“She does have good taste,” Upen said, laughing.
Mrs. Ray rushed ahead away from the stall. She had not heard the word wife used in so many years that she had forgotten how it felt. In fact, it had never felt the way it had just felt. It felt thrilling when she heard it just now. She liked the idea of ownership it conveyed. She liked the idea that she belonged to Upen.
Mrs. Ray tried to remember if she had found the word exciting when she first got married. If anything, back then it felt like a burden. And then it went from being a burden to simply being a reality. She was a daughter, a sister, and then a wife. But now her parents were dead—did that make her an orphan? Certainly not. Was there a specific age, she wondered, old enough, after which you were not considered an orphan if your parents died? Eighteen perhaps. And then her husband died—so she was a widow. But was there a certain age, young enough, that if you lost your husband you did not have to be called a widow? If a young childless woman lost her husband tragically when she was only twenty-five—or even thirty-seven, like Mrs. Ray had been—it felt unfair to burden her with the label of widow for the rest of her life. And Mrs. Ray certainly did not feel like a widow, even though she was reminded that she was one nearly every day in Mayur Palli.
Upen caught up with her and said, “Are you sure you didn’t want that red and gold sari? It was lovely.”
“It’s too bright for me at this age,” Mrs. Ray said. “Do you have children?”
“One daughter. She lives in Liverpool with her husband. They recently had a child, a daughter. They’ve named her Maya like every single Indian living abroad names their daughters,” he laughed. “But she’s a sweet girl. Just like her mother. Do you have children?”
Mrs. Ray shook her head. He was a grandfather. She was trying so hard not to feel old, not to feel absurd being on a date at her age, and she was mostly succeeding so she just had to put the term grandfather out of her head. In any case, he could easily have had his daughter when he was young and then she could well have had her daughter when she was young. Grandfather did not have to mean errant ear and nose hairs. She looked over at Upen. He was wearing sunglasses and looked dashing. Mrs. Ray tried to walk them toward a reflective surface so she could catch a glimpse of how they looked together. Some of the Kashmiri shawl sellers were sure to have mirrors set up outside their stalls. As she led him in that direction, she asked about his late wife. She felt she ought to. One must respect the dead.
“Did your wife get to meet her granddaughter?”
“No,” Upen said. “Sadly no.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been very difficult for all of you. Was it sudden?”
“Was it sudden? No. Not too sudden.” Upen looked away. Had she pushed too much? She would not have minded being asked about Mr. Ray’s death. There was no reason for them to hide what they had been through.
“Oh, Reema, I can’t,” Upen said, stopping and letting his shoulders drop. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head and looked above her into the distance.
“I’m so sorry. I did not mean to ask too much.”
“No, that’s not it. I meant, I can’t lie to you. My wife isn’t dead. She’s very much alive. She left me. She had an affair and she left me and it’s so embarrassing. I find it easier to tell people she’s dead. But that’s so dreadful, isn’t it? I don’t want you to think poorly of me. Let’s go sit in the sun and have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you everything. I want you to know. Come. Let’s go sit.”
Mrs. Ray laughed. She laughed loudly and without bothering to cover her mouth like she had always been taught. She was charmed by Upen’s story about his wife’s affair. She thought it made him sound rather exciting and worldly. Everyone in her world was always so busy covering up the slightest indiscretions and living by such strict social laws that Upen’s experience made him unusual.
“Well, that’s a nice reaction,” Upen said. “She’s much happier now. I don’t speak to her much. I get her updates from my daughter for the most part. But I’m glad to hear she found what she wanted. It suits me more too. They say a marriage is only as happy as the unhappiest partner, and it’s true. It is very hard to be happy around someone who isn’t happy themselves, and when we were married, she wasn’t.”
Mrs. Ray nodded. She had always been content. Not happy, not unhappy. Content. But sitting here in the sun, on an autumn afternoon, with a hot cup of tea, talking to Upen, she was more than content. And how wonderful that was.
“Anyway, it all worked out for the best, didn’t it?” Upen asked, and Mrs. Ray smiled and looked away, overcome by a sudden shyness. “Do you mind if I ask about your husband?”
“What do you want to know?” Mrs. Ray said.
“How did he pass away?”
“Aneurysm. It was quick. I was in the bathroom,” Mrs. Ray said. She had never talked about this with anyone except Mrs. Jha—how strange the words sounded now, years later.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t answer anything you don’t want to answer,” Upen said.
“No, no. Nobody ever asks. Everyone is too scared. I don’t blame them—hearing about a forty-year-old otherwise healthy man dying can make you feel very vulnerable, I suppose. But it’s nice to be asked—it’s nice not to have to pretend death doesn’t exist. But really it wasn’t as traumatic as people assume. I came out of the bathroom and he was lying in bed, one foot still on the floor, and he was dead. That was it. He was in his office clothes and was going to leave for work so there was no reason for him to be lying down—he must have known something was wrong. He must have felt different.”
“And you found him?”
Mrs. Ray nodded, and continued, “The maid was at the market. I didn’t scream or cry or shout or anything. It was strange—it was like I knew exactly what had happened and I knew that it had to happen. I’m not a religious person—I think I believe in God but I certainly don’t practice anything—but seeing him there was so peaceful. For a little while I lay down next to him, with my hand against his chest. I don’t remember now for how long I did that, but I remember a calmness. I had thought about his death before—I don’t think you can share a home and a life with someone and not think about their death. But I had always assumed it would be somehow more violent. Not the death itself necessarily, but I assumed my reaction would be violent. I always imagined I’d throw up or scream or run out of the house shouting and lose my mind, but it was none of that. I don’t know how to explain it.”
She stopped. She had never even told Mrs. Jha about the moments after this death. She had never told anyone.