the bathroom. That is the one thing you city people have figured out better than us. But the rest is better here.”
“Will you be okay by yourself?” Ganga then asked, making no mention of her return ticket. Mrs. Ray said yes, she would be, of course, and Ganga just said, “Good. In that case I’ll stay for a little longer this time. I’ll let you know in a few weeks how things are looking.”
Maybe it wasn’t fair to keep her in Delhi, Mrs. Ray thought, while listening to Ganga go on and on about her village and who had gotten married, who was pregnant, who had died, and who was taking English lessons and wearing lipstick. Ganga was so much more than a maid in her village. Of course Mrs. Ray had never visited Ganga there, nor did she plan to—she liked toilets that were indoors—but from everything Ganga described, that was her real home. Mrs. Ray told her she could stay for as long as she needed. She could not ask her to come back simply because she was lonely. In any case, it was a lot easier to get dressed for an afternoon with Upen without Ganga pottering around asking questions.
Mrs. Ray arrived at Dilli Haat before Upen. She had rented another four-hour taxi from the local stand and, again, she didn’t want the driver to see that she was meeting a man.
“Madam, I will park across the street. Here you have to pay for parking. Just give me a missed call when you are finished and I will come and collect you from this same spot,” the driver said.
All the drivers always communicated through missed calls on their cell phones. He didn’t want to waste his precious mobile minutes on a ten-seco
nd conversation in which Mrs. Ray would tell him to bring the car to the main entrance to pick her up, so instead she would let it ring twice and then hang up and, since they had already discussed it, he would see the missed call and know that meant Mrs. Ray was ready to be picked up at the main entrance. Mrs. Ray once tried texting one of the drivers that she was ready to be collected, but later he laughed and told her, “Madam, I cannot read any English.”
Mrs. Ray bought two entry tickets for Dilli Haat and waited for Upen outside the gate. How nice it felt, she thought, to ask for two tickets instead of her usual one. Or three, if Mr. and Mrs. Jha were with her.
There were some women squatting on the ground outside the market, selling pillowcases and bedsheets. Mrs. Ray thought it might be a nice idea to send a set of pillowcases to New York for Rupak. And it would give her something to do when Upen approached, instead of just standing on the side looking eager. She squatted down next to the one closest to her.
“Madam, this is finest handmade pillowcase directly from Rajasthan. Very modern style, for very modern lady,” the pillowcase saleswoman said to her in broken English, because Mrs. Ray was wearing jeans. “You must buy this set. I will give good deal for whole set.”
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s lovely,” Mrs. Ray said in Hindi while trying to look over her shoulder for Upen.
“Madam, how you speak so good Hindi?” the pushy saleswoman said, clapping her hands.
“Oh, stop it,” Mrs. Ray said. “You know perfectly well I’m Indian. Flattering me will not get you a sale.”
Upen approached from behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Mrs. Ray looked up at him and pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head.
“You’re here,” she said with a smile.
Upen gave her his hand as she stood and she was grateful because, despite the yoga, her right knee always protested slightly when she got up from the ground.
“You made me take out all of them and you won’t buy even one?” the saleswoman said. “All you people are the same.”
Once they were inside the main market, Mrs. Ray stopped at a stall selling silk saris from Tamil Nadu in order to give herself something to do.
“Do you wear saris often?” Upen asked.
“Sometimes. I like saris but they aren’t very practical.”
“You would look nice in a sari. Not that you don’t look lovely in your jeans. You do. It suits you. But a sari would also suit you,” Upen said.
“Madam, this color will be very good for your skin color,” the man selling the saris said to her.
“Thank you, I’m just looking,” Mrs. Ray said.
She touched another silk sari, deep red with gold threads embroidered throughout.
“Saab, your wife has very good taste,” the man said to Upen.
“Oh, I’m not. No,” Mrs. Ray said. “Come on. Let’s go. I have enough saris.”
“She does have good taste,” Upen said, laughing.
Mrs. Ray rushed ahead away from the stall. She had not heard the word wife used in so many years that she had forgotten how it felt. In fact, it had never felt the way it had just felt. It felt thrilling when she heard it just now. She liked the idea of ownership it conveyed. She liked the idea that she belonged to Upen.
Mrs. Ray tried to remember if she had found the word exciting when she first got married. If anything, back then it felt like a burden. And then it went from being a burden to simply being a reality. She was a daughter, a sister, and then a wife. But now her parents were dead—did that make her an orphan? Certainly not. Was there a specific age, she wondered, old enough, after which you were not considered an orphan if your parents died? Eighteen perhaps. And then her husband died—so she was a widow. But was there a certain age, young enough, that if you lost your husband you did not have to be called a widow? If a young childless woman lost her husband tragically when she was only twenty-five—or even thirty-seven, like Mrs. Ray had been—it felt unfair to burden her with the label of widow for the rest of her life. And Mrs. Ray certainly did not feel like a widow, even though she was reminded that she was one nearly every day in Mayur Palli.
Upen caught up with her and said, “Are you sure you didn’t want that red and gold sari? It was lovely.”
