by Diksha Basu
“Sure, Aunty, I’ll do that. It was nice meeting you.”
“I like your mother,” Serena said in the taxi.
Rupak nodded. This felt like a veiled insult toward his father.
“What are you going to do with them for the rest of the time they’re here?”
Rupak shrugged.
“Not much. I have to go to class and they’re leaving on Wednesday.”
“I would suggest you take them to the Johnson Art Museum, but I get the feeling your father doesn’t really like museums,” Serena said with a small laugh. “He’s sweet.”
“There’s no need to be condescending. He’s not just sweet; he also created one of the most successful Indian startups,” Rupak said, defending his father in a way he had never done before.
“I wasn’t being condescending,” Serena said. “He is sweet. And I admire the fact that he’s achieved what he’s achieved. It must be weird to suddenly get money like that overnight. For all of you.”
On the one hand, Rupak was happy to have an opening to be able to talk about it, but on the other hand, he refused to believe that calling an adult “sweet” was not condescending, so he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to open up to Serena. Nobody ever had much sympathy for the woes of being suddenly wealthy.
“I don’t live at home anymore, so it doesn’t really affect me,” he said.
“Well, it allows you to go to grad school without going into debt.”
“That’s true,” Rupak said. “And I’m grateful for that. Are you doing anything exciting this week?”
“What do you think you’re going to do when you finish? I noticed you avoid all your parents’ questions about the future. I mean, I get it—I’m trying to do theater and as supportive as my parents are, they don’t really understand. But I guess even though they may not understand, I know what I’m trying to do,” Serena said. “Do your parents even know how much you want to do film?”
“Please stop,” Rupak interrupted her. “Please don’t continue asking the same questions my mother was asking. I don’t need another mother.”
Serena turned to face him, the passing lights making her dark eyes look darker. Rupak turned away and looked out the window.
“You’re touchy,” she said. “I wasn’t asking anything out of the ordinary.”
“You just sound like my mother,” Rupak repeated.
“Rupak, you realize this is more because you don’t have an answer to the simple question of what you want to do next in life. Stop projecting this onto me.”
“Now you sound like a therapist,” Rupak said.
“And you sound like an asshole,” Serena said.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Rupak said. “It’s just stressful having parents visit, you know.”
“I’ve got a regular week ahead,” Serena said. “Pretty busy.”
“I could come up to Cornell for dinner after my parents leave on Wednesday.”
“I’ll get off at this corner on the right,” Serena said to the taxi driver. “And then you can take this same taxi home. Text me about Wednesday—I might have to help stage manage a show. Like I said, it’s a pretty busy week.”
“Okay,” Rupak said. “I’ll keep Wednesday free, though.”
“See you later,” Serena said, stepping out of the car. “I hope your parents enjoy the rest of their stay.”
As the taxi pulled away from her apartment, Rupak sent Elizabeth a text message that said, What are you doing tonight? but she didn’t reply.
When he got home his father had already gone to sleep, but his mother was sitting on the couch in the living room, drinking a cup of tea and watching television. She smiled up at him when he entered.
“She’s lovely,” Mrs. Jha said.
Rupak nodded and went into the bathroom and closed the door. Mrs. Jha sat on the sofa and worried that Serena was too good for her son.
A week after they got back to Delhi, in Gurgaon, after dinner, Mrs. Jha was sitting in the living room at her husband’s laptop humming to herself while researching exercise machines for the home. She was considering ordering one of those small stepping machines. Mr. Jha meanwhile, was fidgeting on the sofa. He was suffering from dreadful jet lag and was still falling asleep by nine p.m. every evening.
“These crystals are so uncomfortable to lie down on,” he said, turning sideways to try to minimize the poking.
“Would you use a stair stepper as well?” Mrs. Jha said. “If we keep it near the television, we can use it while watching the news in the evenings.”
“Now why are you so interested in fitness all of a sudden? For years you’ve done nothing, but now you want to buy a stair stepper?”
