by Diksha Basu
“He sounds wonderful,” Upen said. “It seems like it was a good marriage.”
“It was,” Mrs. Ray said. “It wasn’t exciting, but it was good. It was very good.”
“Excitement doesn’t last,” Upen said. “A good spouse is someone with whom you can successfully run a boring nonprofit organization. Don’t you think? Most things fade. But you need to find someone you can do the boring things with. See, that’s why the whole arranged-marriage idea worked for so many generations. The expectations were more realistic; divorce rates were lower. Marriage isn’t the same as courtship. Marriage is companionship. And that online dating that all the young people do these days is basically what our parents and grandparents were doing for us for years—using a formula to work out compatibility.”
“That’s a bleak way of looking at it,” Mrs. Ray said. “What about romance?”
“That’s exactly it, though. That’s the romance!” Upen said. “You can’t have a lifetime of flowers and holidays. The romance comes from finding the boring stuff fun—like this. Like walking around Dilli Haat. And you can usually guess when that will be there—like with you and me—we’re both in the same place in our lives, we’re both looking for companionship, we both get along, have similar ideals and views. I’m telling you—if our parents were alive, they’d arrange our marriage.”
Mrs. Ray laughed.
“And you’d come with your family to meet me and I’d make tea and bake a cake and sit across from you looking coy?”
“Exactly,” Upen said. “And your mother would tell us how good you are at cooking and maintaining a home. And educated—they’d tell us you’re educated because clearly we’re a modern family.”
“Not too educated, though,” Mrs. Ray said.
“No. Certainly not too educated. Nothing that would threaten me,” Upen said, also laughing. “And then I’d go home and tell my parents you were wonderful and wasn’t the cake delicious and sure, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with you.”
“Romance,” Mrs. Ray said with a smile.
“Romance.”
A group of school students, still in their uniforms, sat down at the table next to them and called loudly for a waiter. Mrs. Ray heard them order plates of steamed vegetarian momos, chicken chow mein, and cups of tea. They had personalized their school uniforms—crisp white collared shirts with blue pleated skirts for the girls and blue slacks for the boys—with scarves and jewelry and fluorescent bras that were ever so slightly visible. One of the boys was wearing a necklace. Mrs. Ray looked at them with admiration. Surely the young girls in this group, with their skirts rolled up at the waist to show more leg, and buttons undone to show hints of their young breasts, would not grow up and turn into Mrs. De or Mrs. Gupta. Surely these girls would let each other live in peace no matter what the future held for them. One of the girls and one of the boys were the couple in the group. Mrs. Ray noticed their knees touching under the table and the ease with which they shared a fork. Emboldened by their romance, she allowed her own knee to relax against Upen’s. Two of the boys threw a tennis ball back and forth and all of them chattered loudly, mixing English and Hindi. The tennis ball rolled away from them and landed at Upen’s feet. One of the boys jumped up and came over to retrieve it.
“Sorry, Uncle. Sorry, Aunty,” he said politely and returned to his group. There it was again, Mrs. Ray thought. The world seeing her once again as one half of a couple. And that half felt so much bigger than the one ever had.
“Perhaps next time you can come over for dinner,” Mrs. Ray said. Let the world know, she decided.
Mr. Jha was going to the DLF Emporio Mall to buy a set of branded matching luggage for their upcoming trip to New York. This was the first international trip for which he had booked business class tickets for his wife and himself, and he wanted their luggage to fit their surroundings. Mrs. Jha, of course, had said that it was unnecessary—who was going to see their luggage once it was checked in?—but he was not going to stand in the queue outside the airport, or at the check-in counter, with mismatched suitcases, so when she went to take a shower, he quickly left the house to go shopping. He reversed the car out of the driveway and got out to pull the gate shut because, of course, they had not hired a gatekeeper yet. At the same time, Mr. Chopra’s Jaguar pulled out of the driveway next door while Balwinder pushed their gate shut.
Mr. Jha had not seen Mr. Chopra since the evening at their home, nearly a week ago. It was difficult to keep up with the neighbors when there was no way to know what the neighbors were doing.
