“You’ve found a bride for Rupak?” Mr. Gupta said before Mr. Jha could continue. He was leaning back on the sofa and holding a fistful of peanuts in one hand and a glass of whiskey with ice in the other. He wore a crisp white kurta and pajama, his uniform of choice ever since he had become the president of the housing complex, and his feet were bare and resting on top of his sandals. “Is she also living in America? Don’t let her family talk you into having a wedding in America.”
As the current president of the housing complex, and one of the biggest gossips in the neighborhood, Mr. Gupta was the one who was going to take the news the hardest. He would see the move from Mayur Palli as a betrayal. The Patnaiks, who were a few years younger than the Jhas and were quieter versions of the Guptas, would probably try to move on the Jhas’ heels. Mr. Patnaik already dressed similarly to Mr. Jha and had recently bought the exact same pair of glasses but then claimed it was a coincidence. And if anyone asked Mr. Jha to describe Mrs. Patnaik without looking at her, all he would be able to say was that she had strangely curly hair but no other discernible features.
“That is true,” Mrs. Gupta added. She was also eating peanuts, one of which had fallen and was cradled on her glasses, which were hanging off a metal chain around her neck. She wiped her hand against her sari and leaned forward to pick up her glass. “Our nephew got married there and all the Indian weddings end up in the huge halls of the local Hilton or Marriott. You make sure the wedding is in India, in a temple.”
“Or outdoors,” Mr. Gupta said. “Lots of young people these days want to get married outdoors.”
“Personally I don’t think that is a good idea. You don’t want the flame of the fire to be blown out during the ceremony,” Mrs. Gupta said.
“The flame will go out soon enough after marriage,” Mr. Gupta said, laughing loudly and tossing the remaining peanuts into his mouth.
“That’s not the news,” Mr. Jha said.
“Rupak will find a good bride here,” Mr. Patnaik said.
His wife nodded and added, “He will. It’s best to find someone known. Someone close to the family.”
She turned toward Rupak and smiled, but his attention was focused on his phone. Everyone in Mayur Palli knew that the Patnaiks wanted Rupak to marry their daughter, Urmila.
“No,” Mr. Jha said. “This isn’t about…”
“Oh dear. Is Rupak marrying an American girl?” Mrs. Gupta interrupted, twisting around on the sofa to try to look at Rupak.
“This isn’t about Rupak,” Mr. Jha said. “We have some other news. About us.”
He stopped as Reema Ray entered his line of vision, settling into the seat across from him with a glass of white wine. He knew his wife had already told Mrs. Ray about the move but had still insisted on inviting her tonight for support. Mrs. Ray was leaning forward and fixing a strap on her sandal, and the pallu of her chiffon sari slipped off her shoulder. Her blouse was sufficiently low cut for the tops of her heavy breasts to be visible. Her hair, worn loose and messily around her shoulders—unlike any of the other women in the room—fell in front of her and she tossed it back as she leaned forward.
Mr. Jha looked toward Mrs. Jha, still standing near the entrance to the kitchen, wearing a stiff starched pale blue sari that was held up on the shoulder by a safety pin and her hair pulled securely back in a low bun. He knew that his wife would never run the risk of letting her pallu casually drop. And even if it did, her blouse came up to her collarbones so nothing would be visible. And even if anything were visible, Mr. Jha would feel no thrill. Such was the problem with a stable marriage.
Mrs. Ray was sitting upright again, so Mr. Jha continued, “We wanted to invite all of you, our close friends, to dinner tonight, to tell you about our home. Our new home. Our—”
Mrs. Jha sniffed the air. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I’ve left the stove on. The chicken will be burnt.”
She went rushing into the kitchen, irritated with herself. The stress of moving to Gurgaon was really getting to her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave Mayur Palli. She didn’t want to live surrounded by women in designer saris who shopped in malls. She didn’t want to use olive oil instead of vegetable oil. She didn’t want to understand what interior decoration meant. The point of life was not just to keep moving higher and higher. What happened if you made it to Buckingham Palace?
“Are you okay? Do you need some help in here?” Mrs. Ray came in after Mrs. Jha. “Your husband has started on what the idea of ‘home’ represents. He’s having a hard time making this announcement, isn’t he?”
“The chicken is burnt. Oh, Reema. The chicken is burnt. And the packing isn’t finished. I know I should be happy, but I’m exhausted. I don’t know why we decided to do this whole move in the middle of summer. The heat is just getting to me.”
“Where are your maids? Do you want me to send Ganga over every morning until you leave? She hardly has anything to do for just me these days.”
“That’s very nice of you, but we still have our maids. But Anil has decided he doesn’t want them at home all the time.”
Mrs. Jha stirred the pan, scraping the wooden spoon along the bottom, trying to pry free the burnt bits of chicken. The screw holding the red handle in place was coming loose and she still had not ordered new kitchen supplies. This kitchen was made for maids to use; it was small and badly ventilated, and being in here meant being completely separated from the rest of the people in the apartment. The new house had a huge kitchen where a few people could stand around while the host prepared dinner or put together a platter of appetizers. That kitchen, in fact, was specifically meant for nonmaids. It was a kitchen that was meant to be shown off. It was a kitchen that needed new pots and pans with secure handles.
“Why doesn’t he want maids?” Mrs. Ray asked.
“We got this dishwasher installed and Anil wants people to notice it. He’s convinced that if there’s a maid picking up all the dishes, everyone will just assume she’s washing them by hand and won’t know that we have an expensive imported dishwasher. I don’t know. I don’t understand half the things he wants these days,” Mrs. Jha said. The kitchen was small and stuffy, but she appreciated Mrs. Ray coming in here with her. On the next stove, the pressure cooker hissed and Mrs. Jha jerked away from its angry sound. Mrs. Ray came to the stove and turned it off.
“Move,” Mrs. Ray said. “You relax. Take the raita out of the fridge. I’ll handle the stove. You didn’t need to invite us all over in the middle of your packing.”