by Diksha Basu
“Oh, are you a photographer?” one of the women cooed at him while touching his upper arm. Mrs. Jha looked alarmed. She had never seen women, especially older women, treating her son like this. Rupak looked toward his parents. Mrs. Jha pretended not to notice, and Rupak, convinced that she hadn’t, looked back at the woman, smiled, and said, “Film. I want to make films. Here, say hello. It’s a wedding video.”
Rupak lifted the camera up and pointed it at the woman, who laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder and said, “Men with cameras are always charming.”
Mrs. Jha wanted to pull Rupak back by the arm and hold him close to her, but she resisted.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” the woman in the short dress and fur jacket said. “Are you members of the club?”
“We only just moved to Gurgaon,” Mrs. Jha said.
“But we are hoping to join the club. We thought we would check it out,” Mr. Jha added.
“Well, I hope you do, director sir,” the woman in the short dress said to Rupak, and the other two laughed. Mr. Jha also laughed along. Look at Rupak charming everyone. His son, his genes. He looked over at his wife, who was not laughing.
Mr. and Mrs. Chopra came to the bar to find the Jhas. Mrs. Chopra was wearing yet another heavy sari with gems stitched into it. Her jewelry sparkled and she was carrying a small Birkin bag. Mrs. Jha had heard that you had to put your name on a waitlist to get a Birkin bag in India.
“Anil, where have you been?” Mr. Chopra said, slapping Mr. Jha on the back. “You’ve all but vanished.”
“We’ve been around. Just a bit busy,” Mr. Jha said.
Serena approached the group then, and nobody reacted except for Mrs. Jha, who noted that Serena was dressed rather casually for the evening—had Rupak not told her that it was a formal event? Never mind. Mrs. Jha gave her a hug.
“Rupak, you have an assistant already?” Mr. Chopra said, his hand still on Mr. Jha’s shoulder. “Good to see all of you here tonight.”
Who would say that, Mr. Jha wondered nervously. Why had they even come tonight? It had seemed until now that everyone in Gurgaon lived in their own big homes and paid no attention to the neighbors, but suddenly this felt exactly like Mayur Palli. Worse. At least there the neighbors liked each other despite the gossip. At least there Mr. and Mrs. De would still send a box of sweets to Mrs. Ray even though she had accused him of stealing her yoga pants.
“Seema, Pinky, Delilah, have you met our new neighbors?” Mr. Chopra said to the three women standing next to them.
“Neighbors?” the one in the short dress said.
“You mean the…,” the one in the kurta trailed off.
Seema, Pinky, Delilah? Those were really their names, Mrs. Jha thought. Who had their parents been? With a name like Delilah, of course you would be wearing a long kaftan dress and ankle-length white flowing cardigan on a Saturday night. With a name like Delilah, you would never be wearing a neatly ironed sari.
“The Jhas. Mr. and Mrs. Anil Jha. And their son, Rupak,” Mr. Chopra finished.
“Oh…,” the one in the dress said. “The Jhas.”
“Oh my God,” the one in the kurta said. “Yes, you’re the…my driver…my guard…” She tried to stop herself from laughing. She turned her face into her shoulder to muffle the sound. The woman in the dress tugged it down and sipped from her glass, smirking into it while looking the Jhas up and down.
“What? What happened?” Delilah said. “And I’ve finished my sangria already. It was mostly ice anyway. Why are you two laughing?”
“Nothing,” the one in the kurta said, still stifling laughter. “We aren’t laughing. Nothing. We’ll tell you later. And that drink was not mostly ice. You’re drunk.”
“What will you tell me later?” Delilah said, while motioning to the bartender to get her another drink. “What about your driver and guard?”
“Shh, forget it,” the one in the kurta said. “These are the Jhas. Mr. and Mrs. Jha. The new neighbors.”
“The Jhas? The Chopras’ new neighbor!” The woman in the kaftan dress spun away from the bar and slurred loudly. “The one who fell off the ladder. Who your guard told your driver about? The ones from East Delhi!”
The woman in the kaftan dress laughed with less discretion than her two friends, staring straight at Mr. Jha, who wasn’t breathing. Next to him his wife had moved a few inches away without even realizing, and Rupak had quietly lowered his camera.
