“Imagine telling Mr. Chopra to come over for a glass of Pimm’s near the pool. Do you drink Pimm’s in a glass? Or would it be a cup of Pimm’s? There is so much left to learn in life,” Mr. Jha said.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Ray had left the Jhas at Big Chill and was walking quickly toward the liquor store in the adjoining market across the parking lot behind Khan Market. She always preferred buying her whiskey away from the gossiping world of Mayur Palli, where nothing at all was private. And it was not simply a question of privacy. The fact was that in East Delhi, a woman—a widow, no less—buying a bottle of whiskey was something that people felt the need to talk about. What harm was there in her enjoying an occasional drink? No harm. But if she went to the liquor shop across from the Mayur Palli gates, someone would spot her and then the whole housing complex would talk about her drinking. And if she did what she did two weeks ago, and took a cycle rickshaw all the way over to the next market to get it, her own neighbors might not see, but the boys who worked at the liquor store there would look at her lecherously and pass comments.
When she went last time—not to be secretive, really—she had gone to pick up some sari blouses that she had given for stitching and her favorite tailor happened to sit right near the liquor store, so she just thought it would be best to kill two birds with one stone. Like most of the liquor stores in the area, there was no browsing; you had to go up to a counter and ask the men—boys, really—to give you a bottle of what you wanted. There were always red-faced men jostling for space at the counter. At least she didn’t have to go to the separate window for the really poor drunks who were looking to buy unmarked locally brewed liquor—the kind that was often laced with pesticides and resulted in death or serious illness.
Mrs. Ray hated walking up to this counter of men and pretending she was there to buy something for her husband. The men at the counter would inevitably get surprised to see her and would push back and make space for her to approach. They would do this under the guise of respect, but Mrs. Ray didn’t miss their leers and comments and laughs as she stood there asking, as confidently as she could, for a bottle of Black Label. She did not want to care what these men thought. Let them stare, she would tell herself. But when she got there, she mumbled, “Black Label is all my husband will drink. It’s just too expensive, but what to do?”
But last time the man who was working there wrapped his fingers around hers while passing the bottle. He pulled away immediately, of course, but not before he bit his lower lip and made leering eye contact.
But in Khan Market, the man working behind the counter spoke to her in English and told her about an Indian brand of whiskey that had recently been launched that he recommended she try.
“Next time,” she said, smiling, without feeling the need to mumble anything about a husband.
Mrs. Ray put the bottle into her purse and walked back toward Big Chill for cake and tea, comforted by the thoughts of a strange man from Chandigarh and a new bottle of whiskey in her purse.
When she got back Mr. Jha was trying unsuccessfully to cut his lemon tart with a knife and fork.
“What book did you buy?” Mrs. Jha asked.
“Mr. Jha, wouldn’t it be much easier to pick it up and take a bite? They didn’t have what I was looking for,” Mrs. Ray said. As close as she and Mrs. Jha were, she was never comfortable admitting to enjoying the occasional drink by herself.
“Can we stop by the liquor store on the way out for a bottle of Pimm’s?” Mr. Jha said, the crust of his lemon tart breaking into crumbs on his plate, leaving him to mix it up with the yellow jelly and scoop it into his mouth like rice and curry.
“They won’t have anything so fancy here,” Mrs. Ray said, nervous that they would have to walk to the liquor store after this and the salesman would recognize her from hardly half an hour ago. “Pimm’s will be more appropriate to drink to celebrate once you finish your move.”
“I was thinking we should give the Chopras a call,” Mrs. Jha said. “Since they were so warm. It will be nice to get to know them. Maybe they’ll have a daughter for Rupak.”
“They only have a son,” Mr. Jha said. “In any case, maybe Rupak will meet someone himself in America.”
Rupak got a C on his first prelim. He also got a C on the first two problem sets for his accounting class, along with a note from the teaching assistant that said, “Please come and see me during office hours. I’m worried you may need extra tutoring.”
He hadn’t bothered to see the teaching assistant yet because she was a young Indian woman who was doing a PhD in economics and it was embarrassing. She reminded him of Serena.
His parents would not be pleased if he had to retake classes over the summer before Ithaca College would give him his MBA, and since that was looking likely, having an Indian girlfriend would really help smooth things out at home. And his parents were now planning a visit to America, which meant that he had to start arranging his life accordingly.
Even though he certainly was not ready to let Elizabeth go, maybe it was best to see how things went with Serena. After all, he had never technically discussed exclusivity with Elizabeth. If anything, she was putting too much pressure on him by repeatedly asking him to tell his family about her. Maybe it wasn’t cowardice. Maybe he just wasn’t ready. That’s what he would tell her.
He had been exchanging text messages with Serena since he saw her and they were easy and fun and familiar. This morning she had texted him,
Have you seen all the places in Collegetown charging $5 or more for turmeric milk? Good old haldi doodh that our mothers make every day. Forget banking, that should be your next big business idea—something from our childhood at marked-up prices. I’m thinking Maggi Ramen. Wait, that might actually be a good idea.
He found himself missing a Delhi he never thought he liked. So now on Friday night, when Elizabeth was in Minnesota visiting her old college roommate, he texted Serena again to invite her out. Rupak wanted to suggest something unusual and, he hoped, interesting, so he asked her to join him for a walk around Beebe Lake the next morning.
“Did you have pets growing up?” Rupak asked as they strolled down the wooded path.