Mr. Chopra’s Jaguar came to a stop near Mr. Jha. Mr. Chopra lowered his window and said, “Good morning, good morning. How have you been? Mr. Jha, would you like me to tell Balwinder to shut your gate for you? He won’t mind. He hardly has any work to do here anyway. God only knows what we pay him for.”
“Oh no, no,” Mr. Jha said. Despite the slightly cooler October temperatures, he was already sweating and now this. “Not a problem. We will have our guard here soon. We have just been so busy, you know, with all this settling in and planning our travel. Did I mention that we are off to New York for a holiday? We are leaving in a few days, at the end of this week. And we’ve been so busy, we booked our tickets at the last minute as usual, so you can imagine the cost. Air travel is just so expensive. But it’s time to take a bite of the Big Apple. Have you been?”
Mr. Chopra had not. New York just never interested him. Now Las Vegas—that was a good travel destination. New York was too dangerous. But he had no desire to admit to that.
“Ah yes, to visit your brilliant son. We are looking forward to meeting him. You tell him to study hard and come when he can take a break. And good thing it isn’t peak season—tickets are relatively cheaper this time of year.”
“Oh, who knows if he is even studying? He tells us he’s studying, but I have my doubts. I’ve spoiled him too much,” Mr. Jha said. He was standing now next to Mr. Chopra’s car window. “And oh, how I wish tickets were cheaper this time of year. But I don’t think there’s ever a cheap season to go to New York! And not to mention the amount of shopping my wife will probably do—you should count your blessings that you have not been there.”
Mr. Jha laughed loudly but he was sweating, from the bright sun that was beating down on his head and the stress of coming up with ways to show how expensive this trip was going to be—and he realized now that it was going to be difficult to let Mr. Chopra know that they were traveling in business class without saying it explicitly. Unless, he thought, he left the priority luggage tags on the suitcases when they returned to Gurgaon and made sure Mr. Chopra came to visit while the bags were still lying in plain view. He felt sweat drip down along the side of his face.
Mr. Chopra reached behind his seat, pulled out a tissue from the box on the back window, and handed it to Mr. Jha.
“It’s still hot, isn’t it? Please tell Balwinder to shut your gate tomorrow. Starting the day already sweating is no fun. Well, I’ll be off. Have a good day. And do let me know when we can take you to the club for dinner. You must become members.”
Mr. Jha knew his wife would never agree to joining the LRC.
“Yes, yes, it sounds interesting. But let’s see—the lady of the house is wanting to spend more and more time in New York. All the shopping in that city drives women mad. But at least then I can justify buying whatever I want at the Apple Store, isn’t that right? Have a wonderful day, Dinesh.”
Mr. Jha walked back to his car, got in, and drove off. At least not having a driver meant he could leave when he wanted to. Now he would get his matching luggage set from Burberry, pack, and head to New York City to his son. He sat in his car and watched the Jaguar drive down the road. Poor children around Delhi made a sport out of stealing the decals off expensive cars—many fancy cars were missing the classic symbol of the Mercedes, the BMW, the Audi—and Mr. Jha was forever nervous that he would find his half-finished peace sign gone one day, but Mr. Chopra’s Jaguar still boaste
d the slender animal on the front hood. The car would look so much less impressive without that, he thought. Or with a scratch along the polished, perfect surface. How satisfying it would feel to scratch a key along the shiny body of that car. He shook his head; he mustn’t think such thoughts. Mr. Chopra had been nothing but nice. There was no reason to scratch his car. Letting him know they were traveling business class was sufficient.
When Mr. Jha got back from the mall he noticed a black Swift parked outside their gate. It looked familiar and Mr. Jha tried to remember if they had workers coming in today. He didn’t think so. Unless his wife was surprising him with a swimming pool installation while he was out. That would be nice of her, he thought. But completely unlike her, he corrected. He parked his car, opened the trunk, and pulled out the new matching sets of Burberry suitcases—two large ones, and two carry-ons with the matching logos. Frankly they looked quite ugly, but without the logo on them, how would anyone know they were Burberry? And, strangely enough, the ones without the logos were more expensive than the ones with logos. That was certainly counterintuitive, Mr. Jha thought.
