The Windfall

“Yes, that would be lovely. We will come over as soon as we are settled in,” Mr. Jha said.

“Good, good. And in the meanwhile, let me just give you our phone number in case you need anything at all. Please, take my card. Take two, one for your wife also.”

“That is so kind of you,” Mr. Jha said. “I will tell her. I would like her to speak to some of the ladies in this neighborhood. She is considering going back to work after we settle in, but let’s see.”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Chopra said. “Well, these are the times we live in, Mr. Jha. Life is expensive; many people need to have a double income at home.”

“What?” Mr. Jha said.

“No harm, no shame. It is perfectly acceptable for women to work these days. I wish my wife would do more than shop all day! I’ve spoiled her,” Mr. Chopra said with a laugh and a shake of his head. “Anyway, don’t keep your wife waiting. But please do give us a call. We look forward to having you next door.”

When Mrs. Ray and Mrs. Jha got in the car, Mr. Jha said, “Bindu. Will you please look into hiring a guard immediately? It is important.”

Mr. Jha was learning that in this neighborhood, your guard was a direct representation of how much was worth guarding in your home. Guards with guns meant bricks of gold somewhere in the house. Maybe he would also get a guard with a gun, Mr. Jha thought; it would be cheaper than buying bricks of gold.

“I met Mr. Dinesh Chopra just now as I was pulling out of the driveway. Our new neighbor,” Mr. Jha said.

“You mean Upen Chopra?” Mrs. Ray said.

“Who is Upen Chopra? You mean Upen Patel, that actor?” Mr. Jha said.

“No, Upen Chopra. The neighbor. I also met him when I went for a walk,” Mrs. Ray said.

“No, Dinesh Chopra. Oh yes, he mentioned Upen. That is the brother who is visiting from Chandigarh. Mr. Chopra said Upen does not have a family, so he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t move to Delhi. Isn’t Chandigarh the city that is known for its grid system of roads? Like New York City—I like that kind of order. I would also not mind living there,” Mr. Jha said. “Anyway, Dinesh has given his phone number and invited us to dinner once we are settled, Bindu.”

Mr. Jha passed Mr. Chopra’s business card to his wife, who looked at it and then passed it to Mrs. Ray in the backseat with a smile.

“There’s a brother,” Mrs. Jha said. “With no family.”

“Chandigarh,” Mr. Jha continued. “I wonder if we should buy a summer home there—what do they call it? Something French. A pedicure? A pediterre? Bindu, what’s the term I’m looking for?”

“A pied-à-terre,” Mrs. Jha said. “And no, we don’t need one in Chandigarh.”

In the backseat, Mrs. Ray looked at the business card. Was Mrs. Jha trying to set her up? She was not twenty. She was not going to call a strange man and introduce herself. She reached the card back to the front seat toward Mrs. Jha, who swatted her away gently.

“Why don’t we stop at Khan Market for a pastry on the way home?” Mrs. Jha said. “That way we’ll also avoid rush hour.”



In Khan Market, the three of them went to Big Chill, the café in the back lane, and requested a table. After ordering some cake and tea, Mrs. Ray excused herself, saying she needed to quickly pick up a book and would be back by the time the food arrived.

“Excuse me,” a young white woman wearing a salwar kameez and a backpack said to them, touching Mrs. Ray’s chair. “Is this seat taken?”

“No. Yes,” Mr. Jha said, “It will be. Mrs. Ray…”

“No problem,” the woman said, smiling, and moved along to the next table to look for a chair. Mr. Jha was not used to seeing so many foreigners in Delhi. You certainly never saw foreigners around Mayur Palli. The Ghoshes’ daughter had married a Canadian who had visited once, but with his short height, round face, and glasses, he looked more like a Bengali than most Bengalis so Mr. Jha never considered him a foreigner. But these days, they were everywhere. He saw the white woman find a chair and pull it up to join a mixed group of friends at a table nearby. He heard her also ask for a glass of water in English. That was how much Delhi had changed now. Earlier, the white people who visited would learn basic Hindi words to use while interacting with waiters or drivers or shopkeepers. Now, in these parts of town, they no longer had to do that. They assumed everyone understood basic English, and they were right. Even the taxi drivers in these parts of Delhi could converse in English.

“Do you think Mr. Chopra’s brother is single?” Mrs. Jha asked. “Because if so, we should introduce him to Mrs. Ray.”

“What for?” Mr. Jha said. He was still looking over at the white woman. “There are so many foreigners in Delhi these days.”

“Maybe it will make Rupak want to come back here,” Mrs. Jha said. “It says a lot about a city as it gets diverse.”

Mr. Jha wondered what it would be like if Rupak married a white woman. He had thought about this since Rupak had left for America. His son was becoming handsome of late, he knew that. He had never considered it before, but maybe it would be fun if he ended up married to a beautiful blue-eyed woman. Maybe they would even come and spend some time with them in Gurgaon. It would be nice to take her out to dinner or to take her to the Chopras’ house for a drink. She’d make an effort, wearing a sari but more seductively than was appropriate, with her blond hair in loose curls tumbling down her back. She would stand next to Mr. Jha and when his glass was empty, she would say, “Dad, do you want another drink?” Even though his wife wanted Rupak to marry an Indian woman, Mr. Jha was open to the idea of a white daughter-in-law, as long as she was beautiful. Like one of those Baywatch women.

“We should buy swimming costumes,” Mr. Jha said to his wife. “Do you think I should go and have a look while we wait for our food? I earlier heard Mr. Chopra was considering getting a pool—I could speak to his builders.”

“Anil, you don’t even know how to swim.”

“If Rupak brings friends to visit from America, it would be nice to have a swimming pool. We’ll wear bathing suits, lounge by the pool, drink…what is that drink? Pomm’s? Pimm’s? That’s what they drink in England.”

“We don’t live in England.”

Diksha Basu's books