“That’s right,” Mr. Chopra said, putting his hand again on Mr. Jha’s shoulder. “Our new neighbors. Mr. Jha here is the one you must have heard fell off a ladder while trying to fix a part of the painting on our foyer ceiling. He’s been to Italy and has seen the real Sistine Chapel, you see. What a wonderful new neighbor to have. Have you ladies been to Italy?”
“Apparently there’s some sunlight in the middle of the painting,” Mrs. Chopra added confidently.
Rupak looked surprised. Everyone looked a little surprised.
“It’s true,” Rupak said. “And yes, you really should visit Italy. It’s beautiful.”
“It really is,” Mrs. Jha added. “Forget New York. If you haven’t been to Italy, that’s where you must go.”
“You must,” Mr. Chopra said. “Come along, then. We must get going. Let’s go find the happy couple and head to dinner. You ladies enjoy your evening.”
The Chopras turned and walked away toward the main dining hall. A few steps behind, Mrs. Jha took her husband’s glass from his hand and put it and her wineglass down on the bar, smiled and said good-bye to the three women, grabbed her husband by the elbow, and led him after the Chopras.
Rupak glanced at the women one last time, then turned his camera on his parents walking away.
“What was that all about?” Serena asked. “Your father was painting their ceiling?”
“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Rupak said, starting to walk through the crowd with his camera on.
“Is this whole night like an audition for your parents to become members of this club?”
Rupak ignored her and kept walking until he had reached the far edge of the lawn, where there were only staff members entering and exiting with platters of appetizers. One of the waiters came out with a platter of what looked like miniature tacos.
“Desi tacos, madam?” he said to Serena. “They’re pulled pork vindaloo wrapped in mini dosas.”
“How is that a taco?” Serena said, picking one up and biting into it. She turned to Rupak. “Why can’t they just call it what it is?”
“What is it?” Rupak said.
“Pulled pork vindaloo wrapped in a mini dosa, like he said.”
“That doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as a desi taco, Serena,” Rupak said.
Serena put the second bite into her mouth and said, “It’s really good, though. I’ll give them that.”
Rupak didn’t answer and kept filming instead. He wondered where Elizabeth was right now. Probably in Florida on vacation. If she were here with him today, this would all be so different. It would all be fun, despite everything working hard to make it not fun.
“Why did you wear that outfit today?” he said to Serena.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. I told you where we were going. You knew what the LRC is like. Why did you wear that outfit?”
“Am I supposed to wear a tight skirt or something? This is India. I’m wearing Indian clothes. I think it’s ridiculous that everyone here thinks wearing short dresses makes you trendy.”
“Come on, Serena. You’re hardly the type to wear a sari every day. I know you prefer jeans. I’ve met your friends. What is this Mother India thing all of a sudden?”
“Did you invite me here just to fight with me?” Serena said. “I don’t even know why I agreed to come today. I guess I was hoping that somehow you’d be different. But I’m seeing you here in India and I’m realizing you’re just another rich kid coasting along on Daddy’s money. Are you even embarras
sed that you got kicked out of grad school? This is going to be your life now? I can’t believe your family is the type to want to try to join a club like this.”
“You’ve done nothing but complain the whole time we’ve been here,” Rupak said. “What do you want? Do you want everyone here to donate all their money and never travel again and never enjoy themselves? There are people a lot poorer than you and I don’t see you giving up your life in America and moving into a slum. Is your life the exact boundary of what’s acceptable? Anything more becomes crass, but you having a two hundred rupee cup of coffee at Khan Market is fine? I bet someone who couldn’t afford that could also be pretty quick to pretend to look down on it.”
“Why did you invite me tonight? Not just tonight, but why did you invite me to meet your parents in Ithaca? For their sake? Do I tick off some box on a checklist of things you have to give them in exchange for their money? MBA, Indian woman, what else have you promised them?”
Rupak switched off his camera and let it rest around his neck. He turned to face Serena and looked straight into her eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly why I invited you.”
“What?” Serena said.
“You’re completely right,” Rupak said. “And I’m actually glad you said it out loud because I need to hear someone else say it so I can process how ridiculous it is, how ridiculous I’ve been. I’ve been an idiot. I lost someone I’m in love with and I’m about to lose a good friend.”