“You’re the one who was encouraging me to wear skirts and be more Westernized. And you were the one who wanted to join a gym. Why not put all your tracksuits to some use? You’re just being grumpy now because you’re sleepy. Go upstairs and go to bed if you’re so tired. Although I don’t know how you will ever get over your jet lag at this rate,” Mrs. Jha said. “I wish we had stayed in New York for longer.”
“You’re the one who insisted you wanted to be back in Delhi well in time for Diwali,” Mr. Jha said. “And I don’t think we should encourage Rupak to pursue things with Serena. She’s not suitable.”
“What are you talking about? She’s perfect. She’s exactly the kind of wife we would have picked for him,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Hardly. She’s related to the Guptas, which means she knows all about our money, and I bet she’s just trying to get her hands on it. I don’t trust those Guptas one bit.”
Mrs. Jha ignored her husband and was reading the reviews for one of the stair steppers. A Mrs. Sonia Prasad from Pune had written, Good for exercise and handles provide an excellent place to dry clothes in rainy season.
“I should speak to the Chopras and see if they have an exercise machine at home,” Mrs. Jha said. “I was thinking we should invite them over for dinner soon. Maybe next Sunday night?”
“No need to appear so eager. We’ll see them when we see them,” Mr. Jha said.
Ever since Mr. Jha had met Serena and returned from America, he had been avoiding Mr. Chopra. How would he explain Rupak’s MBA and Indian girlfriend while Johnny continued to drive around in his new car and bring home an assortment of young girls every night? Mr. Jha often heard the loud bass coming from Johnny’s car. And he would see other cars parked along the road outside their gates and young boys and girls with cigarettes and strange hats and multicolored hair going in and out of the Chopras’ home. How could Mr. Jha admit that while Johnny was living this life of luxury, paid for by his father, Rupak was busy studying and preparing to have a regular income while dating a woman who looked like a younger version of his own mother?
“We’ve been back for a week and you haven’t even gone to say hello to the neighbors. What happened? I thought you and Mr. Chopra were on your way to becoming best friends,” Mrs. Jha said.
“I have been busy. And tired. This jet lag is getting me down.”
“If you just force yourself to stay awake one day, you will get over it. Why don’t you sit up? Or why don’t we go out for a walk to wake up? Maybe we can even see if the Chopras are home and say hello?” Mrs. Jha said.
You could smell winter in the air, more clearly here in Gurgaon than you ever could in Mayur Palli, and it was Mrs. Jha’s favorite time of year. If she was completely quiet, she was certain she could hear the crackle of burning wood coming from the street where the guards huddled around the flames for warmth at this time of night.
“Or we can even pull the car out and go to the market for some hot gulab jamuns,” Mrs. Jha said.
Mr. Jha turned to look at her, but one of the crystals caught on his ear. He jerked upright, now feeling more awake than he wished to be.
“Stupid crystals,” he said.
What was wrong with his wife? Now she wanted to go out in the cold for dessert? And she wanted to drop in and see the Chopras after she was the one who h
ad been so reluctant about leaving Mayur Palli in the first place? And his son, who Mr. Jha knew for a fact once had a small cutout picture of Pamela Anderson in her red bathing suit that he kept in this bedside drawer, had settled on a plain girl from Delhi. All Mr. Jha wanted to do was sleep.
But, as if the gods were finally listening—although maybe they had been listening for a while because despite everything else going wrong, this morning Mr. Jha’s Mercedes hit an auto-rickshaw on the main road and only the auto-rickshaw got dented while his Mercedes did not even suffer a scratch—the phone rang and Mr. Jha got up from the sofa and went to the dining room to answer.
“Papa,” Rupak said, “I have some bad news. I’m really sorry.”
Rupak had been kicked out of his MBA program. On top of near-failing grades, he had stupidly been caught buying marijuana.
“Marijuana?” Mr. Jha asked his son. Was that the really dangerous one or was that the one that was on the way to being legalized, Mr. Jha wondered.
