by Diksha Basu
Back in the room, Mr. Jha took off the yarmulke, wrapped it carefully in tissue paper, and placed it on the shelf near the television. It had served him well today but he could see that it was making his son tense, so he decided it would be best to leave it in the room when they went for dinner. Mr. Jha put on his nicest black button-down shirt and took out a fashionable gray tie he had bought from Banana Republic earlier in the day. It was what the salesman had called a skinny tie and was, allegedly, the only way to go these days.
“Rupak,” Mr. Jha said. “Are you going to get changed? And when was the last time you shaved? Now hurry up, you two. Bindu, wear the earrings we got today. And please change out of those horrid pants. Don’t you have something more feminine? Maybe a skirt?”
“Papa, could I borrow a shirt?”
Mrs. Jha was so happy to hear her son say “Papa” that she didn’t bother getting offended by her husband’s suggestion that she wear a skirt. She was enjoying herself today. Americans hadn’t been so frightening. From the man at Tiffany’s to the black man who had helped them get train tickets, people had been friendly. She took the diamond earrings from earlier in the day out of the small blue box that looked like the cake.
Mr. Jha watched his wife put on the diamond earrings and felt happy. They suited her. He was in a hotel room—a bit on the small side but nobody knew them here so it was okay—in New York City with a wife who was not aging too badly, wearing diamond earrings from Tiffany’s, and their son studying in America, about to go see humans dressed as cats. How could he be so fortunate? In some past life, somewhere, he must have done something good. Silently, he thanked God.
Mr. Jha loved Cats, even though the usher had scolded him loudly for taking a flash photo. It was worth the mild public humiliation to be able to show the Chopras where they were sitting. Since he had had to quickly move the phone down, the picture was mostly of the wooden stage, but explaining that would make it easy to say where their seats were.
When they got back to the hotel that night, Mr. Jha was happy. On the single bed that Ali had set up near the window, his son was happy. Mrs. Jha, however, was nervous. Things were going too well for them, she worried. Maybe another visit to the Mayur Palli temple was due. She hadn’t even set up a small temple in the Gurgaon house, she reminded herself. She would do that as soon as they returned to Delhi, and she would donate money to the temple in Mayur Palli. The old neighbors would appreciate that.
The next morning, the sun was shining and New York City glistened in the way only New York City does. The sun reflected off the buildings to make the city twice as bright as the rest of the world.
“We should buy property here,” Mr. Jha said. “Maybe just a small one- or two-bedroom. Rupak, maybe you will get a job in New York after you graduate.”
“But would New York be a good place to raise a family?” Mrs. Jha said.
“It can’t be much worse than Delhi,” Mr. Jha said.
“You know, Rupak,” Mrs. Jha said. “We were in Khan Market recently and there are so many foreigners working and living there now. Maybe you should come back and work in India for some time.”
“What nonsense, Bindu,” Mr. Jha said. “We didn’t send him to America to study just so he could come rushing back.”
“It’s just something to consider. It’ll be nice for you to have some time at home—have home-cooked food, clean bedsheets, everything.”
“I have clean bedsheets in Ithaca, Ma. You’ll see. I do okay on my own,” Rupak said. “But I’m not completely against the idea of coming back to India either. I know things are changing there.”
And he wasn’t sure he was going to get a job that would sponsor a visa here anyway, so it was best to start preparing his parents to think he was choosing to come back on his own.
When they arrived at his apartment in Ithaca, Rupak let his mother step out first so he could help his father with the luggage.
“Ma, take a left and it’s the door right at the end of the hallway,” he said while pulling out one of the large Burberry suitcases. He dragged it down the hallway behind her, his father behind him, and over his mother’s shoulder he could see, as they approached the door, the small wooden pencil box lying on the ground on his welcome mat with a yellow sticky paper attached to it. Rupak left the suitcase, pushed past his mother saying he would unlock the door, and quickly picked up the pencil box. The note said:
I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want me to have this. —E
Rupak held the box against his stomach as he unlocked the door.
“Is that the pencil box I got for your friend?” Mrs. Jha said. “Why is it lying on the floor in the hallway?”
