Mrs. Ray loved autumn in Delhi. At this time every year she forgot just how brutal the cold would get by the beginning of January, especially with no central heating. But every October and November felt so lovely when the cool air descended across the city after a hot and humid summer. The smell of wood burning filled the air, and scarves and sweaters and closed-toed shoes came out. People would leave their doors and windows open instead of sitting closed up in air-conditioned rooms. Winter in Delhi had the same effect that spring did in books and movies set in the Western world. The start of winter here brought with it the hope for newness.
As she sat down at the corner table, she looked around nervously. A young couple—an Indian woman and a white man—sat at the table next to her. Mrs. Ray felt happy for the woman, not envious. She looked like she was about thirty and was wearing black pants and a black shirt, with rust-colored high-heeled boots. On the table between them sat an open bottle of white wine in a metal box filled with ice. They looked so at ease—with each other, with the dim lighting, with the white tablecloths and the wineglasses.
Mrs. Ray quickly scanned the rest of the room. You never knew who you would run into in Delhi, but there was nobody here who looked familiar. Still, as a precaution, she had taken the seat that left her back facing the restaurant. This meant, of course, that she would not see Upen arriving, but it also meant that the harsh overhead light was not above her head. She was too old for overhead lighting. In any case, if she focused, she would probably be able to see Upen’s reflection as he approached the table. She knew she was being silly. She knew nothing about this man. They were meeting only to discuss her alleged interest in Chandigarh. Yes, it was strange that he had suggested doing that over dinner and drinks at one of Delhi’s most romantic restaurants, but maybe that was standard for him. He had dropped enough hints that Mrs. Ray was confident that he did not have a wife, but for all she knew, he had a girlfriend in Chandigarh. And even if he didn’t, it did not mean that he was interested in her. She was too old for games like these. It was just that she had never had the luxury of games like these.
She had loved Mr. Ray—she still did—and she enjoyed glimpses of longing and desire and a crush early in their marriage, but there were no games, there were no unanswered questions. The moment she remembered most fondly from their early years was one morning in the first month, when they still lived in Mr. Ray’s family house in Mumbai, and he had woken up next to her, leaned over, put his mouth against the small black mole she had behind her right ear and said, “This is mine.”
She didn’t think he had even noticed it. Then he got up and started his day, but she remained in bed a little bit longer, happy. That happiness had carried her through her marriage. She raised her right hand to her ear and touched the tip of a finger to the mole and wondered when Upen would notice it.
She saw, in the window she was facing, the short waitress leading the tall Upen Chopra over toward her table. Before she could respond—before she could even decide how to respond—she felt his warm hand on her shoulder, a sliver of his finger directly against a sliver of her bare neck, as he came around from behind her to her side.
“Should we start with an order of the fennel salad?” Upen asked. “And what will you have to drink? Some wine, perhaps? Or whiskey? I’m a whiskey drinker myself, but I’m happy to share a bottle of wine.”
“No whiskey for me, thank you,” Mrs. Ray said. “Maybe just a glass of wine. White wine.”
She never drank whiskey in front of others. She had, once, when her husband was alive, and Mrs. De had said, “Whiskey. Oh my. Aren’t you a modern woman?” with such poison in her voice that she now stuck to only white wine in public, sometimes with soda added in to make it even daintier.
“In that case, I’ll have a whiskey,” Upen said, and waved the waitress over and ordered their drinks and the salad. She was going to order a glass of the local white wine that tasted awful and was made in a vineyard outside Mumbai, but Upen said, “She’ll have a glass of the sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. You’ll like it. I went to New Zealand about four years ago and now that’s the only white wine I drink.”
Mrs. Ray liked his authoritative way even though she had noticed that the foreign wine cost three times the price of the domestic one and she was not sure how the bill was going to be split tonight. She shook that thought out of her head and committed to trying to enjoy herself. She hardly spent money on anything these days; a glass of imported wine would not cause her to go bankrupt.
“I’ve heard New Zealand is beautiful,” she said.
“Oh, you’d love it. It’s as if God—if you believe in God—was particularly kind to that whole country,” Upen said, and then continued talking about his holiday there through the appetizers. Mrs. Ray had stopped listening after he said she would love it, because the way he phrased it made it sound as though they would perhaps go there together someday, and even though that was an absurd thought to have barely half an hour after sitting down to dinner with this man, it was a thought that made her feel warm inside.
Through the main course—a rather bland grilled sea bass with vegetables for her, and a vegetable korma with rice for him—and her second glass of wine and his second large pour of whiskey on the rocks—they continued to talk about cities and countries far away from where they were as if they both understood that to talk about anything closer would be dangerous tonight. They asked each other almost no questions about their lives. They both knew that by this age, there was too much that was too difficult to speak about and you never knew which question would unravel a carefully crafted conversation. Upen smiled and tilted his empty whiskey glass toward himself. “Another glass of wine for you?”
Mrs. Ray wanted to say yes. She wanted another glass of wine, maybe even a whiskey. She wanted to stay here talking to him and hearing about the world for many more hours, but she was nervous. She was getting to the point where she wanted to know less about the biodiversity of New Zealand and much more about who was with him on his trip, who it was that stood by his side on the viewing deck of the Sky Tower in Auckland, who walked through the dark caves of Waitomo with him to see the glowworms, who tried a bite of the best rack of lamb he’d ever tasted. So instead she declined the offer for more alcohol, but he insisted on dessert and she didn’t refuse.
“I’m so happy to hear you’re interested in visiting Chandigarh,” Upen said as their plates were cleared away. “Did your husband spend a lot of time there?”
“Oh no, he just spoke about it,” Mrs. Ray said. “But he always wanted to go.”
“It’s nice of you to consider making the trip for him,” Upen said.
Mrs. Ray felt guilty about using her husband this way, so she simply said, “He was a good man.”
Upen nodded.
“My wife was a good woman,” he said.
“When did she pass?” Mrs. Ray said.
“What? Oh, my wife. Right. About seven years ago. I’ve been on my own for the past seven years.”
“My husband died five years ago,” Mrs. Ray said.
“I’m sure wherever they are now, they want to see us happy. If you had died first, would you want your husband to remarry?”
Mrs. Ray was silent for a moment.