The Windfall

by Diksha Basu

  “Thirty rupees for a bunch, fifty for two,” the man said, not responding in the slightest to Serena’s attempted familiarity.

  “The price has gone up,” Serena turned and said to Rupak. “Just one, please. You’re looking well, Uncle.”

  The light changed to green and cars were honking from behind them and circling around to get past them.

  “Madam, please hurry,” the man said, looking over his shoulder toward the impatient cars behind them.

  “Membership card, sir,” the guard at the LRC said to Mr. Jha.

  “We aren’t members,” Mr. Jha said. He looked down the tree-lined driveway of the LRC and tried to imagine himself being a member here, coming in his gym clothes for a hit of tennis or a few swings of golf. Were those the right terms? Or was it a swing of tennis and a hit of golf?

  “Yet.” Mrs. Jha undid her seat belt and leaned across from the passenger seat. “Jhas. We’re here for the wedding dinner for Reema…Ray? Chopra? Did she change her name? Maybe it’s under Upen Chopra?”

  “Do widows change their names back to their maiden name after the husband dies?” Mr. Jha asked his wife.

  “Mr. Anil Kumar Jha?” the guard said, holding up a sheet of paper with a list of names on it.

  Mr. Jha nodded. Mrs. Jha sat back upright in her seat. The guard handed Mr. Jha a red plastic card and said, “Sir, please keep this carefully to return at the exit gate. For security purposes. Your party is in the back lawns called Peacock Haven. You can give your car to the valet at the main entrance at the end of this driveway.”

  “He didn’t check our ID. I could have just nodded and not actually been Anil Kumar Jha,” Mr. Jha said as he drove slowly, very slowly down the driveway. “I really don’t think I should be here, Bindu.”

  Mrs. Jha put her hand on her husband’s hand on the gear.

  “It will be a nice evening,” she said. “And if you hate it, we’ll leave. Okay?”

  Mr. Jha nodded. They had arrived at the end of the driveway, where the valet drivers were waiting in black pants and white tucked-in shirts. The entrance was large and regal with dim lighting and five-foot-tall vases with purple bougainvilleas spilling out. The awning was fitted with heat lamps and Mr. and Mrs. Jha stepped out of their car into the outdoor warmth in the middle of the Delhi cold. Mrs. Jha looked up at the warm yellow glow above.

  “This feels even less like Delhi than the rest of Gurgaon. Do you want to get one of those for our front entrance too?” she said with a laugh.

  Mr. Jha said nothing and handed the car keys to the valet driver.

  “Where’s the Peacock Haven?” Mrs. Jha asked the valet. “We’re here for the wedding reception.”

  “That’s the back lawn. It’s quite a walk so you can just take one of our rickshaws,” the valet said, and whistled toward the row of three-wheeled auto-rickshaws that was parked to the right of the main entrance. They looked almost like the regular rickety auto-rickshaws of Delhi except that each one was brightly painted in a different style.

  “We have to take a rickshaw from here?” Mr. Jha asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the valet said. “They are solar powered and each rickshaw has been hand-painted by a contemporary artist from Delhi.”

  A rickshaw with a Technicolor painting of the Taj Mahal on it pulled up, driven by a man wearing a crisp white kurta pajama with a red turban perched on his head. Mr. Jha had spent most of his life avoiding getting in auto-rickshaws, but now he was stepping from his Mercedes into one. He got into the rickshaw behind his wife as the valet driver took his Mercedes away to the parking spot.

  “What a lovely idea. Too many people avoid rickshaws these days. This is nice,” she said.

  “Seems a little gimmicky,” Mr. Jha said. It was bad enough that the local trains were getting popular, but now rickshaws?

  “Will you please try to enjoy yourself today?”

  “I’m just surprised that you like this,” Mr. Jha said. “I thought you hated everything about Gurgaon.”

  “I never said I hated Gurgaon. It’s just very different from what we’re used to, that’s all.”

  “You don’t want a guard, you didn’t want me to join the LRC, you want Rupak to keep studying, you don’t wear diamonds. It’s understandable that I’m surprised that you like these rickshaws. Isn’t this the equivalent of when that Hollywood actress wore a bindi and you got annoyed about it being culturally inappropriate?”