“You were in love with me?” Serena asked.
“No. I was in love with someone else,” Rupak said. “And I was a coward. And I’m being a coward again now. And I have to stop. Mrs. Ray is a widow who is having a love marriage. My father came out today to face the people he embarrassed himself in front of a month ago. And I invited you only to try to make my parents happy. You are completely right.”
“I’m going to go,” Serena said. “You need to get your life together. I hope you and your family find whatever it is you’re all looking for.”
“I think we have,” Rupak said. For the first time since his father had come home from work and said, “Rupak, Bindu, don’t get too excited yet, this is early stages but I got a very interesting phone call today,” Rupak felt safe again. That night, Mr. and Mrs. Jha had drunk Old Monk and laughed together until two a.m. and Rupak had felt a strange sense of doom that now he would never get out of his family’s shadow. And tonight, standing in a shadowed corner of the lawns of the LRC, he finally felt a hint of that doom lifting.
“I’m sorry, Serena,” he said, and walked toward the Chinese restaurant to find his family.
Rupak entered the dining hall and sat down next to his mother.
“Where did Serena go?” his mother asked.
“She left,” he said. “Ma, I’ve made a huge mistake.”
All around them the restaurant buzzed with other families and conversation and the clink of cutlery against plates. Waiters in Chinese-inspired silk red shirts and plain black trousers wove in and out of the tables with trays full of food or empty bowls and plates. Paintings of red dragons covered the walls, and the lights were shaped like lanterns that hung from the ceiling. The theme of dark wood and red accents gave the whole restaurant a warm glow.
“I’m in love with a woman in America. An American woman,” Rupak said. “Her name is Elizabeth and she’s from Florida and I think you’d really like her, but I also think I may never see her again.”
Rupak braced himself to see his mother’s disappointment, her sadness, her alienation. But instead she patted his hand and said, “Never say never. It’s impossible to predict the future. You tell me about her when we get home. And your father will be very happy to hear about this.”
“Ma, she’s American. White American.”
Mrs. Jha nodded.
“We can send her a ticket to come and visit you. Like I said, never say never.”
“What makes Indian Chinese food so tasty?” Mrs. Ray said, across the table.
“MSG. Exactly what makes it so unhealthy,” Upen said.
“Everything that is tasty is bad for you, Upen,” Mr. Chopra said. “But tonight we are celebrating. Friends, neighbors, good food, and new beginnings. All the MSG in the world can’t stop this.”
“It’s bad enough you refused to eat meat even tonight,” Mrs. Chopra added. “Mrs. Ray, you must make him relax more.”
Mrs. Ray smiled at her and said, “Chopra. You can call me Mrs. Chopra now. Well, you should just call me Reema, but it’s Reema Chopra.”
“You changed your name?” Mrs. Jha asked.
Mrs. Ray nodded.
“I’m not modern enough to not take my husband’s name. And I figured Ray wasn’t my maiden name anyway. Who knows? There’s no rules for all this.”
“I like it,” Rupak said. “Reema Chopra. You’re a brand-new person. I should record some of this. After the meal—after the party, after the celebrations—that’s where real life is, right?”
“Thank you for doing this, Rupak,” Upen said. “You’re good at it. You have a good eye. It’s lucky for us that you’re back in India.”
“Thank you,” Rupak said. “Here, let me show you the shot I got of the rickshaws at the entrance.”
From the other side of the table, Mr. Jha watched his son get up and walk over to Upen with his camera. Two seats away, Johnny was sitting and playing with his phone. He was dressed in a tight collared T-shirt with the collar sticking up and his hair was falling across half his face. He had played with his phone all evening and hardly spoken to anyone else. He was like a bored teenager, and Mr. Jha admitted to himself that he was grateful that Rupak was different.
“Johnny, put your phone away and look at what Rupak is showing us,” Mr. Chopra said, shaking his head. “Useless fellow. Learn something.”
