The Windfall

by Diksha Basu

“But then you can say they should have a separate lane for cars of business class travelers, then you will say a separate road leading to the terminal, then a separate highway leading out of Delhi. Where will it end? We can’t just separate ourselves endlessly.”

  “Bindu, this is not the time or place for your communism. Our tickets are nearly three times the price of economy and this is what we have to deal with,” Mr. Jha said, standing now behind a young family of four and all their bags and chaos. One short curly-haired toddler stared up at him with a finger up her nose.

  As soon as the plane touched down on the tarmac at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York City, Mr. Jha unbuckled his seat belt and jumped up from his seat, feeling as though he had just survived an eighteen-hour brush with death.

  “Sir, please remain seated until the plane has come to a complete halt and the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign,” the flight attendant called out to him from her seat at the front of the cabin.

  “Not a problem,” Mr. Jha said to her. “Small bumps don’t worry me.”

  He opened the overhead compartment as the plane raced down the tarmac.

  “Sir! Please close that and sit down and buckle your seat belt,” the flight attendant repeated, looking toward the other flight attendant strapped into her seat across the aisle.

  “Just getting our bags,” Mr. Jha said. “Bindu, get your things together. The sooner we get off, the faster we will get through the line for immigration.”

  Mr. Jha managed to get a grasp on the handle of his pull-along right as the plane came to a sharp halt at the end of the tarmac and sent Mr. Jha tumbling to the ground. The bag, fortunately, remained in the overhead compartment. The two flight attendants looked at each other across the aisle and shared a small satisfied smile before the first one said, “Sir, are you okay? This is why we ask passengers to remain seated until the fasten seat belt sign has been turned off. It’s for your own safety.”

  She looked across the aisle and smirked again at the other flight attendant, who was still peering over and smiling. Indian passengers never listened. They were always the ones who stood up the minute the plane touched down, and the flight attendants always found it satisfying to watch one of them tumble. Mrs. Jha noticed their smiles and reached her hand across to her husband and said, “Are you okay? Come sit.”

  Mr. Jha stood up, zipped up his track jacket, and remained standing, this time holding the top of his seat for balance and not reaching up for the suitcase. Mrs. Jha was grateful for his defiance in the face of the laughing flight attendants. She smiled up at her husband. They could sit in their tight skirts and pantyhose and lipstick and mock him all they wanted but he had come from nothing, absolutely nothing, and could now fly them both across the world on seats that converted into full beds just by pressing a few buttons. This trip signified the start of their new lives—the move was done, they were settled, and it was now time to try and relax into these roles.

  Mrs. Jha had never been to New York City before, but she had read books and seen movies and had imagined herself standing at the crossroads of Times Square looking up at the electronic billboards and ads that spanned the width of full buildings. Sitting on the tarmac of JFK, looking at her husband standing near his seat, Mrs. Jha felt as though she were about to step into a movie.

  “I hardly wear jewelry,” Mrs. Jha said, standing in front of Tiffany’s on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street, with the autumn sun bright in the sky and New York City bustling and sparkling around them. “Let’s keep walking. I’ve heard this place is very expensive.”

  Mr. Jha felt the weight of the Apple bag in his hand.

  “Let’s just have a look,” he said. “You love the movie. We can’t come to New York City and not get at least something from here.”

  Mrs. Jha did love the movie. She sometimes pretended to be Audrey Hepburn when she browsed the sterling silver jewelry shops in Khan Market. It didn’t have quite the same effect—she was too old, too Indian, and too bland. Standing here, on Fifth Avenue, looking at all the beautiful people of New York City, she knew that more than ever.

  “Fine, let’s go in,” Mrs. Jha said. “Maybe just something small.”

  He would buy her something expensive, Mr. Jha decided. She had been through a lot lately with the move to Gurgaon and she had been kind to him, patient. He knew it had not been easy and he felt bad. Plus he had just spent far more than he should have at the Apple Store, so if he bought his wife a piece of jewelry, he would feel better. And it would be worth it because the Chopras would understand the value of a ring from Tiffany’s. Mrs. Chopra looked so fancy in her expensive diamonds worn casually.

