When he was growing up, she had never been one of those mothers who sat and fussed over him all afternoon. She did not obsess over his homework and interfere in his life. Unlike a lot of mothers, his mother had never abandoned her own life for his sake, and he appreciated that about her.
She used to work for a nonprofit organization that helped rural weavers and craftsmen get their goods to shops in Delhi and Mumbai and get paid. He never really knew the details about her work, but he knew that she was passionate about it and often talked about fair wages for the craftsmen who did all the work and about not wanting them—or was it the shops?—someone, not wanting someone to get exploited. There was more to her work, he was sure, but his father’s work always took the main stage so he really didn’t know details.
“I’m not sure. But don’t worry about the pencil box. It isn’t that important.”
“Please, can I just take a taxi?” Rupak asked his parents. They were getting ready to drive him to the airport, and something about saying good-bye in the midst of the chaos of the Delhi airport always made him sad.
“No,” Mrs. Jha said.
Mr. Jha brought the scale from the bathroom out to the middle of the living room and stood on it. He noted his weight, got off, picked up Rupak’s suitcase, and got back on the scale.
“It’s one kilo overweight,” he said. “I’m sure they won’t create a hassle about that.”
“If they do,” Mrs. Jha added, “just take some books out and put them in your hand bag. Don’t pay for excess luggage. Or leave some things behind and we can bring them to you when we come.”
“Do you know when you’re coming yet?” Rupak asked, trying to calculate how much time he had to make his life in Ithaca seem like the kind of life they would want him to have.
“As soon as we’re settled in Gurgaon,” Mrs. Jha said. She was tying a piece of red string around the handles of Rupak’s two suitcases. “I don’t know why you insist on carrying black suitcases. You won’t be able to identify yours. Here. Is this red string enough or do you want me to tie another one?”
“One red string is enough. I know what my suitcases look like,” Rupak said.
“I wish you were going to be here for the move,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Rupak,” Mr. Jha said. “I want you to study hard. Make friends and have fun as well. I want you to be well rounded. But don’t forget to study. It’s important. Take it from me, son. Success makes you happy. There’s simply no argument about that. I became successful late in life and I wish my mother had been alive to see it. You have opportunities I never had. Take advantage. Each generation should do better than the previous one, they say. Find a good job in America.”
“Or India. There are plenty of good opportunities in India now,” Mrs. Jha added.
Rupak was sitting on the couch checking his passport and ticket printouts while his father spoke. His father never spoke so explicitly. Did he somehow know that Rupak was already on academic probation after his first year of the program?
“Anyway, you’re an adult now,” he continued. “You know all this. But sometimes it is good to say these things. You know I admire that about American families—you see it on all the movies and television shows—they have very serious conversations with each other.”
“I think it’s too formal,” Mrs. Jha said. “Next we’ll have to start charging him rent.”
“Or letting him ‘borrow’ money from us that he has to pay back,” Mr. Jha said.
Rupak watched his parents laugh. Despite his own concerns and despite some of the tension surrounding the move, it must be fun for them, he thought. Few adults got the chance to start over.
“But your father is right, Rupak. Study hard. And make sure you can take some time off when we come to visit you.”
“Enough now,” Mr. Jha said. “Come on, come on. Let’s get in the car. I don’t want you to miss your flight.”
As Rupak was about to zip up his backpack, Mrs. Jha said, “Wait. Don’t close that yet. I have one more thing.”
She reached into her purse and handed him a wooden pencil box with golden stars and moons embossed onto the cover.
“For Gaurav,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Ma, how did you get this?” Rupak asked.
“Friends, Rupak. We have friends. If you live in one place for long enough, you make friends who will help you find an old wooden pencil box that is no longer manufactured. You give it to Gaurav and tell him we want to meet him when we come to visit.”
Rupak held the box in his hand and looked around the living room. He suddenly realized his parents were moving and that the only home he had ever known was no longer going to be his home. He looked at his mother picking up her purse from the dining table, and a blurred memory flashed through his mind. He remembered falling on the living room floor and splitting his lip right before his fifth or sixth birthday party. His father had gone out to pick up the cake, he remembered now, and his mother had seen him on the ground, with blood gushing from his mouth, and quietly picked up her purse, picked him up in her arms, and rushed him out the door to a taxi to the local clinic. She just held him in the taxi with a towel pressed against his mouth and said nothing. He was fine—the doctor said he wouldn’t need stitches and would just have a bit of a swollen mouth for a while—and when they left the doctor’s office and got back in a taxi, Mrs. Jha had burst into tears. At the time Rupak had rolled his eyes and been impatient to get home to his party, but now, thinking of her face in the evening light in that taxi, he wanted to tell her he was sorry he had ever caused her fear.
“Ma, will you be happy in Gurgaon?” he asked.
Mrs. Jha looked at her son sitting on the sofa. She wanted to tell him that she hoped so. She wanted to thank him for asking and tell him she was confident that she’d be happy anywhere as long as Mr. Jha and Rupak were happy, but she was interrupted.
“Bindu! Hurry up,” Mr. Jha shouted from near the elevator. “There’s going to be traffic. But you can see how lovely the new car is even when standing still in exhaust fumes from other cars.”
At the airport, Rupak waited until the car was out of sight and pushed his cart across the road, opened his suitcase, took out the metal box filled with chicken curry and rice and the thrice-wrapped bottle of tamarind chutney that his mother had spent all that morning making and handed it all to two young men who were sitting on the sidewalk with small pull-along suitcases next to them, looking lost.
“Where are you traveling to?” Rupak asked.