“Yeah, it’s going to be legal soon anyway. And I was buying such a small amount. And only in order to help myself focus—I study better with marijuana. It’s just that they have this zero-tolerance policy, so I can’t stay here anymore. Look, I promise I’ll come back to India and fix everything. Maybe even see if I can get into IIM to finish my degree. I promise I won’t let you and Ma down. I’m really so sorry,” Rupak said.
Mr. Jha walked with the cordless phone to the cabinet in the dining room and poured himself an Old Monk. Let Mr. Chopra call it swill. Mr. Jha was now the father of an expelled child, a failure, a financial burden who would need money that he, Mr. Jha, could provide. Plenty of money. Mr. Jha could confidently drink whatever he wanted. He dropped three ice cubes into his glass, swirled the dark, sweet rum around, and said, “No, no. Business school is clearly not meant for you. Serena must be very disappointed in you. But don’t worry—you will meet someone else. You are too young to be settling down anyway.”
“No, Dad, please. Papa, I’m so sorry. I can finish the degree in India. I promise. I’ll get a job at a bank. Or maybe consulting. I know how embarrassing this is for you. I’ll fix it—I won’t let you down.”
“Rupak, calm down. You come back to India. You wanted to be a filmmaker, no? Done. I will produce your first film. You focus on that. And don’t weigh that Serena girl down. It’s best you call things off.”
“…Filmmaking? That was a while ago. I don’t want to do that anymore. I promise.”
“You will try to be a filmmaker. If it works, good. If it doesn’t, chalo, we’ll see then.”
Mr. Jha went back to where his wife was sitting and said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the only way to get over jet lag is by going out for some hot gulab jamuns. I’ll get the car ready. Oh, and Rupak will be back next week.”
“Are you going to come back?” Serena asked on the phone.
“Can we discuss this in person, please?” Rupak said. He pulled out an open shoebox that had been lying under his bed since he had moved to Ithaca. There were pictures—pictures of his life in Mayur Palli, pictures of the life he kept separate from his life here, pictures of a life he now had to return to.
“Rupak, I’m not sure there’s that much to say, right? I mean you have to leave. For buying pot. I’m sorry, I don’t really know how to react to that,” Serena said.
“But you and all your friends smoke pot too,” Rupak said.
“Sure, but we aren’t stupid enough to get arrested for buying it. And we all kind of know what we’re trying to do in life at this point. You have no idea.”
“Okay, but I’ll be in India. You said you wanted to move back,” Rupak said. He looked at a framed picture of himself in his school uniform, leaning back against his father’s cream-colored Fiat, the first car Rupak had ever known. His mother had this picture framed when he was leaving, and one copy of it remained on her bedside table in Delhi and one was with him in Ithaca. How was he going to face his mother? Even though he was supposed to be packing, Rupak took the picture and walked out to the living room to place it on the shelf.
“Please just see me once,” he said. The only way to face his mother would be with Serena still in the picture. He placed the picture on an empty shelf and looked around the room. His room was bare and not just because he was packing. If someone came into his apartment, they would have no sense of who he was, he thought. The only hint of something personal, something deliberate was one framed postcard, not even a poster, advertising a Fellini retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art. He hadn’t even attended the exhibition; he had picked up the postcard from a table at a coffee shop downtown. If he really wanted to be a filmmaker, why hadn’t he gone to New York for the weekend and seen the exhibition, he wondered.
“I just get the feeling we don’t have the same goals in life,” Serena said. “I don’t have the big safety net that you have. I actually want to work. I don’t want to just fuck around. I don’t know if you thought we were going to have some kind of happily ever after, but, Rupak, we just don’t have enough in common. You can’t try to force yourself to be with me for the sake of your parents. I’m not from the world that gets impressed by fancy restaurants and jewelry from Tiffany’s.”
“Neither am I,” Rupak said.
“Well, that’s not really true, is it? I met your family. I don’t mean that to be rude. I just mean that we come from different worlds and that’s fine. We’re friends. And we’ll stay friends.”
