Mr. Jha managed to get a grasp on the handle of his pull-along right as the plane came to a sharp halt at the end of the tarmac and sent Mr. Jha tumbling to the ground. The bag, fortunately, remained in the overhead compartment. The two flight attendants looked at each other across the aisle and shared a small satisfied smile before the first one said, “Sir, are you okay? This is why we ask passengers to remain seated until the fasten seat belt sign has been turned off. It’s for your own safety.”
She looked across the aisle and smirked again at the other flight attendant, who was still peering over and smiling. Indian passengers never listened. They were always the ones who stood up the minute the plane touched down, and the flight attendants always found it satisfying to watch one of them tumble. Mrs. Jha noticed their smiles and reached her hand across to her husband and said, “Are you okay? Come sit.”
Mr. Jha stood up, zipped up his track jacket, and remained standing, this time holding the top of his seat for balance and not reaching up for the suitcase. Mrs. Jha was grateful for his defiance in the face of the laughing flight attendants. She smiled up at her husband. They could sit in their tight skirts and pantyhose and lipstick and mock him all they wanted but he had come from nothing, absolutely nothing, and could now fly them both across the world on seats that converted into full beds just by pressing a few buttons. This trip signified the start of their new lives—the move was done, they were settled, and it was now time to try and relax into these roles.
Mrs. Jha had never been to New York City before, but she had read books and seen movies and had imagined herself standing at the crossroads of Times Square looking up at the electronic billboards and ads that spanned the width of full buildings. Sitting on the tarmac of JFK, looking at her husband standing near his seat, Mrs. Jha felt as though she were about to step into a movie.
“I hardly wear jewelry,” Mrs. Jha said, standing in front of Tiffany’s on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street, with the autumn sun bright in the sky and New York City bustling and sparkling around them. “Let’s keep walking. I’ve heard this place is very expensive.”
Mr. Jha felt the weight of the Apple bag in his hand.
“Let’s just have a look,” he said. “You love the movie. We can’t come to New York City and not get at least something from here.”
Mrs. Jha did love the movie. She sometimes pretended to be Audrey Hepburn when she browsed the sterling silver jewelry shops in Khan Market. It didn’t have quite the same effect—she was too old, too Indian, and too bland. Standing here, on Fifth Avenue, looking at all the beautiful people of New York City, she knew that more than ever.
“Fine, let’s go in,” Mrs. Jha said. “Maybe just something small.”
He would buy her something expensive, Mr. Jha decided. She had been through a lot lately with the move to Gurgaon and she had been kind to him, patient. He knew it had not been easy and he felt bad. Plus he had just spent far more than he should have at the Apple Store, so if he bought his wife a piece of jewelry, he would feel better. And it would be worth it because the Chopras would understand the value of a ring from Tiffany’s. Mrs. Chopra looked so fancy in her expensive diamonds worn casually.
Tiffany’s was depressing. Mrs. Jha looked around. There were just young girls in tight jeans clinging to the arms of their boyfriends, who were wearing baggy jeans and baseball caps. This was not Audrey Hepburn’s Tiffany’s. Tacky necklaces and purses dangled messily from velvet rods—Tiffany’s wasn’t supposed to sell purses. Where were the rude staff members and glass boxes filled with shiny diamonds? There was a table that sold brooches—butterflies, elephants, beetles, roses—these things looked worse than the stuff peddled by roadside sellers in Sarojini Nagar. This was certainly not the Tiffany’s of her dreams.
“Look at that lovely hat shaped like a cat,” Mr. Jha said. “Would you like that? It reminds me of the painting in the Chopras’ house.”
“It’s a purse. And it’s not really that nice. Let’s leave,” Mrs. Jha said. “This is not what I was expecting. Let’s take one of those horse carriage rides before it gets dark.”
“May I help you?” said a wealthy-looking older white man in a perfectly fitted three-piece suit.
“No, no,” Mrs. Jha said quickly. “We’re so sorry. We are just leaving. So sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?” Mr. Jha said. He then turned to the man, who he thought was dressed like a fancy magician, and said, “We’re looking for rings actually. Nice ones. Where are they kept?”
“Rings?” the man asked.
“Yes. With diamonds.”
The man looked at Mrs. Jha and smiled.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re a lucky girl.”
Mrs. Jha was horrified. Who was this strange man and why was he referring to her as a girl?
“Our rings are upstairs. You can take the elevator to the right, go to the second floor, and someone will be happy to help you. I’ll let them know you’re headed up,” the man said. He wanted to pass this couple off to the salespeople on the second floor as fast as possible. Indians made him nervous these days. They didn’t look obviously wealthy but they spent money so casually. Just last week an Indian man had come in and sat with him to look at diamond earrings on the second level. He was wearing faded jeans, a tucked-in brown T-shirt, and clean white sneakers—not the traditional look of wealth that the second floor of Tiffany’s was used to, so he had not bothered being particularly nice. It was a mistake. The Indian man got annoyed and asked for another salesperson, and he had seen, from a distance, the man buying several pairs of several-thousand-dollar earrings and casually dropping the blue Tiffany’s bag into an old black JanSport and walking back out to Fifth Avenue. Not, however, before filling out a feedback form that had resulted in the original salesperson being demoted to the ground floor for the next month.
As the Jhas stepped out of the elevator, a man who looked exactly like the man downstairs greeted them and said, “Welcome. You’re looking for rings. Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
Even Mr. Jha had to admit he was confused. Did the man from downstairs manage to get up to this level faster than them? There must be some secret faster elevator at the back. These suited, well-dressed men worked like a fancy army.
“We aren’t sure yet if we’re going to buy,” Mr. Jha said. It was best not to express interest so that you had the upper hand if the time came to bargain, he reasoned.
“No harm in looking. I’m Willing, and let’s have a seat, relax, and see if we can find something we like today.”
He bowed gently and pointed the Jhas toward two soft velvet chairs. Mrs. Jha liked him instantly. How nice of him to say he was willing to help them so much. She liked the ease with which he used the word we as if he were also a part of their family. And this was the Tiffany’s she had been looking for. It was quieter up here with just some soft gentle instrumental music playing.