“It’s a long story,” Rupak said. “I’ll explain in a minute. Here, just come in and have some water and sit down and I’ll go get the rest of the bags.”
Rupak went into his bedroom and dumped the pencil box into a desk drawer, annoyed with Elizabeth, and went back out to the hallway.
“Did you and Gaurav have a fight?” Mrs. Jha asked.
“Ma, please just sit and settle in and let me get all the bags. That was a tiring bus ride,” Rupak said.
Mr. Jha entered then with two of the suitcases and said, “Look at this place. It’s like a real American home. I bet you don’t even have bottles of spicy achaar tucked away somewhere. Good. When in Rome, Bindu, when in Rome.”
Mrs. Jha followed her husband into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was completely empty except for a bottle of ketchup and three cans of beer. This was exactly what she had been worried about.
“Rupak, what do you eat?” she said.
“Why have you opened my fridge as soon as you came in? Can you please not peer into everything?”
“Privacy,” Mrs. Jha said to her husband. “Everything in America is about privacy.”
The visit was not off to a good start, so Rupak decided to tell them about Serena right away in order to shift focus.
“Here, why don’t you both sit and I’ll make some tea,” Rupak said, coming into the kitchen and directing his parents back out to the living room, where he had hidden all traces of Elizabeth, marijuana, pornography, and even hard liquor.
“Do that and then why don’t we go get some groceries and I can cook dinner? I can make methi chicken,” Mrs. Jha said. “Actually I can cook a handful of dishes in bulk and portion them and put them in the freezer.”
“No, Ma, don’t do that here. The smell of Indian cooking stays in the curtains and carpets for days and gets in clothes and stuff. You can even smell it out in the hallway.”
Mrs. Jha looked over at her son. “You don’t like the smell of the food we cook? Our house in Delhi smells bad?”
“No,” Rupak said quickly. “Our house in Delhi smells fine and I love your food. But the homes in America aren’t as ventilated as India and the smell sticks to everything. I wasn’t making a comment about your food. In Delhi everything is always open—all our doors and windows. And there aren’t heavy curtains and carpets. That’s all I meant. I love your food. You know that. And actually it isn’t even that. I was going to bring a…friend…along to dinner tonight, if that’s okay with you. I think you’d like…her.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Jha said, willing to forget his comments about her cooking. “Is she in your class?”
“No, she’s doing her master’s in theater at Cornell,” Rupak said.
“Oh, that’s a good university. A master’s in theater, though? Interesting,” Mrs. Jha said. Americans really allow their children to study whatever they want, she thought.
“She’s talented,” Rupak said.
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting your…friend,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Serena. Her name is Serena,” Rupak said.
Serena didn’t have to be an American name, Mrs. Jha thought, hoping against hope, because, of course, someone named Serena who was studying theater was going to be American.
An American, Mr. Jha thought! And one studying theater, no less. He must
remember to take a picture to show Mr. Chopra.
“Well, then let’s make a reservation somewhere fancy,” Mr. Jha said.
“We don’t need to make a reservation in Ithaca,” Rupak said.
“Let me get my iPad and find the best place in the area.” Mr. Jha got up and wandered off to find his luggage. He wanted to go somewhere special to welcome Serena into the family. Not that Rupak had announced any plans to marry her, but on all the sitcoms white families embrace their children’s girlfriends and boyfriends, and he didn’t want Serena to feel uncomfortable. It would be so wonderful to go back to Delhi, Gurgaon in particular, with pictures of Rupak and his blond-haired, blue-eyed “friend.” One white special friend would surely trump Johnny’s dozens of Indian girls. He would show the pictures to Mr. Chopra and shake his head and say, “What can one do? He’s just so modern. No Indian women for him. He has such an international mind.”
They had sent Rupak to the United States to expand his horizons, and if that included an American special friend, so be it. It would help him get a green card too.
