Mrs. Jha didn’t want Rupak turning into one of those typical rich kids who assume they’ll never have to work hard. For that, she was grateful that they had lived very average lives until recently. But Rupak was changing fast. As soon as they were settled into their new home, it would be time for them to go to the United States to see how he lived.
Rupak ignored his mother and rummaged in the fridge for the wine. His parents had gone from keeping no alcohol at home, to keeping some Kingfisher beer and Old Monk rum, to keeping bottles of white wine that was made in vineyards outside Mumbai, to keeping imported bottles of red and white wine from countries as far as Chile. Rupak closed the fridge and opened the freezer to take an ice tray. It was next to a frosted bottle of Absolut vodka that still had the plastic seal around the neck. So much had changed at home since he had left for the States.
Once the food had been brought to the dining room and the guests had sat down and begun to serve themselves, Mrs. Jha whispered to her husband, “Will you please tell them? Stop avoiding it. I can’t organize one more dinner like this.”
Across the table, while taking from big bowls of food, Mr. Gupta said quietly to his wife, “I think you’ve got enough chicken. Leave some for the others. It looks bad.”
“The chicken is half burnt. I am doing Mrs. Jha a favor by eating so much of it,” Mrs. Gupta whispered back, peering into the other bowls to see what else had been cooked. “Otherwise it will all be left and she will have to give it to the maids and she’ll be embarrassed. I’m being kind.”
“Would you like another drink?” Rupak asked Mrs. Ray on the other side of the table.
Ever since he had gone to America, Rupak had decided he would never date an Indian woman again, but seeing beautiful Mrs. Ray made him aware that there were exceptions to every rule. But Mrs. Ray wasn’t that old, he reminded himself. He knew that she was friends with this group only because she had never had children, so now she had more in common with the older women whose children had left home. And glancing to his right and seeing Mrs. Gupta trying to pry a piece of burnt chicken out from her teeth reminded him of the rules.
“Rupak,” Mr. Gupta said. “Bring me another whiskey and come and tell me more about America. My wife’s niece also studies in America. Sudha, where does that girl study?”
“I can never remember,” Mrs. Gupta said. “Perhaps New York? I will find out.”
Mr. Gupta wobbled his head and said to Rupak, “Maybe you know her. We will find out where she is studying.”
“I doubt it,” Rupak said. He was always amazed by how small some people in Mayur Palli thought America was.
“Urmila is planning a trip to America next year,” Mr. Patnaik added. “She should add Ithaca to her list of places to visit.”
“You must meet lots of pretty women there,” Mr. Gupta continued. “White skin, white hair—those girls are like cotton balls. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Do it,” on the other side of the table Mrs. Jha whispered to her husband. “Tell them now, otherwise I will. You’ve done well, you’ve bought a new house—I don’t know why you’re so ashamed.”
“A girlfriend?” Rupak said. Here was his chance to tell them. His parents would have to react calmly to the news of his American girlfriend if all the neighbors were watching. “Well, you know in the U.S….”
“He doesn’t have time for girlfriends while he is studying. A wife will come later. He’s just like his father. They both want to do well in life,” Mrs. Jha said. “Such ambitious men I’m surrounded by. In fact, that’s why we called all of you here tonight.”
“So that is all,” Mr. Jha said. “Nothing too big to discuss. We are not selling this apartment. We are simply renting it out for now. We have found a lovely young couple from Chennai who are going to move in. They have a young son also. Very decent people. And next time we will have dinner in Gurgaon. Enough about us. Why don’t we have some more food?”
“Wait,” Mr. Gupta said. “This new house you’ve bought—is it through the Meritech company? I heard they got in trouble with the government about bribes. Did they accept the full amount in check?”
Mr. Gupta was certain that Mr. Jha was a tax evader. All these new-moneyed people were the same. People acted as though engineers were honest, simple-minded people, but look at Mr. Jha here—he was obviously making lots of money now and had probably paid for his house with mostly black money. But Mr. Gupta knew that just because he himself had been a police officer, the assumption was that he was corrupt. It was unfair. He had never taken a bribe over five thousand rupees. A lot of other policemen had worked their way up financially and drove fancy Hondas and Toyotas, but Mr. Gupta had simply upgraded from a scooter to a Maruti 800 to a Swift. He had been content with his life in East Delhi. He knew many young couples who used it as a stepping-stone to fancier neighborhoods, but people of his generation stayed put. They no longer got their walls painted after every monsoon, and they no longer complained about the regular electricity outages. Their lives, he thought, had fallen into a nice comforting rhythm. They didn’t need to impress their spouses or their neighbors. But now here was Mr. Jha announcing their move to Gurgaon while his pretty wife looked on proudly. Their son was visiting from the United States of America and probably had a white girlfriend by now. Mr. Gupta looked over at his own wife, who was heaping her plate with another helping of chicken curry. Their daughter, married to a chartered accountant and also living in East Delhi, was turning into her mother far too quickly, and Mr. Gupta knew he would never have the luxury of objecting to a white boyfriend.
“I really prefer not to talk about finances like this,” Mr. Jha said. “Especially not in front of the ladies. But, you know, India is changing. International business comes with different standards.”
Mr. Jha had in fact paid more than the usual amount with taxable money. It had raised the cost of the house considerably, but ever since he sold to a company based in America, he knew that the government was keeping an eye on him.
Mr. Gupta shook his head as he used his thumb to push another bite of chicken and rice into his mouth. These people would never give a straight answer about taxes.