“It’s too bright for me at this age,” Mrs. Ray said. “Do you have children?”
“One daughter. She lives in Liverpool with her husband. They recently had a child, a daughter. They’ve named her Maya like every single Indian living abroad names their daughters,” he laughed. “But she’s a sweet girl. Just like her mother. Do you have children?”
Mrs. Ray shook her head. He was a grandfather. She was trying so hard not to feel old, not to feel absurd being on a date at her age, and she was mostly succeeding so she just had to put the term grandfather out of her head. In any case, he could easily have had his daughter when he was young and then she could well have had her daughter when she was young. Grandfather did not have to mean errant ear and nose hairs. She looked over at Upen. He was wearing sunglasses and looked dashing. Mrs. Ray tried to walk them toward a reflective surface so she could catch a glimpse of how they looked together. Some of the Kashmiri shawl sellers were sure to have mirrors set up outside their stalls. As she led him in that direction, she asked about his late wife. She felt she ought to. One must respect the dead.
“Did your wife get to meet her granddaughter?”
“No,” Upen said. “Sadly no.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been very difficult for all of you. Was it sudden?”
“Was it sudden? No. Not too sudden.” Upen looked away. Had she pushed too much? She would not have minded being asked about Mr. Ray’s death. There was no reason for them to hide what they had been through.
“Oh, Reema, I can’t,” Upen said, stopping and letting his shoulders drop. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head and looked above her into the distance.
“I’m so sorry. I did not mean to ask too much.”
“No, that’s not it. I meant, I can’t lie to you. My wife isn’t dead. She’s very much alive. She left me. She had an affair and she left me and it’s so embarrassing. I find it easier to tell people she’s dead. But that’s so dreadful, isn’t it? I don’t want you to think poorly of me. Let’s go sit in the sun and have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you everything. I want you to know. Come. Let’s go sit.”
Mrs. Ray laughed. She laughed loudly and without bothering to cover her mouth like she had always been taught. She was charmed by Upen’s story about his wife’s affair. She thought it made him sound rather exciting and worldly. Everyone in her world was always so busy covering up the slightest indiscretions and living by such strict social laws that Upen’s experience made him unusual.
“Well, that’s a nice reaction,” Upen said. “She’s much happier now. I don’t speak to her much. I get her updates from my daughter for the most part. But I’m glad to hear she found what she wanted. It suits me more too. They say a marriage is only as happy as the unhappiest partner, and it’s true. It is very hard to be happy around someone who isn’t happy themselves, and when we were married, she wasn’t.”
Mrs. Ray nodded. She had always been content. Not happy, not unhappy. Content. But sitting here in the sun, on an autumn afternoon, with a hot cup of tea, talking to Upen, she was more than content. And how wonderful that was.
“Anyway, it all worked out for the best, didn’t it?” Upen asked, and Mrs. Ray smiled and looked away, overcome by a sudden shyness. “Do you mind if I ask about your husband?”
“What do you want to know?” Mrs. Ray said.
“How did he pass away?”
“Aneurysm. It was quick. I was in the bathroom,” Mrs. Ray said. She had never talked about this with anyone except Mrs. Jha—how strange the words sounded now, years later.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t answer anything you don’t want to answer,” Upen said.
“No, no. Nobody ever asks. Everyone is too scared. I don’t blame them—hearing
about a forty-year-old otherwise healthy man dying can make you feel very vulnerable, I suppose. But it’s nice to be asked—it’s nice not to have to pretend death doesn’t exist. But really it wasn’t as traumatic as people assume. I came out of the bathroom and he was lying in bed, one foot still on the floor, and he was dead. That was it. He was in his office clothes and was going to leave for work so there was no reason for him to be lying down—he must have known something was wrong. He must have felt different.”
“And you found him?”
Mrs. Ray nodded, and continued, “The maid was at the market. I didn’t scream or cry or shout or anything. It was strange—it was like I knew exactly what had happened and I knew that it had to happen. I’m not a religious person—I think I believe in God but I certainly don’t practice anything—but seeing him there was so peaceful. For a little while I lay down next to him, with my hand against his chest. I don’t remember now for how long I did that, but I remember a calmness. I had thought about his death before—I don’t think you can share a home and a life with someone and not think about their death. But I had always assumed it would be somehow more violent. Not the death itself necessarily, but I assumed my reaction would be violent. I always imagined I’d throw up or scream or run out of the house shouting and lose my mind, but it was none of that. I don’t know how to explain it.”
She stopped. She had never even told Mrs. Jha about the moments after this death. She had never told anyone.
“I don’t quite remember the days following that, so I suppose that’s the violence. My mind doesn’t remember it.”
She looked over at Upen, who was listening and didn’t seem scared. But still she smiled to offer him a possible reaction—as wonderful as he was being so far, she knew it was impossible to know how to react to this story.
“Thank you for asking. Honestly,” she said. “I think it honors his memory to talk about it. He was a very logical man—about life, death, and everything in between. He wouldn’t want his own death to be shrouded in silence.”
