“We could, but then we’d just both have to travel. I can just as easily come to East Delhi. I’ve never even been to that part of town,” Upen said.
“Well, you really are not missing much. Let’s stick to Dilli Haat at one p.m. We can meet outside, near the ticketing desk. I have so many more questions about Chandigarh.”
She wished she had not brought up the idea of Chandigarh again, but she did not know how to suggest meeting simply because she felt like meeting, with no other excuses to hide behind. And Dilli Haat would be a good place to do that. The outdoor market had stalls from different parts of India selling local goods—shawls from Kashmir, jewelry from Rajasthan, saris from West Bengal, pottery from Gujarat. Toward the back, there were food stalls that sold food from different parts of the country. Dilli Haat always amazed Mrs. Ray. There was so much about India that she did not know.
While she was still standing near the phone, she remembered that she should call Ganga and check that she had reached her son’s home safely. Ganga had left the previous week and Mrs. Ray got the feeling she was not going to return soon. She always went with a one-way ticket and assessed what all was going on at home before calling Mrs. Ray and telling her when she would return. Getting to her son’s home was quite a trek, and it would make no sense for her to go all the way for less than a few months. Mrs. Ray offered to buy her a plane ticket to Calcutta to make the trip easier, and to make sure she came back soon, but Ganga refused. She did not want to accept anything other than her income, and she had never really trusted airplanes. Her reasoning was different than most, though. It was not a plane crash she was worried about so much as having her luggage disappear.
“I’ve heard they take your bag away from you before you get on the plane,” Ganga had told Mrs. Ray. “I refuse to fall victim to that. I like trains where I can sleep with my feet on the bag. I’m no fool.”
Mrs. Ray dialed the number for the local shop in Ganga’s son’s village. When she got through, she told the shopkeeper to go and tell Ganga to come to the shop and she would try calling again in half an hour. This was the only way to reach Ganga. She had also refused Mrs. Ray’s offers of a cell phone.
Half an hour later, when Mrs. Ray called again, Ganga informed her that she had spent the morning sitting in the local pond cooling herself and getting caught up on all the news from the other villagers. She sounded happy to be back even though she said, “There’s still no plumbing here. I have to take my things and walk all the way into the woods just to use the bathroom. That is the one thing you city people have figured out better than us. But the rest is better here.”
“Will you be okay by yourself?” Ganga then asked, making no mention of her return ticket. Mrs. Ray said yes, she would be, of course, and Ganga just said, “Good. In that case I’ll stay for a little longer this time. I’ll let you know in a few weeks how things are looking.”
Maybe it wasn’t fair to keep her in Delhi, Mrs. Ray thought, while listening to Ganga go on and on about her village and who had gotten married, who was pregnant, who had died, and who was taking English lessons and wearing lipstick. Ganga was so much more than a maid in her village. Of course Mrs. Ray had never visited Ganga there, nor did she plan to—she liked toilets that were indoors—but from everything Ganga described, that was her real home. Mrs. Ray told her she could stay for as long as she needed. She could not ask her to come back simply because she was lonely. In any case, it was a lot easier to get dressed for an afternoon with Upen without Ganga pottering around asking questions.
Mrs. Ray arrived at Dilli Haat before Upen. She had rented another four-hour taxi from the local stand and, again, she didn’t want the driver to see that she was meeting a man.
“Madam, I will park across the street. Here you have to pay for parking. Just give me a missed call when you are finished and I will come and collect you from this same spot,” the driver said.
All the drivers always communicated through missed calls on their cell phones. He didn’t want to waste his precious mobile minutes on a ten-second conversation in which Mrs. Ray would tell him to bring the car to the main entrance to pick her up, so instead she would let it ring twice and then hang up and, since they had already discussed it, he would see the missed call and know that meant Mrs. Ray was ready to be picked up at the main entrance. Mrs. Ray once tried texting one of the drivers that she was ready to be collected, but later he laughed and told her, “Madam, I cannot read any English.”
Mrs. Ray bought two entry tickets for Dilli Haat and waited for Upen outside the gate. How nice it felt, she thought, to ask for two tickets instead of her usual one. Or three, if Mr. and Mrs. Jha were with her.
There were some women squatting on the ground outside the market, selling pillowcases and bedsheets. Mrs. Ray thought it might be a nice idea to send a set of pillowcases to New York for Rupak. And it would give her something to do when Upen approached, instead of just standing on the side looking eager. She squatted down next to the one closest to her.
“Madam, this is finest handmade pillowcase directly from Rajasthan. Very modern style, for very modern lady,” the pillowcase saleswoman said to her in broken English, because Mrs. Ray was wearing jeans. “You must buy this set. I will give good deal for whole set.”
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s lovely,” Mrs. Ray said in Hindi while trying to look over her shoulder for Upen.
“Madam, how you speak so good Hindi?” the pushy saleswoman said, clapping her hands.
“Oh, stop it,” Mrs. Ray said. “You know perfectly well I’m Indian. Flattering me will not get you a sale.”
Upen approached from behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Mrs. Ray looked up at him and pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head.
“You’re here,” she said with a smile.
Upen gave her his hand as she stood and she was grateful because, despite the yoga, her right knee always protested slightly when she got up from the ground.
“You made me take out all of them and you won’t buy even one?” the saleswoman said. “All you people are the same.”
Once they were inside the main market, Mrs. Ray stopped at a stall selling silk saris from Tamil Nadu in order to give herself something to do.
“Do you wear saris often?” Upen asked.
“Sometimes. I like saris but they aren’t very practical.”
“You would look nice in a sari. Not that you don’t look lovely in your jeans. You do. It suits you. But a sari would also suit you,” Upen said.
“Madam, this color will be very good for your skin color,” the man selling the saris said to her.
“Thank you, I’m just looking,” Mrs. Ray said.
She touched another silk sari, deep red with gold threads embroidered throughout.
“Saab, your wife has very good taste,” the man said to Upen.
“Oh, I’m not. No,” Mrs. Ray said. “Come on. Let’s go. I have enough saris.”