Rupak wanted to slam the phone down, but he looked at his picture again. “Can you imagine this little boy is off to America to study?” his mother had said to all the neighbors of Mayur Palli when they got the news that he had been accepted to Ithaca College. His father had invited everyone over to celebrate and his mother had passed this picture around, beaming. “To our future,” his father had toasted, and Rupak had smiled, and his mother had put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“Please just meet me for a cup of coffee,” he said in a quieter voice.
“Rupak,” Serena said, and paused. “You’re going to be in Delhi, right? I’ll be there for Christmas. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay, what if I see you and just say good-bye? You don’t have to react. We don’t have to discuss anything.”
“You’re leaving the country while the rest of us are studying for midterms. There’s no way to not react.”
Fine, Rupak decided. He couldn’t ask for more. He didn’t want to ask for more.
The next morning, Mr. Jha found Mrs. Jha sitting alone quietly on the front porch.
“Did you order the exercise machine?” he asked.
“No,” Mrs. Jha said. She continued looking out toward their front yard. There was nothing to see. No sights, no sounds. Nothing at all to link with.
“Good,” Mr. Jha said. “Now with Rupak coming back, an LRC membership makes even more sense. The whole family can use it. And Bindu, you were right—my jet lag has lifted completely. I feel wonderful. I’m off to the market. Do you need anything?”
Mrs. Jha continued staring into the distance.
Mr. Jha got in the car and went to buy some bottles of champagne. Moët had recently introduced a sparking pink wine—a sparkling rosé, if you will—to India, and Mr. Jha picked up three bottles and came home and put them in the freezer to chill faster. When he got home, Mrs. Jha was up in the bedroom lying on the bed, still staring into the distance. Two hours later, when he went to check on the bottles, he saw that one of them had exploded and left a pink syrup all over the freezer, so he removed the other two and put them down in the fridge. He would tell Mrs. Jha about the exploded one later—no point making her even grumpier than she already was; he was considerate like that.
In the evening, he went out to his driveway and sat near the gate with one of the cold bottles of Moët and two champagne flutes. He sat waiting for the sound of Mr. Chopra’s car coming down the road. He could hear Balwinder pottering around outside their gate, listening to the latest Bollywood song
on his phone.
At about twenty minutes past eight, he heard the creak of Mr. Chopra’s gate being pushed open and the crunch of gravel as the Jaguar went into the driveway. Holding the bottle of champagne and the glasses, Mr. Jha rushed past Balwinder and said, “Mr. Chopra, we are celebrating! A glass of champagne for you! Rupak is coming back to India.”
“Lovely,” Mr. Chopra said, stepping out of his car. “For Diwali? Or have you found him a good Indian bride?”
Mr. Jha laughed while twisting the thin gold wire around the edge of the champagne bottle.
“No, no, no,” he said, turning the fat brown cork in the neck, paying no attention to where it was pointing or how much he had shaken it up in his enthusiastic run over to Mr. Chopra’s driveway. “Nothing useful like that. He’s taking a break from his MBA program. Coming back.”
At that, the cork popped and flew up and out of the bottle and landed at the base of the hedge shaped like a duck, and white fizzy bubbles spilled over the sides of the dark green bottle.
“I’m so happy he’ll be home soon. To that, we must raise a toast,” Mr. Jha said, and handed a glass to Mr. Chopra. “Both our sons will be home. We must introduce them soon. I have told Rupak a lot about you. Anyway, you must drop in for a drink and meet him when he arrives.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Chopra said. “This is very good news for you. Rupak will find a job here, then? Half an MBA means job prospects will be good.”
“Sadly, no. Now he wants to be a filmmaker. Idiotic dreams. As if there’s any money in filmmaking,” Mr. Jha said, emptying his glass of champagne.
“Well, well,” Mr. Chopra said. “Filmmaking these days can be very lucrative. Good for him. Much better than poetry, I tell you. Now that is a field with no money. Johnny should learn from Rupak. He gives absolutely no thought to the future.”
“Yes, maybe. But Rupak has little talent, so it is likely that he will fail completely,” Mr. Jha said.
Both the men laughed heartily.