Mrs. Jha nervously adjusted her dupatta as she stepped out of the taxi on the Ithaca Commons. They were going to Maggie’s, an American restaurant where, Mr. Jha had read online, they served some special steak that was cut from cows that were raised on farms in Japan where they were fed beer and grass so they were always drunk and happy. And, he had read out earlier, when they were slaughtered, it was done from behind by sticking a knife into their necks so they wouldn’t realize what’s coming and wouldn’t feel fear. “That way their bodies don’t tense up and the meat is extra soft. It costs thirty dollars an ounce! An ounce! Those Japanese really know what they’re doing. I bet our Indian cows would enjoy beer and grass,” Mr. Jha said, trying to figure out a way to keep a receipt of the meal to show the neighbors. That might prove impossible, he decided. He would have to work it into conversation.
“I really wish we were going to Moosewood,” Mrs. Jha said. “Anil, it’s the most famous vegetarian restaurant in the world.”
“Bindu, you can get vegetarian food on every street corner in India. Maggie’s will be a different experience. And I’m sure Rupak’s…friend…will enjoy it.”
Mrs. Jha was nervous about meeting Rupak’s friend. Would Serena call her Bindu? Americans all behaved with such familiarity. And what would Serena think of her outfit? Tonight Mrs. Jha was wearing a black kurta and black salwar, with a red dupatta draped around her shoulders. Fortunately Ithaca was much more relaxed than New York. In New York, Mrs. Jha constantly wondered how women managed to walk in stilettos on cobblestones. She could not even wear wedge heels. It was strange that she had such a different idea of what it meant to be a woman. For her, life had been about raising a family. There was no mystery, there were no secrets. She had never thought about her clothes or her body and apart from the occasional pedicure, she did not pay much attention to how anything looked below the neck. Maybe it was time to change. Look at Shobha De, after all. She’s old but still wears sleeveless blouses and sometimes even skirts. Maybe tomorrow Mrs. Jha would buy herself a long skirt. And when she got back to Delhi, she vowed to take longer walks in the evening and maybe even start yoga. Forget Shobha De, Mrs. Jha thought, just look at Mrs. Ray. Maybe someday Rupak would have a church wedding, and she did not want to be the frumpy one in flat shoes while Serena’s mother wore some fitted, sleeveless dress and high heels.
Mr. Jha looked around for his son’s special friend. He hoped she would be beautiful. He liked the idea of having a blond exotic woman calling him Dad. Although it had sounded nice to hear Rupak say “Papa” earlier. They had come a long way from Mayur Palli. If only the Chopras could see them now.
“There she is!” Rupak said. “Serena! Serena! Over here.”
And they all turned to see Serena walking toward them dressed, like Mrs. Jha, in black leggings, a kurta, and a dupatta. Serena adjusted her dupatta and wondered if she looked appropriate for the evening.
“Isn’t this restaurant lovely? Anil, I’m glad you booked it. I feel like I’m in Paris,” Mrs. Jha said.
Mrs. Jha looked around the restaurant and then over to her son and Serena. She smiled. Serena was Indian. With an unusual name and a degree in theater, but Indian nevertheless. Rupak had his choice of all the women in America and he had chosen an Indian woman who was dressed similarly to his mother.
“I like it,” Serena said. “I had never been here before because I always wonder if the price will be worth it at places like this, you know? Like, can the food really be that much better?”
“You aren’t paying just for the food,” Mr. Jha said. How had his son managed to find a woman who was so similar to his own mother? Of all the women in America, he had to pick this one, whom nobody in Delhi would look at twice. He could easily have met and charmed a beautiful young blond woman whom all of Mayur Palli and Gurgaon would sit up and notice, but instead he had found a younger version of Mrs. Jha.
“I agree with you, Serena,” Mrs. Jha said. “I can never understand such expensive restaurants.”
“Can we not ruin the dinner by talking about the prices?” Rupak said. He was only half listening because he was busy imagining what it would have been like to have Elizabeth sitting at the table instead of Serena.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Jha said. “Let’s order. Should we get some appetizers?”
“You can order appetizers. I’m just going to order a main course,” Mr. Jha said.
“Should we get snails?” Rupak said. “Ma, have you tried snails?”
