“His father bought him the Lexus for his birthday last month,” Johnny said.
It was practically impossible to get a Lexus in India, everyone knew that. And Shashi Jhunjhunwala kept beating Mr. Chopra at golf. To have his son pull up in a taxi and walk to the bar while Kunal arrived in his Lexus was adding insult to injury, and he had had enough. He would buy his son a car, Mr. Chopra decided. Johnny had been asking for one, but Mrs. Chopra refused to allow him to get one until he had a job, which didn’t look likely to happen anytime soon. He spent his days either playing tennis, flitting around with his pretty little girlfriends, or writing poetry. They had sent him to the United Kingdom to study, but he came back with a degree in English literature and no earning potential.
Johnny got out of the car and slapped hands with Kunal Jhunjhunwala. Kunal came over to Mr. Chopra and said, “Hi, Uncle. How are you? I hear you are having a golfing tournament next week. I should start playing more often. We can have a father-son competition. Johnny?”
“Not for me. I’m not any good at golf. I’ll play you in tennis,” Johnny said. “Bye, Papa. Kunal will drop me home later.”
“I can play on your father’s team and you can play on my father’s team to balance out the skills, ” Kunal said. “Bye, Uncle.”
That little brat, Mr. Chopra thought. The teams would not need balancing out.
“Now that the new car is here, will you take it the next time you go to Gurgaon?” Mr. Jha asked his wife over breakfast the next morning. He felt bad when he saw her return the previous evening sweating, with her sari crumpled and hair escaping from the tight low bun she always wore it in.
“I’m not comfortable driving it,” Mrs. Jha said. “Besides, we need to get the car blessed before we use it.”
Mrs. Jha was sick of being nervous. She double-locked all the doors and windows before bed every night. She checked the vault at the bank at least once a month, and she had even joined a ladies’ investment club and taken their advice and put a significant amount of money into gold bricks. The wealth was exciting but it also made her nervous. And now with this flashy car and big move to Gurgaon, she was having sleepless nights. They needed God on their side now more than ever, she thought.
“Don’t be silly,” Mr. Jha said, pouring hot milk on his bowl of oats. “Such a shiny Mercedes is already blessed. I’m not wasting time taking it to the temple for the pujari to bless it. Did you happen to see the neighbors yesterday?”
“No. I didn’t see anyone. Sometimes I wonder if all the houses in Gurgaon are abandoned. But listen, I’m telling you we’re attracting the evil eye. It’ll take less than an hour. We have to do this. Bad luck is coming.”
Mrs. Jha hardly went to the temple these days herself. Last time she went, about three months ago, there was a hand-painted sign that advertised, Rupees 25 for special exam time prayer. Sometimes God’s home resembled the local shop that sold rice and flour by the kilo. As much as she loved the feel of the temple, lately she always left thinking it made religion feel too much like a transaction. She still tried to go every few months, for the well-being of her family, even though Mr. Jha and Rupak never accompanied her.
“Do you think the neighbors might be foreigners?” Mr. Jha asked. “I’ve heard that some of the multinationals own houses in Gurgaon and their international workers come and stay for long stretches of time. Imagine if we move in next to an expat from America. I’ve always wanted to organize a Fourth of July party.”
“How come Americans get called expats but if we move to America, we’re called immigrants?” Mrs. Jha asked.
“To-may-to, to-mah-to. No need to find reason to be sensitive about everything.”
“Anil, you turn everything into a joke, but I’m not comfortable with all this change. If we offer just a bit extra, I’m sure the pujari will be more than happy to bless the car. I’ll pick up the coconut on the way myself.”
“Are you mad? I will not drive the car through these wretched narrow lanes, and I absolutely will not have the pujari’s filthy hands touching vermillion to the car. And the coconut—yuck—who knows what it will do to the paint job. Not a chance. The car stays in the garage,” Mr. Jha said. “End of discussion.”
“No, it isn’t the end of the discussion,” Mrs. Jha said, standing up and collecting her empty bowl and glass. She picked up her husband’s bowl while he was still holding the last spoonful up to his mouth. “Forget the car. We’ll take the keys and get them blessed.”
Mr. Jha ate his last bite and put down his newspaper. He looked at his wife. Stubborn woman. Fine, it had been what had attracted him to her in the first place. The first time he had met her, with his mother and aunt with him, and her parents with her, at the end of the meeting, she had said, “I’d like to meet him alone next time, please.” Mr. Jha still remembered how the older generation had gone silent in response to her request. “There’s nothing you can’t say in front of us,” her mother had said to her then. “That is true,” his mother had added. “A marriage is a marriage of the families.”
“But it’s really a marriage between us, and I’d like to meet with him alone next time, please,” Mrs. Jha had repeated calmly. Mr. Jha himself had laughed and said, “I’d like that too,” and their parents had had no option but to agree. The following week Mr. Jha met Mrs. Jha for ice cream sundaes at the Nirulas in Connaught Place. Her father dropped her off and browsed in the shops downstairs for an hour exactly. Mr. Jha had ordered chocolate sauce drizzled on his sundae and Mrs. Jha hadn’t, so he offered her a taste of his. She said no at first but then leaned in and had a spoonful when the hour was almost over, so Mr. Jha was not surprised when his mother came to him the next afternoon and said, “The girl has said yes.”
This impending move to Gurgaon had not been easy on her, Mr. Jha knew. Getting the car blessed was the least he could do.
“The spare keys only,” he said. “And we won’t spend more than half an hour there. The incense makes my eyes burn.”
“Answer me one thing, Bindu,” Mr. Jha said, bending down to untie his laces, outside the main entrance of the temple. “How come even as Hindus with all our gods, we say we believe in God singular?”
He took off both his shoes and held them out to Mrs. Jha.
“And here, I don’t trust all these godly types—put my shoes in your purse,” he said.
“Just leave them here. Nobody is going to steal your shoes.”