The Windfall

“Excellent,” Mr. Chopra said. “He will have good career prospects. I have heard Cornell University is one of the best places in the world. Good. Very good for him.”

“Well, he’s not studying at—” Mrs. Jha said.

“That is what we are hoping, yes,” Mr. Jha interrupted.

“Is he married?” Mrs. Chopra asked.

“Oh no. Not yet,” Mrs. Jha answered.

Fine, let her husband keep up the pretense that Rupak was studying at Cornell. Mrs. Jha was enjoying the evening, as long as one of the maids wasn’t in the room. Contrary to her expectations, the Chopras did not talk constantly about business or jewelry or obscure luxury resorts in distant parts of the world. They had clearly been around money for long enough to not get too excited by it. Mrs. Jha hoped that seeing them would make her husband calm down. It was true that she had pulled out her gold necklace for tonight, but he was taking things too far. He had even insisted on hiding the mug downstairs and having toilet paper placed in every bathroom. Mrs. Jha did not consider toilet paper sufficiently hygienic. There was no way it cleaned better than water. At least he had agreed to have water guns installed near the toilets. Her reverie on the toilets of Gurgaon was broken by the same maid in the purple sari coming into the room again.

“Drinks. What can I get everyone to drink? Mrs. Jha, are you still insisting on sticking to the club soda? How about soda with a splash of wine in it? We can open the bottle you brought or try one of ours? Geeta loves her white wine spritzers. It’s quite a ladies’ drink, isn’t it?”

So that’s what a white wine spritzer is, Mrs. Jha thought.

“I’m fine with soda, thank you,” she said. She had never really cared for the taste of alcohol.

“Soda for you. Rekha, ek soda,” Mr. Chopra said to the maid. Mrs. Jha smiled at the maid. The maid did not smile back. Mrs. Jha decided not to ask about the agency where she was from because there was no way she would feel comfortable with such a fancy maid. She would have to clean the house before the maid cleaned the house.

“And for you, Anil-ji?” Mr. Chopra said to Mr. Jha.

“I’ll have an Old Monk, please. With—” Mr. Jha was going to ask for the familiar Indian dark rum, with a splash of water to release the flavors, but before he could complete his request, Mr. Chopra had started laughing.

“Ah, Old Monk. Oh, that’s a good one, Anil. Old Monk. How did we ever drink that in college? Am I right? Will Black Label do? Rekha, ek soda aur Black Label ka bottle le aao. And the ice bucket also. Mr. Jha, do you take soda or water with your whiskey?”

“Water. Just a splash of water,” Mr. Jha said.

“Perfect,” Mr. Chopra said. “Exactly how I take it this time of year. In summer, with two cubes of ice, rest of the year with a splash of water. Have you seen those giant ice cubes they have in restaurants these days? I don’t care for those. They get in the way of the whiskey and hit against my teeth. Regular ice cubes are just fine.”



Over drinks and galouti kebabs, Mr. Chopra started to create a profile of the Jhas in his mind. Yes, they had bought the house but they had no guard, only one car, and a son trying to work in finance, which all meant that no matter how much money Mr. Jha had, it was not enough to support his son. Even his poor wife used to work.

“Mrs. Jha, I must say. I admire that you were a career lady. Everything is changing these days,” Mr. Chopra said.

“Well, I hope that isn’t in the past tense,” Mrs. Jha said. “Now that we’re settled in, I want to see if I can go back to work. I don’t know if my husband told you, but I used to work with rural craftsmen and weavers to help them bring their goods to—”

“Oh, how nice,” Mr. Chopra said. “Aren’t these kebabs just so soft? But Mrs. Jha, I think it is very admirable of you. I was telling your husband the other day that with the way the economy is now, many households need a double income.”

“Well, my work isn’t the most financially rewarding, but it’s certainly emotionally rewarding,” Mrs. Jha said, with a small laugh.

“Opposite of financially rewarding,” Mr. Jha said with a louder laugh. “Financially draining. When the saris or the carpets don’t get sold to the shops, half the time Bindu buys them with our own money.”

“Sometimes. I don’t want the craftsmen to lose hope. In any case, their work makes wonderful gifts,” Mrs. Jha said. She considered offering to bring a hand-embroidered sari to Mrs. Chopra, but she noticed the expensive, and, she thought, rather ugly, designer sari Mrs. Chopra was wearing and realized her sari would likely be given to one of the maids.

“A double-income home.” Mr. Jha laughed again. This time, Mr. Chopra joined in and they clinked glasses and said, “Cheers.”

“Geeta, you see? Not all women spend their days shopping,” Mr. Chopra said. “Can you imagine if we needed another income? My wife here certainly would not be of help.”

Mrs. Chopra shook her head and laughed at the absurd thought of having a job and continued sipping her white wine spritzer.

Mr. Chopra looked at Mrs. Jha, sitting at the edge of the sofa, drinking her soda. She took up so much less physical space than his own wife. And not just because his own wife was fat. Mrs. Chopra took up space in every sense of the word—her jewelry sparkled, her voice was loud, her clothes were bright, and she wore her self-confidence around her like a halo. Mrs. Jha was undoubtedly more beautiful than Mrs. Chopra, and he would have expected a woman like her to carry herself with that same confidence, but she didn’t.

Mrs. Jha was annoyed that she was getting distracted every time the maid went in or out of the room. Yes, perhaps she and the maid were wearing similar saris, but that hardly mattered. That was nothing to be embarrassed about. Mrs. Jha had spent her life working toward helping the less fortunate. She knew that the sari she was wearing was more valuable than some silly overpriced designer sari. The exploitation of the craftsmen by these designers was, after all, exactly what she was trying to work against. Just because the Chopras were more used to money did not mean she was any less than them. Her husband had worked hard and now her son was working hard and she used to work hard, and would again. Mrs. Chopra did not add much to the conversation, and Mrs. Jha couldn’t imagine her doing anything interesting. No, she was being unfair. She did not have to counter her own insecurities by being nasty about Mrs. Chopra.

“Indian Idol will be on soon,” Mrs. Chopra said. “Have you been following this season? It’s becoming quite heated.”

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