He pushed two of the bags to the front door and was reaching around in his pocket for the keys when Mr. Gupta opened the front door.
“Welcome home,” Mr. Gupta said cheerfully. He laughed loudly and said, “Now I know what it feels like to throw open the doors to a big Gurgaon bungalow. Come in, come in. We’ve just dropped in to say hello.”
Of course that Swift looked out of place in Gurgaon, Mr. Jha thought. What were the Guptas doing here?
“Anil, you’re home,” Mrs. Jha said as he walked in the door with the luggage. She was sitting on the sofa next to Mrs. Gupta and they both had cups of tea in their hands. “Where were you? The Guptas called because they were in the area, so I invited them over for tea.”
“I was out buying luggage for our trip,” Mr. Jha said, still adjusting to the sight of his old neighbors in his new house. They looked smaller here than they did in Mayur Palli.
“But we already have enough suitcases,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Not fancy branded ones,” Mr. Gupta said, twirling one of the suitcases behind Mr. Jha.
Mr. Jha turned around and took the suitcase from him and put them both in the dining room, got himself a glass of water, and returned to the living room.
“The branded ones are the most reasonably priced,” Mr. Jha said. “No need for anything flashier.”
As annoyed as he was to see Mr. Gupta here, he did not want to give him more reason to make jokes.
“The sofa certainly looks better here,” Mr. Gupta said.
“How is everything in Mayur Palli?” Mr. Jha asked. “I got an e-mail from our tenants that they’re settling in well.”
“They are quite lovely,” Mrs. Gupta said. “The wife has started her dance classes, and she may do one for the older ladies as well. I am very tempted to join.”
“Oh, how nice,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Have you made friends with other ladies in this neighborhood?” Mrs. Gupta asked.
“Not really yet,” Mrs. Jha said. “I do miss Mayur Palli. But let’s see—I’m thinking of going back to work soon.”
“Is that a dimmer on your light switch?” Mr. Gupta said. He got up and walked to the switch on the wall and pushed it up and down, making the lights in the living room dim on and off.
“Dimmers are better for the environment,” Mr. Jha said. “And they lessen the electricity bill in the long run.”
Mr. Gupta left the lights on and sat back down.
“My wife is right,” he said. “Your new tenants are wonderful and we are all happy to have them living in Mayur Palli. They have both been attending all the meetings. Lovely couple. With that cute little son.”
“Well, let’s see how long they stay there for,” Mr. Jha added, for no reason. The Ramaswamys had agreed to stay for at least two years and had said that it was likely that they would stay on longer, but Mr. Jha hadn’t expected Mayur Palli to have replaced them so easily.
“Well, I hope they stay. They’re like a younger version of your family,” Mrs. Gupta added. “From when Rupak was a little boy.”
“But they’re South Indian,” Mr. Jha said.
“Yes, it’s nice to have more diversity,” Mr. Gupta said. “That Mr. Ramaswamy loves crossword puzzles—now even I’ve started doing them every Sunday.”
“You’re sure that dance class isn’t turning into anything more…sinister?” Mr. Jha said.
Mr. Gupta laughed.
“Oh no, no, no. Absolutely not. That Mr. Ruddra always thinks everything is a brothel. No chance with the Ramaswamys—they are outstanding people. They even go to the temple every weekend. And Mr. Ramaswamy works for Standard Chartered Bank, which is such a reliable job with a steady income every month. Having a reliable job like that is a stamp of approval in many ways, I think.”
Mr. Gupta looked directly at Mr. Jha and then tipped his teacup toward himself, saw that it was empty, and placed it down on the coffee table.
“Well, we should be going,” he said. “We only wanted to come and say a quick hello and see how you’re settling in here.”
“We’re very happy here,” Mrs. Jha said. “It’s such a lovely neighborhood. Quiet, peaceful, calm.”