  Tiffany’s was depressing. Mrs. Jha looked around. There were just young girls in tight jeans clinging to the arms of their boyfriends, who were wearing baggy jeans and baseball caps. This was not Audrey Hepburn’s Tiffany’s. Tacky necklaces and purses dangled messily from velvet rods—Tiffany’s wasn’t supposed to sell purses. Where were the rude staff members and glass boxes filled with shiny diamonds? There was a table that sold brooches—butterflies, elephants, beetles, roses—these things looked worse than the stuff peddled by roadside sellers in Sarojini Nagar. This was certainly not the Tiffany’s of her dreams.

  “Look at that lovely hat shaped like a cat,” Mr. Jha said. “Would you like that? It reminds me of the painting in the Chopras’ house.”

  “It’s a purse. And it’s not really that nice. Let’s leave,” Mrs. Jha said. “This is not what I was expecting. Let’s take one of those horse carriage rides before it gets dark.”

  “May I help you?” said a wealthy-looking older white man in a perfectly fitted three-piece suit.

  “No, no,” Mrs. Jha said quickly. “We’re so sorry. We are just leaving. So sorry.”

  “What are you apologizing for?” Mr. Jha said. He then turned to the man, who he thought was dressed like a fancy magician, and said, “We’re looking for rings actually. Nice ones. Where are they kept?”

  “Rings?” the man asked.

  “Yes. With diamonds.”

  The man looked at Mrs. Jha and smiled.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “You’re a lucky girl.”

  Mrs. Jha was horrified. Who was this strange man and why was he referring to her as a girl?

  “Our rings are upstairs. You can take the elevator to the right, go to the second floor, and someone will be happy to help you. I’ll let them know you’re headed up,” the man said. He wanted to pass this couple off to the salespeople on the second floor as fast as possible. Indians made him nervous these days. They didn’t look obviously wealthy but they spent money so casually. Just last week an Indian man had come in and sat with him to look at diamond earrings on the second level. He was wearing faded jeans, a tucked-in brown T-shirt, and clean white sneakers—not the traditional look of wealth that the second floor of Tiffany’s was used to, so he had not bothered being particularly nice. It was a mistake. The Indian man got annoyed and asked for another salesperson, and he had seen, from a distance, the man buying several pairs of several-thousand-dollar earrings and casually dropping the blue Tiffany’s bag into an old black JanSport and walking back out to Fifth Avenue. Not, however, before filling out a feedback form that had resulted in the original salesperson being demoted to the ground floor for the next month.

  As the Jhas stepped out of the elevator, a man who looked exactly like the man downstairs greeted them and said, “Welcome. You’re looking for rings. Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Even Mr. Jha had to admit he was confused. Did the man from downstairs manage to get up to this level faster than them? There must be some secret faster elevator at the back. These suited, well-dressed men worked like a fancy army.

  “We aren’t sure yet if we’re going to buy,” Mr. Jha said. It was best not to express interest so that you had the upper hand if the time came to bargain, he reasoned.

  “No harm in looking. I’m Willing, and let’s have a seat,
relax, and see if we can find something we like today.”

  He bowed gently and pointed the Jhas toward two soft velvet chairs. Mrs. Jha liked him instantly. How nice of him to say he was willing to help them so much. She liked the ease with which he used the word we as if he were also a part of their family. And this was the Tiffany’s she had been looking for. It was quieter up here with just some soft gentle instrumental music playing.

  “We aren’t looking for anything too fancy,” Mrs. Jha said. “A simple ring. Or some small earrings. Nothing too flashy.”

  Willing remembered the Indian man from last week. He had also come in looking for “nothing too flashy” for his wife, daughters, and daughter-in-law and had left after spending more than Willing earned in a year. But then there had also been the Indian couple the month before who had spent hours looking at everything, talking about money, converting all the prices to rupees, drinking lots of free champagne, taking pictures of themselves wearing the jewelry, and then leaving without spending a single penny. You could never tell with Indians these days.