The table was peppered with empty bowls left with the lone strand of noodle or purple sliver of onion. The bowl that held the chicken Manchurian was coated with the orange film of the batter. Soy sauce and gravy drops marked the white tablecloth. Why did Indian Chinese restaurants always use white tablecloths, Mr. Jha wondered. They must have to bleach them with every wash. Unless the more expensive restaurants used brand-new tablecloths every day. Could that be? There was a spoonful of fried rice left in one of the bowls, but everyone seemed to be finished eating. The rice was right next to him and Mr. Jha was tempted to take it, but he stopped himself. He had had the right amount of food tonight. Too often at the end of a dinner party, he felt full and bloated and didn’t sleep well at night, but tonight he could tell he had eaten just the perfect amount.
Wasting food was the ultimate sin when he was a child. “Waste not, want not,” his aunt always used to say, and when he lived in their home he would force himself to finish every last morsel on his plate even if his stomach protested and he felt on the brink of vomiting. What did “waste not, want not” even mean, Mr. Jha now wondered. He had never questioned it when he was young, but now, instead of making sure all the food was finished, he was not finishing all the food even though he still wasn’t stuffed. Had Mr. Chopra noticed, he wondered? The fried rice was closer to Mr. Jha’s side of the table, but he hoped Mr. Chopra had noticed. No. Mr. Jha stopped himself. What Mr. Chopra thought didn’t matter; what mattered was that his family was here, and his friends were here, and the restaurant was nice, and the food was satisfying, and everyone seemed content.
“Dessert,” Mrs. Chopra said, opening the menu that the waiter had just handed her. “Let’s order some dessert. They do a wonderful crème caramel here.”
“That isn’t very Chinese,” Upen said. “But I could have one. Reema?”
“I don’t usually have dessert,” Mrs. Ray said. “But it’s a celebration tonight, isn’t it? I’ll have a scoop of ice cream. The green tea one sounds quite good. Bindu? Anil? Dessert?”
Mrs. Jha looked at her husband, sitting to her left, who had hardly spoken during dinner. She usually knew exactly what he was thinking about, but to
night she wasn’t sure. She wanted to tell him it would all be okay, that their son would find his way and they would help him. She wanted to talk to him about how nice it was that Mrs. Ray was now Mrs. Chopra but she was still Mrs. Ray to them. She wanted to tell him to look around the table at their friends, their neighbors, and their life. She wanted to tell him she was glad he hadn’t finished the fried rice because she knows he sleeps poorly and has bad dreams when he overeats and she wanted to tell him that she was happy tonight. But that was all too much to say, so instead she said, “The crème caramel does sound good. Anil, should we share one?”
“Let’s share one,” Mr. Jha said. “We’ll have one crème caramel with two spoons.”
Mr. Jha leaned back and put his right arm on the backrest of his wife’s chair, his thumb lightly touching her shoulder. Mrs. Jha gave his right knee a quick squeeze with her left hand and then put her hand on the table where everyone could see it clearly. This was their life now.
My agent, Adam Eaglin.
And everyone else at the Elyse Cheney Agency. In particular, Elyse Cheney and Alex Jacobs.
My editor, Hilary Teeman.
And everyone else at Crown Publishing and Penguin Random House. In particular, Jillian Buckley, Rachel Rokicki, Molly Stern, Annsley Rosner, Kayleigh George, Terry Deal, Amy J. Schneider, Ruth Liebmann, Lara Phan, Beth Koehler, Kim Shannon, Elina Nudelman, Sarah Grimm, Kevin Callahan, and Alaina Waagner.
Alexandra Pringle and Faiza Khan.
And everyone else at Bloomsbury Publishing.
The Columbia University MFA in creative writing. In particular, Gary Shteyngart, David Ebershoff, Alan Ziegler, Binnie Kirshenbaum, Donald Antrim, Heidi Julavits, John Freeman, Bill Wadsworth, Clarence Coo, Carlo Cattaneo Adorno, Alexandra Watson, Crystal Kim, and Olivia Ciacci.
Jon Elek, Kevin Cotter, Alice Lawson, Diya Kar Hazra, Karan Mahajan, Millie Hoskins, Rosalie Swedlin, Doreen Wilcox Little, Richard Gold, Jaclyn Danielak, Himanjali Sankar, Madeleine Feeny, Joe Thomas, Janet Aspey, Sumika Rajput, and Smit Zaveri.
The Vermont Studio Center.