  “That’s different. And in any case, wanting Rupak to keep studying has nothing to do with Gurgaon. I want our son to be like you—I want him to work hard and earn his success. And as for the LRC, I admit that I’m surprised. So far it seems quite tastefully done. I may have been wrong about it.”

  Mrs. Jha just wanted him to enjoy this world again. It had been a difficult few weeks. It had been a difficult year but they had to move on. They had to be happy.

  “Peacock Haven,” the rickshaw driver said.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jha stepped out of the rickshaw and walked toward the large lawn. Big round bouquets of multicolored flowers dangled down from the trees on strings made of more fresh flowers. The lawn was dotted with metal heat lamps that gave off a hazy glow. A DJ console was set up at the back and a Frank Sinatra song played loudly. There were several stations set up for food—kebabs, pastas, pizza, a taco and burrito station, one section for Chinese food—vegetarian and nonvegetarian, one table just for Burmese khausuey, and a whole different section for desserts from all around the world. At all four corners of the lawn, there were bars set up and even from the entrance Mr. Jha could see that it was all imported top-shelf liquor and wine.

  “Who are all these people?” Mr. Jha whispered to his wife.

  “Just regular club members,” Mrs. Jha said. “Reema said they do this every Saturday night at the LRC. And members are allowed to invite guests. They haven’t set this up just for their reception. They just added us and the Guptas as guests.”

  “This is a regular Saturday night here?” Mr. Jha asked. He looked around at the people dressed in Delhi’s Saturday best. There were women in tight bandage dresses with high heels that were digging into the grass every time they stood still. Some wore expensive designer saris with embroidered shawls or heavy furs over their shoulders. The men mostly wore suits, some with fashionable black coats that came all the way down to their ankles. A few wore turtlenecks under their blazers. It was easier to fit in, in the winter, Mr. Jha thought. He was also wearing a plain black suit with a blue button-down shirt and a black tie. And his wife, even though she was once again wearing one of her monochromatic sari-blouse combinations, had a dark red cardigan and a darker red shawl covering her shoulders that added a warmth to her face and made her look beautiful even though you could hardly even tell she had diamond earrings on, they were so small.

  “Not quite the monthly Mayur Palli meetings, is it?” Mrs. Jha said. “Come on. Let’s go find the happy couple.”

  As they walked across the lawn, Mr. Chopra saw them and boomed, “Jha! There you are! Where have you vanished?”

  Getting a drink, he mouthed to Mr. Chopra, and pointed toward the bar. “Quick,” he whispered to his wife. “Move quickly before he comes up to us.”

  “You’re going to have to talk to him. Reema just married his brother.”

  “Later. We’ll do that later. Let’s get a drink first.”

  “Anil,” Mrs. Jha said. But then she stopped. What was there to say? Nothing had been said after the last time they had seen the Chopras, and nothing could be said now.

  “Come,” she said. “Let’s go to the bar. Isn’t it nice that nobody here knows us?”

  As they walked toward the bar, a couple about the same age as them stopped and looked at them walking. Mrs. Jha smiled, trying to be friendly. They needed more friends in this neighborhood. But then the wife leaned forward and whispered to her husband, who looked at them more carefully, and then they both turned away. Mrs. Jha noticed her husband look at them and then look down at the ground for the r
est of the walk to the bar.

  Two young boys who looked about fifteen came up and asked the bartender for two glasses of vodka.

  “My father will kill me,” one of them said.

  “That’s why we’re getting vodka. He’ll think it’s water,” the other one said.

  The bartender looked around, unsure what to do.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to serve you alcohol,” he said quietly.

  “There’s no rules here,” one of the boys said. “My father’s on the board of the club and he won’t be happy to hear I was denied something.”

  The waiter put out two glasses and filled them to the brim with ice.

  “No, no, no,” said the same boy. “I don’t just want a glass of ice with a thimble of vodka, man. Just give us like four or five cubes of ice and fill the rest up with vodka.”

  The waiter did as the fifteen-year-old demanded, and the two boys took their glasses and walked away.

  “Black Label, on the rocks,” Mr. Jha said to the bartender, who was wearing a tie that was similar to his, equally narrow. “Make it a double.”