  “Why don’t we have some champagne first?” Willing said. “And I’ll bring out some of the earrings.” He turned to find his assistant.

  “Champagne?” Mrs. Jha whispered to her husband. “I don’t want to waste money. Tell him no champagne. Maybe just a glass of water. Or a fresh lime soda. But champagne? This is how these shops make money.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mr. Jha said. “I’m sure it’s complimentary. Champagne breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  Mr. Jha laughed. This was all going to his head. They were sitting at Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue with an old white man bringing them champagne. Had he ever been served anything by a white man before? He must remember all the details to tell the Chopras.

  “Just a pair of small solitaires for me,” Mrs. Jha said. “I don’t feel comfortable wearing expensive jewelry.”

  She took a sip of her champagne. The fizziness went up her nose and made her want to sneeze, but she didn’t want the kind old man to think she had never had champagne before, so she swallowed even though her eyes teared up. She didn’t like it but she could not waste. She didn’t even know if they were being charged for it.

  “Some cake with that champagne?” Willing said as his assistant popped up behind him with a silver tray full of little light blue cakes that looked like gifts wrapped in white bows. Mrs. Jha looked at her husband. Would they be charged for this as well? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t resist Western sweets. She took two and placed them on her napkin. Even if they charged them, it would be worth it. She had to keep remembering that they were wealthy now. They could eat small cakes and learn to enjoy the carbonated wine. They were in New York City, on Fifth Avenue, at Audrey Hepburn’s shop, and they had every right to be here.

  Mrs. Jha took another, smaller sip of her champagne and then bravely put her hand on her husband’s forearm. He looked momentarily alarmed by her physical display of affection. But he had already emptied his glass of champagne, so he placed his free hand on top of his wife’s.

  “Let’s see a slightly larger pair,” he said. “It will look nice. And do you think we should pick up a small gift for the neighbors here?”

  Mrs. Jha took her hand back. The neighbors. Again. She did not understand why they mattered so much. As far as she could tell, Mrs. Chopra was about as dull as the long summer afternoons in Delhi. Mr. Chopra wasn’t so bad, she’d admit, but she didn’t understand why her husband was so determined to impress him all the time.

  “No. I’ll just get the small set for myself and let’s go.”

  Rupak’s Greyhound bus from Ithaca arrived at Port Authority in the midafternoon, and he got into a taxi to take him to his parents’ hotel on the Lower East Side. They were staying at the Holiday Inn on Ludlow Street. He did not understand his parents. Why couldn’t they be like normal rich parents and stay at the Four Seasons or the W? They would probably try to go for dinner to one of the dosa places in the West Village. His mother always searched for Indian restaurants when she traveled abroad. No, he told himself, he must not start getting annoyed with them before even seeing them. He wanted to get along with them on this trip—he wanted them to see his independent life in Ithaca and see him as more of an adult.

  He had convinced Serena to join them for dinner in Ithaca on Monday night, and he was going to tell his parents about her today. They would love her and since they were all Indian, he would just say he was bringing a “friend” with a mild emphasis on the word, and the fact that the “friend” was female would provide enough clues to his parents that she could be more than a friend. Which, in fact, she wasn’t. Even though Rupak had seen her a handful of times since her friends’ party, they had not actually kissed and had in fact settled into a friendship and he had been enjoying it. Having her around made him miss Elizabeth less, even though he still missed her a lot. But it would have been so difficult to have her around while his parents were visiting. Elizabeth would probably have tried to reach out and hold his hand while walking to the restaurant and if he avoided that, she would never understand why and it would become a source of tension. The current situation was simply much easier for now.

  He got a text from his father saying,

  We are going for a walk to see the famous Katz’s Deli. Meet us at that corner instead of the hotel.

  There was no way his parents knew why Katz’s Deli was famous.

  Rupak stepped out of the taxi on the corner of Houston and Ludlow and looked around for his parents. He looked down at his cargo pants and black T-shirt. Maybe he should have dressed a bit better for tonight. He couldn’t blame them for treating him like a child.

