“I’ve never really thought about that. I know I should say yes, yes, of course, but I don’t know. Is that an awful thing to admit?”
“I think it’s a very brave thing to admit,” Upen said.
“It would have been easier for him to have been the one left behind. The world is more forgiving for male widows. He wouldn’t have everyone peering into his windows to see exactly how he was living his life. Male widows are lucky.”
Upen said nothing.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Ray said. “That’s not how I meant it. No widows are lucky. Male ones are simply less unlucky than female ones.”
Upen laughed and said, “No, no. You have a point. It’s definitely easier for male widows, except men don’t know how to make dinner.”
“They can hire maids,” Mrs. Ray said, grateful that Upen had laughed, grateful that the topic of widowhood didn’t have to be shrouded in whispers and sadness and guilt.
“We should start a matchmaking agency for the widowed,” Upen said. “Men need women who know how to make them dinner.”
“Or we could start a cooking class for male widows,” Mrs. Ray said.
By the time the New York–style cheesecake with raspberry coulis and trio of macaroons were served, Upen had started talking about Chandigarh again, and Mrs. Ray had come to the conclusion that it was a dreadfully boring city but Upen was wonderful company.
“There’s so much more to tell you about Chandigarh. I know it’s getting late now, but perhaps we could meet again some night?” Upen said when the check was brought to the table.
Mrs. Ray tried to calculate how much her share was going to be—it was not a cheap restaurant, and there was the international wine order. And the dessert—those three tiny macaroons cost more than a full meal would at the South Indian restaurant in the market outside Mayur Palli. When the high of this evening wore off, she was going to feel terrible. Mrs. Ray was about to reach into her purse when Upen placed his big hand on the little black folder that held the check and pulled it toward himself. She wondered what it would feel like if his hands were ever on her body. They were not a young person’s hands, but they were hands that looked confident and firm. Mrs. Ray owed Mrs. Jha a thank-you—for calling Upen Chopra on her behalf. And for moving to Gurgaon.
“You might even know some of the people here tonight. Delhi is a small social circle,” Serena said to Rupak as they walked through Collegetown on Saturday night.
“Correction: the Delhi you come from is a small social circle. I grew up in a different world in East Delhi. Our worlds don’t collide,” Rupak said.
As they walked along in silence, Rupak worried that his comment had sounded too rude. Either rude or insecure and he really didn’t want to be either.
“Hey, thanks for inviting me tonight,” he said.
Serena stopped walking as they approached the apartment block and turned to him.
“Thanks for agreeing to come. I like hanging out with you. It’s funny, we grew up probably within—what?—fifteen miles of each other and then we both ended up in this small town in upstate New York, but we’re so different, aren’t we? It’s fun.”
“So different?” Rupak said. “I thought the opposite—we have so much in common.”
“We have logistical stuff in common, sure—I guess in that we’re both from Delhi. But that’s about it, I’d say. I don’t really cavort with the obscenely wealthy usually.”
Rupak laughed at the term obscenely wealthy, but he noticed Serena did not.
“But I like hanging out with you. And your texts are pretty funny,” she said, and she kept walking and he didn’t want to sound petty, so he walked along with her.
The nights in Ithaca were starting to get cold and the trees were almost bare already. The winter was much more of a proper winter here than it was in Delhi. In Delhi, even though the temperature dropped, the days did not shorten as noticeably and the leaves on the trees never changed color.
Groups of undergraduate girls in short dresses and bare legs rushed down the sidewalk huddled together, talking and laughing about the promise of the night ahead. Despite the cold, Collegetown on a Saturday night felt electric with life and energy. Walking down this stretch with Serena felt very different than doing so with Elizabeth. Serena didn’t seem to notice the buzz all around them, let alone have a desire to participate. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was the buzz. It emanated from her. Rupak felt a pang of guilt about having left her behind in her apartment tonight. He had technically not lied. He had told her he was meeting a family friend from Delhi who went to Cornell. Okay, perhaps he had lied slightly: he had said the friend did not speak fluent English so it would be boring for Elizabeth to come along. Fortunately, she was not the kind to cross-examine him or care. She was perfectly happy going out with her own friends and living her own life. It was another one of the things Rupak loved about Elizabeth—her independence. Although, he thought, maybe it wasn’t independence. Maybe she didn’t care because she thought he was incapable of looking at another woman. Maybe Elizabeth thought she had Rupak in the palm of her hand and would never have reason to worry. Maybe she thought he wasn’t man enough to ever cheat on her.
“Where’d you go?” Serena said. “You went silent.”
“Sorry, nothing. I like hanging out with you too. Your friends—are they all studying theater?” Rupak asked.
“No. I’m the only one foolish enough to do that. There are a few business and law school people. Suresh is here doing his PhD in math and a few are doing their master’s in international relations. And one of the women, Pallavi, is doing a PhD in comparative literature. I don’t know her too well, though—she’s older. Her younger brother was my boyfriend in school,” Serena said.