  “And I’ll have a Limca, please. No ice,” Mrs. Jha said.

  “Bindu!” Mrs. Ray said, rushing toward the bar toward the Jhas. She was wearing a gold chiffon sari and, despite the chill in the air, no shawl or sweater. Her hair was pulled into a low chignon and Mrs. Jha marveled at how beautiful her friend looked.

  “I feel like a twenty-year-old,” Mrs. Ray laughed. “I’m wearing sindoor. I haven’t bothered putting on sindoor since the day I got married last time.”

  She pointed at the part in her hair, where a stroke of red vermillion marked her as a married woman. Mrs. Jha had also stopped wearing sindoor nearly thirty years ago. It had seemed dated and sexist to her, but now it suddenly looked like a symbol of rebellion, or, at least, love and commitment.

  “Congratulations,” Mrs. Jha said. She stepped forward and pulled Mrs. Ray into a hug.

  “Life is so strange,” Mrs. Ray said. “Is this all absurd?”

  “It’s a little odd,” Mr. Jha said, sipping his whiskey. “But congratulations. You look lovely.”

  Mrs. Jha smiled at her husband.

  “You do look lovely. And odd is wonderful. And this club is much nicer than I had expected,” Mrs. Jha said.

  “It really is. I’m glad Upen insisted on doing the dinner here,” Mrs. Ray said. “But don’t fill up on the snacks. Just have a few drinks, and then we’ve made reservations at the Chinese restaurant at the main clubhouse for dinner—just us and the Chopras.”

  “Aren’t the Guptas coming as well?” Mrs. Jha said. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen them.”

  “They were going to,” Mrs. Ray said. “I spoke first to Mr. Gupta on the phone and he was so nice and sounded happy for me and said they would come. Then this morning he called me and said something urgent had come up and they wouldn’t be able to make it. Not everyone is as excited about my wedding, I suppose.”

  “Mrs. Gupta must have refused to attend,” Mrs. Jha said. “Anyway, never mind. All that doesn’t matter now.”

  “It hasn’t been easy in Mayur Palli, Bindu. But Shatrugan cried when I told him—said something about me deserving love. It was quite sweet but he needs to stop watching all those Hindi soap operas. And Mr. and Mrs. De sent over a box of Bengali sandesh.”

  “So just the Chopras and us?” Mr. Jha asked, taking a large sip of his whiskey.

  “And the two sons. After Rupak has finished all his hard work. Bindu, Anil—that son of yours has made us as proud as we all expected. He’s such a professional. Who is that young woman with him? I didn’t know he had a special friend.”

  “She’s just a friend from Ithaca,” Mr. Jha said. “Nothing important. Where is he?”

  “He’s off filming shots around the club to add to the footage,” Mrs. Ray said. “And you heard that he wouldn’t accept any payment either? He’s a wonderful boy. I think it’s good that he’s come back to India—we need more young men like him.”

  “We do,” Mrs. Jha said. “Reverse brain drain—it’s time to bring the talent home.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Ray said. “For whatever reason it may be, it’s a good thing he’s here now. It’ll be nice for you two as well. Now let me go find Upen and bring him over to say hello.”

  With that, Mrs. Ray walked back toward the center of the lawn to look for her husband.

  “What did she mean by that?” Mr. Jha said, putting his empty glass down on the bar. “Does she know? Does everyone know? What does everyone know?”

  He looked around the lawn to see if anyone was looking at him.

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is, like she said, that Rupak is here and he’s still as intelligent and wonderful as he was before this fiasco,” Mrs. Jha said. “Do you want another drink? I think I’ll try a glass of wine, or champagne. Anil, the last time we drank champagne was in New York. Gosh, that feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

  She turned to the bartender and said, “Do you have any champagne?”

  “No, madam, sorry. But will a white wine spritzer do?” the bartender asked.

  “You know what? I’ll try that, yes. And another Black Label on the rocks for my husband. Just a single, please.”

  Mrs. Ray came back holding Upen’s hand. Mrs. Jha looked away, not used to such physical displays of affection.

  “Anil, Bindu, I’m so glad you came tonight,” Upen said with a smile. “Well, this is all thanks to you after all.”