Mr. Jha smiled at his wife and added, “A real oasis in the middle of the chaos of the rest of Delhi. So wonderful of you to have stopped by.”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Gupta said. “It’s very nice. Very different from those old expensive bungalows around Aurungzeb Road. Now those are truly unaffordable. It’s nice that they’re making more reasonable neighborhoods like Gurgaon.”
“Well, those big central Delhi bungalows are never for sale,” Mr. Jha said.
“Everything is on sale for a certain price,” Mr. Gupta said.
The Jhas walked the Guptas down the driveway out of the gate and toward their Swift.
“Do come again sometime,” Mrs. Jha said politely.
As the Guptas were about to get into their car, Mr. Chopra’s Jaguar turned onto the lane and stopped right near them. Mr. Chopra put his window down and stuck his head out.
“Friends visiting?” he asked.
“Old friends,” Mr. Jha said. “This is Mr. and Mrs. Gupta.”
“Old neighbors,” Mr. Gupta said. “Come to see their new life.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Chopra said. “I am Dinesh Chopra, the new neighbor. Is that a Swift? Do they still make that car?”
“Evidently so,” Mr. Jha said with a smile. “Nice to see you again, Dinesh. Twice in one day! Golf soon. We must join the LRC.”
“You are joining?” Mr. Chopra asked. “But New York…”
“Lovely seeing you!” Mr. Jha said, and quickly turned his back.
Mr. Chopra waved and put his window back up, and the Jaguar pulled noiselessly into his driveway, and Balwinder pulled the gate shut behind them.
“Lovely neighbors,” Mr. Jha said. “We’ve already become so close. There’s a country club here, which we will be joining. There’s a full golf course.”
“Mr. Ramaswamy is keen for his wife to start a morning yoga class in Mayur Palli,” Mr. Gupta said. “There has been lots of positive response for such a venture. Times are changing. Do come visit.”
With that, Mr. Gupta got in the car and leaned over and unlocked his wife’s door.
“The airport is more like a train station these days. Too many people get to travel. How do more planes not crash into each other?” Mr. Jha said, as their taxi pulled up to the terminal.
“We’ve already survived the most dangerous part of the journey,” Mrs. Jha said. She knew her husband was going to keep talking to keep his nerves about flying at bay.
“But once something happens, there is zero chance of surviving in an airplane. I’ve heard that they’ve reduced the amount of time between takeoffs to less than sixty seconds. That means we can easily bump into the plane ahead of us now. Stop here. Just here is fine. This is the terminal,”
Mr. Jha said to the driver.
It went completely against nature to lurch up into the sky and over the seas in a heavy metal tube. But he certainly did admire that Richard Branson fellow. He had heard stories about Branson flirting with young journalists and he was always photographed in white linen clothes looking sun-kissed and youthful. Mr. Jha was getting there, he thought—today he had traded his usual slacks and button-down shirt for a navy blue tracksuit and new white sneakers. Maybe he would buy some nice linen clothes in New York City. He would try to convince his wife to also buy some more fashionable clothes. How would she possibly travel comfortably in the sari that she was wearing? He looked over at her in her matching sari and blouse with her brown jacket on, and darker brown shawl draped on her arm. She looked older than she needed to.
Mrs. Jha tidied the pleats of her sari while the driver went to get a trolley for their luggage. She looked over at her husband in his matching tracksuit and new sneakers and wanted to protect him—from his own fears, from Gurgaon, from New York City, and now from the policeman who was blowing his whistle in Mr. Jha’s face and rapping on the Innova with his wooden stick.
“Move this car along,” the policeman said to Mr. Jha. “Come on. Move it along. Is this your car?”
Mrs. Jha was worried that the policeman would think Mr. Jha was the driver, and she wanted to protect Mr. Jha from that as well. She did not want him to know that his outfit made him look stiff and uncomfortable, the exact opposite of the effect he was hoping it would have. She rushed over to his side and said to the policeman, “The driver is just getting the trolley. He’ll move the car as soon as we have our luggage.”
With their luggage piled up, Mr. Jha pushed the trolley through the crowds toward the main entrance.
“There should really be a separate entrance altogether for business class travelers. What is the point of paying so much extra if we have to wait in line like this?” he said.