“Like garden snails?” Mrs. Jha said.
“You’ll like them,” Serena said. “Let’s get one order. Aunty, do you eat chicken stomach?”
“I love chicken stomach,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Snails are kind of similar in their consistency,” Serena said. “Let’s try some—make this even more of an evening in Paris.”
“Have you even been to Paris?” Mr. Jha asked.
“Well, no, but,” Serena said.
“Well,” Mr. Jha said.
“Anil, what’s wrong with you?” Mrs. Jha said. “Are you tired? We walked a lot in New York. And we hardly took any time to get over the jet lag so it’s all catching up with us.”
“We went to Tiffany’s,” Mr. Jha said. “Have you ever been to Tiffany’s?”
“No,” Serena said. “Did you go to any museums?”
“We went to the MoMA shop in Soho,” Mr. Jha said.
Serena looked toward Rupak, but he looked down at the menu.
“I’m going to order a whiskey,” Mr. Jha said. “A Lagavulin 16. Bindu, we should take a bottle of good whiskey back for our neighbors. Rupak, you will enjoy meeting them. They have a son about your age.”
“Do you find the people in Gurgaon really different from what you’re used to?” Serena asked.
“We’re still adjusting,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Not at all. The people of Gurgaon are people like us,” Mr. Jha said. “They’re very sophisticated. Rupak, Mr. Chopra has a Jaguar.”
Serena again made eyes toward Rupak and smiled as if they shared a secret. Rupak didn’t return the smile. Instead he said, “What does the son do?”
“He’s an aspiring poet,” Mrs. Jha said.
“In Gurgaon? And his parents are okay with that?” Rupak said.
“His parents are probably proud because it means he doesn’t earn any money,” Serena said. “All these rich Delhi kids pretend they’re in the arts. It’s like the wives of Bollywood stars calling themselves interior designers. Next thing you know, his father will be funding a literary magazine.”
“But weren’t you saying nobody in India funds the arts?” Rupak asked. “Isn’t them funding it, even if it’s for their son, better than nothing?”
After the dishes of the main course had been cleared away, Mrs. Jha asked Rupak how his classes were going this semester and instead of telling her he was at risk of failing, he said they were going fine and then quickly said,
“By the way, you know Serena is Mrs. Gupta’s niece.”
“Which Mrs. Gupta?” Mr. Jha said. He hadn’t spoken much through the meal.
“From Mayur Palli. Our neighbors,” Rupak said.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs. Jha said. “You’re basically family already! Should we order dessert? And I feel like a cup of chamomile tea.”
“What? You never order tea at restaurants. Since when are you willing to pay five dollars for something you can make for free in Rupak’s apartment?” Mr. Jha said. And then added to Rupak, “Your mother brought a box of tea bags from India so she wouldn’t have to buy tea out. But now you want dessert?”
“That’s different. I brought the tea bags because we both like having a cup of tea first thing in the morning in the hotel in New York, and going out to buy it every day is a waste. But tonight is different. We’re at a restaurant, and we’ve just met Serena. I’m going to order some tea.”
“Look how special you are, Serena,” Mr. Jha said.
Serena laughed.
“Oh, I understand. My mother is the same way,” she said. “I like it.”
Mrs. Jha smiled. What a lovely young woman, she thought. She would fit right into their world in Delhi.
“Rupak, your father and I will take a taxi home. You should drop Serena home safely,” Mrs. Jha said. “Take your time. We’ll have a cup of tea and go to sleep if we get tired.”
Was his mother implying that he could stay out late with a woman and do the things young men and women do and she wouldn’t wait up? This was his mother’s way of giving approval, Rupak knew.
“Oh no, that’s okay,” Serena said. “Ithaca is completely safe. Rupak, you should go with your parents.”
“Okay, then,” Mr. Jha said. “It was lovely meeting you, Serena.”
“Anil,” Mrs. Jha said. “Stop that. Rupak will be a gentleman. Serena, it was wonderful meeting you. This is such a quick trip, but hopefully we’ll see you back in Delhi soon? Come have dinner with us when you’re in town.”
