Balwinder’s own mother had left him with an uncle in Ludhiana when he was two years old, and he had never heard from her again. He didn’t miss her because he had never known her. He heard rumors that she had an affair with the man she used to work for—she was a cook—and he had moved her to Dubai when his wife found out. Whenever his uncle got annoyed with him, he would tell Balwinder his mother had left him in order to become a prostitute. Now, in Delhi, Balwinder did not mind the thought of that so much. Sugandha was a prostitute but she brought him such joy. What harm was there that he left some money for her every time? That did not make her a bad person. Even on days when he only sat and chatted with Sugandha, he would leave money for her. She always made him get up and leave in exactly two hours, but he thought of her as a companion of sorts. If that was in fact what his mother was doing, Balwinder felt no shame about it. But his uncle would say it to him in such an unpleasant way that Balwinder left Ludhiana when he was thirteen. He stole whatever money he could from his uncle and made his way to Patiala and eventually to Delhi, where he worked as a tea boy for a few years before joining a security guard agency through the recommendation of an electrician who used to come to the tea shack every evening and had a cousin who worked as a guard in Hauz Khas. Balwinder had always gone through life alone and he was not used to people asking him much about himself, so he was glad Mrs. Jha had moved in next door.
“Good evening, madam. Good evening, sir,” Balwinder said as he opened the gate.
“Good evening, good evening. Tell me, young man,” Mr. Jha said to him. “Do you know any other guards? Maybe some friends of yours who are looking for work?”
“Sir, the agency will certainly have many people. I can give you their contact. Chopra-sir will also have it.”
“Agency? Okay, then. Thank you,” Mr. Jha said as they entered the Chopras’ driveway. “The guards come from agencies here?” he asked his wife in a lowered voice. “What kind of agency do they come from? He’s not a model, for God’s sake, he is just a guard.”
“I’ve heard about this. Even all the maids these days come from agencies. In fact, I want to get information for a maid’s agency from the Chopras as well. Only for the cooking and cleaning, don’t worry. It’s a good system. I’m sure they will be more trustworthy if they are with an agency. Maybe they do background checks. And it probably also gives the maids more rights. Some people treat maids so badly.”
“I’ve told you so many times that now you can get a full-time maid if you want. Here we have a servants’ quarter, so a maid won’t constantly be hanging around looking shabby. We can even get a couple and the man can be the guard and the woman can help around the house. Do some research and see if you can find that at an agency.”
Walking down the driveway of their neighbors’ home, Mrs. Jha could see the moon and even a star or two. She had been so nervous about this move, this neighborhood, and the new money, but seeing the small lights shaped like birds that lined the driveway, and the wrought-iron chairs and tables in the Chopras’ front yard, made her feel peaceful. One of the hedges was cut in the shape of a deer. What nice attention to detail. She had never imagined this would someday be her life.
She looked over at her husband. He was a self-made man and she was proud. She vowed to make this home a happy place. She had complained enough about the move to Gurgaon. It was time to stop worrying.
“Maybe we can also get some of our hedges shaped,” Mrs. Jha said, and pointed toward the deer hedge.
As they approached the Chopras’ door, Mrs. Jha smoothed down the front of her sari and fingered the gold necklace around her neck. She hoped it would not look excessive.
“I left the bottle of wine on the table,” Mr. Jha said. “You go and ring the bell, I’ll rush and get it and come.”
Mrs. Jha rang the bell. Mr. Chopra answered. He wondered why the neighbors had sent the maid ahead.
“Will sir and madam be joining us?” Mr. Chopra asked in Hindi.
Confused, Mrs. Jha said, “Good evening. My husband is just coming.”
She was standing in a foyer with a domed ceiling above her head on which, if she wasn’t mistaken, was a reproduction of the Sistine Chapel. Except in this production, Adam—it was Adam, wasn’t it?—was wearing a pair of black shorts.
“Of course, of course. Mrs. Jha. You are Mrs. Jha. Of course. Good evening. So wonderful to meet you. Welcome to Gurgaon. So nice to have new neighbors. Please come in. Come and sit. My wife is just getting ready. My brother is also in town but he has gone out. As has my son. Hopefully they will both join us later. Is your sister joining us? I thought I saw her the other day, so I was a bit confused, you see. But never mind. Please come in, come in. What can I get you to drink? A whiskey soda?”
“Oh no, not for me, thank you. Just a club soda will do. I’m not much of a drinker,” Mrs. Jha said. “I think maybe you are talking about my friend who was here with me last time? She’s an old friend.”
She followed Mr. Chopra into the living room. There was a thick beige carpet on the floor, and the doorway that they had entered through was flanked on both sides by two large marble swan figurines. Heavy vermillion curtains covered the windows and made the room feel like a Chinese restaurant in Defence Colony. The sofas were all various shades of brown and white, and in a corner, on a table, was a massive Buddha bust lit up from inside and at the base of the table was a sculpture of a basketful of little dogs. A chandelier hung in the middle of the room. They were not going to find any fluorescent tubelights here, Mrs. Jha thought, except maybe in the servants’ quarter out back.
A woman in a sari similar to hers, but purple, came out holding a tray of beautiful crystal glasses. For a moment, Mrs. Jha thought she had managed to wear the right clothes. She thought she looked the part. And then she realized that the woman holding the tray was the maid, and Mayur Palli felt like a different country that they had left behind and here, in this new country, Mrs. Jha did not know the language.
“The other day you mentioned that you had a son, Mr. Jha,” Mr. Chopra said. He knew he had been asking questions since they sat down, but now that he knew they had moved from East Delhi, he had to know everything else.
“Anil. Please call me Anil. And yes, our son, Rupak, is in New York right now,” Mr. Jha said. He could not take his eyes off Mrs. Chopra. Over the past weeks, ever since he first met Mr. Chopra on the road, he had built up a visual of Mrs. Chopra as some young Kareena Kapoor type who would be wearing jeans and maybe a sleeveless top. He pictured her wearing wedge sandals and having her hair loose. Her fingernails would be long, painted a light pink, and the type that made clickety-clackety sounds against surfaces. But Mrs. Chopra looked like someone had taken Mrs. Gupta from Mayur Palli, coated her in honey, and dipped her in a luxury mall. The real Mrs. Chopra was about five feet tall, fat, wearing an expensive-looking sari and earrings that probably cost more than the Jhas’ Mayur Palli apartment had cost when they bought it. Her hair, dyed unnaturally black, was pulled into a bun and her fingernails were short and the nails on her right hand were tinged yellow from years of eating turmeric-infused food with her fingers. Mr. Jha could see that she was wearing makeup under her eyes, but her skin was not very supple and the makeup was caked into the cracks, making her look older than she probably had to. Her fingers were covered in rings of all sorts and, for reasons he could not quite understand, Mr. Jha found himself nervous in her presence.
“Ah, New York,” Mr. Chopra said. “The city that never sleeps. The Windy City. The Sunshine State. What a wonderful little town. One never tires of Times Square. Does your son live close to there?”
“No, no. He is in upstate New York. Ithaca. You know—where Cornell University is,” Mr. Jha said.
“Ithaca. That is a town in Italy if I am not mistaken,” Mr. Chopra said. He did not want Mr. Jha thinking they were the only international family on the street. “I am a big fan of Michelangelo.”
“He is just finishing his MBA,” Mrs. Jha added. “Let’s see what he does after this.”