“You take care, Shatrugan,” she said. “Here are some things that may be useful for you. Rupak’s old CD player is in there also—he specifically said to give that to you. We’ll see you soon.”
Shatrugan wouldn’t throw that away, he decided. Because Rupak wasn’t dead; he was in America. But Shatrugan knew that one CD would cost him at least a full day’s income, so it wouldn’t be of much real use.
“To Gurgaon, Bindu,” Mr. Jha said while closing the windows. “Our new lives await. And for the ride, six CDs in our CD player await. Put some Kenny G on.”
The next weekend, after life had resumed its usual rhythm in Mayur Palli, Mrs. Ray was trying to muster up some curiosity about Chandigarh before going to meet Upen. She called for a four-hour taxi from the local taxi stand. It was worth splurging tonight. And in Delhi, it was much safer than relying on public transport anyway. She had not been out late for a dinner (“and drinks,” Upen had added on the phone) outside East Delhi in ages, and she was no longer sure how the city functioned at night, especially for a single woman. The only problem was, like with everything else in Mayur Palli, the taxi stand was part of the world and the gossip. The same old sardarji man and his son had been running this taxi stand for the past two decades, and it serviced everyone in Mayur Palli and the neighboring housing societies. Over the years, the sardarji had upgraded the cars from Fiats to Ambassadors to Maruti vans, and he now even had two Innovas in his fleet, but everything else remained the same. The stand was located right outside the main gates of Mayur Palli, near the fishseller, and everyone knew when anyone else hired a taxi. They all knew when someone went to the airport, they all heard if one of the young boys in the neighborhood had been carted home drunk, and they all knew if someone had been shopping and stopped at Chittaranjan Park to buy better fish than the one their local fishseller brought. So naturally Mrs. Ray was not too keen on taking a taxi from here, but the safety was worth it. And the neighbors talked about her anyway. That wasn’t going to change.
“Ganga,” she called. “Bring out my red sandals from the front cupboard and dust them off.”
Ganga came into Mrs. Ray’s bedroom in her white widow’s sari and stood in the doorway watching Mrs. Ray powder her face. Mrs. Ray noticed her and put her compact down on her dresser. She pulled out her small black purse from the top shelf of her closet.
“You haven’t used that purse in a while,” Ganga said.
Mrs. Ray turned the purse over in her hands as if searching for the date it was last used.
“Really? God knows. Anyway, the red sandals, please. And bring me a glass of water as well.”
Ganga didn’t move.
“The ones with the heels that you haven’t used in years?” Ganga said.
“I don’t keep track of exactly when I’ve used what, Ganga,” Mrs. Ray said, and then turned her face into her cupboard to hide her smile. It was true. Everything Ganga was noticing was true. She had not used the red sandals or the small black purse in ages. Where would she use those items? The weekly meetings in Mayur Palli? Give the neighbors even more to gossip about? She had bought both the sandals and the purse on a trip to Hong Kong with her husband ten years ago, and they were understated and elegant and obviously meant for a night out. Mrs. Ray had considered giving them away after Mr. Ray’s death, but a small part of her hoped she would find another reason to wear them someday and tonight was reason enough.
Last week on the phone, once Mrs. Ray had figured out that Upen was not the dry cleaner, the conversation had still been a little odd, but pleasantly so.
“Mrs. Jha mentioned that you may be planning a trip to Chandigarh?” Upen said.
Mrs. Ray was not yet too old to assume a man she had only met once was calling to discuss Chandigarh, so she decided to be a little confident and accept Mrs. Jha’s attempted setup.
“Yes, perhaps,” she said. “My husband—my late husband—was an environmental engineer and he always talked about how impressive the city planning was in Chandigarh.”
He had, once, Mrs. Ray reasoned. She wasn’t lying about her dead husband in order to meet a new man.
“You must come visit,” Upen said. “I would suggest around November for the best temperatures. And I can help you draw up your whole itinerary. There’s the Rock Garden, of course.”
He paused. There was only the Rock Garden and he knew it and she probably knew it too, he worried.
“There’s so much more,” he continued. “I don’t want to list all the places on the phone. Why don’t we meet some evening? Maybe next weekend? That would be easier. I’m in Delhi for a while longer—I have no real reason to rush back to Chandigarh so I make these trips nice and long.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Ray said. “Yes, that would be easier. I’ll bring a notebook and we can have a cup of coffee.”
“How about dinner?” Upen said.
Mrs. Ray had lain down on her bed holding the phone when he said that. She closed her eyes, smiled, and shook her head. She was like a scene from an American movie about high school cheerleaders who get asked on dates. For hardly a second, though, because then Ganga had come into the room asking what kind of fish she should buy for dinner that night. Mrs. Ray waved her away, sat up, and said to Upen, “Dinner. Yes, dinner.”
“And drinks,” Upen had said.
And when Mrs. Ray hung up, Ganga was standing there looking at her with curiosity, and Mrs. Ray had looked away to hide her smile. And Ganga was standing there again now, holding her red heels and looking at her with the same look and once again, Mrs. Ray looked away, still smiling, and said, “Ganga, please go to the dry cleaner tomorrow morning and check on my saris. It’s been almost three weeks.”
Mrs. Ray arrived early to the Lodhi Restaurant, beautifully nestled into the greenery and surroundings of Lodhi Gardens. They had said they would meet at eight for dinner, but the evening temperature was starting to drop so she was worried that her nose would run or her eyes would water, so it was best to get there first, settle in, and check her compact before Upen arrived. What trivial, wonderful concerns, she thought.