Rupak had been thinking about Serena all of Saturday and still couldn’t quite get her out of his mind this morning. She had stayed for another glass of wine on Friday, and they had discovered that they had both grown up going to the Delhi Book Fair in Pragati Maidan every year—he only went to buy comic books but he didn’t tell her that—and they also both discovered how nice it was to talk to someone who remembered what Pragati Maidan used to be. Speaking to her that night, he had felt a fleeting moment of nostalgia for Delhi, despite the fact that her version of the city was quite different.
But even though she had been on his mind since Friday night, there was a deep pleasure he felt when he was around Elizabeth. This Sunday morning he could hear her in the living room, on the phone with her parents. He heard, through the door that was pulled shut but not fully, the sizzle of bacon hitting a hot pan. The smells of Sunday morning breakfast in America crept in and he looked around her bedroom. On the wall above the bed was a framed print of the painting of the American flag by Jasper Johns. He hadn’t heard of Jasper Johns until he had met her and when he first saw that flag he thought, yes, she was as American as he had hoped. But it turned out that the flag was actually considered a piece of art, not a symbol of patriotism. If he was outside this room and had to describe it, he would have reached into his American sitcoms and filled this room with posters of Marilyn Monroe and maybe one of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, but that wasn’t what the room was at all.
Elizabeth was never turning out to be what he expected. He thought back to their first meeting. It was after the first-year orientation, where they had briefly locked eyes. Later that afternoon, he was waiting at the bus stop to go to the grocery store and she had driven past in her Jeep. She stopped at the bus stop and shouted out to him, “Hey!”
He looked around, uncertain that this beautiful blond woman would be shouting out to him, but the only other person at the stop was an older Chinese woman who was knitting while waiting and did not even look up.
“You were at orientation this morning, right? Are you waiting for the bus? Do you need a ride somewhere?” Elizabeth said.
“I’m going to get groceries,” he said.
“Me too,” Elizabeth said. “Get in. It’ll be easier to bring stuff back in the car.”
It worked out well because he bought much healthier food than he would have if there hadn’t been a beautiful woman in line with him at the store. They had then gone back to her apartment for dinner and wine and stayed up talking until two a.m., and Rupak was mesmerized. He remembered asking her if she had been a cheerleader in school or undergraduate, but now he didn’t remember her answer.
He stretched and stepped out of bed. He walked out of the bedroom and saw Elizabeth, no longer on the phone, in her shorts and black tank top, hair loose, standing in the kitchen while bacon and eggs cooked on the stove. Would his parents’ new life ever look like this, he wondered? He loved this. He loved the smells and the sights and, yes, in Delhi they could now buy bacon and fancy coffee, but the feel, the feel of this room and this space with Elizabeth in it was not something money could buy.
“Look how nice it is outside,” Elizabeth said to him. “We have to go do something. I was thinking we have breakfast and then go to Beebe Lake, maybe go for a run and have a picnic?”
“How are you not tired? We drank so much beer last night,” Rupak said, kissing the top of her shoulder and reaching over her to break off a piece of bacon that was on a paper napkin on a plate on the counter. “Were you a cheerleader in high school?”
“What? No. You ask me that so often and I always say no,” Elizabeth said. “Come on. Let’s go sweat it out, you’ll feel better. And we can take a bottle of wine for a picnic to help us through the hangover. Do you want a cup of coffee? Oh, that reminds me—next time you go to India, I want you to bring me back some South Indian coffee. I read an article about it last week and I want to try it.”
“Sure,” Rupak said, pouring milk into his cup.
“Or I could just come with you next time you go to India,” Elizabeth said. “I was thinking we could move there after graduation even. So many of the Indian companies recruit in America. It could be more interesting than just moving to New York like everyone else.”
“You would never move there,” Rupak said. “You would hate it there.”
“Why do you always say that? I think I’d actually love it there. I’m being serious about this.”
“It’s completely different there. You wouldn’t…I don’t know…you wouldn’t get it,” Rupak said.
“You moved here from India. That’s the same change as moving to India from here. You know you find my life in Florida as exotic as I find yours.”
“That’s different. Everyone knows what America is, no matter where they’ve grown up. It’s not unknown. All the world’s images are America, you know. It’s hardly a culture shock.”
“I just think it’s something to think about. From both a work perspective and a personal perspective, it’s an interesting idea.”
“Sure.” Rupak slipped his arms around her waist and leaned his chin against the back of her head. He was too sleepy to have this conversation right now. He couldn’t even bring himself to tell his parents about her; he would never be able to bring her to India. “Here, let me finish making breakfast. I’ll bring it to you in bed.”
“How romantic,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “But I’m almost done. And I don’t want to go back to bed. We’re going out.”
“How can anyone say no to you?” Rupak said.
Dalwinder was sitting near the Chopras’ gate reading the gossip section of the Hindi newspaper he had borrowed from the guard two bungalows away when he saw the same Mercedes from earlier turn onto their small road. The new neighbors again! Mr. Chopra had told Balwinder to keep an eye on the driveway next door and report to him about everything he saw.