  He didn’t see his parents. They were unlikely to actually be inside Katz’s, because all the meat would make his mother feel ill and they would probably have seen the publicity in the window mentioning the famous orgasm scene and quickly, awkwardly walked away.

  In America, there was so much awareness and talk of women’s pleasure, but did the older generation of women in India know what that felt like, he wondered? Maybe Mrs. Ray, but she was different. She would probably have the confidence to guide a man’s head between her legs, but his own father’s head had definitely never traveled down.

  His own father’s head was, however, at that moment, peering into an American Apparel shop with what appeared to be a yarmulke on his head. Next to him, his mother was standing in a pair of pleated brown pants with a yellow Fabindia kurta and oversized green jacket. Rupak checked for traffic and rushed across the street to where his parents stood. It was hard to not feel annoyance when his father was walking around the Lower East Side wearing a yarmulke.

  “There he is!” Mrs. Jha said, and nudged her husband. Mr. Jha stopped looking at the poster of the young girl in a tight black T-shirt that showed off her nipples and turned to face his son.

  “Dad! Why do you have a yarmulke on your head?” Rupak said before saying anything else.

  “A Rosh Hashanah, you mean?” Mr. Jha said, adjusting the small circular cap on the top of his head.

  “That’s a holiday,” Rupak said.

  “Today is a holiday?” Mr. Jha said.

  “No,” Rupak said. “Rosh Hashanah is a holiday. You’re wearing a yarmulke. What are you doing? That’s offensive. You can’t do that in New York.”

  “Don’t shout at your father,” Mrs. Jha said. “We haven’t seen you in months. Have the decency to say hello nicely.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry. But how can you let him wear that?” Rupak said, and then added in a whisper, “Especially in this neighborhood. It’s not appropriate.”

  Mrs. Jha stopped listening after she heard the word Mom. She didn’t recognize this boy in the cargo pants and T-shirt, with stubble on his cheeks, who spoke with an American lilt and called her Mom. This was not the same boy who was so shy he would wrap himself up in her pallu whenever they went to a party.

  “It’s colder than I expected,” Mr. Jha said. “And I’ve been losing h
air on the top of my head. It makes me feel very vulnerable, but this is just the perfect size and shape to keep my bald spot warm. You know how much I hate hats—makes me feel sleepy, as if there’s a pillow against my head—but this yarmulke is perfect. I bought two.”

  “Dad, you cannot wear that. It’s offensive,” Rupak said.

  “Son, you worry too much about being offensive. America has ruined you. I am wearing this out of a deep appreciation and people can see that. The man who sold them to me was very friendly. Most people are friendly if you stop being so nervous all the time. Now come along. Let us have a cup of coffee.”

  “There was a McDonald’s the way we walked earlier,” Mrs. Jha said. “We can have coffee there and make our plans.”

  “There’s a show called Cats that I’ve bought tickets to for tonight,” Mr. Jha said. “Humans dress up as cats and sing and dance—what madness. Our seats are in the second row. They were so expensive. I’ll have to make sure I get a picture that shows how close to the stage we are.”

  After the cup of coffee during which the yarmulke was not mentioned, Mr. Jha suggested they stop by the hotel to freshen up for a night out.

  Rupak had walked past the Holiday Inn on Ludlow on earlier trips to NYC, and the sight of it always depressed him, but entering with his parents today was different. The Bangladeshi staff at the front desk jumped up and buzzed around his parents chattering away and Rupak noticed his parents come alive.

  “Rupak, meet Shonjoy and Ali, they run this place. And they are our Muslim brothers from the East.”

  Rupak tensed up the minute he heard his father describe them that way. Did his father have no sense? But Shonjoy and Ali both laughed and extended their hands for Rupak to shake. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he had become too nervous about offending people. Rupak would never dream of using the word Muslim to loudly describe someone, but here was his father, Hindu, in his yarmulke, speaking happily to his Muslim brothers from Bangladesh who looked equally happy about the whole situation.