“Please don’t say that,” he said. “You know I can’t study film.”
“You can, though. You’re an adult—your parents aren’t going to disown you for choosing to study something you like studying. I bet they’d respect you for doing something you really enjoy.”
“I don’t even know if I really enjoy filmmaking. I can’t give everything up for what’s basically a hobby. You don’t know what it’s like to have Indian parents,” Rupak said.
“You’re right, I don’t. But I think you underestimate them. From what you’ve told me, they sound pretty nice. You were so nervous about telling them about me and that worked out fine.”
“What time is the concert?” Rupak asked, reaching for his phone, which was on the coffee table.
“Now. In ten minutes,” Elizabeth said. She kissed Rupak’s head and got up from the sofa. “I should leave.”
Rupak grabbed her ankle and looked up at her.
“Don’t go,” he said. And he meant it. He wanted her to stay. And he wanted to have the courage to tell his parents about her and he wanted to have the courage to quit his MBA and study film.
“If you hadn’t spent all day playing with your new camera, you could have come too,” Elizabeth said. “Focus, put your phone away. Call me if you get done and we’ll have dinner.”
Rupak watched her leave the apartment. He opened his e-mail and saw one from Serena Berry, with the subject line Delhi Connection.
Dear Rupak,
My aunt, Mrs. Gupta, from Mayur Palli, gave me your e-mail address. She said you’re studying at Cornell? I just started my master’s here and apparently my uncle was very keen that I meet you. Do you want to have a cup of coffee in Collegetown this weekend?
Best,
Serena
Under other circumstances, he would have ignored an e-mail like this, but he didn’t want his mother to hear he had been rude. But there was no such thing as just a neighbor’s niece anymore—and it was quite a coincidence that Mrs. Gupta’s niece was studying in Ithaca after all. Serena probably knew all about the Jhas’ new money. Her aunt and uncle had probably told her that they were moving to a bungalow in Gurgaon and had an unmarried son in the United States. Over the last year, Rupak had often been introduced to the daughters, nieces, and granddaughters of neighbors, friends, and acquaintances, and not one of them held his interest. Most of them already resembled their overweight mothers. His parents might have bought a new home and ordered a new car, but they didn’t yet have new friends. They were outsiders in both places at the moment.
Over the summer, the Patnaiks, who lived in D block and hardly ever socialized, bumped into him repeatedly at the new Café Coffee Day and insisted on paying for his coffee and chatting with him. Their daughter, Urmila, with her frizzy hair and visible stretch marks on her upper arms, sat with them quietly, smiling coyly in his direction, not saying a word while her mother told him how good she was at cooking.
“Not just cooking,” her father added. “She is a modern lady. She also takes dance classes and is thinking of joining a course for hairstyling.”
After that, Rupak stopped going to Café Coffee Day in the mornings.
So he didn’t expect the Guptas to have a particularly exciting niece and was already plotting a way to avoid spending more than fifteen minutes with Serena. And he didn’t want her to think he was too available, so he replied saying yes, they could meet at Stella’s at six next Friday for a quick drink. And then he would report to his mother and then, definitely then, he would also tell her about Elizabeth. Much to his surprise, Serena’s reply didn’t sound particularly keen on more than a quick drink either. In fact, she specified that it would be a cup of coffee.
The following week, on an unusually overcast September day, Mr. Jha pulled into the quiet lane of his new Gurgaon home. He had never been here by himself, he realized. Mrs. Jha was usually with him, and this summer Rupak had come with them a few times, and there were all the contractors and painters and builders buzzing around, working. He had never really appreciated the silence and the greenery before. Gurgaon felt still while the rest of Delhi throbbed.
The air was heavy with heat and the promise of rain. On the radio, a Bon Jovi song played. “It’s been raining since you left me,” the lyrics said. How funny, Mr. Jha thought. An Indian song would have to say, “It hasn’t rained since you left me.” Unless, of course, you were happy that they left you.
An electronic shoe-polishing machine in a large box was on the passenger seat of his Mercedes. He had strapped it in with the seat belt. It was beautiful. And it was expensive. It was not a planned purchase. This morning he had a breakfast meeting with two young men who were launching a website that would help people find handymen around Delhi, and they asked him to join their team as a consultant. He declined. He did not have time to take on any new work until they were done moving homes. And then they had to visit Rupak, so he was not going to have any free time until November or December. And then it would be the holiday season, so really it was best if he took the rest of the year off.