  “Congratulations, Upen,” Mrs. Jha said. Next to her Mr. Jha nodded, looking straight at Upen’s large hand wrapped around Mrs. Ray’s. If he tried to hold his wife’s hand, she would think he’d lost his balance, he thought.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’m stealing your friend away to Chandigarh for a little while,” Upen said. “She’s nervous about leaving Delhi, but I think she’ll enjoy Chandigarh.”

  “New beginnings can be difficult but nice,” Mrs. Jha said. “We’re still adjusting to Gurgaon.”

  “I’ve heard,” Upen said. “I mean, I haven’t heard anything specific. I haven’t heard anything. I just mean yes, yes, you are right. New beginnings can indeed be difficult but nice. You will have to plan a trip to Chandigarh soon.”

  “Why don’t you two finish your drink and then make your way to the main restaurant?” Mrs. Ray said. “We’ll see if we can round up everyone else.”

  “Do Upen and Mrs. Ray know?” Mr. Jha asked his wife after Mrs. Ray and Upen walked away. “Bindu, I’m too tired to be here tonight. Please can we go home? Reema will understand. We can celebrate with them later, privately.”

  Mrs. Jha was tired as well. She was tired of fighting and pretending everything was okay. The Chopras must have told Upen, who must have told Mrs. Ray, who must be thinking of her friend with such pity.

  “Fine,” she said. “Let’s just go. I’m tired as well. I’ll just finish my drink and then we can leave.”

  As Mr. and Mrs. Jha stood in silence finishing their drinks and looking out at the crowd, three women approached the bar, all looking to be in their midforties, with plumped-up lips and wavy thick hair. One was wearing a tight purple kurta with a slit up the leg, and wide black patiala pants underneath, with wedge-heeled boots and a leather jacket on top. Another was wearing a dark blue dress that she kept having to pull down and adjust over her thighs. She was wearing a brown fur coat to keep warm and she was slim but her knees looked crumpled. And the third was wearing a flowing long patterned kaftan-style dress with multicolored flowers on it with an open, ankle-length white sweater that reached to the ground.

  The Jhas stepped to the side with their drinks and watched this cluster of women. Two of them ordered Grey Goose and soda and one ordered a glass of sangria, with extra rum.

  “I hear he’s going back to Chandigarh,” one of them said. “Can you imagine wearing sindoor in your part at that age? It’s embarrassing. Not to mention that cheap-looking gold sari she has on
.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t last,” another one said.

  “I’m not worried. I’m not interested in him,” the first one said. “I was just telling you what I heard.”

  The third, the one in the long dress who had ordered the sangria and already seemed quite drunk, ignored the other two and said, “Have either of you spent much time in the Maldives? Rakesh wants to go and I’m worried I’ll be dreadfully bored.”

  “You will, darling. There’s nothing to do there. You’re not going to want to go diving and there’s absolutely no shopping. Go to Mallorca, it’s much better.”

  “Take a skiing vacation. That’s what we did last year, and it’s so cozy to sit in the log cabins all bundled up with some mulled wine.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” the first one said. “I hardly get to wear my heavy winter clothes in Delhi.”

  “We just got back from New York,” Mrs. Jha interjected.

  The three women looked at her and did not respond for a moment. They looked behind her at Mr. Jha and then back at each other. One of them finally said, “Well, New York is always an option. It never loses its charm.”

  Mrs. Jha was relieved that they had not laughed in her face.

  “It was lovely,” she continued.

  “We saw the musical Cats,” Mr. Jha added, also pleased that these women were talking to them.

  “I’ve seen Cats,” the one in the long dress said. “I saw three Broadway shows when I was there last time, can you believe it? Oh, you’re right. I do miss New York. Maybe it’s best to go back there again. I haven’t been in almost a year. It’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Jha said. “Always a good excuse to go to Tiffany’s.”

  The three women laughed and nodded in agreement and sipped their drinks.

  Rupak, with his camera draped around his shoulder, came to his parents.

  “Where’s Serena?” Mrs. Jha asked.

  “In the bathroom. Reema Aunty told me you were here already,” he said. “I’m enjoying shooting this—it’s a strange part of the city. I probably shouldn’t have invited her tonight when I’m trying to work.”